The allure of “Easy Money Near Me” is a powerful siren song. That’s precisely what drew me on a lengthy Sunday morning subway ride from Brooklyn to Harlem one August day. The promise of quick riches, the whisper of effortless gain – it’s a universal desire, and on that particular day, it led me straight to the Apollo Theatre. I was on a quest for “easy money,” or at least, a shot at it, through an open audition for the iconic game show, “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”.
However, upon arriving, the scene immediately dispelled any notion of this being a hidden opportunity. It was abundantly clear I wasn’t the only one in search of “easy money near me,” or anywhere for that matter. The audition was slated to begin at noon and run until five, yet a little after eleven, a considerable line of aspiring millionaires had already formed, snaking out of the Apollo’s lobby and down the Harlem sidewalk. We were a diverse tapestry of dreamers, each hoping to strike it rich.
In line, I found myself surrounded by a fascinating cross-section of humanity. Behind me stood a meticulously dressed, somewhat flamboyant man of Jewish descent engaged in a spirited debate with an older African-American gentleman about the intricacies of Obamacare. Just ahead, a petite Korean woman patiently navigated a conversation with a woman seemingly incapable of filtering her life’s bizarre and likely embellished details, the most prominent being her supposed master’s degree in reverse psychology from Nassau Community College. Before we were ushered into the theater, our reverse psychology aficionado, perhaps sensing an even more promising “easy money” venture elsewhere, wandered off, leaving the rest of us to our shared ambition.
To even have a chance at grabbing some of that “easy money” pie, I realized I needed to quickly decipher what the producers were looking for amidst the thousand or so auditionees vying for their attention that day. Producing engaging television was their primary goal, I reasoned, which translated to a desire for contestants who were expressive, emotionally resonant, and perhaps a little eccentric. As we waited for the initial multiple-choice trivia test, designed to swiftly thin the applicant herd, we were bombarded with loud pop music. Periodically, instructions boomed for us to stand and dance, ostensibly so they could capture footage for promotional material about the audition process. A thought flickered: could this be a covert evaluation? Were they discreetly observing us via hidden cameras, cherry-picking the most energetic personalities? Seizing the moment, I enthusiastically jumped up, waving my arms with manufactured abandon to the pulsing beat of Beyoncé. All the single ladies. All the single ladies. All the single ladies. Uh-uh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh. Perhaps this display of spirited participation was my ticket to “easy money near me,” or at least closer to the stage.
My trivia prowess, thankfully, proved sufficient to pass the initial hurdle. I earned the privilege to remain as hundreds of less knowledgeable hopefuls were politely shown the exit. The next phase involved another two-hour wait, followed by a brief in-person interview. Here, we were probed about our responses to a pre-audition questionnaire – questions designed to unearth compelling narratives: “What’s an embarrassing story about you?” “Do you possess any hidden talents?” “What would you do if you won a million dollars?” The game, I realized, had already commenced. Securing a coveted spot on the show required crafting an intriguing personal story, showcasing charismatic quirks, and demonstrating a willingness to shed any remaining vestiges of dignity. It was during this stage that I overheard one of the affable, twentysomething (and notably white) producers offering pre-interview coaching to a heavier-set African-American woman. The directive, delivered with an air of casual encouragement, was to “just go in there and be a crazy mama. Just be a crazy mama.” The pursuit of “easy money near me,” or even far away, it seemed, demanded a performance.
Now, had I perhaps mentioned in my questionnaire my ability to perform a reasonably convincing Chewbacca impression? And had I, perhaps, offered this unusual talent as evidence of my eagerness to provide them with whatever they sought in exchange for a shot at their “easy money”? Indeed, I had. The remainder of my interview, conducted in the cramped backstage area of the Apollo, felt like a mere formality. I was, I was assured, good television material for reasons X, Y, and Z. When I was twelve, I’d been an actor in a sex-ed video alongside Bill Nye the Science Guy. A million dollars would be dedicated to crafting the world’s most extravagant first-anniversary gift for my wife. And, yes, could I perform the Chewbacca roar now? Of course, I could. The resulting sound was indeed a great and unholy noise, powerful enough to momentarily silence all conversation in the room. A man, recognizing the Wookiee cry, applauded from somewhere in the queue behind me. As I journeyed back to Brooklyn by train, uncertainty lingered about my audition success, though in retrospect, I needn’t have underestimated the allure of the Wookiee. Two weeks later, a postcard arrived, officially placing me in the “contestant pool,” and a week after that, a producer called to inform me that my episode was scheduled to film in just seven days. My quest for “easy money near me,” or perhaps fame, was potentially bearing fruit.
My own somewhat complicated relationship with money could be explained through various psychological lenses, but perhaps an autobiographical approach is most illuminating. My father, a physicist by training, transitioned to mechanical engineering upon moving to the Pacific Northwest. For much of his career, he insisted on running his own small firm. Practically, this meant he provided regular salaries for several engineers while his own income was whatever remained – a sum that often paled in comparison to what he could have earned had he accepted a salaried position under someone else’s leadership. It wasn’t fiscal irresponsibility that defined my father; rather, money simply wasn’t a top priority. He operated under the conviction that he could always secure enough if the need truly arose. This perhaps wasn’t about “easy money near me,” but rather a confidence in his ability to generate income when necessary.
As a young man, I adopted a similar mindset regarding my own life and finances. Post-college, I spent a year in Africa on a fellowship, returning to New York City to pursue a career in writing. This, in practical terms, meant engaging in a series of unrelated jobs to cover living expenses while awaiting the elusive arrival of literary stardom. My early roles included bartender and tutor to affluent high school students. In my early twenties, I dabbled in poker, experiencing months where winnings from home games and underground clubs covered rent. However, calculating an hourly wage from those card-playing endeavors would likely reveal a shockingly meager sum. The prevailing, albeit naive, logic was that a substantial book advance or a prestigious MacArthur “genius” grant would eventually materialize, compensating for years of modest income. Economists, I believe, term this approach to financial matters “irrational optimism.” It’s the belief that “easy money near me,” or at least significant financial reward, is just around the corner, requiring minimal immediate effort. My game show audition, in a way, was a manifestation of this very “irrational optimism,” a fleeting chase for that elusive “easy money.”
