“And,” continued Billy, “when I do win I’m gonna ask you to marry me. You will, won’t you? We’ll have enough money to live on. Whattaya say, Rosie?”

“Jesus, Billy, what a time to propose.”

Billy Constable filled out all the forms and answered all the inter-viewer’s questions. He played a practice round in front of the producers with three other prospects. When Billy finished, everyone smiled and said he did very well, that they would contact him one way or the other the next day.

“Can’t you tell me now?” he asked nervously.

“We have to talk it over,” said some big deal named Elsa, “but I can tell you this, Billy. You did very well.”

“One of the people from the show said I did very well,” Billy told Rosie on the way to his place. Right after Billy returned from Grossinger’s, Rosie had moved out of the nest and into his apartment. Billy said, “She was an older woman and her exact words were, ‘You did very well.’”

At ten the next morning, Jimmy Joel called Billy to tell him that things were really looking up for him. “But I better get off the phone in case someone from the show wants to call you and give you the good word.”

Billy never moved from the telephone table in Rosie’s apartment for the rest of the morning, the entire afternoon, and into the evening. But no one else called from the TV program. Until seven that night.

It was the woman. Billy recognized her voice. It was the older lady who told him he did very well. She said her name was Elsa Metzger and that she had good news.

Billy felt incredible joy. He covered the phone for a moment with his hand and sang into Rosie’s ear, “We’re goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get marr-rried!” and then went back to the telephone.

“So what’s the good news?” asked Billy, smiling.

“You’re not on the show, Billy.”

“I’m not on the show?” gulped Billy, feeling wobbly, his smile vanishing.

Rosie didn’t know whether to feel good or bad.

“No…but…you’ve been chosen as one of our two standbys.”

It was a beautiful, sunny late September morning.

The producer sat behind an enormous desk in an enormous office in the National Broadcasting Company’s television center at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. He had gathered his production staff into his office to discuss the up-and-coming premiere episode of The Big Question.

The producer’s personal secretary, Ms. Pickle, sat across the desk from him. Ms. Pickle, a wrinkly, tall, bone-thin spinster whose hair was falling out, had a personality just like her name. She was famous for her temper tantrums, being a tattletale, and having a mean and sour disposition. She wore outdated clothes, had a perpetually sneering mouth, and reminded everyone of their meanest grammar school teacher. Ms. Pickle had been with the producer for over twenty years. She hovered around him like a protective mother monkey. The two were a fearful combination.