Chapter 2

The astute reader, not easily fooled, will have noted that the beginning of the story has not yet been reached. Have faith; it draws near.

By the time the fourth season of "The Fish Tank" arrived, its origins in a tender young sociologist's dreams were but a distant memory. Tank mania had swept the nation. Every network was trying to rip off the concept, but the original kept topping itself and hogging the ratings -- celebrity versions, blooper shows, the holiday special, "I Fish You a Merry Christmas."

The producers made even more money on the package tours they sold to visit the sacred spot than on the outrageously priced commercials.

What was most remarkable about those tours was that people would pay to, in essence, become part of the cast. Make no mistake: By the fourth season, what went on outside the Fish Tank was almost as important as what went on inside.

People had been bringing signs from Day One -- the "Today Show" influence. But those first signs were basic "Hi Mom" placards. Over time, they switched to paeans to favorite players -- many featuring phone numbers and increasingly graphic descriptions of what was in store. By the end of the second season, though, it became much more complicated. Signs told one player what another had done behind his back. They urged alliances, tried to rattle front-runners, demanded retention of favorites. It was pro wrestling meets "Big Brother."

The producers rode the wave. The crowds outside eventually were given the say in which players got booted every week, resulting in huge turnouts and a premium on players who could polarize the audience. All attempts at keeping people away from the house were abandoned; security just made sure no one got inside.

That policy survived even the Derek incident, when a very fetching young man of ambiguous tastes attracted hordes of women and men. The competition for his notice was so intense that an arms race atmosphere prevailed and soon dozens of naked bodies, of both sexes, wallpapered every camera shot. That week's TV episode had a lot of tight shots. The phenomenon ended only when Derek made the mistake of signalling his preference, producing a massive negative vote from the disillusioned.

On the other side of the walls, things were also changing. Players adapted to the new rules, each playing to the crowd in his or her own way. One would be nice and try to woo them, another nasty, offering entertainment value.

None was nicer than Jon Armstrong and none nastier than Desdmona Gasten, and there is where our tale truly begins.

There were six players left.

Jon, of course. The 28-year-old was what all the astronauts looked like before NASA started sending up science nerds and old politicians, pissing away their proud image in the public eye.

Desdmona. Despised by all in the house. The audience didn't like her, either; the Gallup Poll proved that. But they loved what she did to the group dynamics. They voted to keep her for the same reason boys tie firecrackers to cats' tails.

Pete. At 48, he normally would have been the elder statesman, but Des had him by 15 years. He was ruggedly handsome enough, but couldn't compare to Jon. In just about anything, in fact, he was second-best. The handicappers -- and every newspaper had its own stable by now -- said that was how he had survived so far, flying under the radar. But they thought his time was up.

Janelle, the sultry Jamaican. Was her beauty just skin deep? Who knew: Her unformed 19-year-old personality didn't even sink in that far. She contributed nothing to the group dynamic. But she had an array of underwear quite appreciated by the male audience.

Brad the Christian annoyed the hell out of a lot of people, but Baptist churches organized busloads to come and vote for him. At 18 he was the youngest in the house, the youngest ever on "The Fish Tank." A lot of old people looked at their nose-ring-wearing grandkids and then voted for Brad.

Licia. She cooked like Bocuse, played piano like Paderewski. She ran her own business, established a charity that cured cancer. Cancer of the eyelid, that is, but it still looks good on a resume. Every one of her long red hairs was in its place. Her clothes were so expensive even their designer labels had designer labels. She made Martha Stewart feel inadequate. Why did she stoop to the Tank? "I have no secrets," she told the audience in the opening show. "She has a new book coming out," her critics noted.

Jon made the first move. He pulled Pete into the kitchen and whispered his plan. The onlookers knew this because several of the crowd outside heard him through the window. (If the reader wishes to quibble at this point over the purpose of windows in a house made of Plexiglas, we won't be able to make any progress at all. This isn't PBS, it's ABC. It doesn't have to make sense.)

Jon's plan, however, the crowd did not learn at the time. The eavesdroppers said the gospel choir next to them was making too much noise for them to catch the details.

But a few days later, when it came time to tape the individual interviews for the next show, Pete shocked the world.

"I'm going to ally with Desdmona," he told the camera.

The host's smooth demeanor cracked. All he could get out was a croaked "Why?"

"To get the prize, of course. Desdmona and I can sweep to the finals. I'm in it to win it."

"But --" The host tried to recover. "But she's called you a bland, blithering idiot. When Fred (a quickly departed player) ended up in the master bedroom with her, she almost ripped his -- ah --"

"Almost injured him," he ended lamely. "She's called every other player a fool. She reduced every other woman to tears at least once."

Pete smiled. "And Brad, too. Yes, I know. Isn't she wonderful? What brilliant strategy. When she shouts, I hear music. When she glowers, it's beauty. She tells me to get the hell out of her way and it's the best invitation I've ever gotten."

The host was struck mute -- one could say struck dumb, but that's not only disparaging to the deaf but also, in his case, redundant.

The producers huddled as soon as the video was beamed to the studio.

Though the audience thought "The Fish Tank" was about the players, it was the director and this group who really manipulated events -- or so they were used to thinking.

After all, they chose which moments to show on TV, in which order, with which comment from the host. Putting votes in the hands of the onlookers had complicated matters, but as long as they could limit contact to visual, not aural -- and the toughened Plexiglas had great soundproofing characteristics -- they still had the upper hand. Monitors set up all around the yard and, by the third season, the neighborhood, showed the weekly episode live to the crowds. Only after that could they vote.

Swaying the crowd one way or another was child's play to people who'd sold entire nations on razors with three blades.

Sometimes they did it just to show they could, but mostly they carefully monitored events and let them play out straight, as long as things stayed close to their intentions.

Thus the tizzy that Pete's comments caused. Des had been the greatest thing to happen to the show ever, the most hated villain, the bitchiest bitch. They were loath to let anyone interfere with that. And Pete -- the perpetual runner-up had an almost nonexistent Q, the measure of audience appeal. Where did he get off trying to hitch his wagon to their female lead?

One of the producers -- as the men were all effeminate and the women butch, they were interchangeable -- came up with the conclusion that won the day.

"She'll chew him up," s/he said, brushing fingers through pompadour, "and save us the trouble. Give him enough rope and let him hang himself."

Privacy is a relative word in a transparent house. Pete found Des alone in the laundry room.

"Hello, Des," he began, shutting the door behind him. The door muffled the sound, but it didn't keep anyone who was looking from seeing the older woman whirl toward Pete.

"My name is Desdmona," she said, eyes narrowed. "Or is that too many syllables for you to handle? Try to sound it out. Come on, you can do it." She reached up and squeezed his cheeks so his mouth popped open. "Say it with me: Dezz-deh-moh-nah."

Pete kissed her hand. She pulled it back as if scorched.