by J. J. Murray
“You’re Richard P. Johnson of Yonkers, New York,” Mr. St. John said.
“What?” the woman squealed. “I’m Tammy McGhee from Calumet City, Illinois.”
“LIE!” flashed several times onto the screen in big bold white letters.
“Ha!” Trina shouted. “You are so busted.”
“The Social Security number you provided on your application matches up to a Richard P. Johnson of Yonkers, New York,” Mr. St. John said.
“There must be some mistake,” Tammy said. “I don’t look like a Richard, do I?”
“No, you most certainly do not,” Mr. St. John said.
“Thank you, Mr. St. John,” Tammy gushed.
Oh, I hate it when they gush! She was caught in a lie, and she’s trying to gush her way out of it.
Mr. St. John turned to the nurse. “Give me a pen.”
The nurse stepped closer and handed him a gold pen.
“I’ll make the correction, Miss McGhee,” Mr. St. John said.
“I might have messed up a number,” Tammy said.
LIE!
“It’s okay,” Mr. St. John said. “These mistakes happen. I still found out a great deal about you. My investigators use facial recognition software, Miss McGhee. It is truly amazing technology. I watched your face match so many pictures.”
Look at her! She knows what’s coming. Vincent St. John is giving her a moment to escape, and she’s not taking it. What a fool! Press your button, sweetheart.
“These pictures are in color and in black and white,” Mr. St. John said. “Hundreds of them. And do you know where we found most of these pictures?”
“On Facebook?” Tammy asked.
“Strangely, you had no pictures at all on Facebook,” Mr. St. John said. “Not even one selfie. We found these pictures mostly in law enforcement databases.”
Look at her jaw dropping into her cleavage! It’s a good thing she has an ample set of breasts or her jaw might have fallen through her chair, hit the ground, and rolled into the pool!
“You have a number of outstanding warrants, Miss McGhee,” Mr. St. John said. He motioned to two men.
And those men have badges! Oh my goodness! Tammy is about to be arrested on live TV! This has to be a television first!
“These are federal marshals, Miss McGhee,” Mr. St. John said.
“Why are they here?” Tammy asked.
She can’t be that stupid.
“They are here to collect you and bring you to justice,” Mr. St. John said.
The marshals moved around behind her, pulled her to her feet, and handcuffed her.
“There must be some mistake!” Tammy cried.
Yeah, she’s that stupid.
“There is no mistake,” Mr. St. John said. “They’re going to charge you with identity theft, Miss McGhee, if that’s even your real name. But before you go, I need to tell you something. I would never marry a woman who has allegedly committed fifteen felonies by stealing the identities of others. Nor would I ever marry a woman who isn’t content to be herself. Good-bye.” He handed the file to the nurse as the marshals hauled Tammy away.
He received another file from the nurse. “Tonya Thomas. You’re next.”
Technicians attached wires to an overly made-up brunette, her hair immobile, her tan a deep, dark brown. “Hello,” Tonya said.
“Hello,” Mr. St. John said. “Do you want children, Miss Thomas?”
“Oh yes,” Tonya said. “I’ve always wanted to have a little girl.”
LIE!
Mr. St. John flipped a page in the file. “It seems you already have children. Two daughters.”
“But I don’t!” Tonya cried.
LIE!
“Wench, I want just one, and you deny having two!” Trina shouted. “Trifling, just trifling.”
Mr. St. John looked at yet another page. “No. It’s right here. It seems you gave them up for adoption. You used an adoption agency twice to ‘sell’ your children.”
“I most certainly did not!”
LIE!
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “we have the proof right here.”
There is so much paint on her eyes, and now she’s trying to cry it all off. If it were lead-based paint, she’d have more brain damage than she already has. Why do women do that to themselves anyway? Don’t most men want to see a woman’s eyes and not the tin roof over them?
“All right,” Tonya said. “I had two children, but I was very young.”
TRUE!
“How old were you?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I was . . . eighteen.”
LIE!
“I was desperate.”
TRUE!
“I couldn’t support them.”
TRUE!
“Didn’t you make one hundred thousand dollars from selling your children?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I didn’t sell them for a hundred thousand dollars.”
LIE!
She probably bought a tanning bed with the money. I’ll bet she sleeps in it every night. She looks like a human football, and her teeth are the laces.
“Please relax, Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said. “This is actually your lucky day. A delightful, enchanting young lady saw your picture online at this show’s Web site. She saw a strong resemblance between her and you, so she contacted the show’s producer. The producer mentioned this to me, and—”
“Those records are supposed to be sealed!” Tonya cried.
“Well, the young lady is twenty-one now and wanted to meet her birth mother,” Mr. St. John said. “I didn’t have the heart to deny her.” He looked back at the file. “You wrote in your application that you’re twenty-five. That would make you a medical miracle, Miss Thomas. Did you really have a child when you were four years old?”
“It must be a misprint,” Tonya said.
LIE!
“And you misprinted it,” Mr. St. John said. “This young lady wants to meet you. Tonight.”
A young woman walked out of the mansion. Though she didn’t have a tan, her resemblance to Tonya was unmistakable.
“Mama?” she said. “Mama, is that really you?” She ran to embrace Tonya from behind. “I am so glad I finally found you!”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Tonya whispered.
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “I would never consider a woman who didn’t want her own children, denied having children, and lied about her age. You two have a lot to catch up on. Good-bye, Miss Thomas.”
That poor child! What this must be like for her. The mother who didn’t want me is a football . . .
8
Trina thought that Rich Man, Lucky Lady was like the worst of Maury, Montel, and Jerry Springer all on one show. The ratings must be off the charts.
During a commercial, Trina surfed to Facebook and looked at what her friends—all five dozen of them—were already saying about the show:
“This show is off the chain! This is REAL reality TV! I can’t stop laughing!”
“Is this for real? ’Cuz if it is, I will be watching this show every week!”
“That man is DESTROYING those women! Those LYING WENCHES are getting what they DESERVE!” “Who chooses the women for that show? They’re all trifling hos. Let me get up on there.”
Trina clicked on a comment below the last post:
“Girl, you tripping. You know you just got out of jail. LOL!”
That last woman, Trina thought. Just when she thought she had a shot at millions from lying about having children, one of the kids she “sold” robs her of the chance. A fitting end. Life does come full circle sometimes. Karma’s gonna get you. I truly like Vincent St. John’s methods.
Oh, it’s the tall woman in the short silver metallic cocktail dress. Stork lady, you’re about to be cut down to size.
“Miss Lauren Gray, you are employed at Bess Baron as a stockbroker, is that right?” Mr. St. John asked.
That silver swizzle stick is a stockbroker? She looks as if she’s getting
ready for a New Year’s Eve party, not that I’d ever know about going to one of those. I know I won’t have a date this year. Geez, I can see the blue veins in her shins.
“I’m not a stockbroker for Bess Baron anymore,” Lauren said. “I’m on my own now.”
TRUE!
“But you wrote on this application that you were currently employed by Bess Baron,” Mr. St. John said.
“I was employed by them at the time I filled out the application,” Lauren said.
TRUE!
“But that was only three months ago, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said.
“I’ve been on my own for the last seven days,” Lauren said.
TRUE!
“Why aren’t you with Bess Baron anymore?” Mr. St. John asked.
“Like I said, I decided to go out on my own,” Lauren said. “I have always wanted to be self-employed.”
LIE!
She got fired!
“Miss Gray, if I gave you a million dollars to invest for me, how would you invest it?” Mr. St. John asked.
“In today’s difficult market,” Lauren said, “I’d invest in long-term treasury bonds, stocks in businesses like JCPenney, Sears, and Sonic, and in commodities like corn, wheat, and sugar.”
What the what? Is this woman high? JCPenney, Sears, and Sonic? I know she got fired now.
“I talked to Mr. Bess and Ms. Baron over at Bess Baron,” Mr. St. John said.
Lauren audibly swallowed. “You . . . did?”
I wish I had a high-definition TV. I know that woman is sickly gray now. She has become her name. She looks like a thin piece of gray chalk with blue veins.
“He says you lost quite a bit of your clients’ money,” Mr. St. John said.
“But the market has been volatile,” Lauren said.
“It’s been steady, Miss Gray, with a slight uptick, actually,” Mr. St. John said. “All of my investments are turning a steady, healthy profit.”
“You must have a lucky stockbroker, Mr. St. John,” Lauren said.
“I’m my own stockbroker, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said. “I use E*TRADE and make all the transactions myself. Cuts out the middleman—and the costs.” He leaned forward in his wheelchair. “So, Miss Gray, how much money did you lose?”
“If they had let me stay, I know I would have gotten it all back for them,” Lauren said.
“I’m only curious,” Mr. St. John said. “How much money did you lose?”
“Only a couple . . . hundred . . . thousand,” Lauren said.
LIE!
“The exact figure was six point two million dollars, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said.
Trina whistled. “Wow.”
“That’s more than nothing, especially if your clients trust you to invest wisely for them,” Mr. St. John said. “Have you ever made any money for any of your clients?”
Lauren bowed her head. “I guess not.”
TRUE!
“We also checked your credit score,” Mr. St. John said. “You have the lowest score of anyone who applied to be on this show—and one thousand women applied, Miss Gray.”
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not on there. I think I have the lowest credit score you can get.
“I’ve had some . . . setbacks,” Lauren whispered.
TRUE!
“Why are you really here?” Mr. St. John asked.
Lauren looked up. “To meet you, Mr. St. John. To hopefully be your wife.”
“Aren’t you really here to use your assets to get my assets?” Mr. St. John asked.
Good one!
“But I don’t have any assets.”
TRUE!
“I had to rent this dress.”
TRUE!
Oh, that’s embarrassing. Wait. I’d have to rent a nice dress, too.
“Miss Gray, I cannot marry a woman who routinely mismanages money, has little business sense, gives ridiculous investment advice, lies often, and has no empathy for her clients. Good-bye.”
“Buh-bye,” Trina said. Maybe she’ll be able to get a job at JCPenney, Sears, or Sonic to help pay what she owes those people.
During the commercial break, Trina read the Second Chances application’s main question: “Why should you get a second chance for love?”
Because I never really had a first chance.
She started typing:
Robert and I met as undergrads at UCSF. He was going to be a surgeon, and I was going to be a nurse. We married after graduation, I passed the NCLEX on the first try, I became an RN, and I agreed to fund his dream because I believed in him. I worked double-shifts at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital as often as I could for most of our marriage. And then two years ago, he met Dr. Too White.
Oh, it’s back from commercial.
“Denny Millington,” Mr. St. John said. “That’s quite an unusual name for a woman.”
That’s not a woman. Wow. And she’s wearing a turtleneck. Oh man, no fair! Her breasts are bigger than mine are!
“Denny” cleared her throat and said, “It’s a nickname for Denise.”
LIE!
“So, Miss Millington,” Mr. St. John said.
“Oh, do call me Denny,” she said.
“Or Danny,” Trina whispered.
“Denny, you know we took a blood sample earlier today,” Mr. St. John said. “I have to be careful, you know. I had to make sure you ladies had no drugs in your systems and no, shall we say, buns in the oven.”
He knows! Of course he knows!
“I am definitely not pregnant,” Denny said.
TRUE!
Duh.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Millington,” Mr. St. John said. “Can you have children?”
“No,” Denny said. “I’m not able to have children.”
TRUE!
Mr. St. John pulled out a green piece of paper. “This is a certified copy of your birth certificate, and it says your birth name was Dennis.”
Denny sighed. “I had sexual reassignment surgery, and I am legally a woman now.”
TRUE!
“Denny, I want to have children with my future wife,” Mr. St. John said.
“We can adopt,” Denny pleaded. “We could get a surrogate.”
But you couldn’t supply any eggs, Denny!
“I’m sure sexual reassignment surgery is quite expensive,” Mr. St. John said. “Are you hoping to win my heart so your bills can be paid?”
“It would be a weight off my shoulders,” Denny said.
TRUE!
Smaller breasts would be a weight off your shoulders, Denny.
“Your honesty is refreshing, Denny,” Mr. St. John said,
“but your dishonesty is not.” He pulled out a thick stack of papers. “On your application, you left the criminal history section completely blank.”
“Because I have no criminal history, Mr. St. John,” Denny said.
LIE!
“As Denise Millington, this is true,” Mr. St. John said. “But as Dennis Millington, you have had several felonies, including assault, malicious wounding, and grand theft.”
“But I’m a changed woman now!” Denny cried.
How could you be a changed woman, Denny? You weren’t born a woman! You are definitely a changed man!
“Miss Millington, the rules of the show prohibit anyone with a felony from appearing, no matter if she was a he when she or he did them or not,” Mr. St. John said.
“But that was Dennis,” Denny pleaded. “That wasn’t me. Dennis is gone. Denise has a clean record.”
“I’m sorry, Denny,” Mr. St. John said. “I believe that no matter what you do to your exterior, your interior stays basically the same. I could never marry anyone who believes her exterior is more important than her interior.”
That was deep. And wise. My exterior isn’t much, but I’m content with it.
“Good-bye, Denny,” Mr. St. John said. “Who’s next?”
Another woman pressed her button and left in a hurry.
He scar
ed her away! Ha! Serves her right. She had to protect her lying life. There’s only two left. One is the human Jell-O girl, an obvious airhead and community chest, and the other is ... beautiful. The all-American girl. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect complexion. She’ll win. From twenty-four women to two in only forty minutes!
Trina opened another window on her laptop and again checked Facebook:
“The blonde is toast! Do they have earthquakes in Colorado? That woman can’t stay still!”
“He’ll pick the cute white girl. They always do . . .”
“He’s been saving the best for last. She’s the one he’s wanted all along. I’ll bet they already hooked up. I knew this show was rigged.”
Maybe Mr. St. John is saving the brunette for last because she’s the worst of the bunch.
The camera zoomed in on the airhead’s chest. Those are so unattractive. Maybe they stuffed those fake things with jumping beans. Are those silver dollar pancakes under there or what?
“Miss Constance Carroll,” Mr. St. John said.
Constance waved, and her breasts seemed to do the wave. “That’s me. Hi.”
“I have never seen such an extensive curriculum vitae,” Mr. St. John said.
“A what?” Constance asked.
“You are incredibly well-educated, Miss Carroll,” Mr. St. John said. “Undergrad at Yale, graduated summa cum laude . . .”
She probably spelled it “some come loud.”
“. . . Harvard Medical, residency at Johns Hopkins,” Mr. St. John continued. “Served five years with the Peace Corps, two years with ‘Doctors Without Borders. ’”
“Yeah,” Constance said, giggling. “Those doctors were fun.”
TRUE!
“And you’re currently a heart surgeon at . . .” Mr. St. John held the page closer to his eyes. “Ciders Sinus.”
“I’m a bad speller,” Constance said. “It’s supposed to be Cedars-Sinai.” She giggled. “I love the field of medicine.”
TRUE!
She loves to take medicine.
“Do you drink alcohol, use illegal drugs, or smoke cigarettes, Miss Carroll?” Mr. St. John asked.