AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“El—” I start.
Parker holds up a hand. “Take your time. Don’t rush.”
Oh. Right. He wants me to milk it for the home audience. Create suspense.
“Uh,” I say, screwing up my face like I’m trying to solve one of my dad’s quantum physics equations. “I’m not sure, but I think, I think it’s Elephants Are After Me, Volume One?”
“Cameron,” Parker says, looking very serious. “You … smoked it!” People go wild.
“Okay, Cam. Getting serious now. Big money time. Two-part question. Part one: Who composed the highly influential ‘Cypress Grove Blues’?”
“Junior Webster.”
There’s a murmur of appreciation in the crowd.
“Cam-my-man is on fire. Part numero dos: What does Cypress Grove refer to?”
I am about to hand Parker Day his stylist-assisted ass on a platter. “A cemetery in New Orleans.”
Parker raises that much-photographed eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re ab-so-lutely sure?”
“Well … yeah. I guess so.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”
He strokes his chin meaningfully. “Oh, Cam-Cam-Cam. I am sorry but that … is incorrect.”
“Incorrect? No way. I’ve been there. I met him …”
“You met Junior Webster. Sure you did, sponge brain. The correct answer is, the town of his birth. See? Town of his birth. Right here. On the card.” He presents the card to the camera for a close-up. “Camtoid, I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat in the …” Parker leans toward the audience, his hand cupping his ear.
“Dunking chamber!” they shout, right on cue.
I climb up the rickety ladder to the platform. As I do, I hear Gonzo’s lone voice. “You da man, Cam!”
My head’s swimming, both from the smell and my thoughts: if Cypress Grove wasn’t the cemetery he meant, then maybe I went to the wrong place, which would mean I got the wrong message, which would mean this whole trip is wrong and I’m doing this for nothing. There’s no way to know for certain. I’m choked by a panic that has nothing to do with the Dunking Chamber.
“Cam, you okay up there? Need some help?”
“Huh?” I realize I’ve stopped at the top of the ladder. I scoot out and take a seat on the platform over the cesspool.
“You comfy up there, Cam-man?” Parker asks. It would be so easy to swing a foot out and kick him in that photogenic head.
“Like a bug in a rug,” I answer. This actually gets a laugh from the crowd.
“Okay. Last question. For all the money. We’re going to play a sound bite from a song. You have to tell me the song and the artist. Get it right, and you win six hundred bucks. Get it wrong, and it is down the flusher with the Cam-a-lama-ding-dong. You ready?”
I nod.
The speakers crackle to life. A song wafts out. A haunting melody on recorder and ukulele. And then that helium-high Portuguese vibrato floats over the crowd. It’s possible I have the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of television.
“Oh, Cam. Do I sense you’re in trouble?” Parker asks, moving toward the HIT ME button. “Time for your answer.”
