The best epiphanies happen at breakfast—those thunderbolts that hit while you’re waiting zombie-like in front of the waffle iron. I’ve brainstormed English papers at breakfast; I’ve solved elusive crossword clues and figured out what to get my dad for Christmas. Naturally, it was at this fateful time of the morning that I answered the question that has plagued me for months: What the hell am I going to do after I graduate?
Enjoying my Cheerios and leafing through The Crimson, I came across a quarter-page ad on the sports page, sadly impeding coverage of the Belarus-Sweden hockey game. “DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?” it screamed. “SURVIVOR: Open Casting Call.” The thunderbolt struck—and suddenly my post-graduation plans involved lying, cheating, stealing and starving.
I never said they were good English papers.
This plan was extremely unlikely to succeed, but otherwise perfect. It was a brilliant way to secure fame, fortune and early retirement. “Survivor” has a predilection towards the Harvard-affiliated (note HLS student Nick Brown from season two and OCS counselor/cow’s blood aficionado Linda Spencer from season three). The stereotypical Ivy League type is a staple of any good reality show. If I could fake a little extra intellect and arrogance I was in like Flynn.
If they’re searching for people who can survive the elements, I thought, I’m their woman. I’ve always been the hardy type, as far as that’s defined by participation in pseudo-outdoorsy elementary school extracurriculars and L.L. Bean purchases. As a Girl Scout I dutifully earned my “Camping and the Outdoors” merit badge and pinned it on my sash right between the “Overthrow the Oppressive Patriarchy” badge and the “Tool of the Cookie-Selling Establishment” badge. I wear fleece. I own a Nalgene. With this background in ruggedness, 47 days in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on my back, a ration of corn mush and the mocking smirks of the cameramen would surely be no problem.
I finished my Cheerios, rearranged my schedule and set off for the Prudential Center, site of auditions. The afternoon was suddenly full of promise; family dinners and high school reunions, with their inevitable future queries of “So, what have you been doing since graduation?” seemed less daunting. Everyone would already know the answer and they would treat me with the respect due to people who are on TV.
There was already a long line snaking past the bay windows and chain stores when I arrived at the Pru. Taking my place at the end, I discreetly started sizing up the competition. A guy with a goatee here, a New England grandmother there…the group was predominantly middle-aged and I couldn’t spot any obvious arrogant intellectuals. My chances of filling the smart-ass college student role looked good.
The line kept growing. Kelly, a perky five-foot-tall woman in line behind me, was eager to chat. “Wow, this is insane,” she chirped. “Look at all the people! Wow. I should really be scouting right now.” She elaborated by explaining that she is a talent scout for a modeling and acting agency and that her boss begged her to go to the audition: “He was, like, ‘Oh my god, you’d be soooo good.’” In the space of 15 minutes, I learned that she sails, she used to do search-and-rescue, she’s afraid of jumping out of a plane, her boyfriend is a marine biologist and hence doesn’t eat fish, she likes to sing while driving and she thinks vegetarians are just trying to be difficult.
I nodded and smiled. If we end up on an island together, she’s toast.
The line started creeping forward. A skinny blonde woman with an impossibly cheerful smile passed out applications, which consisted of questions like “Who is your hero and why?” I immediately started scribbling, crafting witty yet erudite responses designed to separate me from the sea of answers like, “If I could only take one thing to the deserted location, it would be my stuffed bear, Binky.”
The application was a dream: 10 pages of open-ended questions that begged for gently sarcastic rejoinders. What types of people would you choose NOT to have with you on “Survivor”? Well, those likely to beat me. What would you take with you to the remote location? My Norton Anthology of Poetry: thin pages, Puritan poets excellent for starting fires. What would you NOT do for a million dollars? Cheer for the Yankees.
Kelly saw me thinking about the question “Describe your perfect day.” “Oooh, that’s a tough one,” she sympathized. “Want to see what I wrote?” Her application read: “A day that I make everyone I see smile—wait—that’s every day!”
Maybe I can convince the others to kill her for food.
The line moved slowly past fake bamboo trees decorating the mall corridor. The skinny blonde woman bounced back to tell us that we’ll have two minutes to say whatever we want to the camera. It suddenly hit me that I would have to stand in front of a camera, as well as a growing audience of shoppers, and talk about myself. My mouth went a little dry.
Kelly was chatting with the two bored DJs from the radio station co-sponsoring the auditions. “My boyfriend listens to your station all the time!”
The man in line behind me was trembling a little bit. “Oh, man,” he said. “My hands are getting all clammy.” I empathize, painfully aware of my own crippling fear of public speaking. Why should I be on “Survivor”? What school do I go to? What’s my name? The answers are beyond me and the post-graduation plans are sinking like an immunity idol in a pool of quicksand.
I got to the front of the line. The blonde took my application and ushered me towards the camera. I took a deep breath, found my chi, and smiled at the camera in as bewitching a manner as possible.
I chattered on about my midterms and my summer job and my Nalgene for what felt like an hour, and then realized only 30 seconds had gone by. My nerves had apparently given me the power to talk faster than the Micromachine guy. The damn cameraman was smirking. I shrugged, waved, smiled again, and fled the stage.
“Are you okay?” one of the DJs asked me, looking at me as though he feared I might drop dead from a stroke at any minute. Sure. Great. Just $1 million poorer and soon to be among the ranks of the directionless and unemployed. I vowed never to go to breakfast again.
As I made my way to the mall exit, I glanced over my shoulder to see Kelly smiling brightly and chirping at the camera. The guy with the clammy hands was waiting for his turn and pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. The line still extended halfway down the corridor. One of these people might end up in some exotic and deserted locale, battling for a cash prize and a place pop culture posterity. Most of them won’t.
The people at OCS always say, “Take advantage of every opportunity.” My Saturday at the Prudential probably wasn’t what they had in mind. Tomorrow, it’s back to cranking out cover letters, spell-checking my résumé and searching for purpose, with nothing to show but a less-than-impressive story to tell in job interviews.
As much as I love answering questions about myself, there’s one I’ve never been particularly good at: What do you want to be when you grow up? Unofficial adulthood is three months away and counting, and I still have no idea where I want to end up. Trying to put together a capital-C Career is so daunting a prospect that I was willing to wait in line for two hours with a chirpy talent agent on one side of me and a nerve-wracking two minutes of camera time on the other.
Still, dreams of easy TV prize money die hard. Maybe I’m not headed for the wilderness, but I’ll just be that much more polished when “College Jeopardy” comes to town.
Jonelle M. Lonergan ’02 is an English concentrator in Winthrop House. She was photography chair of The Crimson in 2001. She is highly motivated, has strong organizational skills and wants to work for your company.
