by Breuer, Jim
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’m fine.”
Then Dee began to pick up pebbles and shells. We had the entire beach to ourselves. She looked beautiful with her smiling eyes, picking up her little treasures, showing me what she’d found.
To this day, I still can’t believe what happened next. Dee bent down to scoop up more of the shiny pebbles. They glistened sharply underneath the sun.
“Wouldn’t it be great to find a diamond ring out here?” she asked. I couldn’t believe what she just said. Had she seen the ring?
“What did you say?” I asked her.
“I said, imagine if we found a diamond ring out here. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
I reached out, grabbed her hand softly, and pulled her close. I took the ring from my pocket. “Yes, that would be amazing,” I said. “But I already found one just for you.” I slipped it on her finger and asked her to marry me.
After the engagement, Eddie was the first person I called. He was excited and couldn’t wait to meet Dee. He’d recently seen me do a show in Connecticut and he couldn’t believe how much I had improved since that depressing night he saw me at Dangerfield’s. He was still trying to figure out a way to apply his business expertise to my comedy career—by teaming up to create a funny magazine or something—but I knew I still didn’t have him convinced 100 percent of my talent.
A little while later, I flew to Florida to tell my parents about the engagement in person. My dad, for the first time that I can remember, jumped up off of the couch, shook my hand, and showed real pride in me. “Congratulations, son,” he said. “I’m very happy for you. You’re a man now.” It was a simple gesture, but I’d never seen him do that before.
By the way, readers, know this: Engagements are moments that last literally that long . . . moments. Then everyone else gets involved. Pop the question, and before too long, a full-blown tsunami of distractions from concerned parties will come flying your way: “What’s the actual date?” “You need a date!” “Where’s the engagement party?” “Flowers!” “Dresses!” “Bridesmaids!” “Groomsmen!” “Who’s the best man?” “Don’t invite so-and-so!” “Who’s paying for it?” “Don’t think I’m paying for it!” “How are you going to pay for it if you don’t have a real career?” “So, how are you going to survive?” “Where are you going to live?” “Are you thinking of having children?” “Got any names picked out?” Ad infinitum. My advice to anyone getting engaged: Don’t tell anyone for a month.
By this point, the Rat had started drifting back into my life. While he’d claimed he was too busy to manage me, he had been booking shows for me. But I’d been booking a lot myself, too. I was working a lot of gigs all over New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, sharing the stage with great comedians like Adam Ferrara, Kevin James, Bobby Collins, Bob Nelson, and Ray Romano.
The Rat informed me that he was done booking shows for me unless I signed a deal with him. He said that he had cleared his schedule up and now had time to manage me. To continue getting shows from him, I had to sign a contract. A commitment of three years, and if he landed me a TV deal, I’d be stuck with him for another three years.
As far as I was concerned, his ship had sailed. He could send me a postcard. I met with the Rat at his office and told him I was getting married.
“Ugh,” he said. “It’s going to ruin your entire career. Get rid of her!”
I knew that he had a calculator going in his head, and he was figuring that maybe I wouldn’t be willing to go the extra mile if I were married. And that could cost him money. My gut told me, as it had before, that I should just move on and not get tangled up with him again. But he held that carrot of TV out in front of me, and I couldn’t resist grabbing for it. I’ve noticed that many times, just when you feel great about your soul and your life, that’s when evil wants to get in and ruin it at all costs. Sometimes, in fact, we invite it.
I hadn’t left his office for more than a few hours when I got a phone call from him.
“I got a TV audition for you, Jimbo.”
“Finally,” I said. I was only half joking. “Where is it?”
“In Harlem,” he said. “That’s about all I know. They’re looking for a funny white guy. If you’re interested, I’ll be happy to give you a ride.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s check it out.”
During the car ride to Harlem, he produced a management contract. “I want you to have a look at this and think it over,” he said. “I really think we should make it official.” This contract stipulated that the Rat would now receive 20 percent of all of my comedy gigs, along with whatever else he could land for me, for three years with a three-year extension, if a TV gig materialized.
After looking it over, I said, “I’m not feeling this.” Six years was an insanely long commitment. “No can do.”
“Okay, but I’m just not going to be able to book gigs for you anymore if you don’t sign,” he said flatly.
“Let’s say this TV thing works out,” I said, countering. “Why don’t you just take twenty percent of that and leave the bookings alone?”
“You’ll become a star, in high demand, and I won’t have any of your comedy bookings, movies, none of it,” he whined. “I’ll just have twenty percent of the thing that first made your career and enabled the rest of it.”
“Relax,” I said. “Let’s just see how this audition goes.”
The audition was for an unnamed show that would later become Uptown Comedy Club. I improvised with their cast and hit it off with Kevin and André Brown, the show’s producers. It went as well as I could have expected. On the drive back downtown, the Rat again produced the contract.
“Why don’t I take it home for a couple of days?” I asked.
“What?” he said dismissively. “Why?”
“I’d like to show it to my sister,” I said meekly.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “She’s not going to know how to read it, but go ahead, show her anyway.”
The contract, even to a naïve meathead like me, seemed like a really bad deal. Dollar signs and screaming fans called out to me, while my gut told me this whole situation was shady. Two days later, I had a callback audition for the show in Harlem. I nailed this one, too, and I could tell by the enthusiastic response of the producers that I had the gig. I clicked with the rest of the cast and I wanted it. But the Rat clammed up on me. I’d call him every day, asking, “What did you hear? Do they want me to go back up there? Why is the decision taking so long?”
Every time he’d respond with some variation of “I haven’t heard anything,” followed up by, “Are you ready to sign the contract?”
A week went by. I hadn’t worked much in TV or done many auditions, but I knew I should have heard something one way or the other by then, especially with the vibe I’d gotten from the producers. I suspected that the Rat was holding the gig hostage until I signed the contract with him. I called Eddie for advice and he told me not to sign.
I’d stayed friendly with a girl named Carrie who’d booked me for some gigs in Florida, and she now lived in New York and worked for this manager guy I’ll call Leon, who repped Jay Mohr and Dave Chappelle. So Dee and I went to visit Leon one afternoon, and he struck me as a totally different breed of manager from what I was used to. He wore jeans and had long hair and seemed like someone I could relate to. I explained what had been going on with the audition and the other manager.
“I see you on TV in less than a year,” he said enthusiastically. Calmer and cooler than the other guy, he walked around the room, then took a seat on a windowsill that looked out onto the city.
“So what should I do?” I asked.
“Don’t sign anything,” he said. “I’m going to be gone for about a week. Sit tight and let me snoop around when I get back. There’s got to be a simple explanation.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just promise me you won’t sign that contract,” he repeated as I l
eft his office.
Now nearly two weeks had gone by and the Rat was still tight-lipped about whether or not he had heard anything from the Harlem audition. All he knew for certain was that I should sign his lame contract, and he made sure to tell me every time I reached out to him. Both Eddie and Dorene suggested I go back to him and tell him I’d like to take the contract to a lawyer. I didn’t know what else to do. Not coincidentally, he contacted me at the same time.
“I’m tying up a lot of my resources,” he started to explain in his smarmy tone. “I can’t keep waiting for you. Sign the contract today, or else we’ll have to part ways. It’s up to you.”
“What about the show?” I asked.
“I still haven’t heard,” he said impatiently. “But regardless, you and I need to have a deal in place.”
So I reluctantly went to his basement office in Queens. He met me at the door with a pen and the contract. There were some seriously bad vibes in the air.
“I’d like to take this to a lawyer first,” I told him. “If he’s cool with it, I’ll gladly sign it for you.”
“What?” he asked exasperatedly, walking back to his desk and sitting down. “Lawyers don’t know anything about comedians. All they do is take your money while they waste your time. They’re going to make a bunch of little changes that will cost thousands of dollars. Do you have thousands of dollars?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “And not only that, but it will take months for them to make those changes.
“Do you want me to go on?” he asked, now standing up again and starting to pace. “If a really good last-minute gig comes in for you, vetting it through them will kill it. Lawyers just don’t move fast enough. You’ll miss out.”
I was feeling seriously pressured. Everything inside of me was screaming that this was not worth it. Success shouldn’t feel this crappy. But I also felt so close to that TV show that I didn’t want to walk away now. Nobody would ever make a deal with a devil unless the terms were very tempting.
I began to wilt. Some of what he was saying seemed like it was making sense. We started bartering about the length of the contract itself. And against my better judgment, we struck a compromise. Two years, with a two-year extension. I couldn’t believe it, but I was on the verge of signing. Before I did, though, I gave him a moment to be honest. “I’ll sign right now,” I said, “if you will look at me and tell me the truth. Have you heard anything about me and the Harlem TV audition?”
He couldn’t make eye contact with me. He simply looked at the floor and shook his head no. “I’ll try calling them again after you sign. I promise.”
I still signed the thing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt lower, more ashamed, and more stupid. I betrayed everyone in my family who had pleaded with me to be patient. I was going against what my gut was telling me. As soon as I made the last r in my last name, he became deliriously giddy.
“You’re gonna make so much money,” he exclaimed. “Trust me. This is gonna be great. Let’s go have dinner! I’m buying.”
We went out to a steak house, and in the middle of the meal he smiled and with a shrug said, “Well, why don’t I try giving Harlem a call?” He excused himself and went to the pay phones in the lobby. Almost immediately, he came back and sat down giggling maniacally. “You got it!” He was ecstatic. “Finally we got some news! You got the show!” Surprise. Surprise.
Under normal circumstances, that would have called for a bottle of champagne. All my hard work, writing, self-promotion, persistence, saving money to move back to New York���it had all culminated in reaching my goal: to be on TV. But I felt like I’d cheated. I excused myself from the table, walked outside, and started sobbing. Just like De Niro playing Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull, I punched the brick walls. I was a sucker.
Later that night, I hopped on a train to pick up my car and drive to Dee’s place. I desperately tried to think positively. And slowly, it sank in that no matter how crappy this deal was, I was still going to be on TV. I’d somehow make it work on my terms. I became reenergized, cranking metal from the car stereo and pumping my fists out the window.
Out of all the people in my family, something made me want to tell Eddie first. Not to show him up for suggesting I join the National Guard, but to make him proud. And, okay, maybe to tell him, “I told you so.” I wanted him to know that he never had to worry about me now. In a year I’d be taking care of him and the rest of the family, no doubt about it.
I quietly went into Dee’s apartment. It was around one fifteen in the morning, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t contain myself as I began to dial Eddie’s number. My heart began to pound. I kept imagining Eddie’s big hearty giggle, which was a lot like mine, only deeper. “Good for you!” he’d say. My fidgeting with the phone woke Dee up.
“Who are you calling? ” she asked. “It’s late.”
“Eddie,” I said, cradling the receiver on my shoulder. “I got the show!”
“You did? ” She smiled. “Awesome!” Then she clicked the base of the phone and hung up the call. “Eddie’s got three kids,” she said.
“Dee,” I said, “I’m going to be on TV! Real TV!”
“It can wait until morning; that’s only five hours from now,” Dee said. “Call him at six thirty A.M., he’ll be up early.”
“All right, all right, all right,” I said disgustedly. “I just really wanted him to know tonight. I’m one less person he’s gotta worry about, Dee.”
“He’ll be so happy to hear that,” she said. “In the morning!”
We fell asleep, and Dee’s phone started ringing at five thirty A.M. The answering machine picked it up. “Jimmy? ” my niece Denise cried out. “It’s Eddie! Eddie’s dead! Pick up the phone!”
I groggily picked up the phone. “What’s going on? ” I asked, confused.
“Eddie died of a heart attack last night.”
Kristen’s passing was heavy. It was jarring to me to see a peer pass away, to be reminded that we can be taken at any time. But Eddie’s dying was far more profound. It was gutting. I’d learned from Denise that he’d passed around one fifteen A.M., right around the time I would have been calling him. Just like that my jubilation over my great TV show and my complaining about my shitty contract didn’t mean zilch. Reality was back open for business.
What sticks with me to this day is that I might have been trying to call while Eddie was dying. Do you call that a coincidence? I could have done any number of things after learning I got the TV show, but calling Eddie after one A.M. was at the top of the list. Why? I could have stayed up all night and celebrated. I could have driven out to Phil’s place. But something compelled me to call at that particular time. Why? Don’t ask me. I know I couldn’t have prevented Eddie from dying, but something compelled me to reach out.
My entire family was devastated. I went up to his house and found my mom sobbing uncontrollably.
“When I see Lefty,” she bawled, “I’m going to slap him right in the face. Right in the face.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” I asked. Lefty was Eddie’s father, who’d been killed two months before his service in World War II ended, having never met his son.
“He told me in a dream he was coming to take him,” Mom cried.
I was sure my mom was having a mental breakdown. “What do you mean he told you in a dream? ”
“I had a dream two weeks ago,” Mom explained through sobs. “It was raining and Lefty was in a tunnel. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Doris. But it’s time for me to be with my son.’”
The day Eddie was buried, I went to Dorene’s house to take a nap. As I fell asleep, I felt like I entered a world that we might recognize only when our time is up. Some people may write this off as a dream, exhaustion, or whatever, but Eddie appeared to me, plain as day. He was standing on the lawn at my grandma’s house—a place I hadn’t seen since I was five years old. Calmness and contentment washed over me. Eddie was wearing his usual: khakis, a blue oxford shirt and tie, loafers. He was carrying his
navy blue blazer over his shoulder, and he was constantly pushing up his glasses with his finger.
“Check on the boys for me,” he said with a smile. “They’ll be fine, but let them know you’re there for them and don’t worry about Mom. She’s got you to lean on if she needs.”
I assured him I would. He smiled and turned to leave, and I stopped him and said, “Wait, wait, don’t leave! What about you?”
“I’m super,” he replied convincingly and calmly. “I am just super.” Then he giggled and poof, he was gone. I immediately woke up. All I could think was, “He came to me in a dream,” just like you always hear about but never believe. Now I believed for sure. There was nothing to fear. You can call me a wacko or a freak, but you’ll never be able to take this moment away from me or explain it. It’s real. It happened.
Chapter 6
From Harlem, It’s the Uptown Comedy Club
So I had my first TV gig. Eddie had just died and my family was looking for something positive. One of us had made it. Everyone wanted to know about the TV show, but I didn’t feel very comfortable talking about it because the timing was horrible. It was like, “Hey, Eddie’s dead, but I’m on TV. Let’s party.” No thanks. Beyond that, I hated my manager, the Rat, but I was now contractually obligated to him for four years; Dee and I were engaged, but my working twelve-to-fourteen-hour days, an hour and fifteen minutes from our New Jersey home, immediately strained our relationship; and the TV gig itself, while great, wasn’t going to pay me for at least the first three months I worked on it.
If someone had told me when I was a kid that one day I would be going to work in Harlem, my thoughts would have revolved around dying in a shocking and painful way the second I arrived. By the time I was an adult and had seen a little bit of the world, I was nothing but excited to go to Harlem. In August of 1992 I headed there with an open mind to do a new sketch comedy show, Uptown Comedy Club. And any concerns I may have had were alleviated from the get-go by the two brothers producing the show, Kevin and André Brown. (André unfortunately passed away a few years ago, but you might know Kevin as Dot Com from 30 Rock.) Uptown Comedy Club was their first time putting together a televised comedy show, and even though the Browns had help from the people who ran Showtime at the Apollo, it felt a little like they’d just lucked into this TV thing and were racing to produce it before it got taken away from them.