We do not talk as we are escorted up the darkened stairway, but the measured shuffling of all our shoes fill the tight space. At the top, Ed pushes open the doors and we continue our assent toward the light.

Most of the people around me seem subdued, drowsy. Some even forget that they are climbing steps or walking and Valerie politely reminds them to continue.

We, the audience, enter the studio. If I can believe what they tell me, I am part of the audience of a TV show. For me and Stacy (who is back at the end of our group), this is our first time, our first show. As the others take their places in the tiered rows of chairs, I find myself seated on the third row.

Valerie and Ed talk to a short woman holding a clipboard. Above our seats is a booth with a large window facing what I can only think of as the stage. Two men in the booth bend over a console, pushing buttons and moving knobs. I see the lights above changing in intensity—the those lights which do not shine down upon us, but on the stage.

Everything centers on that stage—we in our seats, the lights above, and three large cameras, mounted on heavy chromium casters.

This stage is the only place in the studio not tangled with a clutter of cables. Two ornate, upholstered chairs have been placed toward the back wall. On that wall hangs what looks like a game board. It is decorated with whimsical depictions of snakes and ladders. The surface of the board is an opaque plastic. I notice that there are lights behind that surface. Periodically one will pulse or rapidly change color. I realize they are being triggered by a man with close-cropped hair standing behind an electric piano on the stage. He has some sort of electronic device connected to the game board. He must be important, I think. He’s wearing a rhinestone embellished gold lamé jacket. He is about fifty, though quite boyish. He smiles with an amazed, yet relaxed sense of satisfaction which sets him apart from the others, who anxiously rush about. When he is done testing his equipment, his eyes idly rove about the room—the studio, they keep calling it—as his hand drifts into a drawer in a little table beside him and comes out holding a Marathon candy bar. This strikes me as the most disconcerting of all the things I’ve seen since leaving that little white room. I know for a fact that those candy bars were discontinued in 1981…and that year has passes a long time ago.

Is it a prop?

I watch as he unwraps the candy and begins to eat it.

So, exactly what year is this?

From a door on the side of the room, Michael and Rose enter. Rose wears the same red dress I saw earlier. Michael has changed into a semi-formal and simple two piece blue suit.

Rose sees me. She waves and smiles.

I nod back.

I wonder if I’m that distinctive looking that she could spot me so fast. Maybe it’s my shaved head.

There are five rows of five seats. Each one occupied by those of us who have our rooms downstairs.

Twenty-five members of the studio audience.

Is that a lot?

In the studio I can see three large clocks, one on each wall not given over to that garish game board. All of the people who work here constantly look up to check the time. Seven p.m. is only a few minutes away.

Valerie climbs the steps and leans over toward me. She reaches out and takes away the cardboard container I had forgotten I am holding.

It’s been an eventful day, and I hope my absentmindedness is connected to exhaustion. It’s frustrating enough not having full access to my longterm memories, but the thought of losing my working memory is truly frightening.

“It looks like you’re all done with your juice box,” she says with her motherly smile. “Stay put in your seat. You’ll be receiving instructions from us in a second. If you need a bathroom break, raise your hand. But, once the show begins, no one leaves until Myra says we can.” Valerie points to a short woman walking across the lit stage. She clutches a clipboard and wears a headset with an attached microphone. “She’s the boss lady, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Live TV is so exciting!”

Ed walks out on the narrow section of floor between the first row of seats and the slightly raised stage. The people in the audience raise their heads and look at him, so I do as well.

“Okay, everyone, we’re all excited for another week of Serpientes y Escaleras, am I right?” I see him glance nervously toward a scowling woman in a tailored pantsuit who stands off to the side. I hear scattered applause from the audience. Am I supposed to clap? To a show based on the children’s game of snakes and ladders? And why do they refer to it by the Spanish name?

“Let us try that again, shall we? And not just for me and Valerie. We also have an important visitor—one of our top Network executives.” He lifts up a black box with an antenna and a large button. He takes a deep breath, and then shouts: “We’re all excited, am I right?” He pushes a button and suddenly a sign comes to life above us flashing the word: Applause.

Not wanting to stand out, I begin clapping along with everyone else. Ed’s grin grows and he lifts his arms higher. The crowd increases their energy, so, I clap harder and even cheer along with some of the more enthusiastic people around me.

Ed pushes the button again and the sign goes blank. We fall silent.

His grin melts to a satisfied smile. He holds his remote control box to his breast with both hands.

“That was wonderful,” he says. “Really wonderful.”

Valerie steps beside Ed and beams up at us. “Could I have August and Stacy stand up, please,” she said.

I get up and feel nervous when everyone looks at me. Stacy sits on the front row, but she seems to have forgotten her name. A man beside her whispers in her ear and helps her to stand.

“These are the newest members of our audience,” Valerie says. “Potential contestants, just like everyone else. Let’s make them feel at home, how about that?”

Valerie turns to Ed and nods. He pushes the button again, and everyone applauds loudly. Even me and Stacy.

I hope they tell me more about what is about to happen. If I get chosen—for what, I still don’t know—can I refuse?

Ed turns off the applause sign.

“Guys,” Valerie says, looking from me to Stacy, “you can sit back down.” She looks around to make sure she has the full attention of the audience. “Okay, everyone, what I’m about to say is mostly for August and Stacy. But don’t start feeling cocky! The fact is, we can all use a refresher, especially after the two days off. Ed?”

Ed holds up his black box.

“Once the show starts,” Valerie continues, “you just sit there, watch the action on stage—because sometimes the camera is turned on the audience! You never know. And sometimes you will be expected to clap and cheer. But only when Ed pushes the button. Shall we try that again?”

Ed nods. He extends a finger and slowly presses the button.

Applause.

I know my part now, and I do my job along with with everyone else, clapping and cheering. I have to admit, it is rather exciting!

When the sign stops flashing, and we quiet down, Valerie explains that for the two audience members who will be chosen at random, their job will be even simpler.

“If you’re one of the lucky two, all you need to do is sit on stage, one each in those comfortable chairs.” She points to the stage.

They do look comfortable, prominently situated in front of that large board with the snakes and ladders.

The people in the seats around me are leaning forward looking at those chairs with covetous hunger. They want to be chosen. I still have no idea what happens when someone wins, but now I’m even more concerned with what happens to the person who loses.

“Two minutes, everyone!” shouts the short woman with the clipboard.

“The two lucky souls,” Ed continues, “will get to watch momentous scenes from their lives acted out by our Readers. Imagine that!”

Two people step on stage. Those two I met in the wardrobe office.

“Rose and Michael,” Valerie says, “have special abilities. They can read your minds! Guided by the great Saligia Jones, of course, the real psychic powerhouse on this production. So, for those fortunate two, just relax and let the rest of us do the work.”

“No acting skills needed from any of you guys,” Ed says to us.

“But don’t worry,” Valerie adds. “Everyone working on this show is a trained professional and impeccably discreet.”

I look over as the man in the golden dinner jacket places a white pompadour wig on his head. And suddenly a woman appears from behind a curtain. She has raven hair plaited and piled atop her head and wears a tight black gown that goes all the way to the floor. After she steps on the stage, she transitions through a few tai chi poses while muttering: “A proper copper coffee pot,” over and over and faster and faster until I expect her to collapse.

“Well, we’re out of time, gang,” Valerie says to us. “Myra is starting the countdown.”

Myra, that short woman with the clipboard, begins to count backwards from ten.

The woman in the black gown positions herself at a lectern at the front of the stage. The man with the white wig begins to play an energetic tune on his electric piano. Ed pushes the button on his box and the sign flashes for us to cheer and applaud. The technicians standing at the three cameras all shift, leaning in attentively to their machines.

Myra is no longer calling out numbers, so I assume we are now broadcasting live.

The man at the piano leans down and shouts into his microphone, his voice carrying over the music.

“Serpientes y Escalerrrrrrrrras! Welcome to the fast-paced game show of virtues and vices, successes and setbacks, where you can climb the ladder to the pillowy clouds, or take a scaly, snaky ride deep into the unforgiving swamp.”

He stops playing and stands up straight. He smiles toward one of the cameras. I see that a red light glows on top of it.

“I’m Silverio Moreno. Thank you so much for letting me into your home. Let’s get right to the show you tuned in to watch. But first we need to chose two lucky people from our studio audience. Take it away, Saligia Jones!”

The woman in black takes a deep breath and seems to fall into a trance.

Then, as if a jolt of electricity has surged through her, she stiffens with arms straight out to us. Her head pivots as she looks at the end of the front row. She says: “Kyle!”

It’s a sensitive and quiet young man I recognize from the lounge. He sits up in his seat and rapturously clasps his hands together. Ed moves in with smooth precision and places a hand on the man’s shoulder. Kyle rises to his feet and follows Ed.

Saligia Jones shifts, and points again. Her finger is directed toward me.

“Gertrude!” she shouts.

The old woman next to me lifts her head and looks around, her face is a study in pleasant puzzlement.

“That’s right, Gerty,” Valerie whispers as she reaches past me and helps the woman to her feet. “It’s your time, isn’t it?”

Kyle and Gertrude wait at the edge of the stage. Michael and Rose step forward and bring them into the light and the view of the cameras.

Silverio reads some inane facts about the two contestants from notes in his hands. That is, after riffling through them to give the illusion that this whole thing hasn’t been planned in advance. But I’m not believing it.

I take a moment to review my sudden cynicism. It arises from two pieces of factual information. One, there is no thing as psychic powers. Two, televisions shows are, by their nature, not true.

So, not so much cynicism. Just simple reason.

Gertrude and Kyle are seated in those comfortable chairs, with Rose and Michael standing behind them. Beside each chair is an odd metal pole about four feet tall with a glass globe on top—suddenly those two globes come to life. One lights up green, the other, blue.

“Saligia selected you first, Kyle,” Silverio says. “So, you’ll go first. As you see, Michael is playing for you. So, Michael, please pull the lever for Kyle.”

Kyle looks overjoyed. He leans back and watches as Michael grips the pole beside his chair—the one with the blue light. Michael pulls at the pole like it is the lever of a gigantic Las Vegas slot machine. When he releases the pole, it snaps back to its upright position and everyone in the audience (including me) look up at the light game board. A series of numbers begin to randomly flash in quick succession. They slow. And stop. One number remains.

“Seven!” Silverio shouts. He looks to the game board, as do we all.

A pulsing disc of light makes its way across the squares. After it advances seven spaces, I wait, expecting something to happen. Nothing does.

“Your move, Gertrude,” Silverio says.

Gertrude looks over at the mention of her name.

“What?”

Gertrude reaches out toward the lever with tentative and confusion.

Rose moves closer to her and smiles graciously.

“You just let me do it all, sweetheart,” Rose says softly to Gertrude.

I remember Valerie saying that today is Rose’s first day in front of the cameras. I am impressed with her confidence. Rose pulls the lever for Gertrude—the one with the green light—and then lets it go.

The numbers, again, dance about on the screen before stopping.

“Five!” Silverio shouts. He watches excitedly as the green light moves across the game board until it ends it journey on, not a square, but an oval. There are several ovals, but mostly squares.

The oval lights up, revealing the word Despair.

“Well, that’s one of our more popular words, right Saligia?” Silverio says.

“It is,” she answers, somehow managing to inject a great deal of depth and mystery into those two short words.

“So, my dear,” Silverio continues to Saligia, “use your extraordinary gifts to delve into Gertrude’s memories for something that relates to despair.”

Despair. That word certainly is beginning to resonate with me.

Saligia returns to her trance state. Her eyes remain open, but the lids droop a bit. Her shoulders drop slightly to give the appearance of relaxation. Her arms move out from her body as if freed from the constraints of gravity. And, ever so slowly, the woman moves across the stage the way one wades through calm water. She comes to a halt directly behind Gertrude. She lowers her opened hands over the woman’s gray hair and begins to move her long fingers in the air, inches from Gertrude’s head. Her wriggling fingers make me think of jellyfish tentacles.

Saligia freezes. With a slight nod of satisfaction she uses both her hands to lift something invisible up into the air. I notice that the entire audience is riveted to the thing that isn’t there that Saligia holds. She pulls it apart, like moist bread, and drops a portion of that nothingness atop the heads of Michael and Rose who walk up to her for these odd nonexistent “gifts.”

A quiver passes through both Michael and Rose. I suppose we’re to believe that they too are now in a trance.

A spotlight drops on the center of the stage. The rest of the studio falls into blackness. Saligia recedes into the shadows as Michael and Rose step into the light. They position two folding chairs so that they face one another. They sit.

Michael takes a breath and looks with concern at Rose.

“Gertrude,” he says to Rose. I suppose they’re playing parts, now. Rose is the contestant, Gertrude, and Michael is…?

“What’s up, Mr. Brodart,” Rose, well, Gertrude, says, her voice taking on a youthful zeal—not in keeping with Gertrude’s somewhat advanced years. Is this supposed to be some time in Gertrude’s more distant past?

“We here at the Cowgirl Emporium were so excited when you came to us as a fresh young girl a year ago.”

“I’m glad to hear,” she says. “Everyone’s been so nice, and—”

“What happened to that girl?”

“Excuse me?”

“That girl who knew how to charm the tourists. To sell these rustic curios and chuckwagon tchotchkes like mad. Oh, my! When you knotted your neckerchief and cinched up the chin strap of your straw hat, there was not another shopgirl could touch you. It's a fact.”

“Okay.”

“And then it all went away. The long lunches. Tardiness. Forgetting to charge sales tax. Alcohol on the breath. And I have to confess, I suspect you to be using the weed.”

I think this must be intended as a humorous interlude. But when I look around, I see no one in the audience nor any member of the production crew laughing.

“The what?” She displays the eye-rolling scorn of a spoiled teen girl.

“The Mary Jane. You know, the loco weed. Look, I am no doubt out of touch with the lingo you young folks use these days, but we can’t have that here.”

“But I work hard alphabetizing the scented candles. Every day I put mink oil on the bullwhips. I even convinced those scientists from Finland last week for the hydrology convention that the Yellow Rose pralines are locally grown peyote buttons.”

“You what?”

“Sold every one of them.”

“I couldn't be sorrier, Rosie. But I’m gonna have to cut you from the herd. There's no changing my mind. Your replacement's been hired.”

Michael, or Mr. Brodart, stands and steps into the darkness.

I can’t see Rose’s face. She hangs her head and I wonder if she’s still in character.

“You needed that job, didn’t you, Gertrude?” It is Saligia’s voice. She’s somewhere in the shadows with a microphone.

Rose’s looks up. Her eyes are wet. She nods her head.

“You had rent coming up on your apartment. And you couldn’t go home could you? To you parents.”

“No,” Rose croaks.

“With your father in jail and your mother who knows where, the bank took away the house you grew up in.”

Rose drops her head back down. Her shoulders heave as she silently sobs in the chair.

“You had that spare key, didn’t you, Gerty?” Saligia asks as she steps into the light and approaches the seated Rose. “And that night you let yourself in to the shop you got fired from. You knew the combination to the safe. But how could you have forgotten the alarm? Did you want to get caught? Because that’s what happened, right?”

“Ouch!” Silverio cries with obvious relish. “So, Saligia,” he says in almost a whisper. “Tell us the verdict.”

The lights come up. Rose shakes her head as if coming awake.

“Serpientes? Or escaleras?” Silverio lowers a hand down on his keyboard so that a minor chord drones at low volume.

On the game board two images flash alternately. A snake, and a ladder.

“Be it a snake, or be it a ladder?” he continues. “Because it seems to be a clear case of a snaky setback for Gertrude. Bad behavior prompted by despair.”

Gertrude, who has been watching Rose intently, now looks away, first at Silverio and then at Saligia. The only word I can think to describe her expression is bafflement. Is Gertrude disturbed by the liberties these actors are taking as they pretend to portray her life with their improvisational antics? Or has her memory suddenly come back and she has just witnessed the most unlikely of scenarios, that mind-reading is real and she has just witnessed a silly situation from her past brought to life?

I think I might turn and ask my neighbors in the audience for clarification, but when I see his transfixed visage so engrossed by the action on the stage, I realize I will learn nothing. I return my attention back to the show.

“It seemed such a dark time for our lovely Gertrude,” Saligia says, looking across at the real Gertrude. “Arrested, tried, and convicted. But it was in prison that our wayward girl turned her life around. For it was there she took a job in the kitchen and began a lifelong love of the culinary arts. When she was released she opened her own very successful restaurant. So, no. I can’t accept any snaky setback. It’s escaleras!”

The image of a ladder appears on the game board. “Climb that ladder, Gertrude. Climb!”

Gertrude furrows her brow, and it looks like she’s about to stand. Michael moves behind her and whispers for her to stay seated.

The green light zips up the ladder. Gertrude’s game piece has advanced well beyond that of Kyle’s.

The applause sign flashes and we all clap and cheer.

“Triumph over despair!” Sy cries out over our racket.

“Kyle, your turn,” Silverio says when we, the audience, calm down. “Michael, pull his lever!”

And so it continues. This vile mockery of a game. Dismantling the lives of the contestants and capriciously passing judgment.

What sort of hell have I been sent to?