Pay Up, Baby! (Patreon)

“Credit card payment due”, the first email said.  Ryan scrolled down his inbox.  “Internet payment due.”  “Electric bill due.”  “Late rent notice.”  “Water bill is late.”  “Loan payment due.”  Another “Credit card payment” notice.  ANOTHER another “credit card payment due” notice.  Oh, and look at that: a low balance notice on his bank account.

Looks like he’d have to dip into his “savings” again.  “Why do I even bother putting stuff in there?”  Ryan wondered to himself.  “It’s not like I ever actually get to save anything.”  Oh, to be living in a long bygone age where one could just rip up a paper bill and claim that it must have been lost in the mail.  Truth be told, though, Ryan wasn’t sure that ever really worked short of a sitcom joke.

Everything was digital these days. Deleting the email would do nothing to rid himself of any kind of paper trail or responsibility.  Shit.  These days?  They’d always been digital for Ryan.  He wasn’t THAT old; not old at all, in fact.  (Twenty-five was’t old, was it? No.)  Just living with all this worry made him feel old.

Not enough money.  Too many credit cards.  Not enough support.  It was getting to (truth...had already gotten to) the point where he was choosing which bills to pay, and which ones to pay late.  Far too soon he’d be at the point where he was figuring out what goods he could go without.  Would peanut butter and jelly with tap water to drink be enough to get him through the month?  Or would even that be too much?  Did he really need to go to the dentist again or could he live with that dull toothache for a little bit longer?  Maybe he could cut his own hair?  Or would a set of electric clippers set him back too much this month so that the long term investment wouldn’t be feasible?

It didn’t seem to matter what he did, or which expenses he cut, or how many hours he worked.  Some new expense always took its place, or some special occasion demanded money or he’d go crazy and make some impulse buy that he really didn’t need but DAMN IT he needed it right then!  

On a personal level Ryan lacked the financial resources, the emotional strength, and enough self- control to make it so that he had money left over at the end of the month.  More often than not, he had a lot more month at the end of the money.  It wasn’t his fault though. Not really.  He just had young people money in an old people economy.

“The fuck am I gonna do?”

As if in response, something made it past his spam filter and into his inbox:  “GAME SHOW OPPORTUNITY: CLICK HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN HALF A MILLION DOLLARS!”

Ryan rolled his eyes.  Spam.  Virus.  Obvious trap was obvious.  At the very least he could get the satisfaction of clicking delete on this piece of shit garbage trick.  (Too bad he couldn’t delete his loan payments; those were the real traps.)  

And yet...

Ryan hovered over the email for half a second longer than common sense dictated.  It HAD made it past his filters and all. And despite everything Ryan thought he knew about how the world worked, he knew nothing about game shows, contests, reality T.V. shows or anything with real people in it that didn’t require an acting degree and an audition.  Maybe a big chain all-call WOULD be the way to get contestants...

Ryan did a quick check of his computer to make sure that all of his anti-virus software was up to date and running.  Things looked okay...but….Ryan opened up a new tab in his browser and checked his bank account again. Shit.  If this was anything worse than JUST a Nigerian Prince scam, Ryan was going to be shit out of luck getting it fixed.

Then again, if it was something that’d dox him or drain his bank account...good luck fuckers. He couldn’t be blackmailed or stolen from because he had nothing worth stealing or blackmailing.  Technically, didn’t that mean the odds were in his favor? Sure it did..

Arrow hovering over the email, Ryan sent out a little prayer into the cyber cosmos. “Please don’t fry my computer,” he whisper-chanted. “Please don’t fry my computer, please don’t fry my computer, please don’t fry my computer.”

He clicked.

Good news.  His computer didn’t immediately break down and burst into flames. Soooo...probably not a virus.  Bad news? If it was a scam, it looked like a halfway decent one.

“Alma Mater International (AMI) is launching a brand new Web Channel and creating top quality content! Among those is the soon-to-be hit new Game Show: “Pay Up, Baby!” Where contestants can win up to half a million dollars by answering a series of increasingly difficult trivia questions and performing “High Chair Dares”.  If you or someone you know is at least eighteen or older and has a high school degree and is interested in being a contestant please click the link below to register and see if we’ll be filming in a city near you!””

Not fancy.  Not exactly professional looking, either.  But it didn’t look like a complete hack job, either.  Okay.  So maybe this wasn’t a scam.  There were a billion new web series and Youtube Channels these days.  This could very well have been a new startup or a Go Fund Me that had reached a modicum of success.

But half a million dollars? And language implying that this was some kind of national tour?  Ryan puffed out his cheeks as he blew out his mouth.  If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.  There was a good chance that this was a virus or something, and that if he clicked on the link, it’d go...poorly.  But what if it wasn’t?  Also...half a million?  If this was a scam or a practical joke, why not just make a nice even million?  As ridiculous as half a million dollars sounded, it still sounded feasible...reasonable...oddly attainable.  Then again, isn’t that the kind of psychology that some internet troll would use?

Idea!

Ryan opened another tab and looked up Alma Mater International.  Well, how about that:  Such an organization did exist!  For some reason the main site was behind a login paywall, but at least it existed!  Not only that, but the tour site was promoting an upcoming Web Channel AND a game series!

Just to be sure, Ryan backed out and looked up reviews and info about the site.  “Re-education and Re-training Opportunities,” one board said.  “Paradigm shift” another spoke of.  “Resources and supplies for success when the system has failed you.”  “When the world has let you down, AMI is there to pick you back up.”

Apparently, this was some kind of charity education foundation, or something.  That made sense.  Wasn’t somebody’s school often called an Alma Mater?  And even though all of the reviews seemed to have been written by women, (based on screen names like MamaJo and MissMary), most of AMI’s success stories were focused on men.

“My husband”, one review said, “couldn’t hold down a decent job to save his life or our house.  Thanks to AMI, our house is secure and so is he!  I couldn’t be happier, prouder, or more content!”

“Holy shit,” Ryan thought aloud.  “I might actually be in the target audience for this thing!”  

Another testimonial read, “Couldn’t find a boyfriend that met my needs.  Alma Mater International found, educated, and trained him.  We’re a success story, now!”

“Then again…” Ryan frowned, “Maybe not?”  He squinted at the screen, as if that would somehow make the words make more sense.  “Is this a dating site or something?”

“My little man didn’t have a job before I met him.  Now we’ve both got the best jobs in the world.  Thanks AMI!”

“Or is it promising I’ll get chicks if I make big bucks?” Ryan asked himself.  Coded language aside, the message was all kinds of muddled.

Still might be worth the money. He did a little more digging before he clicked on the link.  Advertisements lied and misled.  It was practically their job.  It might not be half a million all at once. Lots of shows with that kind of cash paid out slowly over twenty years. That’d still be an extra twenty five thousand a year that he didn’t have.  Not quite quit-your-job money, but it was definitely quite-your-least-favorite-job money.

Even if it was just college debt relief, that’d be one less bill he’d have to pay.  One less thing to stress over and one more excuse to justify eating out when he really should have been sticking to store brand PB&J.  All said, Ryan’s brain- though influenced by desperation and greed- came to a fairly logical conclusion:  Couldn’t hurt.  Might help.  Worth a shot.  

Right  hand on the mouse; left hand clenching his inner thigh; the young man gritted his teeth. “Fuck it.”  He clicked.

He clicked.  And it worked?  He was redirected to the sign up site for “Pay Up, Baby!” and it had all the same logos and design style (or lack thereof) that AMI had.  

“Sign up to join us for some good clean fun and a chance to change your life forever!” Ryan read aloud.  “Holy shit!  This is real!”  Quickly, on the verge of a manic breakdown, Ryan started filling out the information. Name. Gender. Age. Highest level of education. Yearly Income. Height, Weight, and Hair Color. City of Residence.  Name and Email.”

No red flags.  No overly identifying personal information. No birthdates or social security or credit card numbers.  Not even a mother’s maiden name type of thing.  He didn’t care that “waist size” was one of the questions or that parts of the application sounded more like a dating app.  It took him no time at all to take a quick pic of himself and download it.

“And here. We. Go.”  With those last few clicks and clacks, Ryan hit “Send”, waited for some sort of confirmation. Almost immediately, the screen redirected to a rather bland page saying “Thank you for registering with Alma Mater International’s Re-Programming Initiative.  Should you qualify, you will be contacted.”

Ryan sank a little in his chair.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “Yeah, that tracks.” It’s not like he was instantly going to be selected.  He might not be selected at all.  His name just got added to a digital pile that was probably hundreds of pages deep, at least.

Still...that hope, that feeling that he might even get the opportunity to win some money had filled him with energy.  And now that he’d taken all the steps he’d been allowed to, he’d have to do the hardest part:  Wait.  

It was hard for someone like Ryan to wait.  Waiting sucked.  Waiting took patience and worse; discipline.  Instead, Ryan did the next best thing:  He forgot.  He clicked out of the redirected website, opened youtube, clicked on a video essay with a passingly interesting clickbait title...and forgot.

Imagine his surprise the next day when after waking up and going to the bathroom, he checked his inbox.

“CONGRATULATIONS!  “PAY UP, BABY!” IS COMING TO YOU!”

Heart thudding his chest, Ryan opened the email and started reading.  No hesitation this time. No worries about viruses or scams or Nigerian Princes.  Inside his mind was a battle of desperate hope that this was what he thought it was and the pessimistic realism assuring him that it couldn’t be.

This might just be another advertisement.  It wasn’t.  He might just be invited to be an audience member.  Nope.  Contestant.  It clearly said contestant.  It might require an entrance fee.  None of that, either.  An audition or pre-round? None mentioned. The filming location might be too far away? Not according to the driving directions it wasn’t.  Just a little over an hour’s drive.  It was coming up soon!  He might not be able to attend the taping?  Nope.  He actually had that day off, too.  There might be a limit or term of condition as far as prize money?  There was none that Ryan could see.

RIght there in black digital ink on a white digital background were the words,  “You have been selected as a contestant on ‘Pay Up, Baby!’ and will be eligible to compete for up to five hundred thousand dollars in prize money.”  Calling it five hundred thousand dollars made it seem even bigger than just calling it half-a-million. “Just RSVP and arrive on the address listed below, at the given time.  We look forward to meeting you!  There is no entrance or participation fee required.  Just be ready to Pay Up, Baby!”

“This is it,” Ryan said to himself.  “This is how I could change my life forever!”  He didn’t even feel stupid that he was talking directly to his computer screen and that no one else could possibly hear him.  “This could be a new beginning!”

Little did he know that he was right.  Just not in the way he expected to be...

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Ryan didn’t wake up as much as he came to.  Ideally, waking up is a gentle process. Slow. Gradual.  Even by alarm clock, it feels like one has been dreaming.  Coming to is your brain turning back on after it has been starved of oxygen.  Incredibly jarring.

The young man didn’t sit up.  He didn’t have to because he was already sitting up.  All three of them were.  Next to Ryan were two other men.  To his left was a scrawny, meek looking fellow with thick rimmed glasses.  To Ryan’s right, a guy who was muscled up enough to be a bouncer at any number of clubs Ryan wasn’t cool enough to get into.  

Both of them seemed just as disturbed and groggy as Ryan felt.  Ryan might have waved to one of them to get their attention, but none of them were capable of waving.  All three men sat restrained in what Ryan could only describe as giant highchairs.  Big white things, with trays that slid up to their chests and pinned their arms to the sides.  He might have called out to them, too, save that his voice couldn’t be heard over the roar of the audience.

Audience?!

Women. So many women!  All of them applauding like crazy.  A wall of women, roaring at him like he was a chip and dale dancer. Dozens, if not more!  They were screaming! Whistling! Clapping.  Some were even blowing kisses and making pouty faces.   It was like Ryan was on stage at an old Elvis concert...and he was Elvis!

STAGE!  That’s right.  He was on a stage!  All around the stage and floor were giant replicas of baby toys and furniture:  Stacking rings that could double as hats.  Strollers that could be wheelchairs.  Baby swings that could double as ski lifts.  Even a barrier separating them from the gaggle of insane women looked more like a series of giant baby gates.

To his far left was a Jeopardy style question board that resembled a giant refrigerator. It even had crayon drawings and baby pictures strewn about with fake magnets.  Something was off though and it didn’t take him long to realize:  Those weren’t actual baby pictures, but pictures of grown-ass men dressed up as babies.  How much had someone had to pay those models, and more importantly where’d they get diapers that big?

As if in mocking answer to his own question, Ryan noticed a not-so-small tower of diaper boxes next to the clue board.  Being in his mid-twenties, Ryan had had a few friends who’d bitten the bullet and had a family despite lack of finances and wild oats yet to sew.  The stacks of boxes reminded him of cordial visits to check in on the condemned man; and how the cardboard containers littered the apartments, from nursery to living room.

These boxes were practically crates, however.  Obviously props.  And although they still had the labels of “Huggies”, “Pampers”, and “Luvs” on the boxes, the models on them were far too old to be in diapers.  

Just as he was starting to put the pieces of his new situation together, Ryan had the clues solved for him. 

“AND NOW,” a lady’s voice blared out over speakers so loud that even the wailing audience  “IT’S TIME FOR THE GAME SHOW WHERE BETS ARE PLAYED, BEDS ARE MADE, AND THE COMPETITION GETS WIPED AWAY! IT’S TIME FOR…!

The crowd of women joined in.

“PAY!”

“UP!”

“BABY!”

Deafening game show music was piped into the room.  If the onlookers on the other side of the baby gate were excited before, they were in a complete frenzy, now.

Game show!  He was on that game show he’d signed up for! But how did he get here?  What day was it? Who were these other guys stuck in the highchairs?  The fuck was happening?!


“AND HEEEEEERE’S YOUR HOST,” the announcer continued over the theme music. “THE MAMA MIA WHO MAKES THOSE BABIES BOOM-BOOM! THE THE ONE, THE ONLY MISS MOLLLLLLY CAWWWWWDLE!”

The waves of cheers and excitement coalesced into a cult-like chant

“MOLLY! MOLLY! MOLLY!”

They were the Ancient Romans in the Colosseum and the woman who just entered was their Caesar.  This was no ordinary game show host. This “Molly Cawdle” (that HAD to be a stage name ) looked like Jessica Rabbit crossed with Betty Crocker.  Reddish brownish hair that was somehow both smooth and curly, cut into a June Cleaver do;  a blue v-neck dress that was nipped at the waist; a string of pearls around her neck; and baby blue heels on her feet.  Dainty hands with perfectly polished nails held lightly onto a thin Bob-Barker microphone.

And her measurements: What was the phrase 36-24-36.  Big tits. Skinny waist. Big hips.  It was almost uncanny valley territory; but only almost.  Looking at this 1950’s goddess not ten feet away from him snapped Ryan out of what little stupor remained.  Primal Lust can sometimes accomplish what raw fear and confusion can’t.

“Thank you! Thank you!” A new voice on stage said.  “You’re too kind. Too kind!”

“No, you are!” A random lady shouted from the audience. “We love you Molly!”

“And I love you all too,” the new voice- Molly Cawdle, apparently- said. “But I know who you’re really here to see.”  The pause lingered and grew pregnant. “LET’S MEET OUR CONTESTANTS!”

Another near deafening roar.  “Tell us who is playing today, Nancy!”

The announcer took back over.  “FIRST UP, ON YOUR FAR LEFT, THIS CUTIE IS TWENTY-FIVE YEARS YOUNG AND THE STRONG AND SILENT TYPE! HE ONLY HAS A  G.E.D. AND A BACKGROUND IN CONSTRUCTION!  HE LIKES SHAPE PUZZLES AND WEARS A SIZE TEN! PLEASE WELCOME LIIIIIIITTLE SAMMY!”  Big dude looked confused as hell and even a bit offended. Definitely wasn’t “little”.  Probably wasn’t “Sammy”.  Maybe “Samuel” or “Sam”.  Probably “Sam”.


“NEXT UP, TO THE FAR RIGHT,” the announcer continued, “HE’S TWENTY-SEVEN AND WORKED SUPER HARD TO GET HIS MASTER’S IN SOFTWARE ENGINEERING!”  Ryan blinked. Yeah...that tracked.  Small body, big brain.  “HE LIVES AT HOME WITH HIS PARENTS, BUT HE HOPES TO CHANGE THAT TODAY!” That almost made sense, too. Guy looked afraid of his shadow; forget about Mom and Dad’s doorstep.  “HE LOVES STACKING RINGS AND NEEDS A SIZE EIGHT! PLEASE WELCOME LITTLE TOOOOONY!”  Okay, yeah. This guy was “little”.  “Scrawny” would have been an even better adjective. Definitely a “Tony”.

The poor guy was practically vibrating in his highchair from all the shivering.  The audience let out a loud “Awwwwww!” as the spotlight shined on him, making him look all the more like a frightened chihuahua.

“LAST BUT NOT LEAST!” the announcer boomed, “THIS ADORABLE LITTLE GUY IS TWENTY-FOUR YEARS YOUNG AND HAS QUOTE, ‘SOME COLLEGE’ AND LOTS OF STUDENT DEBT!”  Laughter from the audience.  How did they know that?! The college thing, sure, he’d put that on the application, but not the debt!  “HE LOVES LEARNING ABOUT ANIMAL SOUNDS AND WILL BE WEARING A SIZE NINE!  HEEEERE’S LITTLE RYAN!”

Ryan blanched as the spotlight hit him.  There was the ‘size’ thing. What were they talking about when they mentioned sizes? Before the applause died down, something about the set caught Ryan’s eye:  The diaper boxes, next to the clue board.  Just like real baby diapers, there were labels to how big each baby needed to be to fit in them.  Instead of talking about pounds however, each sizing label included waist size.

Luvs size 8.  31’’-36’’
Pampers size 9. 37’’-41’’’
Huggies Size 10

Diapers.  The announcer was talking about what size diapers they wore.  Ryan didn’t say it out loud- and if he had no one would have heard over the near delirious cheering- but had anyone been able to read lips they would have known that he was distinctly mouthing, “What the fuck?”.

“Alright, contestants,” the host said.  “Are you ready to play?”

(To Be Continued...)