“Sticks?” whispers Asian Chick to no one in particular. “What do they do?”
The host shushes her, squares his shoulders, and continues. “Using your compass, you will need to find your way to a series of control points, and ultimately to a box containing a wrapped package. Do not open the package.” He smiles and runs his gaze along the line of contestants, then sticks his thumbs into his front pockets, assuming a laid-back stance that implies he knows something the contestants do not, which, of course, he does. It is his privilege to know many things they do not. “Find your colors and take your places.”
Waitress already has the compass in her hand, as do two others: Tracker and Zoo. Zoo didn’t need to use her compass to reach the gathering point, but she removed it from her pack the moment taping began anyway. She smiled as she did so, and she smiled as she walked with it unnecessarily in her hand, heading a few degrees right of north—following the footpath she was told would take her to the first Challenge. She is still smiling as she looks again to the spot of paint she noticed first thing—baby blue. It is this easy smile that endears her so to her coworkers and students at the wildlife sanctuary and rehabilitation center where she works—not a zoo, but close enough. It is this easy smile that the producers suspect will endear her to viewers.
Zoo sees her stick. Her pace quickens; she’s almost skipping. She took an orienteering class a few months ago. She knows to “put red in the shed,” and to “plug in” the compass to her chest. She knows to count her first step as “and” and her second step as “one.” She thinks it will be fun to put her knowledge to use. For now, this experience is a lark. She hurries to collect her instructions from a plastic bag beside the light blue stick.
A lanky young white man with wavy auburn hair cuts across Zoo’s path. “Excuse me,” says Cheerleader Boy in a snarky tone that betrays his unease. He hates the wilderness, hates that the color of the bandana he has tucked into his shirt like a pocket square is pink. He applied for the show on a dare from his squad’s flyer, who, really, should be the one here—she’s the bravest person he knows. Cheerleader Boy didn’t expect to be selected and accepted the offer for lack of a better way to occupy the summer between his sophomore and junior years of college—and because how could he reject a chance to win one million dollars, even a minuscule chance? By the time he realized taping wouldn’t start until mid-August and he would have to take a semester off from school, he was already committed.
The creators of the show all agree that the hostile tone with which Cheerleader Boy spoke to the most upbeat of the contestants is the perfect introduction to the character they’ve assigned him: the effeminate male so far out of his element he’s more caricature than man. Confronted, the off-site producer will argue that they simply followed the story provided by this opening shot. Circular reasoning. They chose the shot, they chose the moment, this flash of one of the many facets of this young man’s self. He could have been many things—scared, helpful, inquisitive—but instead he’s a jerk.
Settling into place at an orange stick not far from Cheerleader Boy is Biology, who wears her bandana as a headband with the knot above her ear. Biology is gay too—see, it’s fair, they’ll say: You’re allowed to root for her. But Biology, who teaches seventh-grade life science in a small public school, is the least threatening style of lesbian: a shapely, feminine one who holds her sexuality close. Her dark, spiraling hair is long, her light brown skin moisturized. She wears dresses to work as often as not, and tasteful makeup always. If a straight man were to imagine her with another woman, he would likely imagine himself there too.
Air Force steps up to a dark blue marker between Biology and Cheerleader Boy. He looks Biology up and down and then watches as Cheerleader Boy sighs and tries to shake his nerves from his fingertips. It’s been years since the repeal of “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” and Air Force doesn’t assume that Cheerleader Boy will be inexperienced in the skills necessary for the coming weeks. In fact, his first thought is, I bet he’s a ringer.
The contestants collect their instructions. The host waves to get their attention as cameramen creep into position carefully out of one another’s shots. Minutes are reduced to seconds. The host shouts, “Go!”
Tracker lopes forward, his eyes settled on some distant object. Rancher strides his easy stride. Zoo grins and starts counting to herself as she walks with her compass held perpendicular against her chest. Cheerleader Boy looks around, then studies his map and compass, unsure. Waitress turns in a circle and makes brief eye contact with Biology, who shrugs.
Watching the others is Engineer. He wears his maroon-and-brown-striped bandana around his neck like Rancher’s, but it looks very different on this gangly, bespectacled young Chinese American man. Engineer has never rushed into anything in his life, excepting a few nights in college when the liberal application of alcohol led to his breaking character. Once he streaked across campus. It was 4 a.m., and other than the friend who issued the dare, only two people saw him. Engineer prides himself on this memory, on his spontaneity in that moment. He wishes he could be spontaneous more often. That’s why he’s here—a long-pondered decision to put himself into a situation that will require spontaneity. He wants to learn.
Engineer looks at his instructions: a series of bullet points. “One hundred thirty-eight degrees,” he says. “Forty-two paces.” He twists the compass housing, matches a small tick mark just shy of the 140-degree indicator to a line at the front of the compass. He doesn’t know how long a pace is supposed to be, but will experiment until the answer becomes clear, as it quickly will.
The twelve contestants disperse like gas molecules to fill the space of the field.
Tracker stops at the tree line and peers into the branches above, then launches himself into the air—grabbing a stout branch with both hands. He pulls himself up into the tree. All of the contestants who are facing his direction—seven of them—stop to watch, but Zoo and Air Force are the only ones who will be shown to viewers. Zoo widens her eyes, impressed. Air Force raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, less so.
Tracker drops from the tree, landing softly on his feet in the grass below. In his hand there is a red flag. He doesn’t want to leave a trail, not even the trail he is intended to follow. He stands straight, tucks the flag into his pocket, consults his instructions and compass, and heads toward his second control point.
Black Doctor struggles to find his first control point. His mistakes are twofold.
His first mistake: After setting his compass to the noted 62 degrees and turning to face that direction, he sets his gaze to the ground and starts walking. He doesn’t want to miss his flag if it’s hidden in the long grass. A reasonable concern from a reasonable man. But it’s a proven if inexplicable fact that people are incapable of walking in a straight line while blindfolded, and Black Doctor is all but blindfolding himself by looking at the grass. With each step he veers slightly to the right, just far enough to take him off course.
His second mistake: He counts each step as a pace, instead of following the and-one-and-two cadence of orienteering. When Black Doctor reaches what he believes is his intended stopping point, he finds nothing but more grass and a low-growing bush. He pauses to observe the others and sees Air Force and Rancher find their flags. He sees Zoo find her flag. He notes that all three did so at the edge of the field, whereas he is only halfway across. He takes his bearing, looks at a tree, and then walks straight toward it.