Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

A 15-minute lunch break, at a dead-end job, goes fast and slow. Fast, because it's 15 minutes. Not worth getting up from my desk. Slow, because, well, it's still not 5 p.m. I peel open a Greek yogurt, and stir it with a plastic spoon. Take a few bites, when -

Splat.

"Damn," I curse under my breath as a gob of yogurt lands on my dress slacks. Even a mid-day snack has to go wrong. I scan my work station for a paper towel. Nope, of course not.

I pick up a stray Post-it note, and in my attempt to perform a smooth scoop from my pant leg, smear it in.

I look up, at the bleak office. It hasn't been the best work-week. Hell, it hasn't been the best year.

I tell myself, relax, most 29-year-olds don't have their dream job. And with that, I justify my low-level role at a mid sized marketing company, who - well, our claim to fame is a shaving cream commercial that went viral in 2016.

Beyond that, coming up on two years, it's been the same thing day in, day out; no pay-raise, no promotion, frankly, no redeeming value to this job, except for -

"Here," a familiar, booming voice says, as a thick envelope plops down on my desk. Without looking up, I say, "What's this?"

"Sound more excited, Dave, you weren't expecting this," my boss, Mr. Owen says.

Paul Owen - Mr. Owen, as he's known to us worker-bees - is difficult to describe. Imagine your standard, arrogant jack-ass, but with just enough charm, you can't completely write him off.

If I had to guess his age, I'd say somewhere between 38 and 42; 6 feet 2 inches, barrel-chested with a youthful, but chiseled face. Obviously, an ex-football player. You know the type. Sandy, blond hair with the perpetual, three-day scruff, and in his gray eyes, a playful spark (he looks sexy when surprised / caught off guard), a side often offset by a strict-business, "I've seen it all," attitude.

"Are you gonna open it?" he asks, framing the question more as a demand, than a yes or no. I pick up the envelope, and slide out its content.

I pull apart the enclosed sheets; inside, are three, round-trip airline tickets to Orlando, Florida, scheduled to depart three days from today's date.

I look up at Mr. Owen, waiting for an explanation. I admit, I'm not that excited. No, I've never been to Florida, and there's definitely never been a work-funded vacation before, but I know there has to be a catch.

"Two nights, all-expense paid trip to Florida, my man," Mr. Owen says, armed crossed. My expression doesn't change; waiting for that catch.

And with that, Mr. Owen's face drops a bit, and his arms uncross. "Look Dave, I know morale sucks around here, lately. I'm doing my best. I was able to convince the 'big guy' upstairs that a one-day marketing workshop in Orlando is just what our department needs to, uh, revitalize things.

"A one-day marketing workshop, and one day of fun in Orlando," he continues. "You, me, Ben and Zach."

Ben and Zach are the two other worker-bees in our department; Ben is 26; Zach, 29, like me. The best way to describe Ben is, the "good guy" from a teen rom-com - the clean cut, well-intentioned guy the female lead overlooks for the, otherwise useless, jock.

Zach, is, well, picture the opposite of Ben - wild hair and thick-rimmed glasses; not the most social guy. They've both been at the company longer than I have. We bond over that common thought: What am I doing here?

"I - uh, all right, Mr. Owen. You won't get a complaint out of me," I say, still slightly in shock.

"Good!" Mr. Owen says, puffing his chest out. "Figure out a plan for our fun-day. I'll be meeting you guys down there."

"You're not flying with us?" I ask.

"Gonna make this an extended vacation, with some college buddies," Mr. Owen says, leaving me no space to interject. "Perk of being the boss."

THREE DAYS LATER

"Double Dare!"

Ben slaps his cellphone down on my tray-table.

"You remember Double Dare?" I ask, lowering my sights to view his screen.

Our flight has started its initial descent. You know, when they say descent, but you're still in the air another 45 minutes.

"I was a kid, but yes!" Ben says, defensively. I read on: the TV-show Double Dare has made a comeback; a reboot, of sorts, and is filming in Orlando.

I look at Ben, and say, "Gosh, if only there were better things to do in Orlando." I feel an odd need to quickly dismiss his idea.

Ben gives up quickly. He collects his phone, and sits back in his seat. I panic. I'm not ready for the conversation to end.

A few seconds pass, and I ask, "Were you a big Double Dare fan?" My question comes out sounding very nervous - like I am a mouse, not a man - and I kick myself. "We could go," I say, trying to recover.

Ben glances at his phone, again, and says, casually, "Yeah, I liked it. But look, it's not even filming this week."

I sit back in my seat, and exhale a bit. All right. We'll hang by the pool, instead. My thoughts turn to tomorrow's marketing workshop. I packed a full-fledged suit. It will be hot, yes, but I'm going to try to put some of my natural shyness to the side, and network a bit.

In its descent, the plane lurches toward the ground. I can be a nervous flier, and fidget a bit. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell Ben is watching me.

"Hey, do you remember What Would You Do?" Ben asks.

My stomach drops. That, or the plane is crashing. I open my eyes, but don't look at Ben.

Of course I remember What Would You Do.

"Vaguely," I say, trying to add a touch of grogginess to my voice.

I look at him. He's staring at his phone again. "Apparently they're rebooting that one, too," he says. "And it's filming this week. So no, it's not Double Dare, but if we wanted our old-school Nick fix."

ONE DAY LATER

I'll spare you the details about the marketing workshop. Dull, and, yes, wearing a black suit on a hot Florida day was pretty dumb.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Mr. Owen says, feigning tears and clasping my shoulder. Like I said earlier, a jack-ass. Mr. Owen, in a salmon pink button-down, khaki pants and boat shoes - no socks - has the Florida look down, good. I have to give it to him.

"So gentlemen, what are we doing tomorrow?" Mr. Owen asks, forming a mini-circle with Ben, Zach and me. Zach quickly shrugs as if to say, "Don't ask me."

"I was thinking we could go zip -" Mr. Owen starts.

Shoot. This is it. I have to say it, now. But before I can -

"Dave wants to go to Wha-wha-wha, wha-wha-wha Would You Do?" Ben sings, grinning out of the side of his mouth.

Ben.

"Dave wants to go, wha-wha-wha, where?" Mr. Owen asks, putting his hands on his hips.

My instinct is to shrink, to deny. To say, no, no, no. But something stronger, inside of me, is at work. This is my chance.

"We're going to What Would You Do," I say. And with that last word, my confidence collapses. I quickly tag on, "Cool TV show - filming tomorrow, rare opportunity - 12 tomorrow."

Ben laughs. Zach, isn't paying attention. Mr. Owen simply says, "Who wanted to zip-line, anyway? All right. I'm in."

ONE DAY LATER

I see Mr. Owen in the distance, as Ben, Zach and I approach. Mr. Owen, with more scruff than usual, is wearing a gray T-shirt, plaid open faced button-down, sleeves rolled up; cargo shorts, and black Nike sneakers with black, crew length athletic socks.

"You guys made it!" Mr. Owen exclaims. "Ten minutes late," he adds, giving me a - very unexpected - hug. I see he's really working on that whole, morale thing. Looking quickly at Mr. Owen, you might think he has a slight belly, but wow - hugging him, I realize, he's solid.

He gives Ben and Zach a hug next. Zach acts like it's the first hug of his life.

It's 11:45, and we're outside the studio that houses the What Would You Do? reboot. I still can't believe this is happening. Part of me is expecting the show to get canceled; isn't that what happens when things seem too good to be true?

I try to remain calm; enthusiastic, but unfazed. I look at Ben, who is wearing an "Orlando" T-shirt, he must have bought yesterday, and gym shorts. I admit, I would love to see Ben get pied. He just seems like the type that would take it, so well.

Thirty minutes later, the four of us are seated in the audience. We're seated on the right side of the stage, three rows from the front.

It's hard to explain what I see in front of me. It is like were were transported back to 1991, though you can notice some upgrades to the decor. Colors are a little more vibrant, the design more sleek. But the pie contraptions that made What Would You Do? famous, well, they're how I remember.

The pie pod, I see, is already loaded with six, creamy pies. I seem to remember in the original, there were only four. Or was it five? Either way, now, it's an upgrade.

The pie wash is also present onstage, as well as the pie pendulum. Noticeably absent is the pie coaster, which I don't think is a big loss. But I can't keep my eyes off the contraption that mesmerized me as a child, and as it seems, still does, at close to 30: the pie slide.

Positioned smack-center onstage, the pie slide appears even larger in real life than it did on TV, back in the day. Six ladder rungs lead the victim from the safety of the ground up to a perch, where the only other way down, is sliding into a pool of whipped cream.

The edges of the pool are covered with a tan-colored cloth, to resemble a baked pie crust. A red, bouncy ball rests atop of the vat of cream, symbolizing a cherry on top of the mess.

I look to my right, at Ben, who gives me a goofy, "We're here!" expression. "You want a selfie?" I ask him, smirking. He doesn't respond, and looks ahead, to the stage.

Turning to my left, Mr. Owen has his cellphone in hand, finishing up a work email. He catches me looking at him, hits "Send," and slips his phone into his pocket. "And the concept of this show, is?" he asks me, looking amused.

"I can't give it all away," I say, matching his expression.

30 MINUTES LATER

Cream, cream, and more cream. This reboot isn't holding much back. So far, we have watched audience members get straight-up pies to the face, someone send their spouse to the pie wash for failing a "two truths and a lie" test, and someone choose the pie pod over eating a small cup of ice cream dipped in shredded mozzarella cheese. I can't say I blame them.

I look at Ben. So all right, he's not getting pied, but something about even seeing him in this environment, is driving me crazy. I lean over to him and ask, "Would have you done the ice cream, or the pie pod?" I'm proud of myself, my voice doesn't crack.

"Are you kidding me? The pod," he says. "You?"

"Same," I say, quickly.

I don't have the guts to ask Mr. Owen. In a way, I feel embarrassed that we took him here. I can't explain why. I've been avoiding eye contact with him, this whole time. I've kept my focus on Ben.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the main event," the host, Mark Somers - a charismatic 30-something - says. He's carrying a black, top-hat, upside down.

"In this hat, I have tickets, numbered 1 through 144," Mark says. "You all have a ticket under your seat, 1 through 144. The number I pick, if that's your number.

"Then you've earned yourself a trip to our pie slide," he continues.

Oh my god.

I think of Ben, then I crane my neck to see at least 10 other handsome men in the audience. Come on, come on.

"No. 64," Mark announces. With that, an excited whisper reverberates through the audience.

I see Zach quickly check his ticket; no reaction. Ben checks; "Wait," he says. I look to Mr. Owen, and see both eyebrows rise toward his hairline. Mr. Owen, rests his ticket on his thigh, and turns toward me. "Sixty-five," he says.

Wait.

I turn to Ben. "Sixty. Three," Ben says.

I am No. 64. I don't even need to look at my ticket to know that.

"Sir? Sir? Are you No. 64?" Mark asks, as he leaps up the stairs, armed with his microphone, to the third row. I don't have time to think.

"Stand up, sir!" Mark says.

Ben mutters "Oh hell yeah," and shakes my shoulder. Mr. Owen, looks past me, toward Ben, and asks: "So Dave has to go down that thing?"

"Yup," Ben says.

"Yikes. This might be more embarrassing than the campaign you blew for us last month, Dave," Mr. Owen says. He stops. "Sorry. That was mean. Good luck, my man."

I slowly rise from my seat. I feel like my brain is spinning inside my head, like a revolving decoration atop a Christmas tree. I can even hear the whirl, whirl, whirl, noise.

"Come on, down, sir," Mark prompts me. My legs, feeling like Jell-O, carry me down the three steps to the stage.

"Tell us your name, sir," Mark says.

"D-David. Dave," I say.

"All right, Dave, so you were hand-picked to go down our pie slide," Mark says. "This is considered the same honor in 2019 that it was in 1991, when you were probably - shall I say, still in diapers." The audience laughs. I try to play it off.

"How do you feel about that?" Mark asks.

"I - I, I don't know," I say. I hate that I sound like such a nervous wreck.

"He doesn't know, ladies and gentlemen!" Mark says, teasing me. "Well, Dave, you're in luck, because we're going to give you a choice.

"You can either take the trip down the pie slide, yourself, or," he trails off.

Or what?

"Or you can pick a member of your family or friends, to take the trip, instead," Mark says.

Oh my god. I can send Ben. I look up toward the audience, and lock eyes with Ben. I think he knows I'm going to pick him. He would do it. It would be great to watch.

But with that, Ben subtly jerks his head toward Mr. Owen, and mouths, to me, "Mo-rale."

I knew what I had to do.

"What's it gonna be, Dave?" Mark asks.

My confidence starts to grow. The jelly feeling is my legs, is gone. I point directly at Mr. Owen. "Him," I say.

THE GRAND FINALE

"This guy here?" the very energetic Mark asks, again running up the stairs to the third row. Mr. Owen, with all of his business savvy, doesn't seem to be "getting it," right away.

Is this really happening? If this is a dream, please let me stay asleep for just a little bit longer.

"Sir! Yes, you! Come on, down," Mark instructs Mr. Owen. The look on Mr. Owen's face: priceless. It's that - damn sexy - look of surprise I mentioned earlier. Eyes wide, he gets up, wavers for a moment, and follows Mark to the stage. Ben, looks giddy. Even Zach, at this point, looks interested.

My head is, again, spinning. Whirl, whirl, whirl.

Mark leads Mr. Owen further onstage than he took me, though I linger, awkwardly, because I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go back to my seat just yet.

Mark brings Mr. Owen all the way to the pie slide. "Have a seat, sir," Mark instructs, with his hand, waving to the make-shift pie crust.

Mr. Owen, carefully turns around, and lowers himself so his butt rests on the crust, his hands clasped together - dare I say, nervously - on his lap, his long legs wide apart.

"First of all, tell us your name," Mark asks, still standing, lowering his microphone.

"Paul," Mr. Owen says, flatly.

"And Paul, have you seen our show before?" Mark asks.

"I can't say that I have," Mr. Owen says.

"Well, sir, welcome to our pie slide," Mark says, as the audience laughs.

Mr. Owen doesn't respond, simply nods, as if to acknowledge his predicament.

I look toward Ben, who is absolutely beaming in the audience. Yes, it would have been fun to send Ben to the pie slide, but so far, I am not regretting my decision, at all.

"Now, sir, if I can ask you to take off your shoes and your socks," Mark says to Mr. Owen.

Mr. Owen - who I can see is turning just a wee bit red - bends down, and unlaces his right sneaker, halfway, before sliding it off. He does the same with the left sneaker. He positions both sneakers, neatly, next to each other.

Then, he peels off his black socks. He then puts each, bunched-up sock into the respective sneaker. Without any prodding, Mr. Owen stands.

"You want to take off your over-shirt, too?" Mark asks Mr. Owen.

Mr. Owen doesn't respond, he quickly, fumbling a bit, takes off his casual button-down too, handing it to Mark. He also undoes and hands Mark a black, leather watch. I've seen the watch up-close - it's a nice one.

Mr. Owen is now down to his T-shirt, cargo shorts, and bare feet.

"All right, sir, I think you know what needs to be done. Up the 'ol ladder," Mark says. "And sir? We're going to ask you to go down the slide, face-first, if that's OK with you."

Oh my god.

Mr. Owen, who seems to have accepted his fate, leans into Mark's microphone, and says "Go big or go home, right?"

And with that, Mr. Owen plods over to the pie slide ladder. He grips the sides of the ladder, and begins to climb, rather swiftly.

His muscular, toned legs, carry him up each rung. His bare feet - which I had never seen before - are manly, with long toes and smooth heels. I can see the bottom of his feet are several shades lighter than the, more tan, tops.

Mr. Owen makes it to the top of the ladder, and positions himself on his knees. He's not fully on his belly, just yet, but I know he's getting there.

Mark, who had seemed to have forgotten about me, walks in my direction, and says, "We didn't forget about you, Dave. In fact, we have a very special job for you.

"We need you, to give Paul, here, the 1, 2, 3 countdown. Are you up for that?"

"Absolutely," I say.

"1," I say, looking straight up at Mr. Owen, as he lowers himself onto his stomach, using his hands to stay put.

"2," I continue, quickly looking back at Ben, who is holding up his cellphone, horizontally, recording video.

"3!" I finish, and with that, Mr. Owen pushes himself forward, and - like any real man would - puts his arms at his sides, propelling straight toward the sloppy, whipped-cream mess that awaits, below.

He glides down, as that silly, xylophone sound-effect plays, making this all the more delicious. My eyes strain to take it all in. A second before impact, I see Mr. Owen lower his face, and with that, make a perfect landing, his upper body disappearing beneath the cream.

Splat.

The audience immediately cheers. Mr. Owen is motionless for a moment, the only parts of his body still visible, his legs, ankles and the wrinkled, upturned soles of his bare feet.

Rules are made to be broken, so I race over to the pie slide, myself, before Mr. Owen has a chance to reposition himself. I crouch down and extend both hands to tickle his big - size 12, I'd guess - feet, as they stay exposed, and for my purposes, vulnerable.

The bottom of Mr. Owen's feet are warm, soft, and crinkly, like paper - and, as it turns out, ticklish, as I hear a, muffled yelp, his feet rub together, and bury themselves under the cream.

The traditional, What Would You Do? theme songs begins to play, signaling the episode is over, as Mr. Owen lifts his head out of the giant, whipped-cream pie, and a replay of his trip down the pie slide displays on the jumbotron, above. It's better in slow-motion.

Back in real-time, Mr. Owen manages to wade, to the edge of the pie, resting his arms on the crust. He doesn't bother to stand. I can only guess how red his face is, under the white cream, but he also looks exhilarated. Like, damn, did that really just happen?

I smile at Mr. Owen, as Ben and Zach join me, from behind. Facing all three of us, reality may be setting in a bit, for Mr. Owen. "So gentlemen, how long before this ends up on YouTube?" he asks, his face in a grimace.

I open my mouth to respond, but Ben, holding his cellphone, beats me to it.

"The more pressing question, Mr. Owen, is," Ben says, "How long before this video gets emailed to our office and clients?"

And with that, Ben, thumb hovering over his cellphone screen, taps "Send."