''60 seconds on the clock... Good luck.''
Well, he had to say it, didn't he? ''Good luck...'' If there was one thing that Gordon Roach did not want to hear with all the lights on him and that sing-song music playing all around them, it was that phrase. Why couldn't there be something else you said to someone in a moment like this; maybe ''Break a leg'' was a little too old?
He had to focus.
The answers were easy so far, but he wondered if there was something he missed as he thought about the question again. So far, he was almost ahead in the game. The other ones were not doing too bad, but that woman who thought that Monet and Manet were the same person - what a dumb response - had gambled a lot on this one; the guy on his right was the reigning champion of this thing and was careful about how much money he put in. Smart, thought Roach. Really, really smart... And then there was me...
Thirty seconds to blow...
To go?
''To blow'' sounded better in his head. He was scribbling out the answer, but the screen seemed to be part of a different world. Roach wondered if his handwriting would be clear enough for them to understand his response. He had to use his full name as a label in their introductions, but the host did not really believe that anyone could have such a name. No roaches in the house, he thought. An old joke he always hated. An old joke that got very real...
Twenty seconds... Tick, tock... Tick, tock...
Why was his head playing these kinds of games with him? It had been at least ten years since she passed; actually ten years and five months now... Gordon made the mistake of looking at the wedding ring he still wore in public. When he made it to the first round of casting, the one who called him in did not seem to care for his manner or look, until he glanced down at Gordon's signature and saw, flashing on his left hand, that simple band of gold. And Roach did not deny that it could help open doors that remained closed otherwise... And he needed this.
Ten seconds to go...
That clock on the screen is a nice touch, he thought, letting them all hear it as the audience joined in with the countdown and built up the stress and excitement they must have all been feeling. He remembered the last time he watched numbers changing so rapidly on a screen. The doctor said that ''such fluctuations are normal with her condition,'' but it was still his decision to pull the plug. It was still his choice to do what she wanted to do even if her family never forgave him and his friends began talking about him behind his back (one even made hay with his surname and ended up with a very serious bruise to his chest). He deserved to win. She deserved the choice.
It was a choice for both of them.
Gordon really wanted to use the bathroom (she always teased him about his weak bladder when he was stressed between shifts). But he wanted to finish up on top first. That had to be the case. She would have understood.
''Times up, folks. Let's see your answers...''
Gordon looked up and smiled. This was for her.
He had to win.
*
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Kendall Defoe
Teacher, reader, writer, dreamer... I am a college instructor who cannot stop letting his thoughts end up on the page. No AI. No Fake Work. It's all me...
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