Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy! (53 page)

James Garfield. Vice President: Chester A. Arthur. First Lady: Lucretia Rudolph. The guy by my mom’s house. The smartest president ever, the ambidextrous Civil War general. What the hell about him overlaps with Sondheim? He wasn’t in
Gypsy. Sweeney Todd?
He wasn’t a demon barber, although he could have cut throats with both hands.
Sunday in the Park with George? Into the Woods?
Garfield wasn’t shot by Bernadette Peters.

Looking at the tape, Alex gives me fifteen full seconds. An eternity in
Jeopardy!
time.

He had that metal bedframe that hid the bullet that Alexander Graham Bell went looking for with the metal detector. His house is called Lawnfield. It’s on Mentor Avenue, just down from a big shopping mall…

“Bob…?” Alex prompts, waiting patiently.

A shopping mall is a kind of forum. And
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.
But that was in Rome. Although Garfield spoke Latin. He could write it in one hand and write Greek in the other…

Fifteen seconds, in TV time, is an entire cycle of Troy.

Alex has seen me pull obscure facts from every hole in my skin over the years, and I want to live up to his faith. But kindness goes unrewarded sometimes. I lamely guess
Merrily We Roll Along,
hoping perhaps to move backward in time as its characters do.

“What is
Assassins
?” Alex gently explains.

Right. Garfield was
assassinated.
It’s like his
one
act as president. Which is
why
his innards were probed by Alexander Graham Bell in the first place.
Amid all the noise, I did not see the obvious.

I miss the next clue, too, as always after Daily Doubles. Michael beats me on the buzzer. So my best category goes by, and I still can’t find the timing.

Quotations zip by. Michael flies through the category. Clue after clue after clue. He is a millisecond ahead of me on the buzzer. I am late. I am late. I am late.

I can hang on just barely, and only because of my dad.

Dad loved words.

He wasn’t a big reader, and he rarely wrote very much. His hands were so broken by his work that it took him a full hour to write a short note to his mom. But he loved long loopy lines of aleatory alliteration, he fastened to assonance, he savored the texture and rhythm of sounds.

My dad loved Edward Lear. Lewis Carroll. Ogden Nash. What a strange bird my dad were.

I do not imagine that a single month of my life passed—ever, during the thirty-two years, one month, eight days, six hours, and forty-five minutes that my father and I shared this planet—that Dad didn’t recite Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky” to me, just for the sheer delight of the apparently meaningless syllables. “‘’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,’” he would begin. And then came this big loopy grin.

One other thing, completely unrelated, which he said many times, for no reason: “You may fire when ready, Gridley.” This was Dad’s verbal ceremony when something was about to begin, whether it was a driving lesson or a difficult personal talk. He never explained this. It was just a fun phrase that he liked.

I was forty-one years old, and Dad had been gone for ten years, when I saw those words again in a book while studying for a certain quiz show. I was compelled to learn what they meant. In 1898, it was how a great man in charge told another great man in charge it was time to start killing other human beings in quantity. I think if Dad had known this, he would have used another phrase.

AT MANILA BAY, COMMODORE DEWEY SAID TO THIS CAPTAIN OF HIS FLAGSHIP, “YOU MAY FIRE WHEN YOU ARE READY…”

Who is Gridley?

Thanks, Dad.

Another clue. Michael outdoes me again.

Then I manage to get in, and respond incorrectly. He picks up the rebound.

The three of us then split the few clues still remaining, but an odd habit is starting to build. Michael has started lifting his hand as he buzzes. This is easier to glimpse now, almost impossible not to feel. And it reminds me, quite clearly, how often Mike’s raising hand is winning.

Since the last commercial, Michael has outscored me $4800 to $200.

Double Jeopardy begins with more of the same:

Michael!

Michael!

He kills Bruce and me both on the buzzer, right away.

The categories are

EGYPTIAN LIFE
(Yes! I was just in Cairo.)

1970S POP MUSIC
(I will save this if possible. My strongest category all game.)

LABOR
(Dad was in the United Auto Workers. Yes!)

YOUR NUMBER’S UP
(OK, this should be about average.)

FILL IN THE TITLE
(Perfect for anyone who is memorizing, like me.)

I’M JUST A “BILL”
(OK, wordplay. This one’s fine, too.)

Bruce gets the next clue. And he leads us to
LABOR.

I get lucky on the timing, and pick up $800, although I still cannot make time behave. But then:
Bweedwooo, Bweedwooo, Bweedwooo-dwoodwoo-dwah.
I stumble into a Daily Double.

I consider my wager. I now trail by just $1600, one clue’s worth of money. But Michael is death on the Weapon so far. If things proceed as they’re going, I will trail entering the Final. That’s very likely the end of my run.

If I don’t make a move, I’ll be done in five minutes. Besides, this clue is in
LABOR
—a strength, thanks to Dad—and it’s in a relatively easy $1200 spot. You pick your shots. This is a good one to take.

Let’s make it a true Daily Double,
I say. If I miss it, it’s over.

HIS ENTRY IN THE WORLD BOOK LISTS BIRTH AND DEATH AS (1913–1975?)

I was a paperboy when I was young. Every time a dog found a bone in the late 1970s, newspapers in the Snow Belt said this man had been found.

Who was Jimmy Hoffa?
and I’m up $2800.

“Good one,” Michael says. I can’t see his face, but he means it, I’m sure. He’s an excellent sport, probably much better than I am. I’m certainly too focused to respond right this second.

I get the next clue—the one after a Daily Double—which itself is surprising, enough that I’m late on the buzzer again. Mike blows through the next two.

Michael!

Michael!

This last clue is even more frustrating than usual. Sarah from the Clue Crew is on video, hinting at the Arabic word for a market. She does this while walking through the Khan al-Khalili, a souq (that’s the word Sarah’s hinting at) among the world’s most historic. I’ve just come back from Cairo. I’ve just walked right by there.

Another kink in the Matrix? Maybe not. If you play well, the cards in the game
should
repeat on occasion. There’s no end to Trebekistan, but the roads cross back and forth.

Michael’s timing is better, by a smaller split-second. “What is a souq?”

I am late. I will have to shave time yet more finely again.

Khan al-Khalili,
I should add, is also a novel by Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mahfouz. I’ve never read it, nor any of Mahfouz, not yet. But he’s inside my notebooks, and easy to remember. It’s a one-to-one: Egypt + novelist = Mahfouz.

Two clues later, I almost panic. It’s more video from Egypt, focused on a picture of Mahfouz, and here’s Jimmy from the Clue Crew:

BROWSING CAIRO’S MANY BOOKSTORES, YOU’LL INEVITABLY COME ACROSS WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR, THE 1988 NOBEL PRIZE WINNER

GAAAH! I MUST GET THIS!

Michael’s hand isn’t moving yet. It must be nearly time to buzz in. I have to play Jedi, shaving off fractions of fractions. Aiming for the instant between the Go Lights and Mike’s thumb starting to rise.

Who is Mahfouz?
I say.

Alex takes a beat. I think he’s checking my pronunciation, lest the tape need reviewing with air-puffing syringes. But this is correct. Maybe there’s still a chance to gain some control over time.

But Bruce!

And Michael!

And Michael!

And Michael!

And Bruce!

Michael’s now back in the lead. Ahead by as many dollars as milliseconds.

FILL IN THE BLANK
draws several blanks. We play some advanced Zombie Jeopardy. We’re aiming our Weapons and firing carefully. The writers are pushing us hard. Ten clues remain.

Michael!

Michael!

I should be falling behind now, brain losing oxygen, starting to see a Great Jeopardy Light in the Sky. But both of Michael’s responses are wrong.

Bruce and I split up the rebounds. And still:

Michael! again. He is murder.

Two clues later Michael calls for his next clue, and
Bweedwooo, Bweedwooo, Bweedwooo-dwoo-dwoo-dwah.
The last Daily Double.

I have a slim $200 lead. Michael bets for the win. He goes big. He goes courageous. He bets $3000 on himself. There will be only five clues left when he is done. The whole game may come down to Michael’s response.

I stand to one side, helpless, watching my milliseconds running out.

NUMBER OF DIFFERENT OPENING MOVES POSSIBLE BY ONE PLAYER IN A GAME OF CHESS

I know Michael will get this. Eight pawns can move one space or two. That’s sixteen. Two knights can go forward and right or forward and left. That’s four. (8 × 2) + (2 × 2) equals Mike’s gonna win.

“What is twenty?” he says.

And that’s checkmate.

In the bleachers, I can feel the other players relaxing. The rest of the game will be killing time. We know how this ends. Michael has beaten me. He deserves to win. This game can fade now into blackness.

Besides, Mike has math on his side.

Five clues remain. All in
1970S POP MUSIC.
This is good for me, but my opponents are old enough to have danced in those years.

In the last fifteen clues, I’ve given two correct responses.
Two.
I’ve won on the buzzer just once. I just came back from Cairo, and still I got passed over in Egypt. I’ve buzzed in first and been right only four times all round.

Not far away, on a hillside in Thailand, even Yut looks a little concerned.

Five clues remain for my
Jeopardy!
life. I will probably need at least four of the five.

I take a breath, preparing to fire when ready. I have been watching Michael’s hand as it moves with each clue. Stealing glimpses, from my spot in the center, sensing rhythm, trying to feel my twin kick. I’ve been a hair late. Then half a hair. Then a quarter. Then an eighth. I need not to be late.

I need the right millisecond.

Right…
now.

My light comes on.
What’s “Weekend in New England”?

Michael’s lead is now $2400.

Right…
now.

My light comes on.
What’s “Rumours”?

Michael’s lead is just $1600. Distant commotion begins in the bleachers offstage.

Right…
now.

My light comes on.
What’s “the Captain”?

$400 to go. Hushed whispers. In the audience, I feel bodies leaning forward.

Right…
now.

My light comes on.
What’s “Sir Duke”?

And I am suddenly, improbably, back in the lead.

Adrenaline flows so intensely that I can feel my hand cooling from sweat on the buzzer’s soft plastic. I’m up by $1200 with just one clue to go. If Michael still gets it, that whole run was just wasted. But if I am too eager and buzz in with a wrong guess, I’ll take it away from myself. The last clue of the round: