by Breuer, Jim
My wife answered. My friend and I looked at one another like, “Who’s it gonna be?” And pretty soon, we heard my wife say, “Sure, hold on a sec, Chris. He’s right here.” She looked at me and mouthed, “Chris Farley,” and pointed the receiver at me. I remember wondering, “Me? Why does he want to talk to me? How did he get my number?”
I took the phone, and Chris asked if I could meet him. I said, “Well, it’s late and I’m visiting with my wife and a friend—we’ll see each other tomorrow, you know?”
“C’mon!” he said, trying to convince me to join him at the hotel room he was staying in.
“Who are you with?” I asked. I didn’t really need to know. I had a pretty good idea it was no one too helpful to his cause. Then an overwhelming feeling hit me. Instead of freaking out about him, I just thought, “Okay, I should try to talk to the guy for a minute. He’s just a person. He’s reaching out to me for some reason.”
“You doing okay?” I asked.
“I’m great!” he shouted a bit too overzealously. “Come hang out, man!”
“Hey,” I said, “the show is almost here! It’s late. We should both get some rest. You sure you feel okay?”
He took a second to respond. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the crazy party guy nor the movie star—it was just Chris, the kid who grew up in Wisconsin. I’ll never forget what I heard in his voice. It wasn’t quite desperation but real uncertainty.
“Jimmy,” he asked, “am I funny?”
This set in motion a longer conversation and a whole cavalcade of questions. And I responded with only the truth—that everyone around the set pretty much laughed their asses off whenever he did anything. He liked to hear that. And then he said, “Like who?”
And I named cast members and people on staff whom he’d had laughing out loud all week. But then the heavier questions started again.
“Am I just the fat, dumb guy?” he asked.
“No!”
“But, you know, you saw me, I could only get hookers, right, Jimmy?”
“C’mon, Chris,” I said. “You know that’s not the truth.”
My wife kept gesturing for me to go find him and hang out, but I knew that on this night, with who he was likely hanging with, it wouldn’t be productive. It wasn’t going to be a big catalyst for change for the guy. He only wanted to know, in this moment, that he was funny and not just a fat buffoon. It was so sad. Ten million a movie! And he was more insecure than a lot of us nobodies were.
I could hear voices in the background saying, “Tell him to come and hang out!” Girls laughing and partying. The conversation ended with his asking yet again if I wanted to hang out.
“Dude,” I said. “I’ve got to get some sleep. You should, too.”
Two nights later, he was hilarious, of course, on the show. For as truly screwed up and dark as the week had been, he absolutely destroyed us all on Saturday night. And this is when he really taught me a few things. He did “El Niño,” where he played the hurricane, and then he did the final Matt Foley, the motivational speaker who lives “in a van down by the river.”
For this Matt Foley sketch he played a health instructor. So Chris came in and Cheri, Will, and I were riding stationary bikes, just peddling away. I remember rehearsing the skit and he would fart, and Cheri and the girls would be like “Ewww! That’s disgusting!” And each time we rehearsed it, he would change it up, but it was always something little and gross and not a big deal.
But during the live show, he had a prop that wasn’t there before, a pot of coffee—obviously not hot—and he just slammed the whole thing. And instead of swallowing the coffee he spit and sprayed it all over everyone. It was dripping off Cheri’s face. The crowd lost it. I lost it. I am glad the camera was not on me then.
He waited until we were live before he pulled out the crazy stuff. Because during the dress show, I had thought I held my own. But once we were on the air he smoked me, and smoked me hard. He smoked everyone, just with those little nuances like that. And I wasn’t like, “Oh, that bastard outdid me!” It was more an aha moment. As much of a mess as he was, he knew how to steal a scene. He knew how to blow the place up.
After the show, I didn’t see much of him. Before the traditional SNL after-party even got started, I could see the vultures circling him, and man, I didn’t want any part of it. He was surrounded by filthy people. Drug dealers. Leeches. Satan’s ring, I called them. My wife and I were puzzled by how these people could get access and control Chris. I headed home.
“Jimmy,” he called out with a laugh. “You comin’?”
“Hey,” I said. “I don’t feel the greatest. I’ll catch you later.”
I paused for a second. That was BS. This guy was a legend to me now, and I couldn’t and wouldn’t hang. I didn’t like the contradictions and the conflict that were piling up. He had just blown me away onstage, and now . . . ugh.
“Thanks, man,” I said, genuinely. “Thanks for being part of my sketch. And thanks for flooring me.”
He laughed, and that was that.
A few weeks passed, maybe more than a month. I started getting an overwhelming urge to call Chris. My rational side kept telling me he’d call if he wanted to. Spiritually, on some level I knew it was up to me, though, and the feeling would not go away. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Still, I’d ultimately talk myself out of it. “Jimmy,” I’d tell myself. “He’s Chris Farley. Someone close to him will take care of him. Don’t worry about it. We only talked that one night. He’ll be fine.”
But the feeling would return. He, in some way, trusted me. I thought I shouldn’t ignore that. I asked my wife what to do.
“God’s telling you something,” she said. “Listen.”
And it was true. God talks to us a lot of the time. It’s up to us to listen to His voice.
“Oh yeah? So what should I say when I call him?” I asked, then I didn’t wait for her response. I quickly called my manager and said, “I’ve gotta talk to Chris Farley.” He said he would get me his number.
The next week rolled around, and of course, I became immersed in the show and talked myself out of the urge to call him. This feeling came and went several more times. And as time passed, I knew that the urges I felt were God telling me what to do. I called my manager and he apologized for not getting me the number. The weekend was coming, and he promised to have it to me by Monday. He never got me the number. He’s not to blame.
Chris died the next day. I don’t want you to think that I feel like I am personally to blame or that I’m narcissistic enough to think what happened to Chris directly relates to me. I believe only that I had a chance. I had an opportunity to reach out to help. Would it have done any good? Who knows? I know only that God was telling me to reach out to another human being. I felt it, and I truly heard it loud and clear, and I ignored it. I will never turn my back on Him again. I felt like God wanted Chris to stay here with all of us, and in the end, his death was a terrible loss to pure evil. I dropped to my knees and apologized for turning my back and not acting on the messages that were sent to me.
I know it feels weird and kooky and surreal. And we are conditioned to tune out or fear that kind of stuff. I’m here to say, “Don’t.” You can make a difference. And when the big man gives you that urge, do yourself a favor and at least just give it a shot.
Chapter 13
Meeting the Mayor
A couple weeks after Chris Farley’s appearance, our host was New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani. Unlike a lot of stars, the man kept to a schedule, moved with precision, and when the Monday meeting came, he and his security detail made their way politely through the building. He pulled up a chair next to Lorne, and you could tell he was completely tickled to be there. At the same time, he regarded it as a serious meeting, as he was eager to hear everyone’s ideas and get down to the business of making a great show. He wanted it to be as memorable as we did.
We knew Giuliani’s presence would give us great ratings, so the cast came armed wi
th their A-list characters. Will had prepped a “Janet Reno Dance Party,” Molly had a Mary Katherine Gallagher idea, Cheri had one for her old-lady character Rita Delvecchio. I was hoping to finally break in the Shut-up Guy. My idea was to have him serve as Giuliani’s new press secretary, silencing any member of the media who dared question the mayor. The Shut-up Guy hadn’t made a show yet, so I didn’t have a ton of hope for him, but whatever happened, I knew it would be a historic show, so I was content to just fit in somewhere. “I’m very excited to be here,” were the first words out of the mayor’s mouth. He looked around the room and continued. “I’m excited to work with each and every one of you, and I don’t mean to disrespect anyone, but where is Jimmy Breuer?”
“Am I in some kind of trouble?” I answered, raising my hand. Everyone laughed, including Giuliani.
“No, no,” he said, smiling. “I really, really would like to do a Joe Pesci sketch. That’s my favorite sketch. Could we do one?”
I was over the freakin’ moon. It really made me feel validated in front of my peers.
“Sure,” I said, smiling. “We can do that!”
“That’s great, great news,” he said.
Then we went around the room sharing ideas. When it was Cheri’s turn, she said bluntly, “Mayor Giuliani, how would you feel about dressing up as a woman?”
“I could do that,” he said, smiling. I’m pretty sure that was the first any of us knew about the ease with which the mayor would dress in drag, which is now, of course, old hat. And in the end, I have to say that sketch, with the mayor playing Cheri’s mom as they prep Thanksgiving dinner while her kids steal beers and the neighborhood kids trash her lawn, was the funniest one of the night.
When it was my turn, the mayor said, “Oh, Jimmy, I already know what you’ve got in store for me,” and laughed.
And I said, “Actually, I have another sketch in mind, too.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What’s it about?”
“Well, I have this character that basically just goes around telling everyone to shut up,” I explained. “He has no patience, and whenever anyone tries to talk to him he blows a fuse. I figured he’d be good as your new press secretary.”
“Ha!” he said. “I like it. That sounds really funny.”
The meeting came to an end, and Mayor Giuliani looked around the room. “This is tremendously exciting,” he said, breaking into a wide smile. “This is going to be a really fun week.”
I walked back to the office I shared with Tracy Morgan with two starring sketches in the works for the first time ever. I couldn’t believe it.
The next night, the mayor took us all to the back room of this old Italian restaurant for dinner. We sat down at a long table, surrounded by security guards. Somehow, I was seated in front of both Lorne and Mayor Giuliani. Everyone was trying to talk politics with him the whole night, and I felt like it was probably the last thing he wanted to discuss. Interleague play had just resumed in Major League Baseball that year, and I knew that the mayor was a huge Yankees fan. What he did not know was that I was a huge Mets fan. When there was a lull in the conversation, I took the opportunity to change the subject.
“So what do you think of the Yankees and Mets being able to play each other again in the regular season?”
The mayor put down his fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and said, “I think it’s phenomenal for baseball and for the city.” And then he launched into a long spiel about his favorite Yankee teams and asked me which team I liked.
“My dad’s a garbage man,” I said. “So that makes me a Mets fan.” I had his full attention just talking baseball for a half hour, and he became so animated, it was like he was a little kid on the street again, growing up in Brooklyn. Then the conversation turned to the mob and about how much he loved mob movies, like Goodfellas, and that’s why he wanted to do the Joe Pesci sketch.
“In fact, my biggest Mafia bust when I was district attorney came from a transvestite snitch in the Meatpacking District,” he said. “After mob hits, it was her job to chop up the bodies and dispose of them.” He proceeded to tell us the most lurid mob tales just as matter-of-factly as if we were standing around a backyard barbecue. It felt like I’d made a new friend, and at the end of the night, the mayor said, “Jimmy, you ever do any stand-up around the city?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not while the show is on, but next summer I’ll be doing Caroline’s.”
“Let me know the date,” he said, “and I’ll be there.” He really did show up that summer.
Mayor Giuliani also came to Shea Stadium the following year for the Mets home opener. Dee and I had great season tickets for a while, and before the game started, as fans were filing in, we spotted him. So I got up and talked to one of his security guards. “Can I give a quick hello to the mayor?”
The guy recognized me and said, “Oh, yeah, he’d love to see you.”
So I walked right up to him and I said really loudly, “We all know you’re really a Yankee fan! We know you don’t really wanna be here!” He blushed and smiled as I continued to razz him. “You don’t have to play politics! You can go on home! You don’t have to appease us.” By now most of the fans in the lower boxes knew he was there and everyone was listening to the exchange.
“I’m going to get you back, Breuer,” he whispered intently. “You just wait.”
A couple of months later, I was scheduled to do a celebrity softball game at Yankee Stadium. To me that place was the enemy’s nest. But it was for charity, and I knew it would be fun to run around the bases. Tom Arnold, Bob Saget, Matthew Broderick, and a bunch of other people I liked were in the lineup.
Sadly, we all were informed that the charity game was canceled. It had rained heavily the night before and the owner, George Steinbrenner, didn’t want us tearing up his field before the Yankees took on the Red Sox.
“As our way of saying sorry,” one of the Yankees’ PR guys said, “why don’t you all come up to Mr. Steinbrenner’s personal box?”
“Why not?” I said. As a Mets fan, again, to me this was not a big deal. I can appreciate how special it would be for someone who loves the Yankees, but I’m not that guy. We all filed in, and Steinbrenner had a bartender in a little suit serving drinks. There was a leather sofa shaped like a baseball glove. The windows looked right out onto his box seats. The coolest thing I observed was that Steinbrenner was really not businesslike at all about the team. He was just a huge baseball fan who loved his team and wasn’t shy about diving in and talking about the disagreements he had with Billy Martin when he was manager. He seemed like the ultimate Yankee fan, and this box was his chapel.
“You’re great on Saturday Night Live,” he said. “I’ve known Lorne forever. He’s great, too. You’re lucky he likes you.”
“I know,” I said, nodding.
“So what do you think?” He looked around the room proudly at all his Yankee baubles. “Are you a Yankee fan?
As a die-hard Mets fan, all I could honestly say was, “Oh, I follow the Yankees.” Technically, that was not a lie. And I followed it up with a first-class non sequitur evasion: “What a great establishment you have here, sir.” Not a lie, either.
“Call us anytime you want to come to a game,” Steinbrenner said. Then he started talking about great Yankee teams. “From the ’78 club, who was your favorite, Jim? Reggie? Thurman? Catfish? Bucky Dent? Whose contribution meant the most?”
“Oh, my,” I said. “They all did great!”
As I stuttered and stammered, Steinbrenner looked over my shoulder and shouted, “Rudy, I knew you’d show up!” I turned around to see Mayor Giuliani and his entourage.
“I’m not going to miss the Yankees-Red Sox game, George,” the mayor said, shaking Steinbrenner’s hand. “This is huge.”
I gave the mayor a huge hello, and almost immediately he started smirking.
“You two know each other? ” Steinbrenner said, observing our greeting.
“Oh yeah,” the mayor said. “I was on
Saturday Night Live last season. I did ‘The Joe Pesci Show’ with Jimmy. He’s very funny.”
“Wow,” Steinbrenner replied. “That’s great! That’s one less introduction I have to make.”
“My question,” Giuliani asked Steinbrenner, “is what is he doing here?”
“He was going to play in a celebrity softball game, but the field’s too wet,” Steinbrenner said. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt out there.”
“But you know he’s the enemy, don’t you, George?” Mayor Giuliani said, the smirk returning to his face. Steinbrenner looked really perplexed. He didn’t say a word. “It’s true,” the mayor added. “Jimmy Breuer is just about the biggest die-hard New York Mets fan in all five boroughs.”
All the color left Steinbrenner’s face. He looked like he’d eaten some bad scrambled eggs, and that look was soon replaced with disgust.
“I have nothing against the Yankees,” I said insistently.
“Oh, that’s a ringing endorsement,” the mayor said cockily, his grin widening. “But it’s not what you were telling me last time we met. You said you hated the Yankees and that you were a die-hard Mets fan. Matter of fact, weren’t you gloating that the Mets beat the Yankees last summer?”
Steinbrenner looked almost remorseful, like his own personal baseball-fan radar had let him down. He didn’t know what to think. Beads of sweat ran down my back to my ass. Before I could spit out another half truth, the mayor laughed and said, “Oh, I’m just busting Jimmy’s chops. He’s a comedian. He can take it!”
Steinbrenner didn’t laugh. He looked me up and down and I could tell he knew I was full of crap. Mayor Giuliani just kept grinning. He leaned toward me and whispered, “I told you I’d get you back.”