Melodic Insomniac

This is the final installment of the Journey to Ellen’s Saga.  The rest of the story can be found here:

Part I: We’ve Got a Train to Catch!

Part II: Hurry Up and Wait

Part III: The Riff-Raff Room

Although we were a flight of stairs and ten feet closer to the studio doors, we fared better than only about ten people who stood behind us in line. While waiting in impatient agony downstairs for our numbers to be called, we decided that the two hundred and thirty people that stood between us and Ellen were the so-called Very Important People. We didn’t think that anyone was more important than we were, since we were obviously Ellen’s biggest fans, but apparently no one else but us recognized that fact. Don’t get me wrong – we were quite happy to have a guaranteed seat at the Ellen show. But I must admit that I felt like the unnumbered line that wrapped around the outside of the building earlier in the day, the line in which we occupied the front, was nothing but a big, spiteful tease.

As we discussed this sad turn of events, we waited in line whilst handsome men in smart tuxedos brought us more chocolate. We tried to refuse, knowing that there was a chance we might be seen on national television and didn’t want chocolate on our faces (or to contribute to the ten pounds that would be added to our bodies by the television cameras), but it is mighty hard to resist an attractive man in a tuxedo who says with a twinkle in his eye, “Please eat this piece of chocolaty heaven; I brought it all the way up that long flight of stairs just for your pleasure.” Personally, over the course of twenty minutes, I managed to eat an entire tray of bite-sized brownie goodness. Of course, the magic spell cast by these tuxedo-clad hunks wore off once we saw that he gave the same spiel to the old woman sporting the tacky gold jumpsuit in front of us.

So we waited. We waited and we waited. We waited and we waited and we ate chocolate and we waited. And the whole time while we waited we wondered, “Where is Ch?” We figured she wasn’t in trouble, otherwise we would have seen her escorted from the premises by security personnel. Someone in the group speculated that her absence might have something to do with her answer to the questions we answered while in line outside. By that time, everyone around us in line had discovered that the person who was called to speak with Ellen’s staff had originated from the group of girls plus a boy that stood near them, which naturally made them more important than they were five minutes before.

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Catch yourself up on the Journey to Ellen’s Saga!

Part I: We’ve Got a Train to Catch!

Part II: Hurry Up and Wait

Around 11:30, it seemed that our wait was over. Excitement rippled through the crowd around us as a security guard instructed us to proceed in an orderly fashion through the front doors and follow a member of the staff to a set of elevators that would take us to Ellen’s floor.

Standing towards the front of the first line, only a handful of other potential audience members stood between us and the elevators. As we waited for the elevators to descend to our level, we were instructed not to take flash photography, to turn off our cell phones, and not to bring to the studio any weapons of mass destruction. We were then herded like cattle into the next available elevator.

Upon our exit onto Ellen’s floor, we came to the horrific realization that no one had bothered to check that we were still in the same order in which we had entered the elevators. We had lost our fantastic places in line! I could feel my heart sinking into my stomach as we went through a security checkpoint, which pushed us further back in line.

After handing my purse to a security guard, who checked to make sure that I carried no weapons of mass destruction with my lipstick, and showed her my ticket, I was handed a yellow index card with a number scribbled in black magic marker. Turning to my left, I searched the crowd for my friends, from whom I had been separated. It seemed like everyone who had been in line behind us had somehow made it into the room before us. Eventually I found the gang sprawled out on a cushioned bench near a set of doors.

“What number did you get?” Angela asked.

“36,” I replied.

My friends smiled. With the knowledge that we had all received numbers in the thirties, we had renewed hope of getting seats remotely close to Ellen.

We were seated in the Riff-Raff Room, the final staging area before we were finally allowed to enter the studio. Quite a large room, it was filled with several cushioned benches like the one upon which we sat, as well as a photo station sponsored by Celebrity Cruises, some television equipment, and a table selling overpriced Ellen paraphanalia. Occasionally, a short man with a lopsided goatee would shout on a microphone that it was great to have us there, and please purchase Ellen things, because spending money would make the show begin sooner. It occurred to us that we would be there for quite a while, so we tried our best to pass the time.

David decided to mill about, looking for an Ellen sweatshirt in his mother’s size. Angela and Krysta set off in search of the bathrooms. Kristen decided to take a nap. Ch and I played Speed with the deck of cards I had brought with me in my purse, snuggled closely against my weapon of mass destruction.

Incidentally, I hadn’t played Speed since I was in eighth grade. Once upon a time I was feared in the lunchroom when a game of Speed was initiated, so rapidly would I shame my opponent. Unfortunately, that was not the case in the Riff-Raff Room. I was a bit disappointed at how slow my reflexes had become over the past twenty years or so. It didn’t help that the cards were brand new and quite slippery.

After an hour or so, an announcement was made that, because the show’s stay in New York was sponsored by Celebrity Cruises, we would be served hors d’oeuvres by some of the wait staff that worked for the cruise. Since I had devoured my lunch before we even got to the studio, I was beginning to grow hungry, so this news was a relief. Slowly, men and women dressed in tuxedos made their way through the crowd, balancing trays of tiny little food and plastic glasses of sparkling cider. The cider never made it to our side of the room, but we did delight in the food. I particularly enjoyed the small puff pastry filled with cheese, as well as the miniature quiches and the flour-less brownies.

With the food and the game to entertain us, the time passed relatively quickly. Then it happened: a new person came on the loudspeaker, announcing our imminent movement into the studio. Applause and cheers filled the room. We were about to see Ellen! Our spirits soared along with the hoots and hollars that surrounded us.

“Okay, we’re about to start moving into the studio, everyone,” said the voice. “We’d like everyone with green cards to start moving towards the door through which you entered. Green cards, numbers 1 through 20.”

Wait a minute, we all thought. We have yellow cards. A collective frown came over my friends’ faces. We have yellow cards, and they have green cards, and they’re calling the green cards first, not the yellow cards.

“Well,” someone said, “How many green cards can there be?”

It turned out that there were a lot. We waited for the numbers to stop but the voice kept raising the number of green cards to join the line: 30, 50, 125, 200…

Once again, the sinking feeling overcame us. We just knew that we would be seated all the way in the back. The studio wasn’t that large, and they had already called at least three-quarters of the people in the room. Begrudgingly accepting our fate, we waited impatiently for our numbers. Eventually, when it seemed that there was no one left in the room but us, we were called.

Almost simultaneously, as we moved into the line that wrapped against the edge of the room, we heard another voice calling through what remained of the crowd: “Christin Barnhardt! Christin Barnhardt from Winston Salem, North Carolina! Please report to…”

We all turned to Ch, who had frozen. All the color had drained from her face, her mouth slightly open. Angela was the first to break the silence: “That’s you, Ch! Go see what they want.”

Ch looked as if we had told her to wade through a piranha-infested river, that it would exfoliate her skin. She began to stammer an objection, but was interrupted by the voice that called her name once more. She took a breath and marched purposefully towards the woman with a clipboard, while the rest of us were herded up a flight of stairs.

NEXT TIME: Look, Ma, I’m On TV!

The beginning of the Journey to Ellen’s Saga can be found here: We’ve Got a Train To Catch!

Jumping onto a moving train is an exhilarating experience. I felt like I belonged in a Bogart-era film, when trains were still the main mode of public transport across the country, and the main characters impressed everyone by catching the train at the last second. I wouldn’t recommend utilizing that method of entrance onto a train every time, but it certainly is fun to say that I’ve done it once in my life.

One might ask why we left so early, when we didn’t actually need to be at the studio until noon. The answer is simple: we wanted good seats. Three types of tickets were issued to those who saw Ellen that day: VIP, Guaranteed Seating, and Standby. Although we firmly believed that we were much more VI than the VIPs, we were thankful to get Guaranteed Seating, which meant that no matter what, we would get to see Ellen, even if from afar. It also meant that there was no assigned seating, so if we wanted good seats, we would need to get there before everyone else. Therefore, it was worth parking illegally in someone else’s driveway and fighting the elbows of peevish commuters.

The train was crowded. Angela and I sat in the back while the rest of the gang was dispersed through the train. Krysta found a seat in front of us in between two strangers, one of whom made a point of looking extraordinarily annoyed at having to move to make room for our friend when there was plenty of room on the seat. Needless to say, she was the butt of a healthy dose of jokes throughout the duration of the ride.

I still have no idea how we got out of Penn Station. I’ve been there a few times, but I have never once actually seen a sign that reads “Go this way to get out.” New York subway and train stations confuse me to no end. So, by some miracle or an incredible stroke of luck, we ended up on the street and began walking towards the hotel, where everyone (except David and me) was staying that night.

My dogs were barking by the time we got to the hotel. I couldn’t (and still can’t) believe how incredibly stupid I was not to have worn sneakers. Oh well, I thought, a little pain for the sake of cuteness never killed anyone…that I know of. We had to wait in the lobby of the hotel while Angela checked in, so my feet were granted a brief respite.

Once the girls checked in, we booked it to Columbus Circle. I was a bit shocked when it came into sight. The circle is at the corner of Central Park, so when you approach it, the sudden lack of buildings creates a sensation that the world has suddenly come to an end before you. It was just another reason why New York City doesn’t sit quite right with me.

Just around the corner we could see the building that housed Ellen’s studio. Angela got so excited that her smile looked like it would jump off her face. The sight of her skipping and jumping down the sidewalk in front of us was almost more entertaining than the prospect of actually seeing Ellen. Ch whispered to me, “I know she’s excited, but honestly, I’d almost be happier sitting all the way in the back, away from the cameras.” I wholeheartedly agreed with her, but since Angela treated us to the tickets, we figured we should sit where she wanted.

Eventually, after climbing four flights of stairs and waiting outside a nonfunctioning elevator, we found the line for the Ellen Show outside of the building. It seemed that our early arrival was going to pay off: we took our places near the front of the line and prepared to wait.

The crisp winds had died down and the sun now shone over the tops of the buildings, warming our faces. We traded jokes and took pictures with cameras that would soon need to be turned off, as was told to us several times by a member of security personnel that trolled up and down the lines. We took turns holding places in lines when pairs of our group needed to find the lavatory.

The time seemed to pass rather quickly once the surveys were handed out. We each received a sheet of 8-1/2”x11” paper on which was hastily typed the following questions: What would you do if you had ten extra minutes in your day? What is one errand you always have hanging over your head? If you had a butler, what would you have him do?

We knew that Ellen would choose her favorite answers and feature it on her show. We all scrambled for pens and tried to think of the funniest, cleverest responses. Angela themed her answers to fit the problem of one sock that always manages to disappear in the dryer. Ch themed her answers around her perpetually lost keys. I couldn’t think of anything clever, so I phoned Mike.

“Mikey,” I said, “What would you do if you had ten extra minutes in your day?”

“I’d check my email,” he replied.

“No, I mean if you could do anything.”

“Oh, you don’t want a real answer, you want a good answer!”

“Yes!”

His answer came without hesitation. “Pull-ups.”

“Pull-ups?”

“Yeah, pull-ups.”

I thanked him and hung up. I then scribbled my answers on the page: With ten extra minutes in my day, I would do pull-ups. An errand I always have hanging over my head is upper-body toning. If I had a butler, I would have him spot me while I did pull-ups.

We handed in our surveys and resumed our wait. The excitement was building as the line lengthened behind us; surely we would have excellent seats, as there were only about ten people in front of us.

NEXT TIME: The Riff-Raff Room

The clock read just past 5:00 when I woke up. Under any other circumstances I would have immediately turned over and fallen back asleep, but excitement and fear of over-sleeping prevented me from doing so, even at that ungodly hour. After all, I was going to see Ellen with friends that I hadn’t seen in months – who could possibly sleep through that? With so much time I was able to spend a leisurely morning getting ready for an exciting day ahead.

By the time I reached Ch’s house, though, I had managed to hit every single red light and get stuck behind a little old lady whose hairline could barely be seen over the top of her steering wheel and who, at ten miles below the speed limit, couldn’t decide which lane to use. My exasperation was compounded by the realization at Ch’s house that six of us had to fit into my teeny compact car. We packed like clowns – Angela, Krysta, Kristen, Ch, David and me – and headed to the train station.

We realized that we would be fighting commuter traffic to New York, so we left early, thinking that we had a chance of finding a parking space. We were wrong. All that could be seen at the train station was a sea of automobiles and a distinct lack of empty spaces. Pulling up to the station itself, we all sighed in frustration.

“You know,” said Ch, “you could park at Dr G’s house – it’s just around the corner. I’ll go with you, and everyone can get out and get tickets.”

It was agreed. We would try to be back for the 8:03 train, with an 8:21 train as a backup. I handed money to Angela to purchase a ticket for me, and once they all tumbled out of my car, we zoomed off to Dr G’s.

Dr G was one of our professors, and one of the sweetest men on the planet. We knew he wouldn’t mind us parking in front of his house. As we turned down his street, though, we saw a line of brand new signs that decorated the edges of the road: “No parking between 8:00am and 5:00pm.” Apparently, the neighborhood had complained about commuters parking on their street. How rude.

“What do we do now?” I asked Ch.

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “we could park in his driveway.”

“Can we do that?”

“He’s not home, and you’ll probably be back here before he does.”

“Let’s leave a note, just in case.”

As I maneuvered the car as far back into the driveway as possible, Ch scribbled the words on a page torn from a blank notebook and placed it upon my dashboard: “Dear Dr G: We hope you don’t mind, but we (the piano ped class of 2005) parked in your driveway. If there’s a problem, call Megan. Love, Christin, Megan, et al.”

I felt guilty for being so presumptuous as to park in my ex-professor’s driveway, but we had no other choice. After all, I would much rather face the unlikely wrath of Dr G than a parking ticket in the Princeton borough.

We walked swiftly towards the train. It was only three or four blocks, but with a train about to arrive, it felt like miles. I was suddenly very aware of the poor choice of shoes I had made that morning; in an effort to look cute, I had completely forgotten the consequences of walking long distances in high heels. One would think that I would have learned after graduation. But that’s a different story altogether.

As we rounded the corner into the edge of the train station parking lot, we heard the squeal of brakes as the 8:03 arrived two minutes early. Ch turned to me with a look of determination. “Do you feel like running?”

We ran like mad women, frantically trying to avoid potholes and late commuters looking for parking spaces. Ch phoned Angela and told her to get on the train, and that we would be on it. I hoped that she was right. The train had already begun to move as we jumped on the last car. Breathing a sigh of relief, we made our way to the front of the train to find our friends.

TOMORROW: Hurry Up and Wait