My second crack at the audition room, in July 2015, was actually quite similar to the first one except that I went in determined to be effervescent and wasn’t infected with anything (except charm!). All I remember about the written test is that there was a mutiny on the Bounty question. When I returned to school in the fall, I mentioned to my Australian colleague Dan that Jeopardy! seems to be mad for the mutiny on the Bounty, and he thoughtfully filled me in on Pitcairn Island’s more recent history, including a number of disturbing facts that will never, never be Jeopardy! questions. (All that information about serial killers that I absorbed as a child from The Book of Lists and The People’s Almanac is similarly useless in this context.)
It could have been the same hotel–it could have been the same room, just with gaudy hotel carpet of this decade rather than the last.
We came up three at a time to the buzzer bank, practiced ringing in and answering questions, and nervously watched the contestant coordinators flip through our paperwork. This time, when Glenn asked what I’d do with the money, I said I was a poet and I’d like to build a tiny house in our backyard to write in and to have writer friends come to stay in while they were working on their books. Which is true–this time I just left out the part about how it would probably wind up in the college fund. And when he said, “You’re a teacher? A full-time teacher? For how many years? Would you be interested in playing in the Teachers Tournament?” I said, “Um, I guess so. I mean, I sure would!”