by Brad Garrett
I was twenty-two and thought I was headed to jail. Ten minutes later, the owner of the club showed up in his pajamas and gave Mooney an envelope of cash. Paul made him count it, and it was accurate. He grabbed the dough, and we got into our rental car. Mooney said to me, “You drive,” and proceeded to sit in the back as the white boy chauffeured. I’ll never forget looking into the rearview mirror as Mooney said, “And that’s how Jesse robbed another bank. Never let them fuck with you, Monster. Never.”
I owe Paul a lot because he forced that club to use me as his opener when no one knew me. Several club dates followed, because Dallas was a hub for a lot of cats touring the country. And he taught me something I’ve never forgotten: as he used to tell everyone, “There’s lots of stars, but only one Moon(ey).” No shit.
One of the craziest and funniest club comics I ever worked with on the road was John Fox. His partying was as legendary as his act, and they usually took place simultaneously. He was a crusher onstage and had a reputation for closing every bar in town before moving on to the next city. John had this acerbic surfer-dude persona on- and offstage, and the gals just loved him. Sure, he aimed high with the ladies, but by two A.M. anyone was fair game for “Foxy.”
Back in the early eighties, I opened for John in San Jose, California, at the Last Laugh, and after the show, we went out with a couple of ladies from the audience for some cocktails. My gal was a stone-cold five and worked at a veterinary clinic. Unfortunately, her job was starting to rub off on her face. John’s gal was a solid six, a flight attendant who appeared to be hitting the free peanuts awfully hard. She had birthing hips without the kids, if you catch my drift.
John and I were pounding them back pretty good, but Fox could outdrink anyone. My gal slipped away after a couple margaritas, never to resurface, while John and his lady hopped into her car and disappeared. I took a cab back to the “comedy condo” to sleep it off.
It was around five A.M. when John stumbled back into the condo with no shoes, a torn shirt, and part of a rope in his back pocket. I witnessed this because in those days, the opening act slept on the couch. “What the fuck happened to you?” I asked.
“Not really sure, but I need to buy some shoes before showtime tomorrow,” John slurred as he staggered into his bedroom. Later that night, he held court backstage, as he often did, and we got the skinny. Supposedly, John and the flight attendant got a little kinky, and since both were piss-drunk, it got a bit crazier than expected. The gal wanted to be tied up, and she conveniently had all the necessary items to fulfill her fetish.
John’s story went something like this: “I ain’t no fuckin’ Boy Scout, so I’m trying to tie up this bitch the best I can, right? I got one leg tied to the footboard, arms tied to the posts on the headboard, the whole friggin’ shebang. She’s saying, ‘Tighter, tighter!’ and the whole room is spinning ’cause I’m so fucking drunk. She can’t move, and her eyes are rolling back into her head like she’s channeling. Just when I’m about to fly the friendly skies, she says, ‘You have any more of that shit we did in the car?’ I say yes, and then I notice I musta left it in her fucking car, because it ain’t on me. She says, ‘Grab my keys, go get it, and rush back up.’ Shouldn’t be that hard except for the fact that she lived in a gigantic apartment complex, one of those huge Oakwood rent-by-the-month shitholes. Like a thousand apartments or something. Being that I was smashed when we got there, after leaving her apartment, I had no fuckin’ idea where her car was and even less of an idea where her apartment was. So I never made it back.”
Normally, Fox would have chalked that up to just another one-night stand gone wrong. But he tied her up a bit too well. The airline and her friends went looking for her after two days when she didn’t show up for work. Rumor has it she was still tied to the bed but fine. Pissed, hungry, and soiled but fine. Which in actuality is how we all end up anyway. She got a little look into her future.
* * *
In the early eighties, I also got the chance to open for the brilliant comedian Kevin Nealon, before his reign on Saturday Night Live. We were working a five-night gig during the summer in Oklahoma City at a club in a mall called Jokers. We came straight from the airport in the morning and arrived together at the club to pick up the keys to the nearby condo where we would be staying. Nealon’s picture was plastered all over the box office, yet when we met the girl working the ticket booth, she had no idea who we were. It was at times like this when Nealon’s gift for improvising the absurd shone through. The dummy in the booth said, “Can I help you?”
Nealon replied, “Yes. We’re here to fix the air-conditioning.”
“Toasty as all get-out today, ain’t it, boys?” and she started to let us in.
Nealon followed with “Where’s your main thermostat, ma’am?”
“Believe over thar in Jimmy’s office,” said the inbred cashier.
“Terrific. Let’s take a look-see, shall we? Ready, Donny?” Nealon threw to me.
“Yes, sir” was just about all I could get out because I was biting the inside of my cheek. The next thing I knew, Kevin was standing on someone’s desk, taking out ceiling tiles and handing them down to me as he attempted to assess the situation. We started riffing back and forth, using bullshit air-conditioning terminology as the chick’s eyes started to gloss over. I remember him asking her if she had a paper clip or stapler. As she began to look around, the owner of the club walked in and, upon recognizing Kevin as his head popped out from the ceiling, erupted into hysterics. It still took the gal a few more minutes to put it together, bless her heart. After all, we were in Oklahoma.
Although I am grateful to be at peace with middle age now that I’ve arrived, I am also glad to have experienced those wild times that can happen only in one’s youth. Eventually, you reach a point in life where you’ll shell out to rent a room at the Best Western before sleeping on someone’s floor; where you can’t stay out all night because your sciatica is working overtime; where you know that taking home the crazy loose broad with the harelip won’t be worth it come morning, even though you haven’t gotten laid since the last presidential election. But we must learn from experience, and let’s face it: sometimes, the more fucked up the story, the better the memory.
I was nuts over him.
Get it? (with Sammy Davis Jr. at the Desert Inn, 1986)
(Credit: Cashman Photo Enterprises)
6
Learning Las Vegas
Vegas represented everything I ever longed for: scantily clad women, booze, gambling, all-night dining, and the best showrooms in the world. What else does an unhealthy male need? Not to mention the decadent hotel suites. I once had a bidet that sat six for dinner. There’s something about the town that to this day makes me say, “I shouldn’t be doing this.” They have hookers on billboards with phone numbers, for crying out loud! Make sure you get your shots, people.
There’s a reason old folks flock to Vegas. Not just because the living is cheap, but because they know they’re in their final round and figure maybe they’ll finally hit that jackpot, or get in free to Nudes on Ice one last time. They think they’re at the age when they’ve got nothing to lose, why not risk the insulin money?
Many of my most exciting and formative years as a stand-up comedian were when I worked as the opening act for some of the biggest headliners in the industry. Being an opener is not only good bread, it’s also an invaluable opportunity for a comic to hone his craft. No one comes to see you, so when you do well, you know you’ve earned it. In my mid-twenties, I started working all the casino towns with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Smokey Robinson, Liza Minnelli, Diana Ross, the Beach Boys, the Temptations, Julio Iglesias, the Righteous Brothers, and David Copperfield. After years of working with musical icons, I learned many important things, not the least of which was: if there’s a rock-and-roll heaven, the pharmacy’s jammed.
Specifially, one thing I learned as an opener was to do my job and then fade into the background, giving the star the p
rivacy and space he or she needed and desired during the course of the engagement. If you were clingy, you were dead. If you were invited to hang out or go to dinner, it was a true honor; it meant you were “in” and that future employment was probable. On the other hand, if you bombed, you quickly got used to the hotel cafeteria.
The first headliner I opened for was Charo. That’s right, you heard me. I admit it. It was at Harrah’s in Reno, Nevada, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. My mother loved her and believed this was a fantastic opportunity. Me, I just wanted to see those tits up close—the ones that Merv Griffin never noticed all those years on his show. She had those wonderful Latina cans that reminded you to buy milk the moment you saw them. I can only assume she had areolas like dinner plates. The first time I met her, I slipped her a twenty and told her I needed more towels, pronto. She yelled, “Coochi-coochi,” shook her blouse clowns, and we were off to the races.
Women have such a wonderful advantage in that they can make you forget all that is important with just a hint of cleavage. With Charo, there was no hinting. They were out like Ellen. If only men had the power to sexually overpower their surroundings using bodily innuendo. If only guys could leave the house before a date with just, I don’t know . . . one testicle out. Maybe let them both out once in a while! Be free; teabag a midget if you feel like it. That’s legal in Nevada, by the way.
The first headliner to bring me into Las Vegas, and the first artist I went on tour with, was Crystal Gayle. What she lacked in the Charo department, she made up for in hair. I opened for her at the Desert Inn in September 1986. She was a lovely lady with the voice of an angel and exquisite hair that flowed four inches from the floor. She made me weep. I used to have fantasies of wrapping her up in those long locks and then pull-starting her like an old Toro. I spent a couple months on the road with her and learned that country music people are in a class of their own when it comes to the wonderful way they treat their crew and fellow performers. I was scared to death on many a night, but Crystal and her people were so pleasant and encouraging that it made things much easier on me.
One night before one of our shows in Vegas, I got a call from the hotel operator saying that “Mr. Bill Cosby” was on the line for me. Now, you need to understand that the first comedy album I ever listened to, when I was nine, was Bill Cosby’s Why Is There Air? I would have to sneak into my brother Jeff’s room and play it on his hi-fi when he wasn’t home. Cosby was a god, not only to me but to possibly every single stand-up who came after him.
I had a couple friends who were impersonators, so I immediately thought it was a buddy fucking with me. “Sure, put him through, please,” I said.
“Hey, Brad, it’s Bill Cosby. How they treating you over at the D.I.?” The voice was undeniable.
“Good. Thank you,” I squeaked.
“Listen, I’m playing at the Hilton up the road, and I’m filling in as guest host for Carson tomorrow night. Thought you may want to do a spot on the show. We tape at four P.M. in Burbank and since we both have shows that same night, Carson is kind enough to send his jet.”
There was no way this was real. I looked in a mirror next to the bed to see if I had died.
“Hello?” he said.
“Yes, please, thank you. Unbelievable, Mr. Cosby. What an amazing opportunity. Thank you.”
“Great. My assistant will send all the info to the hotel, and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon on the jet.” Click.
This would be my third appearance on The Tonight Show, and I wasn’t sure what material to use. I was two weeks into my Vegas gig with Crystal and opening with jokes about the casinos; then I would work the crowd a bit and end the set every night with impressions. My Cosby impression always got a huge response, so I assumed that would kill on the show, especially with the Coz himself sitting behind the desk. But a Tonight Show set usually took at least four weeks to structure while trying it out at clubs. This was tomorrow. Breathe, fucker.
I slept about four hours that night and changed my outfit three times, like a bitch, before heading to the private terminal at McCarran Airport, where Cosby and Carson’s Learjet awaited. It was my first time on a private plane, and as I made my way up the stairs, I felt my knees shaking. As I was boarding, I saw Cosby sitting on the eight-seater, facing the rear of the jet, reading a USA Today. His face was plastered on the front of the Entertainment section. Remember, this was 1986, and The Cosby Show was number one in the ratings. It was all too friggin’ surreal for me to digest at that moment. I was trying not to think too much about this amazingly wonderful situation, while focusing on how grateful I was, as well as trying to contemplate what six minutes of material I was going to do on the show, and where the hell was I going to sit my big dumper down?
“Have a seat, Brad,” Cosby said without turning around.
“Hey. Great. Thanks,” I managed to say. I was frozen. Where should I sit out of the seven remaining seats? If I sit in the row parallel to his on the opposite side of the jet, is that rude? Or do I allow him the space? Or should my seat be facing toward the tail, like his? Or is that too aloof, since I won’t be looking at him?
I must have looked like a fool, standing there with my head darting around like a chicken as I contemplated my seat. Cosby then picked up the Los Angeles Times, and sure as shit, a shot of him on the set of his show with the cast adorned the front of the Calendar section.
“Put it down there,” Bill said as he pointed to the seat directly in front of him.
“Thought you’d never ask,” I returned. His electric, signature downturned smile, with his eyes toward the ceiling and that slight shake of his head, broke the ice.
I plopped down across from the Coz and coiled my giraffe legs inward as much as possible, so as not to crowd him. It was quiet for twenty seconds (which felt like an hour), and then he looked up from his paper. We started to speak at the same time. He said, “Have some kiwi” as “Thanks so much for this opportunity” spilled from my yapper. His large finger pointed to a fruit and cheese tray we could never finish if there were ten of us.
“I’m good, thanks. I had an apple on the train,” I said, trying to be funny. Nothing. Fuck me. I was bombing in front of the Master. The captain then popped his head out of the cockpit and said we should be in Van Nuys in about forty minutes.
“Lovely!” the Coz replied. “You ever been on one of these things?”
“I have not,” I said, starting to breathe again.
“Smooooth,” he said. “Have some Brie.”
We started talking comedy and Vegas, and he told me how much the city had changed, how the glamour and class had left, how someone was wearing flip-flops during his show the other night at the Hilton. Everything he said had that keen Cosby observational slow pitch behind it. I wanted to laugh at everything because I just loved this man so much, but I never wanted to appear like a kiss-ass, so my nerves created an odd chuckle I’d never heard before. Luckily, he plowed through, then changed the subject: “I hear you do an impression of me.”
Weird chuckle, again. “Yes, I do . . .”
“Yeah, don’t do that tonight on the show,” he said. “Just be yourself.”
I was speechless. I was staring right at him. Was he fucking with me? My ass started to gnaw away at the seat cushion. Back then my impressions were the strongest part of my act. And to impersonate him in front of him on national television? What could be better than that?
Feeling desperate, I said, “People love when I do you, Mr. Cosby. You were one of my first impressions.”
Oddly, he wasn’t buying it. And I got the feeling he really meant what he said. “Have some melon,” he replied as I considered jumping from the plane.
We arrived at NBC Studios in Burbank an hour before taping, and I was still having a hard time comprehending my own reality. I was entering the most famous soundstage on earth with the most famous comedian alive. Cosby was immediately swarmed by half a dozen bodies asking him what he needed and how they could be of a
ssistance. I was shuffled off into a dressing room where I was told a segment producer would be popping by in a few minutes to go over my set. What set? I hadn’t decided what I was doing yet. Since the Coz had emphatically suggested I not impersonate him, I was at a total fucking loss.
I looked at the crumpled piece of paper that had most of my act scribbled on it in bullet points. The jokes appeared alarmingly unfunny. I couldn’t end with my other impressions because I had done them the last time I was on. Okay, maybe the bit about the Iranian clerk at 7-Eleven? I thought. Shit, that’s so hacky, and the Coz is pretty PC about stuff, so he could hate that. I also used to do an impression of this incomprehensible black NBA player. It killed in the clubs, but he’d for sure leave on the plane without me if I did that one. I was close to calling my mommy.
Fifty minutes later, Cosby gave me a very nice introduction and I wandered out to a gracious crowd. I started with some bits and was doing okay, but nothing remarkable. I knew I needed to end strong, and my instincts told me there was only one way to go about it. It was my ass on national television, and I knew the Cosby impression would kill, so I just had to strap on a pair and do it. The audience went nuts for it. When I looked over to the Coz behind Johnny’s desk, I could see he had his head down, reading the blue cards that would intro the next commercial. He had stopped watching. My heart sank down to my size-fifteen Florsheim loafers.
Backstage after the show, he said nothing to me. Silence on the car ride back to the airport. Zero conversation on the jet. Two separate limos met us on the tarmac on our return to Vegas. I shook his hand and genuinely thanked him before getting into my gold Desert Inn ride. He nodded and told me to take it easy, then sank into his black Hilton stretch. Part of me was devastated. But as wonderful as it would have been to receive Mr. Cosby’s seal of approval, I didn’t regret my decision to go ahead with the impression. The set had ended on a higher note than it would have if I’d gone against my instinct. Sometimes we just have to do what we have to do.