The Chance

The first time I tried for The Chance was seven years ago.  And I failed.

I tried three years ago.  I came close.  But they didn’t want me.

But I’m not giving up.  I’m trying again.  Because as far as The Chance goes, all I really want is one opportunity.  One opportunity for The Chance.  If I succeed or if I fail, I’d be at least satisfied in that in my lifetime, I’ve been offered The Chance.

July 9, 2010. Every so often around summertime, I’ll visit the website of The Chance.  I’ll see if they have available openings, or if they’re filled up and are not taking anyone.  Most times, they’re filled up.  I go on with my life.

On July 9, they had openings.  I could select from several interview dates, and The Chance would get back to me if there was any possibility of a meeting.

I gave them my choice of dates – July 28 or 29 – and hoped for the best.

That evening, I got my response.  July 28, please come to New York City and apply for The Chance.  The Chance has acknowledged my existence.  I am now six steps away.

July 28, 2010. I drove down to New York City.  A full tank of gas in the Saturn Ion, and a pack of motivational music on several CD’s at the ready.  Although I’m probably going to keep the CD’s aside until I lose the AM signal on the Jim Rome Show, and then I’ll pick up WPDH for some rock music as soon as I hit the Hudson Valley, and then classic oldies on WCBS-FM the minute I get past the Exit 16 toll plaza.  Gotta love Bob Shannon.  What an awesome disc jockey.

I’m nervous and excited at the same time.  I’ve done the New York City trip before for The Chance.  This is my third try for The Chance.  I don’t even want to tell anyone I’m doing this, lest I jinx things.  I suddenly become superstitious.  My lucky penny is in my pocket.  The same lucky penny that has scratched off a $100 lottery ticket and helped me win the Summer Bowl 1 trivia tournament a few weeks prior.  I hope that its luck has not run out.  I’m wearing the collared shirt I bought for the Schenectady Art Show last month, and a strong pattern necktie.

How much do I want to be accepted by The Chance?  I blew off a trivia tournament – the Memorama Tournament of Champions – to apply for The Chance.  I blew off free ValleyCats tickets that Vicki acquired from her day job – she’s not happy with me for doing this.  But I can’t tell them why I’m doing this.  I can’t.  Saying what I’m doing out loud will be the equivalent of counting my chickens before they’ve hatched.  And I don’t want to stare at hard-boiled eggs for days waiting for baby chicks to come out.

The Chance is more important.  Acceptance by The Chance will change my life forever.  It’s the Golden Ticket in a Wonka Bar, it’s the Golden Ticket handed to you by Simon Cowell.

I keep thinking about The Chance.  How much it would mean if everything worked out.  How my life would change.  How all the stress in my life would disappear – or maybe it would be replaced with new stress.  Maybe it would equate to twice the stress, enough stress to make Atlas ask for a time out from holding up the world.  Did I put 47 years on this planet – all the trauma, all the torture, all the toxicity of growing up – all the abuse, all the assaults, all the anguish – that maybe, after all that, the scales would tip in my favor?

New York City traffic is absolutely brutal today.  Apparently President Obama is in Manhattan for a fundraiser, and it takes me 30 minutes to find a parking garage anywhere near the location of The Chance.  There’s more blockage here than in a 60-year-old smoker’s arteries.  And the cost to park your car in Manhattan – man, no wonder people don’t own cars in New York City; how could they afford to park them, these daily parking rates look like monthly rates in an Albany parking garage.

I have some time to kill.  Not much, but enough to attempt to calm my nervousness.  There’s a Barnes & Noble bookstore near the location of The Chance.  I stop in.  I purchase a bottle of diet root beer and a toasted, buttered bagel.  I sit at a nondescript table and look out through a window at the sights of New York City.  Contemplate the moment, Chuck.  Take it all in.  As much as I would have loved to bring a camera with me, I could not do that today.  A camera would not be permitted when it came time for The Chance.  Privacy and security are important factors to consider.

It’s time to queue up for The Chance.  I stand in line outside the building, patiently waiting.  I have my driver’s license and passport with me, as The Chance requests proof of identity and of address.  I also have my response from The Chance alerting me of my appointment.  I also had to fill out a three-page application form that asks for nearly everything about me.  I can leave no secrets on the paper.

People behind me are  talking about where they’re from and what they hope The Chance will do for them.  I speak to no one.  Ask not what The Chance will do for you, I think for myself.  Ask what you can do to earn The Chance.

It’s a long wait.  But you have to wait early.  I’m not the only one hoping for The Chance. And if you skip the appointment for The Chance, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever get another appointment in your lifetime.  People talk in the line.  They’re talking about what The Chance will mean for them.  I remain silent.  Not a word to anybody.  I listen to where people say they’re coming from.  Minneapolis.  Mobile.  Someone came all the way from Helena, Montana.  Just for The Chance.

At 5:00, the door opens and we walk into the building.  I’m still nervous.  I’ve been through this before, and I have to black everything distracting out of my mind. I turn off my cell phone.  It’s a force of habit to turn off my cell phone in big-pressure situations like this.  Last thing I need is a call to interrupt me and The Chance.

We are instructed to empty our pockets and walk through a metal  detector.  I go into airplane flight security mode – taking off anything that even appears to be metal.  Wallet.  Cell phone.  Loose change.  I start to remove my high school ring – the guard tells me to stop.  “Don’t take that off, mister,” he said to me.  “You don’t need to remove that.”

Truer words were never spoken.

I sit at a table with seven other people.  On the table is a pencil and a questionnaire.  A clock will start soon.  I have ten minutes to fill out the questionnaire – 30 answers – to the best of my ability.  I am given a two-digit number to write on the top of the form, for identification purposes.  As far as The Chance is concerned, I am not a name.  I am a number.  Surprisingly, this does not mean that I have arrived in The Village and that if I try to escape I will be smothered by large floating weather balloons.

I am given number 19.  Great.  I try to think of successful people who have worn #19, and all I can come up with is Tony Gwynn, Elliot Sadler and Paul Hardcastle.  Great.  Now that song is stuck in my head.  N-n-n-n-n-nineteen, nineteen…

The clock starts.  At that moment, I am five steps away from The Chance.

I fill out the questionnaire.  The answers are multiple choice.  I’m using the provided #2 pencil, which hasn’t been sharpened in a week.  I feel like I’m taking one of those standardized tests from my grade school days.  The kind where you can’t write down “C” as the answer for five straight questions, because there has to be some implied randomness to the answers.

A few seconds left.  I quickly check over a couple of answers that seemed rather cloudy.  I erase one and quickly change it.  Did I just corrupt myself from getting The Chance?  Did I have the right answer and cross it out in a moment of indecisiveness?  Seven years ago, this is what kept me from The Chance.  Other names were called that day.  I was not one of them.  On that day, I had erased one response and wrote down another.  Could that have crippled my opportunity?

The test ends.  Members at my table talk to each other, asking what they thought of the test, what answers they gave to the test.  I heard at least two questions on the intelligence test were responded to with different answers than the ones I chose.  Is it a good sign or not?  Did I make this trip in vain?

The attendant reads off the numbers of the people who have successfully filled out the questionnaire.  If my number is not called, I must leave the building immediately, go find my car, and drive back to Albany in shame.

25. 61. 37. 12. 43. 19. 71. 93.

Wait.  Did I hear 19?

Fist pump.

Survived the Questionnaire.  I am now four steps away from The Chance.

I walk over to another table, where I speak to a representative of The Chance.  She takes my picture with a digital camera, prints out the picture and attaches it to my application.

I told them about how I got down here, and that I used to be involved in various adventurous projects and the like.

She takes down notes.

I tell her about how I used to be a game-day announcer for the Albany Patroons, and that I’m currently a photographer for the Premier Basketball League.  I told her about how I once sang the national anthem at a Vermont Frost Heaves game when the team didn’t have an anthem singer that day.

She takes down notes.

I show her a picture that I took from the roof of Blue Cross Arena in Rochester, where I’m hanging by my toes from the catwalk to get some exciting playoff basketball action.

She takes down notes.

The interview concludes.  I shake hands.  I ask if there’s any possibility that I might get to The Chance.  She says, “You’ve got a good shot.  I’ll put in a good word for you.  I like you.”

This is as close to The Chance as I’ve ever gotten.

I drive home.  I don’t want to call anybody.  Might be bad luck if I did.  Just drive home, Chuck.  Get a sandwich and a soda on the way home at one of the Thruway rest stops.  Put on some of that motivational music on the CD’s.  Throw on some classic hits from my days in college radio.  That CD of Dragon will work out wonderfully.  April Sun in Cuba. Rain. Western Girls.  Dreams of Ordinary Men.  Vermillion Cellars.  Ahh… that feels so good…

I’ve done everything I possibly can at this point.  Any decision after this point must be made by the people involved in The Chance.  I am three steps away from The Chance.  I’ve never been closer than three steps away before this moment.

And in six weeks… I’ll know for certain if I’ve gotten any closer to The Chance.

===

August 18, 2010. The postcard is in the mail.  It has arrived early.  My address is on the front.  I recognize the return address instantly.  New York City.  A response from The Chance.

The answer is on the other side of the postcard.  I quickly run in the house.  I don’t want to look at the back of the card yet.  In fact, I cover up the postcard back with another piece of mail.

I think about the results before I read the card back.  I was told six weeks.  This is three weeks.  It’s too soon.  Have they rejected me outright?  I’ve only gone a scant few days from my crippling 0-for-4 defeat at the Altamont Fair photo contest; the answer on this card might just send me into an ice-cream-and-Charlie-Chaplin-on-DVD depression mode.

I turn the postcard over, and slowly push the postcard over the other piece of mail, carefully savoring the anticipation of the answer.

“Thank you for your interest in becoming a contestant on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”  You have not been selected to be a potential contestant.  We appreciate your continued interest in the show and thank you for taking the time to audition with us.  Game sponsor reserves the right to limit the number of times a person may attempt to qualify for the show.  For official rules, please visit http://www.millionairetv.com.”

For a few minutes, that wasn’t what I saw on the paper.  My eyes saw those words,  but my brain translated the words into something else… something that truly spoke to how I felt at that very moment.

“Thank you for wasting our time by trying out for “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”   We don’t want you.  We already have enough middle-aged white balding fat astigmatic dorks take our money, we don’t need you doing it also.  Go jump in front of a train, you helpless, hopeless and useless pathetic Small-bany tool.  Lindsay Lohan could win an Oscar before we ever let you on our show.  No wonder you put a camera in front of your ugly face on that newspaper blog, you don’t want people’s eyes melting when they see you.  By the way, your blog sucks too.  Your posts are too long and when we read them, they give us headaches.  Get lost.  Don’t even watch our ABC shows.  You’re not worth our time.  You know what ABC stands for?  Anybody But Chuck.  Nobody wants you for anything.  Have a nice day – you loser.”

Sigh.

The Chance has passed me by.  Again.

My confidence is shattered and scattered, like a broken window, pieces of hope all over the floor. I’ve failed. Again.

Guess I’ll start with a copy of City Lights and follow it up with The Gold Rush, The Kid and if I still feel that ache in my gut, Modern Times. And I gotta go get some ice cream.  A gallon of it should take care of the pain.  I don’t give a hang if it’s got more sugar than I’m medically supposed to have.  Right now… it doesn’t matter.

It’s going to take a couple of days to get over losing out on The Chance again.  And maybe another year… before I get up the nerve to try to apply for The Chance.

Altamont… and this … what’s next?  Just when I think it can’t get any lower…