“Right this way, Mr. Madison. Wait here with the other contestants until it’s your turn,” the woman with the purple clipboard said as she lead Glenn to a large door. She made sure to make him walk through the threshold first, in case he tried to make a break for it. Truly there was nothing for her to worry about; at this point, Glenn had accepted his fate and knew that running would do him no good. Besides, the circumstances that brought him to this position were much bigger than himself. The woman with the purple clipboard showed him around the room briefly, outlining the various luxuries the show had sprung for to make him and the others more comfortable. Glenn paid her no mind, basically reducing her to white noise. She prattled on for a few minutes, before leaving Glenn alone with his thoughts.
Despite the producers’ best efforts to make him as comfortable as possible, Glenn couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trapped in a concrete prison. Well, maybe best efforts was being a little generous. Glenn had read in a book one time that designers sometimes choose floor and wall patterns to manipulate people into serving a certain purpose. For example, airports intentionally use unaesthetically pleasing patterns on their carpets to make people want to go on their way. So, understandably, the combination of puke green berber carpets and gray, windowless, render walls didn’t scream “cozy” to him. But at least, for now, he was the only one there.
He wandered over to the buffet table on the far left end of the room. It was crammed full of food so expensive he only knew of it from T.V. Shrimp, steak, and lobster served as the main courses, while the rest of the table was filled with things like bacon wrapped scallops, fancy smelly cheeses, small crackers, caviar, and small fruits. Glenn grabbed the most familiar and least intimidating thing, a red delicious apple from a small bowl on the very end, and quickly left to sink into one of the leather couches.
A large flat screen television was mounted on every wall, playing a popular sitcom that Glenn’s wife Helena loved. He had never cared for it per se, but he would sit down with her every night to watch the various clichéd shenanigans the characters would somehow find themselves in despite the fact that he found it trite. That didn’t matter to him, because Helena ate it up. Glenn found it difficult to focus on it without her around, so he opted for picking at the sticker on his apple and savoring his last few minutes of solitude.
All too soon, it was over. Purple clipboard woman returned very shortly with a pale, gangly kid who looked far too young to have signed up for the show. She gave him the same spiel she had given Glenn, but he seemed to be engrossed in it. He listened intently, absorbing every last detail until she finished and left him alone with Glenn. The gawky kid immediately walked over to the food table and piled up a plate with everything they had to offer, then he walked up to Glenn.
“Hi, I’m Ricky Triplett, but you can call me Trip,” the boy said, balancing his food in his left hand and thrusting his right forward for a handshake. Glenn reached out and met his clumsy grip.
“Glenn Madison, pleasure to meet you.” He released Trip’s hand and returned to picking at his apple. Trip seemed to have taken the entire interaction as an invitation and sat down beside Glenn. He put his food on the table and began to dig in.
“I can’t believe they got all this food for us. I mean, I know our odds and that only one of the six of us is gonna leave this show alive blah blah blah, but it is nice of them,” Trip rambled, shoveling gourmet shrimp into his mouth as he spoke. Glenn tried to ignore him, but the kid was such an obvious presence it was impossible. Trip flicked his head to force some of his shaggy hair out of his line of vision and turned to Glenn before continuing, “So, Glenny, what brings you here?”
Glenn’s joints stiffened. As soon as Helena and he decided to throw one last Hail Mary and do the show, he planned on not talking to or getting too close to the other contestants. He’d seen Russian Roulette on primetime before, he knew that people very rarely put a gun to their head without a good sympathetic reason. The last thing he needed was to feel that another contestant deserved the money more than his family. Glenn shook his head.
“Oh come on, I’m gonna find out anyways,” Trip prodded, “’snot like I’m gonna think it’s a bad reason. Nice guy like you, probably took a lot to force you to put it all out on the line.” Glenn looked Trip over one more time. Despite how much food he was cramming into his face at that moment, the kid looked like he hadn’t had a full meal in years. He wore big, baggy clothes and had legs that went on for miles, but those things just couldn’t hide how small he was. Sort of in the same way that the fuzz on his chin couldn’t hide how young he was. Glenn found himself feeling bad for Trip without really knowing anything about his motivations, which kind of defeated the purpose of not talking to him. Probably wouldn’t hurt me to have him pity me too.
“Well,” Glenn said after a short pause, “My daughter is sick.” Trip stopped eating and gave Glenn his full attention. Glenn pulled out his wallet and took out the small, worn picture of Max and Helena he kept behind his license. He handed it to Trip, who studied it carefully.
“What’s wrong with her?” Trip asked. Glenn closed his eyes. Suddenly he was back in the neurologist’s office with Helena.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but unfortunately the drugs haven’t stopped the inflammation in Max’s left hemisphere,” Dr. Porter said. Helena squeezed Glenn’s hand as she tried not to cry, “At this point, our only viable option is surgery. It’s risky, but in the past we’ve been able to sever the corpus callosum and remove the damaged hemisphere. Max’s body will fill in the missing half of her brain with fluid, and then because she is so young and her brain is still developing, her right hemisphere should be able to compensate for the missing neural pathways. It’s worked before.” Glenn nodded numbly. He knew that this surgery would be expensive, too expensive for them without health insurance, but it was Max’s last chance. They had to figure out a way.
“She has Rasmussen’s encephalitis. The tissue in the left hemisphere of her brain is inflamed, which has caused permanent damage to the brain cells. At this point, almost her entire left hemisphere has atrophied. In her, it manifests itself it epileptic seizures and hemiparesis, which means when she has a seizure she loses use of the right side of her body,” Glenn explained, “She gets worse with every seizure.” Flashes of Max collapsing to the ground came before Glenn’s eyes. He slightly cringed at the memory of his little girl screaming and crying, her right arm and leg stiffening and refusing to cooperate with her no matter how hard she tried. All he and Helena had ever been able to do when she seized was help her sit up.
Trip was quiet for a few minutes, letting that sink in and staring at the picture. Glenn, having clearly accomplished his goal of making Trip pity him, peeled the remained of the sticker off of his apple and took a small bite, slowly chewing. Purple clipboard woman returned with another contestant, this time an elderly eastern european woman. Like Trip, she actually listened to purple clipboard woman’s speech, but like Glenn, she didn’t eat much from the table or try to interact with either Glenn or Trip after the woman left. Finally, Trip decided what he wanted to say.
“What’s her name?” Trip asked, looking at the picture and flicking the pre-bent corners.
“Max. It’s short for Maxine,” Glenn answered, “She’s four years old.”
“She’s so young,” Trip whispered. Glenn nodded, not quite sure if that was intended for him. They stayed silent for a bit. Purple clipboard woman led in two more contestants, an arrogant looking young man and an elderly man. Glenn and Trip paid them no mind.
“Can I keep this?” Trip asked after a few minutes, gesturing to the picture, “Y’know, just in case…”
“Yes,” Glenn answered, “I keep another one of each of them in my wallet anyway.” Trip smiled mirthlessly.
“So what about you, Trip? Why are you doing this?” Glenn asked. He figured due to conversational norms, he should reciprocate. Besides, he’d already broken his “no communication” rule and he was genuinely curious. He’s so young, he’s got his whole life ahead of him. What could possibly have happened that made him think this game was his only choice?
“Well….uh,” Trip started, running a hand through his mop of hair, “I…ah….I shot my dad.” Glenn stared at him. Didn’t see that coming. The kid looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly.
“What?” Glenn asked. Trip shuddered.
“I- I shot my dad,” Trip said, “He came home one night smelling like a mini bar and he started yelling. Mom told me to go to my room, but I stayed in the hallway to listen. He shouted, and she shouted back, then he shouted at her for shouting, and then I heard him start hitting her. So, I-ah-I ran in and tried to pull him offa her, but he just pushed me into the cabinets and kept pounding on her. He was going to kill her, I knew he was, so I went into their bedroom and opened the gun cabinet, grabbed his hunting rifle, and shot him dead.”
Somehow, after admitting to intentionally killing someone, Glenn thought Trip looked even more small and vulnerable. He’s just a kid, he was trying to protect his mom. Glenn looked at his hands. Somewhere in another world, purple clipboard woman brought in the last contestant, a woman in her late twenties.
“I need the money for a good lawyer,” Trip continued, “my mom used all of our savings to pay my bail, and neither of us think a public defender is going to be able to get me out of this. So I figured, either I die on here or I win and have a chance at not going to jail. Not too badda option either way.” Glenn turned to Trip and put a hand on his shoulder. He tried to think of something, anything to say that might make this better, but the words wouldn’t come to him. Purple clipboard woman returned to the room.
“Okay contestants! It’s showtime! Please follow me out to the main stage in the following order: Mrs. Melnyk, Mr. Webb, Ms. Ellis, Mr. James, Mr. Triplett, and lastly Mr. Madison.” Glenn stood up and offered Trip a hand. They fell into line behind the elderly man and followed purple clipboard woman out of the room and down the hallway, until they finally reached a large studio. The audience was filled with frankly overly enthusiastic people, excluding the small section in the first two rows reserved for the family of the contestants. Glenn didn’t bother to look for his, he didn’t want Helena and Max to see what was about to happen no matter which way it went.
“That’s my mom,” Trip whispered to Glenn, pointing into the crowd. Glenn followed the path of his finger to the 36 year old woman at the end. She looked like she was probably very pretty in her day, but age combined with an abusive husband and the stress of potentially losing her son had marred her face. Like her son, Mrs. Triplett seemed very small. Glenn nodded to her, but she was too focused on Trip to notice her.
Purple clipboard woman lead them onto the main stage and seated them around the semicircle table. The host of Russian Roulette, Rory Jacobsen, walked out to meet them in his signature green tuxedo. He introduced himself to each of the six individually, expressing his sympathies and wishing them the best of luck. Glenn tried to smile back, but found it difficult. His stomach started turning. Come on, Glenn, toughen up. Remember why you’re here. Max needs this.
“Okay everyone, in your places!” purple clipboard woman shouted. Jacobsen left the main stage and walked over to the large screen on the side stage, “We’re live in 5…4…3…” she yelled, mouthing the two and the one. The studio went dark, excluding where Jacobsen was standing. The signature theme music began to play; it was sort of like a generic, Family Feud-esque type of jingle, except with the added darkness of a ticking noise and a gunshot at the end. Glenn jumped when it sounded.
“Hello, ladies and gents and welcome to Russian Roulette, the most watched game show in American history! I’m Rory Jacobsen, and tonight, six new contenders will put their lives on the line for our grand prize of 1 billion dollars!” Jacobsen said into his microphone with a huge, phony smile. The crowd roared, excluding the anxious families in the front. Glenn found himself glancing over to Mrs. Triplett every few seconds, “So, let’s meet our contestants! First up, from the Ukraine, we have Mrs. Nastia Melnyk!”
The screen next to Jacobsen began to play the pre-recorded introduction interviews in the order they were sitting. They were basic questions: who are you, where are you from, what will you do if you win the billion, etc. Mrs. Melnyk, the elderly eastern European woman, planned to use the money to prevent her family home from being foreclosed on. Mr. Webb, the arrogant young man, didn’t have any specific plans for the money if he won it; the kid was an adrenaline junkie who just wanted to see if he could win it. Ms. Ellis, the woman in her late twenties, wanted to use the money to escape from her abusive boyfriend. Mr. James, the elderly man who had arrived with Webb, wanted to use the money to buy the miracle drug the pharmaceutical companies had released a few years ago to cure the cancer in his lungs. Then Trip was up. The audience aww’d and cheered for him as he told the story of the shooting, explaining why he needed the money for a lawyer. That just left Glenn.
“And last, but not least, we have Mr. Glenn Madison!” Jacobsen said by way of introduction.
The screen began to play Glenn’s interview. Glenn watched himself explain once more the full story of the Rasmussen’s encephalitis that was eating away at the left half of Max’s brain. As he talked, his picture faded away and the screen began to play a home video that Helena had taken during one of Max’s seizures per Dr. Porter’s request. Glenn looked away, not wanting what could possibly be the last time he saw his daughter to be of a seizure. He pulled out his wallet and took out the extra picture of Max he kept inside. The audience gasped at what he knew was the sight of Max dropping her Barbie and collapsing to the floor. Glenn glanced over at Trip, who was watching the video intensely and flicking the corners of the photograph Glenn had given him. The noise died down and Glenn’s voice faded out, signaling that it was once again safe to look back over at Jacobsen.
“Tough stuff,” Jacobsen said almost convincingly. The moment was short lived, “And those are our contestants! We’re going to take a quick commercial break, but when we’re back, the gun comes out and we’ll find out who gets to walk away with $1 billion this week on Russian Roulette!” The crowd roared.
“Cut!” Purple clipboard woman yelled. The studio lights came back on, and people in the audience started quietly conversing. A young intern ran a water bottle out to Jacobsen and walked with him as he moved from the intro stage to the main stage. Glenn’s leg wouldn’t stop shaking. After a few minutes, purple clipboard woman signaled for them to return, the lights dimmed, and the music played again.
“Welcome back to Russian Roulette! We met our six contestants, so now it’s time to get this show on the road!” Jacobsen said. He pulled the revolver out of his coat pocket, released the cylinder, loaded one bullet, spun the cylinder, and then pushed it back in. Showtime. He walked over to Melnyk and placed the revolver in front of her, “Mrs. Melnyk, when you’re ready.”
Melnyk was quick to pick up the revolver, but slow once it was in her hands. She stared at it for a few long seconds, did a silent prayer, and then put the gun to her temple. It took few more long seconds for her to pull back the hammer. Two clicks later, she took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger.
Nothing. For this round at least, Melnyk was safe. She whispered something to herself in what must’ve been Ukranian and passed the gun to Webb. Glenn crossed his fingers on this one. The kid is only in it for the rush, it should be the easiest to watch him go first. Unlike Melnyk, Webb wasted no time picking up the gun and pressing it to his temple. He looked to the audience and smirked as he pulled the hammer back and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The audience seemed disappointed.
Webb smiled and passed the gun on to Ellis. The poor young woman trembled as she picked up the revolver and held it to her head. She squeezed her eyes shut as she pulled back the hammer, quietly weeping. Two clicks. Glenn held his breath. Ellis squeezed the trigger and fired the bullet directly into her brain. Glenn jumped with the shot, his hands flying to cover his mouth. Ellis crumpled in her seat immediately, the revolver falling from her lifeless hand and to the floor.
“Well,” Jacobsen said, shaking his head, “Looks like we have our first loser.” Stagehands rushed out and carried away Ellis’s body while Jacobsen directed the camera’s attention to a different part of the stage. He gave a quick eulogy for Ellis and his “sincerest” condolences to her family. Once he was given the go ahead, Jacobsen walked back over to Ellis’s former seat and picked the revolver up, loading another bullet and spinning the cylinder. After he locked it back into place, he placed the revolver in front of James, “Mr. James, when you’re ready.”
James did not pray like Melnyk, nor did he cry like Ellis. He calmly took the gun and placed it to his temple like Webb, but with resignation rather than arrogance. Glenn watched curiously. He looks like he’s ready to die. James’s hand was completely still as he pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He passed the revolver on to Trip.
Glenn couldn’t watch Trip go. He barely knew the kid, but he felt for him. He’s in an unfair, impossible situation. Like me. Instead, he turned toward the audience and watched Mrs. Triplett. She wasn’t watching either. Her small hands covered the span of her face as she rocked back and forth, listening for the same things Glenn was. He heard the first click, then the second, then after a few long seconds, the sound of the gun firing an empty chamber. Trip was safe. Glenn turned back towards him.
“Good luck, Glenny,” Trip whispered to Glenn as he passed the revolver along. Glenn nodded, suddenly feeling the full weight of his fate in his hand. Max. It’s for Max. You can do this, Glenn. His hand shook heavily as he lifted the gun to his temple. He pulled back the hammer to two clicks, closing his eyes. Max and Helena appeared before him as he took in a deep breath. I love you both.
Glenn squeezed the trigger and the chamber fired empty. He and the audience let out their relieved breaths together. Glenn slid the revolver across the table to Melnyk, and then leaned back in his chair. Made it through the first go. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find Trip smiling at him. He nervously smiled back, then turned to watch Melnyk.
Like the first time, Melnyk said a small prayer to herself, but this time she was able to muster up the courage to pull the trigger much quicker. When she did, the chamber fired empty. She once again muttered something in Ukranian as she passed the revolver along to Webb. This time, Webb moved a little slower. He tried to keep up the same level of confidence that he had the first round, but Glenn noticed a nervous sweat start to break out around his forehead. Webb pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger, once again safe.
How can that be? We went through a whole round without anyone dying? Glenn counted back. Empty chamber #1 went to James, #2 to Trip, #3 to Glenn, #4 to Melnyk, #5 to Webb. Which meant the bullet was in the next chamber, and destined for James. Webb passed the gun to James, his arrogance clearly having returned to him. Glenn couldn’t watch. He covered his ears and looked up towards the ceiling as James completed the round. Trip tapped his shoulder when it was over.
“And then there were four,” Jacobsen said, directing the camera back towards him like he did with Ellis. Glenn focused on Jacobsen and his condolences rather than the stagehands’ cleanup of James. Poor old man. Once given the signal, Jacobsen reset the gun and handed it to Trip.
Things seemed to go a bit faster for Glenn after that. Round three went to Melnyk, whose prayers couldn’t save her from chance. At least she’s with God now. After that, Webb went down and the audience cheered. Glenn figured it was easier to root for the man with the dying daughter and the kid who saved his mom rather than the kid who just wanted a thrill. Finally, it was down to Glenn and Trip. Jacobsen loaded the last bullet and handed the gun to Trip.
“Hey Glenny?” Trip asked, before he put the gun to his temple. Glenn raised an eyebrow. Weren’t we told not to speak to each other on camera?
“Yeah, Trip?” Glenn replied. Trip put the gun to his temple and pulled back the hammer.
“After you pay for Max’s surgery, can you make sure my mom does okay?” Trip asked, “Y’know, take care of her. I’m sure she could help out with Max’s recovery, she’s real good with kids.” Glenn nodded. He heard a sob come from the audience. Mrs. Triplett.
“Of course Trip. If you win, can you make sure Helena is okay once you’re out of jail?” Glenn asked. Trip smiled, and shook his head. What? He squeezed the trigger. It fired empty. Glenn reached for the gun, but Trip held a hand out.
“Nah, Glenn. You’re going to win.” Trip pulled back the hammer again and squeezed the trigger. The revolver fired empty once again.
“Trip…” The kid smiled at Glenn, leaving his hand out to keep Glenn at arm’s distance.
“It’s okay,” Trip said softly, pulling back the hammer once more. He squeezed, and fired empty again, “My bastard of a dad may have deserved to die, but that don’t mean I’ve lived a fully clean life. Max is just a little kid, she’s never done anyone any wrong. She deserves a long, happy life with both of her parents.” Glenn watched in awe as Trip pulled back the hammer once more. Why isn’t the show stopping this? Isn’t it against their rules? Glenn knew exactly why though. A truly selfless act. Nothing like this had ever happened in the history of the show. Their ratings were about to go through the roof. Trip squeezed the trigger
The bullet was in the fourth chamber. If he’d played the game right, that bullet would be in my brain right now. Mrs. Triplett wailed from the audience as Trip crumpled in his chair. Glenn stood numbly as Jacobsen ran over to him, cheering.
I did it. I won.