Am I good enough? A story about The Price is Right and my Grandma Pish
I’m writing on my new blog every day for thirty days straight. This is the third one.I loved The Price is Right. I was ten years old. I remember watching it at my Grandma and Grandpa Pish’s house. Watching Bob Barker on their small little wooden television. The lights, the excitement, the money, the Plinko, and the cars. Oh, the cars. It didn’t matter what kind of car – all that mattered was hearing Rod Roddy say “-and a brand new car!” I loved watching people explode in excitement. It all seemed so genuine.Fast forward fifteen years, and I’m living a short run away from CBS Studios where they film The Price is Right. I’m no longer separated by 1300 miles of mostly-desert from the show I used to love.My Mom and aunt recently visit me, and they suggested we go to a live taping of the show. I said yes. I could already hear Rod Roddy saying “come on down!” Just knowing that I’d have a chance to win something got me excited.
A short aside: Thinking about The Price is Right for the first time in a long time, I was flooded with memories of my Grandma who passed away in 2004. She had such a kind soul. I mowed Grandma and Grandpa Pish’s lawn for several years. After finishing up, Grandpa would always give me a little cash. On my way out the door, Grandma would always catch me, bring me into another room, ask me quietly how much Grandpa gave me, and add a little bit more.
So I woke up several hours before I usually do. I spent an inordinate time picking out my best and brightest outfit, as instructed by the show. I felt like I was dressing up for a date. I wanted to make sure my hair was perfect, my clothes weren’t wrinkled, my shoes were clean. I didn’t want to leave a detail to question. I wanted to put the best Andrew Pish forward. I wanted to hear “come on down!”My family and I arrived at CBS Studios around 7:30AM. We lined up behind family’s with custom T-shirts. I began to compare myself to other people. My body was tired, but my mind was on fire. I was coming up with reasons why I would be chosen over them and trying not to pay attention to the reasons why I wouldn’t. Then my family was slowly herded inside the tall gates.We were sat on benches next to the rest of the audience members. None of us knew how long it was until they started filming. None of us knew what it would take to have our name called from the audience. Eventually a tired production assistant came out and explained that after having our picture taken, we would all be interviewed and the interviewer would then decide who he wanted to pick for the show. BUT. We were also told that everyone who worked for the show would be watching us, and so we needed to keep our excitement up, because only the most excited, happy people were chosen for the show. Ok. Let’s do this. We put on our excited-happy-people game faces.How about we fast forward five hours later? We’re on another set of benches, deeper in the belly of CBS. We’ve all been given menus to order lunch, because now it’s noon. We’ve been sitting and waiting for the majority of five hours. We’ve had our excited-happy-people game faces on, but those faces were now a little bit harder after five hours of forced use.We’ve all had our pictures taken. We didn’t perfect our “look excited” looks, but we didn’t do too bad. We’ve all been interviewed. We didn’t really feel like we were being interviewed, more like we were being interrogated. It’s okay. We’re almost to filming time. We’re doing good. At this point, the whole process felt more like a marathon – and we were rounding the 26th mile.At this point, we've noticed several homeless people sitting with us, hoping for their chance to be chosen in the show. We've also overheard that several people have come dozens of times without being picked. This isn't the show I imagined. An audience full of desperate people wanting a quick fix of cash.We finally were herded into the studio. The lighting equipment, the colored paint, the camera man’s cargo shorts. It wasn’t like I remembered.My Mom, my Aunt, and I were sat dead center, several rows behind the the front of the stage. We were told that the interviewer leaves some of his decisions up to the final moment and that he’d be watching us from the side: so we had to keep our excited-happy-people game faces on. That’s fine. It was the 26th mile.The show started. And I was ten years old again. The real-life excitement flooded through my veins, but this time it was tinged with worry.“Will I be good enough?”“Am I excited enough?”“Ok, five more people, I’ve still got time to be called up.”“Now four…am I shouting enough suggestions to the people who’ve already been called up?”“Now three…will he not call me up because I gave that last lady a bad suggestion?”“Now two…don’t worry. I’ve still got two chances.”“Now one. Please.”And it was over. So quick. Then the thoughts turned again.“Why wasn’t I picked?”“Why wasn’t my Aunt picked?”“Why wasn’t my Mom picked?”“Why weren’t we good enough?”We were herded out of the studio and off the lot. The gate closed. My aunt turned to us and said, “I don't like feeling like I'm not good enough.”Welcome to Los Angeles. Welcome to the feeling I get when I don’t hear back from an audition. If you want to get an idea of how much I love acting, understand what I’m willing to put myself through.
So after being through this meat-processor, you’d think I’d hate the Price is Right. You’re right.Play us out, Al.