The Third Door

by Alex Banayan

  * * *

  I was ushered to the side of the stage as a new batch of contestants battled to determine who’d go against me in the final round. Twenty minutes later, I found out. Her name was Tanisha and she had demolished the competition as if she’d spent her whole life walking through Costco studying price tags. She’d won a thousand-dollar luggage set, a ten-thousand-dollar trip to Japan, and on the Wheel, she’d spun a perfect one hundred. Going up against Tanisha felt like David facing Goliath, except David forgot his slingshot.

  During the commercial break before the final round, I realized I’d never watched this far into the show. And on top of that, no one in the audience had given me advice on this part because no one thought I’d get this far.

  Tanisha walked by. I reached out my arm to shake her hand.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  She looked me up and down. “Yeah, you’ll need it.”

  She was right. I needed help fast, so I stepped over to Drew Carey and threw my arms up. “Drew! I loved you on Whose Line Is It Anyway!” I gave him a hug and he pulled back, giving me an awkward one-armed pat.

  “Drew, any way you could explain to me how the Show-Room Showdown works?”

  “First of all,” he said, “it’s the Showcase Showdown.”

  He explained it in a way someone would talk to a kindergartner, and before I knew it, the theme music started again. I dashed to my podium. Six machine gun–sized cameras aimed at my face. Blinding white lights shot down from above. To my left, Tanisha was dancing. Shit, I still have to go to the library and study tonight. To my right, Drew Carey stepped forward and adjusted his tie. Oh my God, Mom is going to kill me. The music grew louder. I spotted the old lady who’d pinched my cheek. Focus, Alex, focus.

  “Welcome back!” Drew said. “I’m here with Alex and Tanisha. Here we go! Good luck.”

  “YOU’RE IN FOR A ROLLER-COASTER RIDE OF ACTION AND ADVENTURE! FIRST UP, A TRIP TO MAGIC MOUNTAIN IN CALIFORNIA!”

  With all the stimulation, I didn’t hear the rest of the details. How expensive could a theme park ticket be? Fifty bucks? What I hadn’t heard was that it was a VIP package, with a limousine, front-of-the-line passes, and all meals included—for two.

  For my second prize, all I heard was “Blah, blah, blah, a trip to Florida!” I’d never purchased a plane ticket before. What is it? Like a hundred bucks? No…a couple hundred? Again, I’d missed that it also included a rental car and a five-night stay in a first-class hotel.

  “PLUS, YOU’LL FLOAT WEIGHTLESSLY AT THE ZERO-G EXPERIENCE!”

  It sounded like a carnival ride. How much could that cost? Another hundred? I later found out this is how NASA trains astronauts. Fifteen minutes in zero gravity costs five thousand dollars.

  “AND FINALLY…THERE’S ADVENTURE ON THE HIGH SEAS, THANKS TO THIS STUNNING NEW SAILBOAT!”

  The doors slid open, a supermodel waved her arms, and there it was: a glowing, pearl white sailboat. When I finally calmed down and looked closer, the boat seemed relatively small. Four, no, five thousand dollars—tops? Once again, what I hadn’t heard was that it was an eighteen-foot Catalina Mark II boat with a trailer and a cabin inside.

  “WIN THIS SHOWCASE AND THERE’LL NEVER BE A DULL MOMENT WITH THE TRIP TO MAGIC MOUNTAIN, THE VACATION IN FLORIDA, AND THE NEW SAILBOAT. AND THEY’LL ALL BE YOURS IF THE PRICE IS RIGHT!”

  The audience’s cheers echoed off the studio walls. The cameras swung back and forth. As I tallied the total, one number came to mind, and it just felt right. I leaned forward, grabbed the microphone, and with all the confidence I could summon, said, “Six thousand dollars, Drew!”

  Dead silence.

  I stood there, for what felt like minutes, not understanding why the audience had gone quiet. Then I realized Drew Carey hadn’t locked in my answer. I turned to him and he had a baffled, almost dumbfounded look on his face. I finally got the hint. I hunched my shoulders, reached for the microphone, and sheepishly said, “Just…kidding?”

  The audience erupted into applause. Drew sprang back to life and asked for my real answer. Well, that was my real answer. I looked at the sailboat, then back to the audience. “Guys, you’ve got to help me out!”

  Their shouts blended into a roar.

  “Alex, we need an answer,” Drew pressed.

  The audience slowly began to chant one number over and over, but I could barely make it out. I heard a th sound.

  “Alex, we need an answer.”

  I grabbed the mic. “Drew, I’m going with the audience on this one. Thirty hundred dollars!”

  Drew immediately said, “You know there’s a difference between thirty hundred dollars and thirty thousand dollars, right?”

  “Uh…of course I know that! I was just messing with you.” I pretended to think out loud. “I’m feeling $20,000. Higher than $20,000?”

  The audience shouted YESSSSS!

  “Thirty thousand?”

  YESSSSS­SSSSS­S!

  “How about $29,000?”

  NOOOOOOO!

  “All right,” I said, looking at Drew. “The audience is saying $30,000, so I’m saying $30,000.”

  Drew Carey locked in the price.

  “Tanisha,” he said. “Here’s your Showcase. Good luck.”

  She was in the zone. Tanisha kept dancing; I kept sweating.

  “A NEW ATV, AN OFF-ROADING VACATION IN ARIZONA, PLUS A BRAND-NEW TRUCK, AND IT’S ALL YOURS IF THE PRICE IS RIGHT!”

  She bid, and then it was time to reveal the prices.

  “Tanisha, we’ll start with you,” Drew said. “A trip to Phoenix, Arizona, and a 2011 Dodge Ram. You bid $28,999. Retail price…$30,332. A difference of $1,333!”

  Tanisha leapt back and shot her hands to the ceiling.

  Okay, I thought, I still have twenty-four hours until my first final. If I drive from the studio straight to the library, that gives me six hours to study for bio, three hours for…

  Drew revealed my retail price and the audience cheered louder than they had all day. The producers motioned for me to smile. I leaned over to check the number on the front of my podium.

  I’d guessed $30,000. Retail price…$31,188.

  I had beaten Tanisha by $145.

  My face went from day-before-finals dread to just-won-the-lottery hysterical. I leapt from my podium, high-fived Drew, hugged the supermodels, and ran to the sailboat.

  Drew Carey spun around and looked back into the camera.

  “Thanks for watching The Price Is Right. Bye-bye!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Storage Closet

  I sold my sailboat to a boat dealer for sixteen thousand dollars, which for a college student feels like a million bucks. I felt so rich I kept buying Chipotle for all my friends—free guacamole for everyone! But after the holidays, when I returned to school for spring semester, the party was over. It was hard for my eyes not to gloss over in my premed classes as I imagined what it would be like to instead learn from Bill Gates. I counted down the days until summer, when I could finally focus all my time on the mission.

  Just before school let out, I had a routine meeting with my premed adviser. She clicked away at her computer and scrolled through my transcript, studying my “unchecked boxes.”

  “Uh-oh, Mr. Alex, we have a little problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like you’re behind on credits. To stay premed, you’ll have to take chemistry this summer.”

  “No!” I blurted, the word slipping out before I could catch it. “I mean, I’ve got other plans.”

  My adviser slowly swiveled in her chair, turning away from her computer and leveling her gaze at me.

  “No, no, Mr. Alex. Premeds don’t have other plans. You either sign up for chemistry by next Wednesday or you’re no longer a premed. You’re either on the track, or you’re not.
”

  I dragged myself to my dorm room. All the usual suspects were there: the white ceiling, the USC football poster, and the biology books. Except this time, something felt different. I sat at my desk to draft an email to my parents, telling them I was switching from premed to a business major. But as I tried to type, the words wouldn’t come. For almost anybody else, switching majors isn’t a big deal. But for me, after my parents had told me for years that being at my medical school graduation was their biggest dream, each time my fingers hit the keyboard, I felt I was shattering their hopes, one stroke at a time.

  I willed myself to finish the email and pressed send. I waited for my mom’s response, but it never came. When I called, she didn’t answer.

  That weekend, I drove home to visit my parents. As I walked through the front door, I found my mom sitting on the couch, sniffling, a crumpled tissue in her hand. My dad was beside her. My sisters, Talia and Briana, were in the living room too, but as soon as they saw me, they scattered.

  “Mom, I’m sorry, but you just have to trust me.”

  “If you’re not going to be a doctor,” she said, “what are you going to do with your life?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you planning to do with a business degree?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So how are you going to support yourself?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You’re right: you don’t know! You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it’s like in the real world. You don’t know what it’s like to have to start over in a new country with nothing. What I do know is that if you become a doctor, if you can save people, you can do that anywhere. Going on an adventure is not a career. You can’t get this time back.”

  I looked at my dad, hoping he’d support me, but all he did was shake his head.

  The emotional barrage went on all weekend. I knew what I had to do. I did what I’d always done.

  I called my grandma.

  My grandma is like a second mother to me. When I was a kid, my favorite place in the world was her home. I felt safe there. Her phone number was the first one I’d memorized. Anytime I argued with my mom, I’d tell my grandma my side of the story and she’d get my mom to cut me some slack. That’s why when I called, I knew she’d understand.

  “I think,” she said, her voice landing softly on my ear, “…I think your mom is right. We didn’t come to America and sacrifice everything, just so you could throw it all away.”

  “I’m not throwing it away. I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

  “Your mom wants a life for you that we never had. In a revolution, they can take your money, they can take your business—but if you’re a doctor, they can’t take away what you know.

  “And, if it’s medicine you don’t like,” she added, “then fine. But an undergraduate degree is not enough in this country. You have to get your master’s.”

  “If that’s what it’s about, I can get an MBA or go to law school.”

  “If you do that, then, okay. But I’m telling you: I don’t want you to become one of these American kids who gets ‘lost’ and then tries to find himself by traveling the world.”

  “I’m just switching my major! And I’ll still get my MBA or something like that.”

  “Well, if that’s your plan, then I’ll talk to your mom. But I need you to promise me, that no matter what, you’ll finish undergrad and get your master’s.”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “No,” she said, her voice hardening. “Don’t tell me: ‘Yeah, I promise.’ Tell me jooneh man that you’ll get your master’s.”

  Jooneh man is the strongest promise in the Persian language. My grandma was asking me to swear on her life.

  “Fine. I swear.”

  “No,” she said. “Say: jooneh man.”

  “Okay. Jooneh man.”

  * * *

  The days got warmer and summer finally arrived. I cleaned out my dorm room and moved home. But on my first day back, I felt restless. If I wanted to be serious about the mission, I needed a serious place to work.

  Late that evening, I grabbed my mom’s keys off her nightstand, drove to her office building, climbed the stairs to her storage room, and flicked on the lights. The space was tiny and covered in cobwebs. There were old filing cabinets, run-down storage boxes, and a beat-up chair crammed behind a rickety wooden desk.

  I packed the storage boxes into my car and put them in our garage. The next morning, I moved in a few bookshelves, vacuumed the dusty carpet, and taped a USC banner above the door. Then I installed a printer and made cutout business cards with my name and number. As I took a seat behind my desk, I kicked my feet up and smiled—it felt like a corner office of a Manhattan high-rise. Although, in reality, it looked more like Harry Potter’s cupboard.

  That first week, dozens of brown Amazon packages arrived. I tore them open and pulled out books I’d bought using my Price Is Right money. I lined an entire row with books about Bill Gates. Another row on politicians, then a row on entrepreneurs, writers, athletes, scientists, and musicians. I spent hours on the floor, arranging the books by height on the shelves, each one another piece of my foundation.

  On the top row, I placed one book on its own, the cover facing out as if it were a shrine: Delivering Happiness by Tony Hsieh (pronounced shay), the CEO of Zappos. When I had first been hit by the “what do I want to do with my life?” crisis, I had volunteered at a business conference where copies of his book were given out. I didn’t know who he was, or what his company did, but college students don’t say no to anything free, so I took one. Later, when my parents became hysterical over my decision to switch majors and I was torn about whether I’d made the right decision, I saw Tony Hsieh’s book on my desk. It had the word “happiness” in the title, so I reached for it as a distraction. But then I couldn’t put it down. Reading about Tony Hsieh’s journey—about the leaps of faith he took despite everything that could go wrong—helped me find the courage within myself I didn’t know I had. Reading about his dream fueled me to pursue my own. That’s why I put his book on the top shelf. Whenever I needed to remember what was possible, all I had to do was look up.

  * * *

  While putting the finishing touches on the storage closet, it dawned on me that I’d never asked myself exactly who the “most successful” people are. How was I going to decide whom to interview for the mission?

  I called up my best friends, explained my problem, and asked them to meet me at the storage closet. Later that night, they walked in, one by one like a starting lineup.

  First came Corwin: his messy hair dangling past his shoulders, a video camera in his hand. We had met at USC, where he was studying filmmaking. I felt like I could always find him either meditating or crouching on the ground, peering through the viewfinder of a camera. Corwin was our fresh eyes.

  Then came Ryan: staring down at his phone and studying NBA statistics, as usual. We’d met in seventh-grade math class and Ryan was the reason I’d passed. He was our numbers guy.

  Next was Andre: also looking down at his phone, except knowing Andre, he was definitely texting a girl. We became friends when we were twelve, and for as long as I’ve known him, he was the ladies’ man.

  Brandon followed next: holding an orange book in front of his face, reading as he stepped in. Brandon could read an entire book in a day. He was our walking Wikipedia.

  And lastly, there was Kevin: a giant smile on his face, his presence making the storage closet come alive. Kevin was the energy that held our crew together. He was our Olympic flame.

  We sat on the floor and began brainstorming: If we could invent our dream university, who would be our professors?

  “Like, Bill Gates would teach us business,” I said. “Lady Gaga, music—”

  “Mark Zuckerberg for tech,” Kevin yelled
out.

  “Warren Buffett for finance,” Ryan said.

  We went on for half an hour. The only person who hadn’t suggested a name was Brandon. When I asked what he thought, he just lifted his orange book and pointed to the cover.

  “This is who you need to talk to,” Brandon said, his finger on the author’s name. “Tim Ferriss.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  Brandon handed me the book.

  “Read it,” he said. “He’s going to be your hero.”

  The brainstorm continued—Steven Spielberg for film, Larry King for broadcasting—and before long, we had the list. After my friends headed home, I wrote the names on an index card and put it in my wallet for motivation.

  I jumped out of bed the next morning, more determined than ever. I took the index card out of my wallet and stared at the names. My certainty that I could interview each of them by the end of summer was the fuel that got me going. If I’d known then how my journey would unfold—how beaten and broken I’d soon find myself—I may never have started. But that’s the upside of being naive.

  STEP 2

  RUN DOWN THE ALLEY

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Spielberg Game

  With my list in hand, I charged straight to the storage closet, sat behind my desk, and flipped open my laptop. But as I stared at the screen, a cold, empty feeling ran through me. My only thought was…Now what?

  This was the first time I didn’t have a teacher telling me when to show up for class. No one was telling me what to study or what the homework was. I’d hated checking boxes, but now that they were gone, I realized how much I’d relied on them.

  Only later would I learn how pivotal these moments are for anyone who sets out to start something new. Many times the hardest part about achieving a dream isn’t actually achieving it—it’s stepping through your fear of the unknown when you don’t have a plan. Having a teacher or boss tell you what to do makes life a lot easier. But nobody achieves a dream from the comfort of certainty.