Battle of the Fact Geeks

Things Get Ugly at a New York Trivia Night

I come from a family that takes trivia very seriously. When my sister and I were younger and still lived at home, the post-dinner, pre-homework hour was almost always spent watching “Jeopardy!” On Sunday mornings we bickered over clues to the Sunday Times crossword. Even now, our holiday clan gatherings culminate with marathon games of Trivial Pursuit, during which my relatives morph into ferocious, cackling creatures hell-bent on one another’s annihilation.

So I suppose it’s not surprising that I found myself, on a recent evening, venturing into another den of barbarians—the weekly Trivia Night held at a downtown bar in my home city of New York. Friends had told me about the cutthroat fun of these game-show-style events, where teams of drinking-age quiz-kids battle it out for cash prizes. None of my cohort was free to accompany me, so I decided to go alone.

When I arrived at the bar almost an hour before game time, I found the place already filled. The scene reminded me of the late-night study groups I used to see at my college’s student union café: clusters of scruffy, slightly nerdy-looking twentysomethings were hunched around every table, conferring over pads and pencils and piles of books. When I sidled up and tried to see what one group was reading—the dictionary?—a fierce-looking, bespectacled girl slapped her palm over the cover of her book and glared at me. She and her posse had brought in a pizza and were apparently carbo-loading in preparation for the event.

Ordering a beer, I decided to settle back and observe; I’d been told that only teams of four or more could compete, and everyone but me seemed to be part of a contingent. I figured I’d consider the evening a sort of anthropological investigation: the behavior of fact geeks in their natural habitat.

I suddenly felt someone yanking at my sleeve. It was another solo flyer—a brunette girl in an NYU hoodie. “Do you know when this thing starts?” she asked me. “I’ve never been here before.”

Before I could reply, I felt another sleeve yank. This time it was a couple—both in their mid-twenties, frizzy-headed, and wearing earth shoes. “Hey,” the female said, “we need two more for a team. How about it?”

NYU girl and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay,” she said. I nodded. Why observe when I could participate? I was an old hand at this stuff.

Or so I thought. Suddenly a man in a spangled jacket appeared at one end of the bar with a microphone—the Trivia Night host—and the room burst into shouts and applause. The trivia hounds were practically bouncing in their seats, raring with enthusiasm (or maybe it was Pepsi; I’d noticed that I was the only one in the bar dulling my perception with alcohol).

The host, a sardonic fellow resembling Guy Smiley from Sesame Street informed us that for each round of the competition, we’d be asked ten questions. Each team had to decide on a single answer to each one, and write it down; at the end of the round all teams would hand in their answer sheets to be tallied.

“I can be the answer-writer,” I volunteered to my teammates. “My handwriting’s good.”

“No, I’ve got it,” snapped Ms. Birkenstock, producing a pad and pen and assuming the position of a secretary about to take dictation. This clearly wasn’t her first Trivia Night.

“Question number one!” Guy Smiley bellowed. “From what historic text does the following phrase come? ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’?”

All around the room, people murmured heatedly to one another. The Birkenstocks thrust their heads together and muttered for a moment, then Ms. Birkenstock scribbled something on her pad.

“Hey, aren’t we supposed to collaborate?” I whispered.

“It’s obviously Homer’s Iliad,” Ms. Birkenstock hissed, and turned to wait for the next question.

“Number two!” barked Guy. “What contemporary comedic actor is known by the nickname ‘Jables’?”

“Maybe one of the Wayans brothers?” guessed NYU girl. “Doesn’t one of them have a name like Jay-something?”

The Birkenstocks regarded her sadly.

“Um, no, hon,” Ms. Birkenstock said, as if she were addressing a toddler. “That would be Jack Black.”

The questions were hard like that.