Mr. Quinones, please accept my sincerest apologies for my disruptive behavior last Saturday. I truly regret how things unfolded during the filming of your hidden camera segment last week. Let me explain from my perspective, and perhaps you’ll understand why I acted as I did, and maybe even ponder yourself, What Would You Do John Quinones in my shoes?
As a retiree enjoying the simple life in NYC on a modest fixed income, television hasn’t been a part of my routine for years. However, every Saturday, I treat myself to a couple of drinks at my local bar. Last weekend, this routine led me to an encounter that I genuinely believed involved a 13-year-old girl attempting to order a shot of Goldschlager.
Yes, you heard that right, Goldschlager. At first glance, it appeared to be a classic scenario begging the question, what would you do John Quinones? My instincts kicked in.
Being the upstanding citizen I pride myself on being (and yes, I did once have a letter published in the Times criticizing their excessive prom coverage), I felt compelled to intervene. I was just about to approach the bartender and alert him to the seemingly underage patron when a woman dressed as a nun stepped in before me and took charge! Now, this wasn’t your typical gentle, guiding nun. She began berating the young girl for attempting to order alcohol underage. Don’t misunderstand me, I am a firm believer in discipline (my own father used to joke about taking us to the pound if we misbehaved, and we turned out just fine, although I do bark a bit under anesthesia, according to my doctors), but this nun’s approach felt excessive. The girl looked like she was about to burst into tears. I felt it was my duty to step in and defend her.
But, just as I was about to intercede, an angry, rather intimidating man stormed towards the nun and started shaking her quite forcefully. He was yelling at her to stop her criticism, claiming it was triggering flashbacks of abuse he suffered in Catholic school. Then, to my astonishment, the man dissolved into tears. John, it was truly heartbreaking. This man was completely overcome by emotion and past trauma. Having dabbled in psychology myself (I was once part of an Imago theater group in the 60s – my portrayal of “Displacement” received some rather positive reviews, if I may say so), I recognized the signs of post-traumatic stress disorder immediately.
After observing this emotional scene unfold for what felt like an eternity (probably closer to an hour), my empathetic nature, which is quite pronounced (I once volunteered to comfort orphaned baby Malayan tapirs at the New York Zoo – not the South American kind, John, those are truly ferocious creatures – though it turned out tapir mothers rarely abandon their young), urged me to act. I was ready to get off my barstool, approach the man, and offer him my cardigan (a vintage Gadzooks, 1981, 100% cotton, mind you) for comfort. However, just as I was about to make my move, the bartender asked the distraught man for his ID! The poor fellow was clearly in his 40s! He had just navigated denial, grief, envy (he’d glanced longingly at a waitress carrying a plate of duck wontons), and finally, acceptance, and now this bartender was reducing his deeply emotional experience to a simple age check.
Meanwhile, the “13-year-old strumpet,” as I may have unfairly thought, was casually downing Goldschlager shots with a group of what appeared to be off-duty Comcast employees. At this point, I was ready to confront everyone. I was going to chastise the bartender for his insensitivity, point out the actual underage drinking happening at his bar, reprimand the nun for her harshness, and finally, wrap the PTSD-stricken man in my cardigan. I was this close, John, to taking decisive action. I pride myself on my quick responses in such situations (I’ll readily admit I was Joseph Hazelwood’s second mate on the Exxon Valdez, and I am quite proud to say I was the first person to offer him paper towels after the incident). Then, the bartender asked if I wanted a refill of my rum and diet.
That’s when I noticed it. The microphone clipped to his lapel. The camera discreetly hidden behind a potted plant. The nun’s rather obvious push-up bra. The “13-year-old” who looked suspiciously like Kristin Chenoweth. And the PTSD man, suddenly cheerful and laughing. Everyone was looking at me, and then, you emerged from the kitchen, all smiles, ready to let me in on the “joke.”
You approached me with an outstretched hand and asked, “Do you know who I am?” My mind raced. “Johnny Mathis, maybe with a few extra pounds?” I stammered something about you possibly being my server at Applebee’s once. Everyone just stood there grinning, and then you said it, “I’m John Quinones, host of What Would You Do? on ABC.” The penny dropped. I had been completely and utterly played. I hadn’t done what I thought I should have done, and to top it off, I didn’t even recognize you, Mr. Quinones. I was the fool, but not in the way you intended.
And now, you have to scrap the footage. For that, I am truly sorry. But honestly, Mr. Quinones, after all that, what would you do John Quinones if you were in my place? It’s all a bit more complicated when you’re actually in the situation, isn’t it?
