Okay, so I have this friend. We'll call her C. C and I, like the rest of the Western world, love Survivor. C, in particular, loves Survivor. C, I think, would be evilly brilliant on Survivor. Fade in on last Thursday night, post-show. My phone rings.
Jessica: The Queen is dead! Long live the Queen!
C: Smell ya later, Jerri!
Jessica: Hey, they're having auditions for S3 on Saturday. You ought to try out.
C: Well….
Jessica: You so ought to! You're always talking about your strategy.
C: Well….
Jessica: I'll totally go with you and keep you company.
C: Um….
Jessica: Come on! You only regret the things you don't do.
C: All right. Bring snacks.
That line? About only regretting the things you don't do? Total lie. Sometimes, you regret the things you do.
Saturday, March 31. 10:42 AM: hour one. C and I arrive about forty-five minutes after the open call began, only to find a massive line already wrapped around CBS Studios on Sunset Boulevard here in Los Angeles. Later we find out that about five hundred people camped out to be first in line. I can't imagine being the five-hundredth person in that line, considering the fact that he or she could have probably slept in their own bed and showed up at 8 AM and spent roughly the same amount of time waiting. We have to park about twenty minutes away, on a side street, and haul ass all the way to the studios. While C holds our spot, I go in search of the head of the line to get applications for us. I walk about a hundred miles and make the disturbing discovery that the line is way longer than I thought -- it goes inside and all around the CBS parking lot. People are already sitting down on the asphalt and complaining about the heat. Wusses.
11:50 AM: hour two. It's unseasonably warm, but the line is moving really quickly. We move about ten feet every fifteen minutes. "This isn't bad at all," I say to C. "Let's eat the snacks before they get too hot," she says. We eat cookies and fill out the six-page application, which includes such soul-searching questions as, "What accomplishment are you most proud of?" (I am tempted to answer: "Learning to write sentences that don't end in prepositions."), "Who is your hero and why?" and "Name three adjectives describing yourself." I feel like I'm joining a dating service. The feeling is apropos because later I see a man I suspect I may have dated…and then I realize that I saw him on an episode of Blind Date. He's wearing his fireman's uniform and carrying a headshot. Because this is Los Angeles, eighty percent of the contestants are carrying their headshots.
1:03 PM: hour three. We're inside the CBS Studios parking lot. "This line is so quick!" C says. "I think we have about an hour and a half left," I agree. We've made friends with the people around us, all of whom seem relatively normal, with the exception of an Al Pacino look-alike about ten people up, who is wearing huge mirrored sunglasses, his pajamas, and a pair of slippers. He scares me. Apparently, he doesn't scare Jay Leno, who comes through the line interviewing the freakiest contestants he can find. He asks Pajama Man if he plans to wear his jammies on the island if he makes the show. Pajama Man jabbers incoherently. Jay Leno, by the way? Short. Also, travels with a bunch of people who constantly feed him his lines. On the other hand, he seems pretty nice. I'm getting very hot and my feet are starting to hurt. Still, I can wait it out an hour and half. The guy in front of us leaves, saying he can't handle the line anymore. "What a wimp," I mutter to C. "You'll never make it on the island!" I call after him.
2:40 PM: hour hour. The line has stopped moving and I don't know why. It's extremely hot. Like, fiery-intensity-of-a-thousand-burning-suns hot, and it's all directed right onto my head. Also, I haven't eaten. I feel a little funny. C and I make friends with a nice older guy behind us who tells us he's a tri-athlete. He's in marvelous shape. His name is Wayne, he's about fifty, and he's not white. He's a demographical slam-dunk. "The producers are going to love you," I tell him. He smiles. A woman dressed like an extra from Clan of the Cave Bear saunters past. I can see her nipple. One of the producers walks down the line, eyeing us all. She stops and talks to Wayne for a good fifteen minutes. "You're in," I tell him, afterwards. He grins mildly. I'm getting very sunburned. "How much longer do you think it'll be?" I ask the talent agent in front of us, a blonde woman named Toni who is now one of my bosom friends, as we have already discussed my getting laid off from my copywriting job and the fact that her husband, a TV producer, has been out of work since January, and she's getting a little bitter about being the sole breadwinner. Toni thinks we have about an hour and a half. I turn around to face the other side of the parking lot in hopes of at least sunburning evenly
3:11 PM: hour five. The crowd has degenerated to sitting on the asphalt silently. We've moved about ten feet in two hours. The pixyish Audrey Hepburn look-alike lesbian in front of us is talking to the guy in Elvis sunglasses about the classes they're taking at Groundlings. There's an actress we'll call Bambi lolling around in Earl Jeans cut so low on the hips that I'd have get to get a Brazilian wax before I even put them on. Her top is cropped right below her breasts. Toni, C, Wayne, Elvis, the Pixie Lesbian, and I agree that we hate her and her belly button. Another producer comes by and talks to Wayne. "You're gold," I tell him when she leaves. He smiles. The guy who brought a folding lounge chair with him has pizza delivered through the chain link fence. I'm starving. I would kill lounge chair guy for a slice. I'm hot, tired, and sunburned. I really want to go home. But C and I have put so much time into this already that we can't in good conscience leave now. Besides, we're about thirty feet from the cameras, and it can't be much longer. "Hour and a half?" Elvis asks. We all burst into barely controlled laughter. C and I try to plan what we'll say on camera. She thinks she'll talk about how unsuited, physically, she is for Survivor, but how she's all Machiavellian with the scheming. "I hope they go with the flabby smart people for S3," she says, "because if they do, I am so in." My plan is to just go with whatever comes out of my mouth.
3:55 PM: hour six. HOUR. SIX. We've moved two feet in forty-five minutes. I just want to die. I've also come to the conclusion that I would be the worst contestant on Survivor, ever, since I'm both crabby and totally incoherent after six hours in a bloody parking lot.
4:10 PM: still hour six. Because time has stopped. "I'd like to thank Mark Burnett for giving me a new definition of hell," C says, before she buries her head in her backpack in a misguided attempt to nap. A third producer comes over and talks to Wayne. Ten minutes into their talk, she starts making notes on his application. Fifteen minutes in, she takes him out of the line and over to where the rest of the producers are talking. They all laugh charmingly in Wayne's direction. Wayne starts filling out some paper on a clipboard. "Wayne's so in," I whisper to C. She just moans. "That's not fair!" a dorky guy right behind me whines loudly. "What?" I ask. "They just picked him out of line! That's not fair. Are we just wasting our time?" C gives him a withering glance. "He is," I whisper to her. "I know, just look at him," she says. "Of course it's not fair," I tell dorky guy, "it's show business." He screws up his dorky face. "But it's not fair," he repeats. "It's called show business, not show friends," C tells him. "Good line," I hiss to her. "I stole it from something," she says. My shoulders are bright red. They feel like they're on fire. I bet if they actually were on fire, I'd get to go to the front of the line.
4:21 PM. Because of the rip in the space-and-time continuum we seem to have fallen into, it's still hour freaking six and we haven't moved one freaking inch. If I don't get something to eat soon, I will drop dead. A man dressed like a cowboy walks past, followed by a guy in a loincloth. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I might have been hallucinating at this point.
4:35 PM. My entire life is hour six. "Babies have been born in less time than we've been in line," I tell Toni. "People have died while we've been in line," Toni says. "Dinosaurs have evolved from microcosms, roamed the earth, and become extinct while we've been in line," C mutters from within her backpack. The three of us get interviewed for the B reel of the Channel Two news. I say something charming about wanting to go on S3 to get a good tan, wasting all the charm I have left on a cameraman with a mullet. Toni loses it and tells the cameraman that she wants to get on S3 because she thinks it will force her husband to finally get a damn job if she goes missing for a month and a half. I overhear Bambi telling the cameraman that her luxury item would be "the OED, English version," to "play games with. Because it's important to keep your mind mentally mindful." I wonder if Bambi is aware that OED stands for Oxford English Dictionary, and that she doesn't have to specify the language of the version she's bringing. I also wonder if she's aware that the unabridged version weighs at least fifty pounds.
5:02 PM: hour seven, at last. We're now about two hundred people from the head of the line. "Hour and a half, tops," I tell C. "I'd laugh at that," she says, "but I'm trying to conserve my energy." I have lost the ability to form a complete sentence. The people around us are either laughing hysterically, punch drunk, or sitting on the ground in complete silence, about ten minutes from sweet, sweet death. "I don't even want to be on Survivor," I tell Elvis. "I've never even seen Survivor," he replies. "I'm just doing this on the advice of my agent." I'm too weak to even roll my eyes. I'd kill myself, but it's just too hot.
5:30 PM: still hour seven. "Don't forget to tape X-Files tomorrow," C tells me, apropos of nothing. I'm so hungry and dehydrated I'm ready to keel over. It's official: I would be the worst survivor, ever. If I see Mark Burnett, I plan to kick him in the shins. Hard. We finally get to enter the cordoned-off section of the line, which is about…wait for it…an hour and a half away from the cameras. There are three cameras, and each contestant gets three minutes to convince the show's producers that he or she is the Colleen or Colby, or, seeing as this is Los Angeles, Jerri. We're so close to getting out of here, I want to cry. I have never wanted to go home more in my entire life, and that includes the time I saw Kuffs in the movie theatre.
5:50 PM: hour eight. I've now been in line longer than I was in bed the night before. We're being split into three separate lines by a six-year-old girl (you heard it here first -- CBS is using child labor!) who seemingly has no idea what she's doing, because she keeps forgetting to send people to the sign-in table where we get our numbers. After I get my number -- 52 -- the woman at the sign-in table has to stare at me for a good thirty seconds before she marks down that I am a white female. C, Toni, and I all end up in the camera two line, which is the longest and slowest of the three. Why does this not surprise me? At least we get the nicest cameraperson. Cameraperson Three keeps turning his back on the contestants and Cameraperson One actually walks away every time someone starts to talk. Eventually CBS employees see that the natives are restless -- to borrow a clichéd but appropriate phrase -- and bring out boxes of pastries and doughnuts. We go nuts and almost rip the hapless PAs limb from limb. My almond bear claw is, literally, the very best thing I have ever eaten, ever. Ever. The guy being taped over at camera one has taken off his pants and is dancing around, all Full Monty and remarkably unimpressive as far as all that goes, although after eight hours in the hot sun, I am undoubtedly a tough audience, and it doesn't even turn my stomach, the pastry is so good. There are now only twenty people in front of us. At three minutes per person, that's…an hour left. I just want to die. At this point, my planned speech for the camera includes the line "pick me, don't pick me, I don't care anymore." I think it's very persuasive.
6:15 PM: hour eight continues. We're almost up. Bambi with her tan, bare belly is number fifty. C is fifty-one. I am fifty-two. Bambi perches on the stool, stares into the camera, and bats her fake eyelashes. "What wouldn't I do for a million dollars?" she asks in a breathy baby voice. "I would never hurt anyone emotionally, mentally, or physically. Or animals. I would never hurt animals." The flamboyantly gay man to me turns around and rolls his eyes at me. We've bonded over our mutual hatred of Bambi. Over on camera three, a young guy holds up a big "Pick Me!" sign.
6:21 PM: still hour eight. C is on the hot seat. I can barely hear her over the chuckleheads in line for camera three, who are doing some kind of cheer. I see the pixie lesbian over at camera one. She's yodeling the Survivor theme. She's darling. She's in. The guy after her gets up there with wood and newspaper and tries to start a fire. In the tent. The camerawoman doesn't bat an eye, but at least she doesn't walk away this time. On camera three, a woman has removed her leopard print tank dress to reveal a shimmery camouflage bikini. She holds up a CD made by her garage band and then flexes her biceps. The cameraman turns his back on her and rubs his eyes. I hear C say something about only having one kidney. "She has one kid?" Flamboyantly Gay asks me. "One KIDNEY," I correct him. He nods. C clambers off the stool. "I have no idea what I just said," she tells me.
6:23 PM: hour eight. My hour of reckoning. I'm suddenly totally nervous, even though I have absolutely no desire to be sent off to some deserted place somewhere with no food, the sun beating down on my head and fifteen other idiots jabbering endlessly in my ear. The woman behind camera two is very nice, asking me to speak up to make sure I can be heard over the crowd, and instructing me to hold my number up by my face when I say my name. "Rolling," she says. I hold the number to my face and flash the camera a wide, fake smile, and start with the unintentional lies. "I'm twenty-four," I say. I'm twenty-five. "I'm a copywriter." I just got laid off. "I don't even know why I'm here. My friend said she'd buy me dinner if I came with her. I mean, I could do with a million dollars, and I think I'd be good on the show because --" The girl over at camera three starts screaming "Morgan Hill! Morgan Hill!" and totally throws me off. I look over at her. "Some girl over there is acting totally retarded," I tell the camera. And then I lose it. I babble about being an evil manipulative genius, which is not only monstrously stupid but also blatantly untrue, especially considering that if I can't remember how old I am after seven hours in the sun, I truly have no chance of evilly manipulating shit. I think I mentioned that I have a lot of allergies, and that I enjoy watching football, and that I have a degree in English, and that I feel like I waited in line since the dawn of mankind. I'm not sure. I remember nothing. It's like a bad dream. "Okay, I feel like a total dork. Thanks for your time," was my brilliant finish. I choked, y'all. I totally choked. But it's okay, because there's no way I could survive a month on an island, or the tundra, or the Amazon, or wherever, if I couldn't survive eight hours in a parking lot. Which I couldn't.