COLUMN: Waiting for my Regis to call

From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99 From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99I am sitting next to the telephone waiting for Regis to call me and tell me that I'm going to be a millionaire. At this moment in time, I am the dumbest person I know. One would think I had learned my lesson. First of all, that my new feathered bangs were just a decade too late and would win me no place in the hearts of fifth-grade men. Secondly, that waiting for a phone call that will never come is a waste of time. I had waited and waited for hours, hoping that my fifth-grade stud with the rainbow-colored braces brackets would call me and profess his love. I had spent sleepless nights longing for his impressive slap bracelet collection, lusting for his lanky fifth-grade physique, yearning to be on his kickball team at recess. And for what? A broken heart. Crushed dreams. And a mouthful of Frookie. One would think that I had learned from that experience that waiting for a phone call is just about the dumbest thing a person could do with her time. (After, of course, having convinced yourself of your telekinetic powers, trying to move objects with your mind by staring at them.) And yet here I am again, waiting by the phone for the show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire to call me up and tell me I'm going to be on their show. I may be a millionaire someday, but an incredibly stupid one. Ah, America -- one of the few developed countries where that can actually happen. Last week, I called the show's 800 number in order to participate in its national contestant search. Having called this number about 20 times before in my desperation for millions, I was sure I would get a busy signal. Instead, the mellifluous computerized voice of Regis picked up the phone and began to ask me questions. If I answered these three questions correctly -- and each within a 10-second time frame -- I could potentially, maybe, perhaps, theoretically, in possibility, with a 1-in-1,000 chance, qualify to be a contestant on the show. A randomized computer lottery would then (hopefully) choose me from a pool of other potential contestants who had similarly answered all the questions correctly. I nearly wet my pants I was so excited. Question 1. Put these cartoon cats in alphabetical order: Sylvester, Felix, TopCat, Garfield. I thanked my lucky stars for my English major. Within the 10-second time frame, I was able to successfully answer. I wiped my sweaty brow, took a deep breath and finally realized just how valuable an Ivy League education could be. I allowed myself a brief two seconds to fantasize about my million. A car. I would like a car to replace my yellow 1986 Buick station wagon. I would finally own every girl's dream -- a Dodge minivan. I could feel myself drooling in anticipation. Question 2. Put these plays in the order from first to last of which they received the Pulitzer Prize: Our Town, Picnic, Fences, The Heidi Chronicles. I knew Our Town was the first, The Heidi Chronicles the last. But they wouldn't be so simple as to put it in the correct order in the first question, would they? Of course not. Besides, alphabetically, Fences comes before Picnic. My own stupid form of logic made me realize what I had to do. I had cracked those bastards' code. I typed in my answer. Regis shrieked in his computerized ecstasy, "THAT IS CORRECT!" My drools of excitement began to resemble epilepsy. Question 3. Put these songs in the order of which they became hits: "Ray of Light," "That's My Sugar Baby Alright," "Stairway to Heaven," "Runaround Sue." Quivering hand, I typed in the correct answer. Regis, as if in the throes of wild passion, exclaimed, "THAT IS CORRECT!" I was then informed that I would receive a call between noon and 3 p.m. the following day if I had been chosen by the computer lottery. And so I sat. And waited. I spent those three hours dreaming of paying for college. A car. Investing. Taxes. Greedy relatives. New-found friends itching for my fortune. Suddenly, it didn't seem all that glamorous. In utter horror, I realized I would become my parents, giving out cash to those on the dole. I curled myself up into a ball and began to shake convulsively. Was a million dollars really worth all this? As the clock pushed 2:55 that day, I began to lose hope as I stared at the cordless. The sun had begun to set on my millionaire empire. The twilight of my million drew closer, and neither Regis -- nor a box full of Frookies -- could console me. Three hours locked in my house waiting for a phone call that never came made me appreciate the dream of millions, but understand the reality. I am destined to earn my million on my own. Maybe that's not such a bad thing.