The Game
written by: Jamie Johnson
Gerry squeezes his eyelids together and counts backward in an attempt to regain his slumber, but a tiny ray of light peeks through his blackout curtains. “Ahem”, he coughs. His tongue is so dry it feels like a cork sitting in his mouth. He gingerly opens an eyelid and looks around for some water. The plastic bottles bounce around in a water bottle ballet as he searches in vain for one that is not empty. He closes his eyelids again, and the metallic ‘wah wah’ of his phone alarm pierces the air. “Goddamnit!” Jerry rolls over and feels around on his nightstand for his phone. He finally locates the phone next to the lamp between a full ashtray of Benson & Hedges cigarette butts and an empty fifth of Lord Calvert. The “Lord,” as Gerry calls it, has been the shrine at his prayer altar. He could afford better liquor; in fact, he could afford the best liquor. The cabinets in his office were full of twelve-year-old scotches and craftsmen-made Russian vodkas. That is what being the host and creator of the longest-running game show in Los Angeles can afford you. Luxury. Luxury beyond most people’s wildest dreams. However, the “Lord” is what ruined his grandaddy, and if it was good enough for Grandaddy, it was good enough for Gerry, too.
Gerry pulls his phone to him, but he is wrapped in the sheets. He rolls off the bed and to the floor with a thud. “Goddamnit,” he grunts. The alarm continues to blare. He feels around on the floor for the phone. The floor is putrid, and his shag carpet has become a receptacle for everything tossed away at night, and with Gerry, that could be anything. Finally, he locates the phone again. With his eyes closed, he pecks around like a chicken looking for feed until he locates the off button.
Gerry emerges from his master suite with his robe on … barely. He looks down over his solid mahogany banister onto the vast open floor plan. As his eyes adjust to the light, a foam projectile whizzes past his head. “Jesus,” he yells as he ducks. Two redheaded boys, twins, whiz through the living room, a cacophony of rapturous joy, with toy guns, shooting everything in their path. “Marcie!” Gerry yells as he descends his grand staircase, “Marcie!”
“I’m in here, what’d you want?” Marcie replies, bouncing a baby on her knee in the palatial kitchen.
Gerry hurries to Marcie’s voice. “What is going on down here. I was still sleeping. You know I like to sleep in on my days off” he says, barfing up his anger onto her.
“It’s Monday, Gerry, not your day off,” Marcie quips. You can tell that she is tired of repeating simple things like that to him.
Just then, a searing pain shoots up his leg like it’s on fire. “Goddamnit!” He picks up his foot to find that he has stepped on some sort of toy rocket.
“Would you watch your mouth?” Marcie asks with a combination of annoyance and demure, “Not in front of the kids.” She always has a way of smiling through the pain. Gerry’s famous line to their friends was, “Marcie wouldn’t say shit if her mouth was full of it.” Of course, that was her superpower, kindness in the face of hostility. She would often think, “How could I piss Gerry off today by merely smiling?”
The kitchen is beyond a disaster; there is one cabinet just hanging by a single hinge. Marcie jokes that it is a metaphor for her life. Gerry walks up to the coffee maker and opens the lid. It hasn’t been cleaned or used for weeks. He dumps the used dregs in the garbage and goes to the cabinet. He begins to rifle through its contents, “Where is the goddamned coffee, Marcie,” he grumbles.
“I’m your wife, not your servant,” Marcie says with a smile. “Maybe if you went to the grocery store once in a while, you wouldn’t have to ask those questions.” Marcie continues to bounce the baby as Gerry pulls out his cell phone.
“I guess I will have to DoorDash a coffee.” He says under his breath, “This is ridiculous. And why is this house such a disaster? Is it too much for me to ask that, since I make the money, that you do something around here? I mean, how about hiring a cleaning service at least?”
Marcie gets up and slides the baby into a high chair. She approaches Gerry and whispers-screams, “Have you forgotten that I caught you,” Marcie looks around for listening ears, “folding sheets with the last cleaning service I hired.”
Gerry looks down and freezes, he obviously had actually forgotten this piece of information. Or maybe he had decided not to remember it. It was hard to tell, because of his acute self-loathing, whether he did these kinds of things out of a self-destructive streak or because he was just so blackout drunk that he actually thought the maid was his wife. And with that, he reaches up into the cabinet, pulls down an open bottle of liquor, and takes a swig. His stomach churns as warm liquid courses through his veins. He wipes the residue of the liquor from his scruffy, salt and pepper 5 o’clock shadow.
“Oh, bravo, what a stunning example you set,” Marcie, obviously agitated, bites her tongue. She walks back to the table. “By the way,” she pauses and picks up a manila envelope, “I want a divorce.”
Gerry just looks at her with a blank expression, “Christ, Marcie.”
At that moment, a honk comes from outside the house.
Marcie picks up the baby and steps over a pile of toys on the floor, “Time for you to go to work.”
Gerry puts the lid on the liquor and slides it back in the cabinet. The boys run back through the kitchen, screaming in war-play-ecstasy, paying no mind to Gerry as he ties his robe, slips on his loafers, and exits the house through a slider nearest the kitchen, “Christ,” he grumbles.
Later, Gerry sits in front of a lighted makeup mirror. ‘Those mirrors,’ he thought, ‘were brutally honest.’ His face was tanned and worn like a much-loved catcher’s mitt. It shows sun spots and wrinkles, but also a life harder than it had to be. He was handsome; his looks were a gift he’s had all his life. He always felt that his brain rode the coattails of his face, and maybe his personality did too. How else could he have scored a wife like Marcie. She was younger and a Summa Cum Laude graduate from Berkeley. She had been a respected researcher until he brought her into his dysfunctional life. As Gerry looked hard at himself, he thought, ‘Did he ruin her? Surely she had good reason to divorce him. He knew he deserved that. It was a long time coming.’
“Let’s get those dark circles covered up, Ger.” Susan, his makeup artist, says as she tucks a makeup ring into his collar, briefly snapping him out of his pity party. ‘Susan was always so positive. So. Fucking. Positive.’ Gerry thought, barely keeping it together.
Susan starts to work; first the layers of primer and concealer, then she applies the foundation. “What the heck were you doing up so late, Ger, you don’t smell like you were at the brewery, you smell like you were the brewery,” Susan laughs. She was about to apply the powder when there was a knock at the door.
Bob, the coordinating producer, peeks in, “Gerry, we need you in the conference room ASAP, please.” As quickly as Bob appears, he is gone at the same speed. Bob is half Gerry’s age and a real go-getter. He reminds Gerry a lot of himself at that age, and Gerry hates him for it.
“Sounds serious,” Susan says as she gives him a light dusting, “You better get on your way.”
In the conference room, Bob and the executive producer, Pamela, sit at a large table. Ruby, Gerry’s assistant and number two, waits nearby. She fidgets nervously with her key badge.
“This better be quick, we go live in fourteen fucking minutes, Bob.” Gerry seethes as he bursts into the room, “You want another goddamned raise, Ruby? Is that what this is about?’
“Gerry,” Pamela calmly intervenes, “The language is not necessary.”
“Excuuuuse me.” Gerry says in a very long, almost comically exaggerated manner, “I forgot we were in kindergarten.” He looks around. “We are all adults here, right?”
“Gerry, I will just come out and say it, you’re fired,” Pamela stated plainly.
“I’m what?” Gerry says in disbelief.
“Gerry, you’re a self-righteous prick, and let’s be honest, we have let you get away with this kind of shit too long,” Pamela adds.
“You shrew,” Gerry replies.
“You’re always late, and you’re miserable,” Pamela starts.
Bob interrupts, “And you smell like you live at the bottom of a Wild Turkey bottle.”
“Lord Calvert,” Gerry says under his breath.
“What?” Bob replies.
“I said it was Lord Calvert, you, you, schmuck!” Gerry shouts so loud the interns in the hallway hear him, “This is going to cost you a fortune. I just signed a new contract.”
“We are aware, but we have weighed the costs and frankly, we would rather cut ties than put up with any more of your shit.” Pamela stands, “Today’s taping is your last show, Ruby takes over tomorrow.” Pamela and Bob leave.
Gerry looks at Ruby, “Backstabbing…”
Ruby walks over to Gerry. His seething is palpable, but she steals herself. “When I started working here, I was in awe of you. You were the man, Gerry. You plucked me out of obscurity and taught me how to be the greatest host, and employer. You were kind to everyone, you had compassion for the contestants, and most of all, you were confident. I worshiped the ground you walked on. What you have become is a disappointment. The man I admired died. I grieved for him a long time ago, not the person standing in front of me today.”
Gerry sits. He stews in his own inner filth, the realization of how bad it’s gotten sinks in, and a wave of grief envelops him; sobs now take over. Gerry is alone in the conference and wails uncontrollably. He flips the conference table, upends the trash cans, and throws a chair across the room. And then, just in that moment, a silence comes over him; a stillness. “Fuck this place.”
Bob pokes his head back in the room, “You’re on in two, Gerry.”
“Fuck you, Bob!” Gerry retorts.
On the sound stage, the director, Janet, warms up the audience by asking them questions. The on-air light blinks, “Okay, everyone, let’s get started,” Bob yells to the crew. As Gerry enters the stage, he appears disheveled. His makeup is streaked with his tears. A hush falls among the crew. Gerry gets his cell phone out of his pocket and dials, “Marcie, I know you don’t want to talk, but listen. I am sorry, sorry for everything. I am not going to make excuses for myself, but I want to ask you to give me another chance. I know that I am not who I used to be, let me make things right.”
The announcer, Carl, comes over the speaker, “Welcome to the stage, your host, Gerry Nightengale.” The crowd stands and goes wild. Gerry walks out, Carl hands him his microphone, and he bows to the audience as Carl continues, “Now for today’s contestants on Trivia Spin. First, we have Kyle from Missoula, Montana; next, we have Jill from La Jolla, California, and lastly, we have Mary Beth from Indianapolis, Indiana.” The crowd applauds and sits.
“Hi, everyone. I’m the host, Gerry, We are happy to welcome you to the Trivia Spin family,” Gerry gets a little choked up on the last word, but finds his composure moments later and moves on, “You know how the show works, you spin the wheel, land on a category, then you are asked a trivia question. Answer correctly and you get another question from that category, if you get all the questions correct, you get a shot at one million dollars. Remember, this show is the only show in town that is one hundred percent live, unrehearsed, with no commercials. I have a feeling it’s going to be a crazy day.” Gerry says with a smirk as he looks over at Pamela, “Kyle, you drew first, you get to start.” Kyle spins the wheel. It circles around and lands on U.S. Presidents.
“U.S. Presidents, very good. Okay, Kyle, here we go,” Gerry takes out his cards. “This U.S. President was shot in Ford’s theater in 1865.”
“President Lincoln,” Kyle interjects.
“Correct,” Gerry congratulates Kyle, “Next question, which U.S. President was the first to be photographed?” Gerry pauses for a response, but Kyle is quiet. The crowd waits with nervous anticipation. “Harrison,” Gerry whispers to Kyle.
Kyle looks to Gerry, stunned by this gesture. No one else catches the breach of the rules. Gerry gives Kyle a nod as to say go ahead. “Harrison?” Kyle continues.
“Amazing!” Gerry says as he pulls out another card, reads it, and tosses it over his shoulder, “Next question. Who was the president at the start of World War II?”
Kyle quickly answers, “FDR.”
“Another great answer, Kyle.” Gerry shoots another look toward Pamela. She shakes her head, “Okay, Kyle, here is your last question in this category.” He looks at the question cards. “Well, this is just dumb,” he rips the card up, letting the bits fall down around his feet, “Let me just ask you an easy one. Who is buried in Grant’s tomb?”
Kyle’s eyes get big, and the crowd laughs, “Is this for real?”
“Oh, Kyle, it’s the realist shit I’ve ever done,” Gerry replies.
Pamela runs to the control room, yelling into her mic, “Get the censor ready, we are going to a five-second delay!”
At home, the phone rings, Marcie picks up, “No, I’m not watching. Okay.” Marcie turns on the television as Kyle answers Gerry’s question. The roar of the crowd shocks Marcie.
Back in the studio, Kyle is riding high as Gerry ponders his next question, “Okay, Kyle, this is your final question before you get a chance for one million dollars,” Gerry looks over the card question again, “This won’t work, Kyle. How about, who is our current U.S. President?”
Kyle laughs, “Joe Biden?” He can’t believe his luck.
Pamela screams into her headset, “Is there any way to shut this down?”
Bob runs around behind her yelling into a cell phone, “What do you mean we can’t cut this? Who is in charge up there?”
Gerry walks Kyle over to the winner’s circle. He looks back at the other contestants and asks Kyle to wait for a second. Gerry runs back to the other contestants and leads them to the prize curtains. “Alright, everyone, this is a special day, so let’s do something crazy. I am going to ask each contestant one question. If they get the question correct, they will go home with the prizes behind their respective curtains. Okay, here we go! Jill, how old are you?”
Jill isn’t sure how to proceed, but answers, “Forty-five.”
“Correct!” Gerry laughs, “Which door would you like?”
“Um, two?” Jill studders.
“Great!” Gerry responds, “Carl, tell her what she has won.”
Carl replies, “Okay, Gerry, Jill has won a new car!” The crowd goes wild. “Just wait, Jill, soon you will be driving through La Jolla in a brand new Mini Cooper.” Jill jumps up and down and hugs Gerry.
“Okay, okay,” Gerry starts, “Mary Beth, let me see, what is your favorite color?”
“Um, red?” Mary Beth answers.
“Fantastic,” Gerry high-fives Mary Beth, “You win the prize behind curtain number one!”
Carl takes the lead now, “Mary Beth, just for knowing your favorite color, you will be going on a first-class trip to the Big Island of Hawaii!”
Mary Beth fans herself.
Gerry runs back to Kyle, “Okay, Kyle, this one is for one million big ones.”
Just then, Gerry’s microphone is cut. He looks over to Pamela. He motions to have the microphone turned back on. Pamela refuses.
Gerry motions for the audience to quiet down. The studio gets silent. Gerry walks to the camera and pulls it towards him and Kyle, “Stay on me,” Gerry instructs the camera operator. “Kyle, this is for all the cash. Kyle, tell me what is your favorite game show?”
Kyle screams, “Trivia Spin!”
A burst of confetti explodes in the studio as the audience rushes the stage. They grab Kyle and put him on their shoulders. Gerry looks teary-eyed into the camera, “Marcie, I love you. I am coming home. Everything is changing, I promise.”
At home, Marcie sits in front of the television in tears.
Gerry hands his microphone to Pamela, “You aren’t going to get away with this, Gerry,” she says.
“I just did,” Gerry states as he walks out of the studio. He leaves the building and gets into his car service, waiting for him. As he puts on his seat belt, he tells the Driver, “Nearest flower shop, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the Driver replies.
Moments later, they pull into the parking lot of Burbank Floral. “We are here, sir,” the Driver says as he rolls down the privacy window. Gerry does not respond, and his body is slumped over.
“Sir, are you okay?” the worried Driver asks. He gets out and opens the back door. He feels for Gerry’s pulse. There is none. He pulls out his cell phone, “Yes, I need an ambulance.”
- Interview Q&A With Jamie Johnson - October 16, 2025
- The Game - September 9, 2025
- The Big Chill - April 24, 2025
