Under the Same Stars by Mike Ramon
GAME SHOWS TOUCH OUR LIVES
64 AD. The Great Fire of Rome occurred in 64 AD. Dave knew this. It was an easy one--for him, at least. So why hadn’t he been able to answer the question? That smug prick Rex Green--whose real name is Morton, Dave happened to know, Morton for chrissakes!--had flashed him that big plastic smile of his, a circle of perfect white in that fake-tanned, plastic face of his, and Dave had frozen up, had drawn a blank, had reached down into the well and come up with a big bucket of nothing. In that moment he was able to picture how he looked to the studio audience, and how he would look to the television audience when the show aired--like a confused, sweaty simpleton. He had stammered, his eyes roving around the studio, taking in the audience, the cameramen, and his two opponents, before coming back to settle on Rex Green, longtime host of America’s third favorite primetime game show, Take It or Leave It?. Then the buzzer had sounded, like the judgment of a cruel and unforgiving god, letting Dave know that he had run out of time. And with that, his brief stint as a game show contestant had come to an end.
Now here he is, at some bar with an Irish name, drinking watered-down bourbon and lazily tracing some scratches in the countertop with one finger. There’s a ballgame on the TV hanging in the corner--no HD, not in a place like this, just a beat-up old set that had almost certainly had a pair of rabbit ears hooked up to it not long ago. Dave glances up at the game. The Yanks are beating the Orioles 6-zip in the bottom of the eighth. He doesn’t care one way or the other--he has no dog in that fight. Then a sloppy prick in a business suit speaks up.
“Hey Marty, why don’tcha turn it to that game show?”
Dave grimaces, and it isn’t the bourbon that makes him do it. He hopes the guy doesn’t mean that show, the show. He checks his watch. It’s 8:31. Yep, just about the right time.
“What game show?” the bartender asks.
“You know, that show,” the drunk says. “The one where the guy is always asking people if they wanna take or leave it.”
Dave can’t decide if that reply makes him want to laugh or cry; in the end, he does neither. The bartender (evidently Marty) walks to the TV in the corner and starts flipping through the channels.
“Which channel is it on?” Marty asks.
“I think it’s on channel eight,” the drunk tells him.
Yes, it is on channel eight; Dave knows that, just as surely as he knows when the Great Fire of Rome occurred. Marty the barman flips to channel eight, and right there on the screen, staring out at the television audience with that fake smile of his, is Rex Green. Dave takes another sip from his glass as his red-rimmed eyes swivel away from the TV.
From the television:
“Now that we know how the game is played, it’s time to…”
And at this point the audience, the contestants, and the drunk at the bar all join in, like one big happy, demented chorus:
“Take it…or leave it?!”
The audience claps; so does the drunk. Dave just groans. He can’t really remember now what made him want to go on that ludicrous show in the first place. He chances a glance back up at the set as Rex Green asks the first contestant--a pretty young woman wearing a University of Michigan sweater--who the twenty-eighth President of the United States was. He tells her that this man had been an avid hunter, an explorer, and a soldier.
“Easy,” Dave mutters. “Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Wuzzat?” the drunk asks.
“Teddy Roosevelt. The answer to the question.”
On the TV the young lady from the University of Michigan answers:
“That would be Theodore Roosevelt, Rex.”
“Well, Sarah…that is coooo-rect! You just won five thousand dollars!”
Sarah from Michigan smiles, and the audience applauds.
“Hey,” the drunk says, turning to Dave. “Good one, man.”
Now Rex has something he needs to ask Sarah:
“Now Sarah, you can either take the five thousand dollars, and pass to the next contestant...or you can leave it, and answer another question, this one worth ten thousand. Sarah, do you want to take it…”
Oh God, Dave thinks.
Once again, everyone joins in:
“Or leave it?”
Like Goddamn sheep.
“Leave it,” the drunk says. “Five grand ain’t nothin’ these days. Leave it.”
“Well, Rex, I think I’m gonna leave it.”
Cheers from the studio audience, and in the bar the drunk wears a smile of self-satisfaction on his big moon face, as if Sarah had taken his advice personally.
“Okay Sarah, now for the ten thousand dollar question. This symbol is a nonstandard punctuation mark used in various written languages, and intended to combine the functions of the question mark and the exclamation point. What is it?”
“Interrobang,” Dave says.
“A whatabang?” the drunk asks.
“Just…watch,” Dave says, waving a hand in the general direction of the TV.
“That would be an interrobang, Rex.”
“That is coooo-rect!”
More applause.
“You’re good,” the drunk says. “You should go on that show. You could really clean ’em out.”
“I did go on.”
“Go on where?”
Dave sighs.
“I went on that show. I went on there this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
The drunk looks at the TV screen, then back at Dave.
“Then how come you’re not on the tee-vee?”
“They film that show weeks in advance. My episode won’t be on for a while.”
The drunk looks back to the TV, his brow furrowed as if he is still trying to work it all out in his head. He turns back to Dave, and now Dave tenses up, not wanting to hear the question he is certain the man is going to ask.
“Well, how’dja make out?”
And there it is. How did he make out? He didn’t make out well--not at all.
“I, uh…”
There’s a commercial for shampoo on the TV, promising an end to dandruff. Marty the bartender is looking up at Dave as he cleans a glass with a dirty rag, having picked up on the conversation. From the back of the bar came the sounds of pool balls clacking together as someone breaks. Dave’s stomach feels like a tight knot wrapped around a hot coal. And the drunk is staring at him, wanting to know how he made out.
“I cleaned ’em out. Just like you said.”
“Well, all right! Tell ya what, have another drink on me. Whaddya say?”
“No, I actually have to get going,” Dave says. “Thanks, though. And be sure to keep tuning in. I’ll be up there on that screen before you know it.”
Dave pays his tab, considers a trip to the restroom for a piss before beginning the walk back to the hotel (paid for by the good people at Take It or Leave It?), but decides against it. He can hold it until he gets back to his room. Then he hopes to sleep a dreamless sleep.
He walks to the door before stopping and turning back toward the bar, toward the drunk and Marty the bartender, toward the TV screen, on which another commercial is ending and the show is coming back on. He wants to say something, but he is at a loss for words. And then a line from a song half-remembered floats to the surface of his mind.
“These bars are filled with things that kill.”
“Huh?” the drunk asks.
But Dave doesn’t try to explain himself. He walks out the door, slipping out into the shadows of the night. On the TV Rex Green is flashing his million dollar smile, and everyone is clapping, each one certain that if they ever get their chance, they’ll clean ‘em out.
64 AD. The Great Fire of Rome occurred in 64 AD. Dave knew this. It was an easy one--for him, at least. So why hadn’t he been able to answer the question? That smug prick Rex Green--whose real name is Morton, Dave happened to know, Morton for chrissakes!--had flashed him that big plastic smile of his, a circle of perfect white in that fake-tanned, plastic face of his, and Dave had frozen up, had drawn a blank, had reached down into the well and come up with a big bucket of nothing. In that moment he was able to picture how he looked to the studio audience, and how he would look to the television audience when the show aired--like a confused, sweaty simpleton. He had stammered, his eyes roving around the studio, taking in the audience, the cameramen, and his two opponents, before coming back to settle on Rex Green, longtime host of America’s third favorite primetime game show, Take It or Leave It?. Then the buzzer had sounded, like the judgment of a cruel and unforgiving god, letting Dave know that he had run out of time. And with that, his brief stint as a game show contestant had come to an end.
Now here he is, at some bar with an Irish name, drinking watered-down bourbon and lazily tracing some scratches in the countertop with one finger. There’s a ballgame on the TV hanging in the corner--no HD, not in a place like this, just a beat-up old set that had almost certainly had a pair of rabbit ears hooked up to it not long ago. Dave glances up at the game. The Yanks are beating the Orioles 6-zip in the bottom of the eighth. He doesn’t care one way or the other--he has no dog in that fight. Then a sloppy prick in a business suit speaks up.
“Hey Marty, why don’tcha turn it to that game show?”
Dave grimaces, and it isn’t the bourbon that makes him do it. He hopes the guy doesn’t mean that show, the show. He checks his watch. It’s 8:31. Yep, just about the right time.
“What game show?” the bartender asks.
“You know, that show,” the drunk says. “The one where the guy is always asking people if they wanna take or leave it.”
Dave can’t decide if that reply makes him want to laugh or cry; in the end, he does neither. The bartender (evidently Marty) walks to the TV in the corner and starts flipping through the channels.
“Which channel is it on?” Marty asks.
“I think it’s on channel eight,” the drunk tells him.
Yes, it is on channel eight; Dave knows that, just as surely as he knows when the Great Fire of Rome occurred. Marty the barman flips to channel eight, and right there on the screen, staring out at the television audience with that fake smile of his, is Rex Green. Dave takes another sip from his glass as his red-rimmed eyes swivel away from the TV.
From the television:
“Now that we know how the game is played, it’s time to…”
And at this point the audience, the contestants, and the drunk at the bar all join in, like one big happy, demented chorus:
“Take it…or leave it?!”
The audience claps; so does the drunk. Dave just groans. He can’t really remember now what made him want to go on that ludicrous show in the first place. He chances a glance back up at the set as Rex Green asks the first contestant--a pretty young woman wearing a University of Michigan sweater--who the twenty-eighth President of the United States was. He tells her that this man had been an avid hunter, an explorer, and a soldier.
“Easy,” Dave mutters. “Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Wuzzat?” the drunk asks.
“Teddy Roosevelt. The answer to the question.”
On the TV the young lady from the University of Michigan answers:
“That would be Theodore Roosevelt, Rex.”
“Well, Sarah…that is coooo-rect! You just won five thousand dollars!”
Sarah from Michigan smiles, and the audience applauds.
“Hey,” the drunk says, turning to Dave. “Good one, man.”
Now Rex has something he needs to ask Sarah:
“Now Sarah, you can either take the five thousand dollars, and pass to the next contestant...or you can leave it, and answer another question, this one worth ten thousand. Sarah, do you want to take it…”
Oh God, Dave thinks.
Once again, everyone joins in:
“Or leave it?”
Like Goddamn sheep.
“Leave it,” the drunk says. “Five grand ain’t nothin’ these days. Leave it.”
“Well, Rex, I think I’m gonna leave it.”
Cheers from the studio audience, and in the bar the drunk wears a smile of self-satisfaction on his big moon face, as if Sarah had taken his advice personally.
“Okay Sarah, now for the ten thousand dollar question. This symbol is a nonstandard punctuation mark used in various written languages, and intended to combine the functions of the question mark and the exclamation point. What is it?”
“Interrobang,” Dave says.
“A whatabang?” the drunk asks.
“Just…watch,” Dave says, waving a hand in the general direction of the TV.
“That would be an interrobang, Rex.”
“That is coooo-rect!”
More applause.
“You’re good,” the drunk says. “You should go on that show. You could really clean ’em out.”
“I did go on.”
“Go on where?”
Dave sighs.
“I went on that show. I went on there this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
The drunk looks at the TV screen, then back at Dave.
“Then how come you’re not on the tee-vee?”
“They film that show weeks in advance. My episode won’t be on for a while.”
The drunk looks back to the TV, his brow furrowed as if he is still trying to work it all out in his head. He turns back to Dave, and now Dave tenses up, not wanting to hear the question he is certain the man is going to ask.
“Well, how’dja make out?”
And there it is. How did he make out? He didn’t make out well--not at all.
“I, uh…”
There’s a commercial for shampoo on the TV, promising an end to dandruff. Marty the bartender is looking up at Dave as he cleans a glass with a dirty rag, having picked up on the conversation. From the back of the bar came the sounds of pool balls clacking together as someone breaks. Dave’s stomach feels like a tight knot wrapped around a hot coal. And the drunk is staring at him, wanting to know how he made out.
“I cleaned ’em out. Just like you said.”
“Well, all right! Tell ya what, have another drink on me. Whaddya say?”
“No, I actually have to get going,” Dave says. “Thanks, though. And be sure to keep tuning in. I’ll be up there on that screen before you know it.”
Dave pays his tab, considers a trip to the restroom for a piss before beginning the walk back to the hotel (paid for by the good people at Take It or Leave It?), but decides against it. He can hold it until he gets back to his room. Then he hopes to sleep a dreamless sleep.
He walks to the door before stopping and turning back toward the bar, toward the drunk and Marty the bartender, toward the TV screen, on which another commercial is ending and the show is coming back on. He wants to say something, but he is at a loss for words. And then a line from a song half-remembered floats to the surface of his mind.
“These bars are filled with things that kill.”
“Huh?” the drunk asks.
But Dave doesn’t try to explain himself. He walks out the door, slipping out into the shadows of the night. On the TV Rex Green is flashing his million dollar smile, and everyone is clapping, each one certain that if they ever get their chance, they’ll clean ‘em out.