The Know-It-All

by A. J. Jacobs

  5. Printer’s devil. Ambrose Bierce was one, as was New York Times owner Adolph Ochs. I’m not sure what they do, but any job with “devil” in the title has to be good.

  6. Pretender to the throne. I had to be impressed by the three men named Dmitry the False, each of whom claimed to be Dmitry the son of Ivan the Terrible, who had died mysteriously when he was a child. They looked nothing like one another, nor particularly like Dmitry himself, but they didn’t let that get in the way of claiming the Russian throne. That’s the main skill set here: chutzpah. So what if I’m Jewish? That shouldn’t stop me from claiming to be the long-lost Bush cousin.

  7. Supreme Court justice in the 19th century. These guys worked seven or eight weeks a year, with a comfortable forty-four weeks of vacation, not counting sick days and personal days. I’m guessing, though, they got squat for paternity leave.

  And then there are some of the worst careers in the world:

  1. Professional bone picker. If you’re in the Choctaw tribe and you die, your corpse is picked clean a by a professional bone picker, a man or woman with special tattoos and long fingernails.

  2. Member of the Opposition. I’m not talking about the British Parliament. The Opposition is the official name of the team of white guys whose job it is to lose to the Harlem Globetrotters. I just think that might get a little frustrating after the 4,323rd straight loss. The coach for the Opposition would be even tougher. “You guys are going to lose, and you’ll lose without any dignity at all!”

  3. Lenin’s corpse keeper. Lenin remains embalmed, and his corpse needs, according to the Britannica, “periodic renewal treatment.”

  Victoria

  Queen Victoria forbade knocking, insisting on gentle scratching. But she did like one sound; a previous entry mentioned her bustle that played “God Save the Queen” when she sat on it. Sort of a royal whoopee cushion.

  vinaigrette

  In the 18th century, everyone smelled like salad. A vinaigrette—which was used to battle body odor—was a small gold container with a sponge soaked in vinegar and lavender.

  vital fluid

  It’s here. My day of reckoning, my version of D-Day (the real D-Day was officially called Operation Overlord, by the way). I figured that by now I would achieve a Zenlike calm. I was wrong. I wake up early with both a stomachache and a headache. I spend a few minutes double-checking my Greek dramatists and African rivers, get a good-luck hug from Julie, and hop a cab to the ABC studios on the Upper West Side.

  “Welcome to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” says the greeter, a smiley young woman named Amy. She leads me up a flight of stairs to the windowless greenroom.

  Here I learn that Millionaire contestants are treated somewhere between A-list celebrities and Guantánamo Bay prisoners. Amy strips me of my cell phone, my Palm Pilot, my reading material. Contact with the real world is verboten. Contact with entertainment or information of any kind is verboten. On the other hand, enjoy the free crudités!

  The greenroom is filled with eight of my fellow inmates. There’s a trucker-turned-DJ from San Francisco, a CPA from Massachusetts, a couple of teachers from the Midwest. The vibe is part we’re-all-in-this-together convivial, part cutthroat competitive. And jittery—knuckles are cracked, legs are bounced, actual groans are emitted.

  I, for one, am desperate for reading material. This textual cold turkey is killing me.

  “Maybe we could study the labels on the Poland Spring water bottles,” I say.

  “That was a question once,” says a big blond teacher from Michigan.

  “What was?”

  “They asked a question about where is Poland Spring made.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says.

  At which point the long-haired college sophomore from Philadelphia bursts into song. “Poland Spring—what it means to be from Maine.” She stops singing. “That’s their ad campaign,” she says, by way of clarification.

  She will prove to be troublesome.

  “Actually,” says one of the other contestants, “they recently changed their ad campaign.” Good for him. I don’t know if he’s right, but I like that he’s shown up the show-off.

  These people are no slouches, knowledgewise. They know their bottled water, for one thing, and most are obsessive learners from way back. But they also aren’t omniscient. One woman has never heard of the airline Jet Blue—which makes me feel a lot better for some reason.

  We are soon herded downstairs to the studio—-a circular theater with a heavy-handed futuristic metallic design. And in the middle, the Hot Seat. This is the official contestant chair—and it is not to be trifled with. The Hot Seat isn’t actually hot in a temperature sense, but it can be quite dangerous: it’s tall and swivels quickly. The stage manager gives us lessons on how to mount the Hot Seat properly— plant your butt on the chair’s edge, pull up with the arms, rotate into position. We all practice. We don’t want to do a faceplant like that old lady a couple of weeks back.

  Back in the green room, the Millionaire lawyer gives us a lecture. She warns that it’s a federal offense to cheat. Throughout the presentation, the college sophomore from Philly laughs nervously—I’m talking minutes-long nonstop laughter. Hee-hee-hee! It’s a one-woman claque gone insane.

  The executive producer comes to give us her shtick. Like all the other Millionaire staff, she tells us to have fun out there. But she also tells us something that sounds like the exact opposite of fun: that the questions have gotten a lot harder than they used to be. Viewers were getting bored. Dammit! What’s wrong with boredom? Let the schmucks be bored. This is my self-esteem on the line.

  The waiting is torture, a mental version of the strappado (a machine used by the Inquisition that lifted heretics by a rope tied to the hands). Lunch, more waiting, the crowd files in, more waiting, a comic warms up the audience, more waiting.

  Finally, the first victim—a surgeon with well-coiffed hair—is called to that fast-swiveling Hot Seat.

  “Good luck!” I say, as she is whisked away.

  “Go get ’em!”

  “Win that million!”

  In other words: Botch it up soon so we can go!

  The rest of us inmates watch the proceedings on the greenroom’s closed-circuit TV. Eight of us sipping our Poland Springs from Maine, all trying to blurt out the answer before the contestant. I have some shining moments. I know that Venezuela was named after Venice (the explorers saw some coastal houses on stilts, which reminded them of the Italian city). I also know where the axilla is.

  “It’s in the ear,” says one contestant.

  “No, it’s the armpit,” I correct him.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. We did an article on weird fetishes in Esquire. And axillism was sex with the armpit.”

  In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have revealed that particular piece of information. Amy looks frightened.

  A producer periodically appears with a clipboard to announce the next contestant. The former truck driver goes. The teacher goes. The guy who guards the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree goes. The rugby coach goes. They all go—except for me, the laughing Philly girl, and the Harvard graduate/waiter. The taping is over.

  “Come back tomorrow at eleven forty-five,” Amy tells us, trying to smile.

  I sleep at least two or three hours and return to the greenroom to a whole new group of inmates. Today’s troublesome character is a fiftyish man who refers to himself as an “opinionated son of a bitch.” He shares his opinions on Britney Spears (not a fan), former mayor Rudy Giuliani (“Sieg heil!”), George W. Bush (he mimes cocaine sniffing), a Millionaire producer (she looks like a Victoria’s Secret lingerie model). When not giving his opinions, he asks us trivia about the periodic table.

  A biologist with a hearing aid throws out his own question: name the four actors who were killed in the duel in High Noon.

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “Ian MacDonald, Bob Wilke, and Sheb Wooley,” he says
. “And did you know Sheb Wooley also wrote the song ‘Giant Purple People Eater’?”

  “That’s only three—whose the fourth?” asks another contestant.

  “I forget the fourth.”

  “That’s the one they’re going to ask on Millionaire!” I say.

  He shoots me a glare.

  And then the producer with the clipboard comes into the room and calls my name. “Yes!” I say a little too loudly.

  “Good luck!” say the others. I know what they mean.

  I am led down to the set, which seems more aggressively futuristic and metallic than ever. The crowd is clapping double-time—they have been told it looks better on TV. My mom, dad, and Julie are in the audience, though they’ve been seated behind me so they can’t signal me. The absurdly dramatic music plays. The lights flash. My palms are as damp as Cherrapunji (the Indian town with a record 366 inches of rainfall in one month). I climb into the Hot Seat—and, despite my lesson, I manage to stumble.

  I’ve got to say, Meredith Vieira is exactly the opposite of the scary studio—she’s calming, maternal, all smiles. Either she’s a great actress or she really, sincerely wants you to win that million. We chat for a bit. She tells me to relax and take my time.

  “You ready?”

  I think I am.

  The $100 question: What is the meaning of the phrase “Bon voyage”?

  “I’ve forgotten ninety-nine percent of my high school French,” I say (I figure start out humble, get the audience on my side), “but I remember this one percent. It’s C, ‘good trip.’ Final answer.”

  Applause. Yes! I have avoided complete and total humiliation. I’m on my way. In fact, I zip through the first batch of questions: the Quaker is a logo for oatmeal; nuns live in a convent (though also a nunnery, I point out); hydrogen sulfide smells like rotten eggs; an ampersand means “and”; Sophia Loren is from Italy. More applause.

  I’m loving this! I’m ticking off the letters flawlessly, a Ninja of knowledge. This Hot Seat is one of the few places on earth where you can’t be too much of a know-it-all. And maybe, in fact, I do know everything.

  Or not. The $8000 question throws me: What current Law & Order cast member has been on the show the longest?

  Shit. Maybe all those South American capitals and Japanese shoguns have elbowed out my TV trivia. I’m not sure of the answer—could be Jerry Orbach, could be Sam Waterston.

  “I’d like to ask the audience,” I say. I get to do this only once, but I figure now’s the time. Back in the greenroom, one of the producers had told us about the Colombian version of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, in which the audience purposely votes incorrectly just to torment the poor contestant. But I trust these fine Americans—two of whom happen to be actual nuns—so I go with them. Seventy percent of them think it’s Orbach. They are right.

  “Thank you, audience!” I say.

  The $16,000 question: Lilliputians are from what novel? All right. I know this. I’m back in the zone. “That’s C,—Gulliver’s Travels. Final answer.”

  I don’t mention to Meredith that Gulliver put out a fire at the Lilliputian castle by urinating on it. (I also keep to myself some other weird fire/urine connections from the Britannica: Freud said that pyromania and bed-wetting are linked. And urine was used to extinguish Greek Fire—an ancient napalmlike weapon. My mind goes to curious places even under pressure.)

  “Gulliver’s Travels is correct!”

  I’m sitting pretty, loving this, ready for my $32,000 question. It pops up on my monitor: What component of blood is also known as erythrocyte?

  Erythrocyte. I stare at the word. I search my brain and search some more. Nothing. I could spend days scouring every dusty corner and obscure cranny of my cerebral cortex. I just don’t think the word is in there. Damn.

  My choices are white blood cells, platelets, red blood cells, serum.

  Still don’t know. Erythrocyte, erythrocyte. I’m annoyed at myself, but I’m still pretty calm. I’ve still got my lifeline, so I’ll be fine.

  “I’d like to call my brother-in-law Eric,” I say.

  He was a biochem major at Harvard. This is just the kind of thing Eric will know.

  “Okay,” says Meredith. “Let’s call Eric.”

  After three rings, Eric answers. Meredith tells him I’ve won $16,000—Eric seems legitimately impressed—and that now I need his help. As instructed, I don’t waste time with hellos. I just read him the question.

  “What component of blood is also known as erythrocyte? Red blood cell, white blood cell, serum, or platelets?”

  Eric emits a sound somewhere between a hmmmm and a groan. Whatever it is, it is not a good sound. It is a bad sound—and a shocking one. This is crazy. Eric doesn’t know? That just doesn’t compute. That’s like the pope not being a Catholic. That’s like the kami not being Shinto. I lost a couple of seconds trying to reorient myself.

  “Erythrocyte?” he says.

  “Type it in!” I say. “E-r-y-t-h-r-o-c-y-t-e.”

  I am telling him to Google it—it’s a dirty little secret of Millionaire that the lifelines often use a computer. The crowd titters at my boldness.

  “Tell me the choices again?” he says.

  And then, before I can list A or B or C or D, time runs out.

  Meredith gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “I thought he knew everything!” I say.

  The crowd laughs, but I wasn’t kidding. I really did.

  Now I panic. Now I feel alone out there. I swivel a bit in my chair, swivel back. I still have something called a fifty-fifty, where two of the answers are randomly taken away. I use it. I am left with serum and red blood cells. Serum, red blood cells. Red blood cells, serum.

  “Well, you’d think I’d have heard the scientific name for red blood cells,” I said. “I can’t believe I wouldn’t have. I’m going to say serum.” I pause. “Serum. Final answer.”

  Meredith looks genuinely pained.

  “Another word for ‘erythrocyte’ is ‘red blood cell’.”

  I sink my head into my hands. That’s it. My little moment in the melodramatic lighting is done. Meredith cuts to commercial. I dismount the Hot Seat and am brought backstage, where I’m greeted by Julie, my mom and dad, who all say they’re proud of me—at least I think that’s what they’re saying. But mostly, I’m hearing “You did a great erythrocyte! The crowd really erythrocyted you.” That’s all I can think of. Erythrocyte. I will never forget that word. They hand me my check—my winnings have plunged all the way down to $1,000.

  When I get back to the office, I call Eric.

  “You owe me thirty-one thousand dollars!” I say, sort of jokingly.

  “You’re the writer,” he responds. “You should have known it!”

  Eric tells me he did Google it, but ran out of time before he could comb through the results. He didn’t mention whether or not, after he was cut off, he shouted, “Eric!” I hang up. For the next twenty-four hours of my life, I spend all of my mental energy coming up with the ways I should have known “erythrocyte.” First, of course, I should have remembered it from the Britannica. I looked it up, and it’s right there in the E’s: “Erythrocyte: also called red blood cell or red corpuscle.” The cells are biconcave and appear dumbbell-shaped in profile. They are flexible and assume a bell shape as they pass through tiny blood vessels. They contain hemoglobin. Why didn’t I remember that? I should have paid more attention to the biology sections. I should have put vital fluids on my list of things to study.

  Not only that, but I knew that “cyte” means “cell.” I should have figured it was either red or white blood cells. I should have told Eric to use Britannica, not Google. I should have had a psychic blood expert in the audience beaming me information telepathically.

  So that’s it. My dreams are trampled—I won’t be lighting my Macanudo cigar with hundred-dollar bills. I won’t be popping open a magnum of champagne—or a jeroboam (equal to four bottles), a methuselah (eight bottles), a salmanazar (twelv
e bottles), a balthazar (sixteen bottles), or a nebuchadnezzar (twenty bottles). But as the hours wear on, I become more and more at peace with my $1,000. First, it’ll pay for two-thirds of my Britannica— about letters A through P— which is something. And I didn’t look like a total jackass out there—that erythrocyte was an obscure question. So obscure, Eric Schoenberg—the Trivial Pursuit champ, the Harvard biochem major, one of the most well informed men in America—didn’t know it either. Eric knows a lot—he knows more than me, I can admit that. But he doesn’t know everything. No one does. And now there’s proof on nationally syndicated television.

  W

  war, technology of

  A SOUL-CRUSHING NINETY-EIGHT pages. It’s a crescendo of ever-more-sophisticated ways that humans have figured out to kill one another. Spears, ramparts, catapults, crossbows, guns, machine guns, missiles.

  One passage struck me in particular. It was about the dropping of the second atomic bomb—with the weirdly endearing nickname of Fat Man—on Nagasaki, on August 9 in 1945:

  “The B-29 spent 10 minutes over Kokura without sighting its aim point; it then proceeded to the secondary target of Nagasaki, where at 11:02 AM local time, the weapon was air-burst at 1650 feet with a force of 21 kilotons.”

  I had no idea that the Japanense city of Kokura was the primary target. I’d never even heard of Kokura. But what a strange fact. Imagine how many lives were affected because of this. Seventy thousand dead in Nagasaki and thousands of people spared in Kokura because of cloudy conditions.

  I think about those ten minutes when the plane was buzzing over Kokura. All those people going about their day —making phone calls at the office, playing with their kids, eating their meals— totally unaware that a bomb of unimaginable destructive power was hovering overhead, ready to vaporize their bodies. But they survived because the bomber couldn’t spot its X.

  It’s something that I’ve learned over and over again: luck plays a huge part in history. We like to think that it’s the product of our will and rational decisions and planning. But I’ve noticed it’s just as often—more often—about seemingly tiny whims of fate.