Priceless

Life changing magic happens when Dolores Hannigan answers the call to Come On Down. A short story by Lilah Wild

The audience was ecstatic, howling and clapping and so, so happy to be here. The camera panned across their seats, their faces framed in flashing golden lights, the raucous theme-song trumpets and keyboards lifting them into a frenzy: we're here, WE'RE HERE!

Round pink glasses, a flowered dress, DOLORES scrawled out in exuberant capital letters across a name tag the color of sunshine. The camera scooped her up, this gray-haired woman who'd arrived alone, blessed her with a couple seconds of screen time. Her smile showed the world that this was indeed the very best party in morning programming.

Of course it was. It was magical here, where the contestants in the front row hugged each other and screamed and jumped up and down, a candyland refuge from the horrors of the news, the backstabbing melodramas of the soaps, the miseries of talk shows. Gossip, snide comments, delight in others' misfortunes — not here. Never here. This was a rare oasis of camaraderie, where total strangers cheered each other on to win.

An announcer's honeyed baritone bellowed out four names, and the chosen ones leaped up out of the jubilant masses like flames from a bonfire, summoned to the iconic row of podiums at the foot of the stage. Television's most exciting hour of fantastic prizes had just begun.

---

Sunny California. It was a little daytime mantra, Sunny California, where life was saturdated with color. The commercials flashed vision after vision: green vegetable gardens, a poofy sky-blue couch, petite pink bars of soap, a glass of orange juice like freshly-poured paradise.

You watching that stupid show again, Dinkie? We're out of milk, go get us some.

She knew she was supposed to see the cans of hearty soup, the loaves of spongy white bread rich with vitamins and minerals. But she looked right past the consumer goods to the loving families.

Their affection was intended to be both mere product backdrop, yet ultimate reward for making smart household purchasing decisions. They clustered behind the granola bar box, laughing and sharing a quality snack. They gathered around bowls of cereal, looking forward to the great day ahead. She saw them, these people who didn't speak in sharp tones, who didn't chastise or threaten.

What, you wanna win a car or something? You know the taxes you'd have to pay on that?

The show was where this spirit of domestic contentment reigned supreme. Watching someone of modest means get a shot at a sailboat or a hot tub or some other wild luxury toy, the secondhand exhilaration of watching them win — it was a fantasy world like no other. She had to get there, get on that show and know for sure that that kind of happiness really did exist somewhere on earth, and bask in it for just a little while.

She wrote away for tickets, and she blinked back sudden tears when she received an envelope a few weeks later — the stunning, sweet surprise of a response. An invitation. Join us here in Television City!         

She wouldn't be there to win — she would be there just to be there. But she started to memorize the costs of cocktail peanuts and floor wax anyway.

---

The audience had been waiting in line for about six hours before filming. Dolores arrived, ticket in hand, to find knots of people lined up in a corridor: sorority sisters, seniors, groups of co-workers, many of them wearing matching t-shirts to boost their chances of getting picked. She couldn't see anyone else who had shown up alone. Maybe this had been a bad idea — it was one thing to see all this togetherness on TV, quite another to be within it, and her anticipation nosedived into swift alienation. How stupid of her, to presume automatic acceptance, that she'd just fit right in—

"You'd think they'd at least offer us a glass of water or somethin', with all this waitin'."

A bluejeaned woman came and leaned against the wall beside her. Another woman in cargos and sneakers came up and joined them.

"I don't care as long as I get to spin that wheel! Childhood dream achieved!"

"Me too." Dolores' agonized psyche started to unclench.

"Me three," grinned the woman in jeans, and it turned out that these two were a pair of nurses who'd taken the day off together, and they drew her into their chatter just as easily as if she were a next-door neighbor, strangely blind to all the flaws that her husband never let her forget. The long, long wait prompted a lot of shooting the shit, silly jokes, and others drifted over to join them. A plumber, three bartenders, a schoolteacher — all of them united in their excitement to finally be here.

She tasted nights of homemade mixed drinks in their words, saw backgammon and mah jongg in their eyes, heard the disco station pulsing in the background as they pulled each other up into spontaneous living room dance parties. All the homes they were coming from, this bare, dingy corridor reducing all of their hospitality to hilarious conversation — such social plentitude, and they were sharing it freely with her, inviting her to a potluck, a book club, a happy hour. By the time she reached the registration desk, she couldn't stop smiling.

"Could I see your ID, please?" asked the page. "It's for your name tag. I have to put down your legal name just as it appears on your ID."

The page squinted at the little laminated rectangle, and the golden name tag quickly filled up with DOLORES. Dolores! What a lovely name, Dolores, old-world and elegant, a name she always saw as a flash of gilded cursive, a swish of mint chiffon, a name to be called out across a supper club. He'd started calling her Dinkie after the marriage, and soon everyone else had, too.

Dolores — Come here, Dolores. Nice to meet you, Dolores. It had been a long time since people had spoken her real name. Already, being here had given her a small treasure.

The doors to the studio finally opened, beckoning them all inside with the jazzy theme song. Here were those walls, softened with striped curtains, dotted with lights, the colors so cheerfully garish. Here were those stylized flowers covering everything like a pop art garden. Delighted screams resounded around the room as everyone stepped into a world they'd only ever seen on TV.  She was guided to her seat in the audience, surrounded by all the people she'd gotten to know in line, and she ended up between the bluejeaned nurse and one of the bartenders.

They all knew the drill: if you were lucky, you were called to the row of podiums, where if your bid on the first prize was the closest to the retail price without going over, you made it to the stage. You played another game for a second round of bigger, better prizes, and it didn't matter if you won or lost — you still got to spin the wheel. And if you spun the highest number without going over, you went up against another contestant to win the biggest, most expensive prizes of all.

And now, the green and pink and orange doors of the stage folded back, and revealed the host in his powder-blue suit. A model in a fluttery dress handed him his skinny microphone, and after a little banter with the audience, it was time to play.

"Here's the first item up for bids!"

Dolores expected nothing, but was completely prepared for all possibilities. You didn't get to go to Television City every day, and according to the terms and conditions that came with her ticket, you couldn't come back to the show for ten years — this little window would be open to her for one hour only, best to be ready for whatever came. But if she never got to be more than a spectator, a caller of numbers and applauder of winners, that would be OK, she told herself. She'd gotten into the fantasy world, and she now intended to savor every thrilling second of it. Even as a tiny, completely irrational hope started to blossom in the back of her mind.

You're not going, Dinkie. No way. No way are you going on that stupid show.

She settled back in her little theater chair, enjoyed the familiar sights and sounds that played out live before her, freed from their little pixellated square. Everything moved so fast, just a few minutes spent with each contestant, the games whisked across the white flowered floor on wheeled displays. The host gently and patiently explained the games to the contestants, and the audience helped out with their best guesses, their loud enthusiasm consistently ruining the love scenes of the soap opera being filmed next door. The TV cameras captured every delirious grin.

"We have an empty spot up here in front. Whooooo's the next name for us?" inquired the host.

"It's Dolores Hannigan! Dolores, come on down!" roared that buttery baritone.     

Oh!

Dolores stood up on shaky legs and the camera flew straight to her. The bartender hugged her and the nurse high-fived her and television sets all over the world filled up with her image, her pink glasses and her long floral dress and her shy, nervous smile, cheers and applause thundering for her — for her! — as she followed in the footsteps of all those elated TV-people before her, and hurried down to the podium.

The other contestants welcomed her to the front with hugs and kisses, their eyes shining with pure Can you believe it? Can you believe we're HERE?!

She took her place behind a skinny microphone of her own and looked up at the host. He towered above her, up on the stage, and for a second she thought of a disgusted high-school principal, a pulpit-pounding minister, people who had used their microphones to berate their listeners, but the bad memories vanished at the kindness in his voice.

"Hello, Dolores! You're looking quite fabulous today!"

"Why, thank you. It's lovely to be here." She'd practically forgotten how to breathe; she couldn't be anything but genuine.

"We're glad to have you. I'm guessing from your dress, you like roses, don't you?"

"Oh, I do. I have a garden at home."

"And what do you grow in your garden, Dolores?"

"Tomatoes, peppers, mostly a bunch of dandelions lately." A small, slightly embarrassed laugh escaped her throat. It was her one little sanctuary, a tiny corner of the world where she could make a bulb become a flower, where frogs sheltered in the broken terracotta pots she'd set out for them. She'd secreted seeds in her pockets to take the garden with her to the show, maybe bring a little good luck.

"Those are weeds, though, right?" The host was taking his time, actually giving her a chance to answer, not rushing her or talking over her.

"Yeah, but they're so cute, like little yellow smiles, so I just leave them."

Beyond the voices of the frogs, she could hear the slamming of car doors, the hearty calling of names, a cooler rolled up to a front porch. Someone's backyard stereo booming out the latest Top 40 hits, and the scent of baked ziti drifting over, freshly released from an aluminum pan — it was sheer torment, the way her neighborhood would light up with little parties, all around her, and she had no one but the frogs for company.

You want to go over and say hello, do you? What makes you think they'd want you there? Hey everybody, look, it's Dinkie! Dinkie, the party queen! They'd just laugh you right out the door.

"Well, Dolores, here's something else I think you'll find very cute — the next item up for bids is..."

The perky keyboards accompanied a Victorian fainting lounge, and then an electric footbath, and then a hot dog cart after that, each caressed by the manicures of the models. Items that were fun and totally impractical and certainly not the kind of thing you found yourself buying every week, therefore hard to guess. She watched her fellow contestants bid nearest to the retail price without going over and win, and win, and win. They jogged up the steps to the next round of prizes, and the camera cut in to the people who'd come with them, moms and teammates and newlyweds, their supportive yells given close-ups, their applause and smiles easing the furrowed brows of their loved ones onstage. Her buoyant mood dipped back down to that envious pang she'd felt at the start of the line. As friendly as the nurses and the bartenders had been, she'd only known them not even half a day. Her isolation started gnawing at her again, magnified by the broadcast; she had no lifeline here for the camera to find, no companion of blood nor vow to see her safely through.

Bid after bid, game after game, she remained stuck at the podium. The last chance presented a prize of golf clubs — oh! he'd love it if I brought those home for him! — before she squashed the thought right back down.

She pushed her glasses up her nose and spoke determinedly into her microphone, sheer frustration at failed guesses driving her to the classic time-honored bidding gambit:

"One dollar!"

The host announced the retail price, and the camera zoomed right in on her astonished face. Her winning bid flashed on and off as chiming bells called her to the stage. Furious applause overwhelmed her — yay! That lady finally got out of the front row! — and eased every ache from her heart, as sheer nerves scattered every conscious thought from her mind.

Boisterous horns and keyboards beckoned her up the steps, and she ascended into the warm greeting of the host. Her breath came short, and she could barely focus on the lights and colors swimming before her. Excitement warred with self-consciousness, all these people watching her. Being the center of attention — she wasn't used to it, at all. A middle-aged woman tended to be invisible. Even to her husband. Especially to her husband.

But the audience didn't care. She was one of them, and they all wanted her to succeed. Today, hundreds of people were rooting for Dolores Hannigan. Thousands, more than thousands, if you counted everyone watching at home.

A friendly hand on her arm, a kiss on her cheek. The host, an expert at soothing anxieties, warbled pleasantries at her that she automatically nodded at, her every word amplified by his microphone. Pieces of the set floated around her, as a game readied itself for her wits.

           "And how would you like to go home with these little keepsakes?"

Chirpy flutes flew above a languid bassline, and a green circular platform revolved around to display the prizes. The whole show, she'd been mesmerized by each little reveal, each reward ensconced in a slice of dream-house. Dishwashers and curio cabinets were presented as cozy delicacies, garnished with lamps and framed artwork and potted plants, the scene set for a happy life that was yours if you guessed right. The models posed along the prizes, not haughty perfume-ad ice queens at all, but lit up with smiles. It's okay for you to lust after this dinette set, this player piano, their arms open and gregarious with each little expanse.

First up, a new poker table and chairs, foldable and complete with padded armrests and four stainless-steel cup holders. Next, a rolling bar cart, made from stylish wrought iron, ready to serve drinks or hors d'oeuvres. Dolores blinked. These were things meant for parties, for contestants who had lots of friends.

Get me another drink, Dinkie.

She swallowed, and let the host lead her towards her game.

A series of hurdles awaited her. Each one represented a pair of grocery items, where she had to guess which one cost less. Five correct guesses would move her across the board to victory.

She felt fairly confident as she took her place beside the game board. She was the one who always had to do the shopping, and she'd studied, just in case the chips fell this way. She could be good at this, she told herself.

Twinkling beats accompanied the announcer, whose silver tongue led her down the line of items. Minty fresh, a wholesome family meal in a can, naturally sugar-free, convenient six-ounce sizes, light and fluffy and ready in six minutes — each tagline a tiny promise. But thirty years of being married badly had taught her that the products could only do so much, no matter how colorful the package, how cheerful the words. Her house was where these things came to die: a delicious salted cube of butter that went soggy in the refrigerator, a jewel-blue bottle of dishwashing liquid that stood gooey at the sink. Their sensory powers stayed dormant, with no moments of affection to activate them. The hug wrapped in warm clean sheets fresh from the dryer; the bites of popcorn while cuddling in front of the late-night movie; it was being with the ones you loved that made you taste, made you feel.

That grimy corridor they'd all waited in earlier, lit up by the one shining interest they had in common, being here, on this show — there were no tasty nutrients or flavor crystals at all in this happy day.

The audience shouted out numbers, trying to help her. We want you to have those things! She whizzed past the first and second guesses, packs of gum and ballpoint pens, easy. The third — the third — no, they were wrong, carpet deodorizer cost more than tomato juice.

A buzzer halted her progress, and a little card flipped down to reveal her mistake. Four deflated notes on a trumpet confirmed her loss and the host patted her on the back, sending her offstage. These wouldn't have been good things to win, she told herself, these ornate playthings that belonged in someone else's life, not in the gray of hers.

But the games weren't over yet.

---

Dolores found herself up on green stairs, behind a flowered podium, facing off against another lucky contestant. She'd spun the enormous wheel, where she hadn't landed on the glittering red and green numbers that conferred the bonus of extra cash, but eighty cents had been enough to get her to the end. Whichever one of them bid closest to the retail price without going over would win.

            Jazz bloomed across the first set of prizes, choice morsels of the good life. Extravagant, but quite wonderful to have: a round shower with heated towel racks. A four-poster bed draped in plum satin. A camping trailer with foldout beds and complete kitchen. This could be yours!    

            Dolores thought about the mantel clocks, the pairs of recliners, the sewing machines, each prize plucked from the decorative ferns of its display nest to be packed up and shipped off all around the globe. The other contestants who had been beside her, all the people out in the audience, the homes in which the bar carts and hot tubs would be shared and enjoyed, lives infinite and totally unknown had surrounded her all day, so many ways to be happy — Dolores felt a little faint. The hour was almost up, and it would be time to go home. Her home.

            "Now Dolores, will you bid or pass on this showcase?"

            The indulgent shower — the soft bed — Dinkie!

            "I'll pass."

            The other contestant was a quiet, reserved woman, much like Dolores, except she'd had an adoring husband to bring with her. The camera cut away to his hands cupped around his beard, shouting her his best guess, and she echoed his number. The camera cut back to his smiling applause, and Dolores willed herself to stay focused. The next showcase was on.

            It started off with a few homey things of wood and brass that just sort of blended together before Dolores, family heirlooms from day one! The announcer rattled off brand names and alluring features while the jazz caressed the edges of her consciousness. It was all going to be over in a matter of minutes. She stroked a hand over her name tag.

            At least I got to be Dolores again today.

            "...and finally...A BRAND NEW CAR!"       

            Trumpets blasted as the stage doors folded back, and a hatchback stood within columns of flashing lights. Small and green, with headlights that popped up like eyes, just like a frog. The audience roared and clapped and she could barely think.

            "Dolores, give me your bid."

            She gazed out at the audience, heart hammering. They were yelling even louder, not wanting her to lose this time. She sought out her seat, the nurse and the bartender, everyone she'd befriended in line. Oh, she hadn't thought she'd win anything today. Getting to walk through the television screen to be here in person — she'd already won, hadn't she?  But what a cute, cute car, it was perfect — it was perfect. The camera caught every etch of desire across her features.

            Dolores, listen to us!

            All their voices lit up the talismans of idealized household where it was always a great day, the plumbers and librarians, the grandmas and the students and the couples. She flashed on her own home, imagined it packed with people, loud with laughter and music, the chattering background for a charcoal barbecue grill of fine ceramic construction, a set of wicker patio furniture complete with water-resistant cushions.

            If I win this car, I can do anything.

            She looked back to her seat, and the nurses were holding up their fingers spread out in numbers, practically standing on top of their seats to help her win. The entire studio boomed with the audience's support, all of them on her side for a glorious, dizzying moment.

            WIN THAT CAR, DOLORES!

            She leaned forward and spoke her bid, to a chime and some loud approving applause.

            The wait was agonizing, her final moments within the sparkles spent braced to lose. She tried in vain to remind herself that at least she'd made it here, she'd gotten her wish to bask inside the broadcast stardust and that was enough. But the car was practically winking at her from across the flowered floor — how awful it would be to make it this far, and be matched with a prize so right, only to have it confirmed forever that she wasn't allowed to have hope after all.

            The host slid the price out of a tiny cream envelope—

            "Dolores, you win!"

            Victorious chimes dotted the air as the theme music kicked in and everyone in the audience cheered. Dolores staggered out from behind the podium, and the host took her trembling arm as he bid the audience farewell and reminded everyone to spay and neuter their pets. The smiling models walked her over to the prizes as the credits started to roll, their hands gentle on her shoulders, their manicures pointing the way to her victory. She ran her hands lovingly over the car's green roof, still not believing that this sweet little machine was hers.

            Tears glittered in her eyes as she turned to the applauding audience, and waved goodbye.

---

 It passed in a blur, walking through the empty studio, past the games whirled back to their storage alcoves, on into the winners’ room.

            "All right," said a page who had obviously been through this many, many times before, but was still quite friendly about it.

"Now, you swear to secrecy about what you've won until after your show has aired, and you'll receive your prizes within ninety days after that. Your paperwork is in order — that's all for us. Now you gotta work it out with the car dealer. They'll arrange for you to pick it up in your hometown."

            Dolores had inked down an address she would hate returning to. But she didn't think about that as she stepped out into a beautiful California afternoon. Sunny California, bright as a laundry detergent commercial. Laughter and appetizing scents came breezing over from the nearby farmer's market, and traffic swooshed ceaseless in the distance. She marvelled that this was her reality at the moment, this warm, vivid world of the advertisements.

            She wasn't ready to leave it just yet.

            Or, ever.

            She walked towards the cars parked in the studio lot, and she could see it peeking from behind a couple of sportscars. That beaming green. Her prize.

            The driver from the dealership was having a smoke before the drive back to the showroom, the motor company's name embroidered on her black satin jacket, the forever-summer breeze playing with her long auburn hair.

            Turning from stranger to friend — winning a showcase — Dolores was high on triumphs big and small today, and the momentum carried her towards this last challenge, this woman who'd come to take her car away. That couldn't happen. It had to be the exact car that was on the show. You couldn't just buy one, or be OK with an identical model from another dealership in the chain — it had to be the very one enchanted by the audience's screams, the yelled numbers that had washed away every hurtful thing her husband had ever said to her. It was the TV love-token from that strange, enthusiastic, vocal little community that existed for just one hour.

            Dolores summoned whatever burgeoning charm she had, approached the driver, and struck up a conversation about hatchbacks, about getting around, and soon they were commiserating about crap husbands. Broken promises. Little escapes.

            “I'm ready to drive my car home now, actually.” Dolores' voice was soft but dead serious.

            “Haha, you have the sales tax on you? You have to pay that first before we can give this to you.” The driver flicked her ashes, not unkindly.

            Dolores had indeed been prepared for all possibilities, knowing exactly how much she'd have to pay in taxes. She took off her glasses, withdrew a stack of twenties from her purse, and stared with no guile at all at the driver.

            “As a matter of fact, I do. This should save you a trip to the dealership. And there's some just for you, for your trouble."

            Orange juice, spiked with a draught to turn her husband's mean mouth off while she emptied their joint bank account. There was no way he was keeping her from the show, from whatever good fortune awaited her within the walls of Television City.

            The driver arched a brow and ran a thumb along the bills. Demons of her own came to the surface, Dolores saw, and they were considering the deal.

            "The non-disclosure agreement," said the driver, finally. "How can I be sure you'll keep your mouth shut?"

            Dolores' hand went to her name tag. She'd loved being one of the audience, and their unbridled enthusiasm had brought her to this moment. Now, she had to distance herself from them, very much not be one of the giggling bragging oh my god crowd who were currently running around the farmer's market with their name tags proudly left on.

            She put a hand up to the precious souvenir, and slowly peeled it off her dress. She looked at the frenetic capital letters exclaiming to the world who she was, the moment that she got to be Dolores again, that she'd intended to frame and keep forever.

            But the bigger prize was demanding the sacrifice of a smaller one. She took a deep breath, looked the driver in the eyes, and slowly tore the little piece of sunshine in half.

            "I won't tell a soul."

---

The magical chariot would cost her a bundle in more taxes next year, but it was worth it. The plush seat, the trunk that would fit many bags of soil, the disco station crooned as she hit the gas and found that the ride accelerated quick, a nice bit of pickup — wherever she was, she could get away fast. The crooked fairy godmother had pulled another set of paperwork out of the trunk and played around with the dates, and they shook hands, each woman walking away with something to make her future happier.

            Dolores cruised her little frog car to the edge of the lot, to the exit. If she turned left, she could head back home with her prize. Back to him. A teary afternoon talk show at best, the violence of a news story at worst.

Phone numbers crinkled in the pockets of her dress, jumbled up with the seeds. Small things to start a new life with, the biggest prizes of all: front doors opening to welcome her inside, slipping behind the perfectly focused box of cake mix to join the blur of her laughing friends and share a decadent treat. Come on over, gin rummy every Friday night. You gotta come see my squash garden, they're getting huge! Hey everyone, this is Dolores, we met on that game show! She won a car!

            Dolores took a deep breath and spun the wheel, towards the right, and wondered what kind of number she'd land on this time. As she pulled into traffic, the car's last, best feature came alive: the voices of the audience, cheering her on.

---

Lilah Wild's dark fiction is an ongoing search for cauldrons hidden within the modern landscape, exploring the contemporary fantastic and horrific. Her current fascinations include bellydance dabbling, vintage glamour, neurochemical witchcraft, horror movie interior decorating, and running away to the beach. She lives in Queens with two cottagecore panthers. She can be found online at her site, Leopard Moon, and @lilah.wild on Instagram.

Image credits:

Car on highway and vintage vignettes from Getty Images

Green car close up by Andrej Lisakov