I'm sitting at my desk, 2:00 in the afternoon, staring wide-eyed at the telephone, trying through the overwhelming strength of my will to make it ring. A pad of paper and two pencils wait patiently beside the telephone. I practice grabbing one of the pencils quickly so I'll be ready when the call comes. A single bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and into my eye. I grab a tissue and mop it away. Ring, damn you, ring.

You might think that people would shy away from such odd behavior, especially at the office. Instead I hear comments like "Good luck, Bill" or "I've got my fingers crossed for you" or "Remember us when you're rich". They're all rooting for me, hoping it happens for me, hoping the call comes through and I'll have been picked to be in the next batch of contestants for that gameshow phenomenon "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire".

The telephone stares back at me in silence.

Okay, I admit it. I want to be a millionaire. My family wants me to be a millionaire. To no longer have any money worries, to get whatever we need or want, to be able to quit my job and do what I really want to do. Ah, yes, it's a lifestyle we could all get accustomed to. It's money for nothing, the new American Dream.

My family is very supportive in this quest, almost pushing me toward it. My son has the phone number for contestant hopefuls written down on a card by the telephone ever since the show first came on the air. My wife and daughter ask each night the phone lines are open if I've called yet. They have confidence in me. They believe in me. They know that my head is crammed full of information so varied and useless that I'd whip through those questions in record time. Regis would shake my hand in amazement.

We sit there with the rest of the country, watching the show during dinner, yelling at the television when someone uses one of their three Lifelines for the $100 question, the easiest question, the question they all but tell you the correct answer. Those idiots. Don't they know anything? How could they have got that far while I'm still here?

The process to become a contestant on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" is surprisingly easy. Between 6:00pm and 2:00am call the 1-800 telephone number shown on the air or found on their website. Answer three questions, putting the answers in some dictated order. If you are correct they call you back the next day and ask you three more questions. Then you fly off to New York and win lots of money. Simple. Or so it seemed.

The first few months "Millionaire" was on the air I found, presumably along with thousands of others, that repeated attempts to pass the first step brought the same unsatisfactory result. I never got past the ear-piercing tone and the kindly recorded voice telling he was sorry but all circuits were busy. Could I please hang up and try my call again. I estimate that in a group of 50 calls I was welcomed by the busy signal only once. My discouragement was of mammoth proportions. It forced me to a single and definite conclusion.

I gave up. I stopped calling. I almost stopped watching the show. But it was like a drug. Those bright lights, that music, those contestants I could beat with one hand tied behind my back, charming host with that eternally hopeful "Let's play... Who Wants To Be A Millionaire". I was hooked. I continued to watch, sometimes sneaking a peek during a commercial break on another network. I knew that someday, somehow Regis needed me as much as I needed him.

Then late one night it happened. I was sitting at the computer. The rest of the family had gone to bed. I stared down at the desktop and saw the telephone number laying there. Why not? Two or three tries and then off to bed.

I picked up the telephone and punched in the number. I held the telephone receiver away from my ear expecting the shrill tone telling me to dial again. Instead it rang. The recorded voice of Regis Philbin answered telling to be ready for my first question. I scrambled throwing things to the floor while I looked for a pencil, a scrap of paper, anything I could use to help me remember the questions.

Question #1:    Put these items in order from smallest to largest.

Simple, easy, no problem. I punched in the correct order. The voice congratulated me and says to ready for the next question.

Question #2:    Put these items in order from East to West.

Again I answered correctly. My heart raced as the voice told me to get ready for my final question.

Question #3:    Put these Roman numerals in order from smallest to largest.

Panic! Roman numerals! Damn! I punched my answer in and held my breath.

The voice came on to congratulate me for passing the first phase. I was on my way to becoming a contestant on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire". The rest of the instructions flew by me in a blur of meaningless sounds. From all the correct responses 40 people will be randomly selected for a callback the following day when they will be asked three more questions. From those responding correctly ten will be chosen to fly off to New York. At the tone I was told to speak my name and spell it slowly. At the tone I was told to enter a telephone number where I can be reached for callback tomorrow between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00pm. Thank you for playing "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" and good luck Click..

I got through! I answered all of the questions correctly! I'm going to New York to be on TV!

The next morning I was excited. I told my family what had happened the night before. I had spoken to the recorded voice of Regis. My family was excited. How were we going to make it until noon?

Once at my desk at work I got everything ready. Two pencils, newly sharpened, a fresh empty pad of paper, and plenty of space around the telephone to work. I pick up the receiver and hear a dial tone. Good, it worked. This was all just a formality. Hadn't everyone told me that I belonged on that show, that I was sure to win?

I told a few friends that I had got through. They became excited. Word spread around the office. I was the first personanyone knew to have got through.

At my first meeting of the morning evryone was very friendly, overly so. I had offers of coffee, soda, and even pizza. Someone told me, "Just don't be one of those bozos that has to tell a story with each answer. I'm always so happy when they lose."

As noon approached I told Angela, the receptionist, what was going on. "If they call, page me," I said. She taped a note to her computer screen and then crossed her fingers.

12:00 I ran to the refrigerator and retrieved my lunch. I glanced at my preparations. Nothing was going to get me away from my desk now. It was only a matter of time. My sandwich tasted bland and empty. My attention was elsewhere.

1:00 Lunch was over. No call. The telephone remained silent. I turned back to my computer. I had to find some way to concentrate on my work. But there were only two hours left to pass the next phase and be winging off to New York. Regis was waiting for me.

2:00 A terrible thought ran through my mind. Had it been Eastern or Central Standard Time? It must be Central or even Pacific because there's been no call yet. People stop by my desk to check. I assured them that if it happens, they'll know. If? I said "If?" I meant "When", of course I did. Leave me alone, I need all my willpower to concentrate.

2:30 Oh no, I needed a bathroom break. I convinced Susan to cover my phone. I ran. While I was gone someone at a nearby desk called my number. Susan panicked, wondering what to do. She answered, hoping to stall them from me, but it was all a joke.

2:45 I had enough waiting and checked the official rules on the web site. What I found was depressing. First, it had been 12:00 to 3:00 Eastern Standard Time. Second, I saw the odds for a callback and did the math. They estimated that during a given day they get 240,000 calls to make the attempt to be a contestant. Of that only about 6% will get all the correct responses to the three preliminary questions. That's 14,400 people. From that pool they randomly select 40. My odds at being in that group of 40 are 1 in 360.

3:00 Reality hits. I don't get that callback. I'm not going to New York. Regis will not be handing me a check for $1,000,000. Goodbye to the celebration party I had planned in Paris for all my friends, hello to the college loans for my daughter.

My friend, Cybele, had said that she hadn't tried because she had been afraid of looking like an idiot on national television. I realize now that for a slice of that pie I wouldn't mind at all.

In one aspect it's sad. The American Dream of working hard and getting ahead has been replaced in these days of gameshows and multi-million dollar lotteries. Now it's get rich quick, instant gratification, money for nothing.

That night I called the 800 number for contestants once again.

"Bleep! We're sorry. All circuits are busy. Please hang up and try your call again."