They tell us to clap without clapping, because actual clapping might mess up the audio. It seems that an airplane door has slid open and the next twenty minutes are ten thousand feet below. We are loosening our spinning arms while two contestant handlers prep us, their eyes strobing between frantic and calm. Or one of three people who constitute Thursday, March 26, 2020. I stand before the wheel while Pat is in his dressing room, putting on his Thursday suit. But I’m talking to myself, because Pat Sajak has yet to stroll into this freezing-cold studio on the Sony lot in Culver City. It was sad and painful, Pat, and thank goodness things are much better now. My marriage fell apart a few months after his death. Toward the end, he became panicked by every chill and practically lived with a pulse oximeter on his index finger.
My parents were married for more than fifty years. I have three children: boy and girl and girl, eighteen and seventeen and twelve. A friend once saw my wedding photos and asked if I had been flung into a pool-you know, one of those weddings. My skin rests atop a roiling sea of sweat. I like saying “on the Sony lot.” I’m on the Sony lot, in a studio, and it’s freezing cold. I am in a freezing-cold studio on the Sony lot. on a Friday in late January, in Los Angeles-specifically, Culver City.
