Failure Is an Option

by H. Jon Benjamin

Now, let me point out that publicity is my least favorite part of being on a television show, but it’s also an integral part of the work. I guess all the shows I worked on that preceded Archer and Bob’s Burgers, like Lucy: The Daughter of the Devil and The Dick & Paula Celebrity Special, were so under the radar that normal avenues of publicity were never taken, so I was not exactly prepared for talking about the shows I was in.

  After season one of Archer, I was invited to participate in an annual publicity event put on by the Television Critics Association, the TCA Awards. It takes place over a two-week period in a resort in Pasadena, California, and all the new shows and existing shows are presented for the television critics via Q and A’s with the shows’ stars and creators. Each network gets a day to feature their shows, while the entertainment reporters sit in sequestration for two weeks, eating catered food and rolling in and out of consciousness while sitting from panel to panel.

  I actually had done this one time before, for Home Movies, and as I remember, the reporters used our panel as a pee break—as in, when we took the stage, they left en masse, so we presented to a nearly empty room. When I received a call to attend the event in support of Archer, I declined. A few minutes later I got a call reminding me that I was the voice of Archer, so I needed to be there.

  I was actually on vacation in Gloucester, Massachusetts, at the time, so this was already an imposition, but I reluctantly agreed. They do fly cast members first-class, and, to be honest, I had not traveled first-class that much, so it was something of an incentive. I think that was one of the selling points for going: “They’ll fly you first-class.” First-class is very enticing. Imagine if the army flew everyone first-class; so many more people would enlist. The military should at least offer an upgrade to people who’d pay.

  I went to Logan airport in Boston and boarded my flight, settling into my first-class seat, with an occasional guilty glance back through the veiled curtain to the hardscrabble confines of coach. “I’ll have the filet mignon,” I told the flight attendant. After my meal, I enjoyed copious amounts of cabernet sauvignon and polished off an ice cream sundae. I disembarked with a first-class smile and nod to the flight attendant, while chewing on my complimentary mint, looking forward to a bright and prosperous future ahead.

  Now, for the failure portion of the story. I had taken the last flight out to maximize my vacation time, so I got in very late to LAX, and when I went to collect my rental car, I had forgotten that it was a pretty long drive to Pasadena. I upgraded to a midsize and hit the road. It was around midnight.

  Now, for context, I declined the GPS, so I was basically winging it (Pasadena is about an hour-long drive from the LA airport). As I was on the main highway north, the exit I was to take was unexpectedly closed for repairs, so I was stuck on the highway with no idea how to get to Pasadena. I decided to take surface roads to figure it out.

  About five minutes off the highway, it hit me. A deep-set bubbling gurgle from the upper stomach moved like a rotating fist into my lower bowels. A gusher. I clenched up knowing what was forthcoming. Fucking filet mignon in first class. The situation was progressing quickly, so I drove feverishly to the nearest gas station, slid out of my car as stiff as a paddleboard, and did an ass-clenched hop to the pay window.

  “Bathroom?”

  “No bathroom.”

  “Please, I’m sick . . .”

  “No bathroom.”

  Fuck. More hopping back to my car. I slid back in and drove with my ass off the seat till I found another gas station nearby. Sweaty and white as a ghost, I did the clenched hop to another gas station attendant and got the same result. So, now with greater urgency, I shuffled back to the car for some much-needed strategizing. My walk was more of a sway, like a waltz performed by a marionette. Every ounce of energy was being put toward holding in the fetid contents of my first-class meal inside my anus.

  So this was the moment of truth. The moment when I had to decide whether to go to the bathroom in a garbage can or on somebody’s lawn. I drove slowly, scoping out lawns that had enough cover to sit and have diarrhea on for an indeterminate length of time. I was also in some serious distress, but not enough to consider the important issues: What happens after? What happens after I have diarrhea on a lawn for twenty minutes? What is the process by which I clean up? I would have to use my clothes.

  Now, the decision in my very confused physiological state was between knocking on someone’s door or giving all my effort to hold the diarrhea at bay till Pasadena and driving as fast as I could. I was now around Fairfax and Melrose, around forty minutes till Pasadena.

  I went with the latter option, holding it, and I will explain for you why. It was akin to the scene in the M. Night Shyamalan movie Signs, where the wife was pinned by a car against a tree, but she was alive and lucid. This is called crush syndrome, whereby the object that has crushed the victim is actually keeping them alive, and when and if extricated, what is called “the smiling death” occurs, in which the rapid blood loss causes immediate death. I guess the smiling part is based on the idea that the person crushed is in a really good mood before the moving of the thing crushing them. My car seat was, in this analogy, that object. The pressure I was putting on my ass, by pressing it into the car seat, was holding in the inevitable shit storm. So my theory was that I needed the car to not go. I was one with the car now.

  I just needed to get to Highway 101 and get to the hotel and then rush to the lobby bathroom. It was at least 1:30 a.m., so there were no cars on the road and I was confident now that I had a plan. The next fifteen to twenty minutes were critical. I had to dig deep to work some “mind over matter” techniques. The urge to release was excruciating, but I kept pressing. My left leg pushed as hard as it could against the seat floor of the rental car, putting me into a heavy lean to the right, whereby my left ass cheek was pressing my right with generous force, leaving just enough flexibility to control the gas pedal with my right foot. I was basically semi-slumped but still driving. I would have steered with my chin if necessary. Anything to not go.

  Next, I started chanting. Specifically, chanting the word fuck over and over in different ways, as in sometimes sustained and baritone and sometimes high-pitched and squealed. It was like an impromptu fuck opera. This got me to the 101, which would take me to the 134 to Pasadena. Chanting full-voiced now in essentially a fugue state and also exhausted by the perpetual flexing of all the seven hundred or so muscles in my body, I hit the 134, and that was a huge benchmark. I saw the sign for Pasadena and it was like a puddle of water to a man dying of thirst.

  Then, it happened. One cannot say who was to blame. I could blame the state of California or I could blame God, but I hit a huge bump, which set a rapid succession of events in motion. First, it caused me to swerve slightly, which forced me to release my positioning and my clench for just enough time for diarrhea to spew. It was simultaneously horrifying and immensely pleasurable. I knew at once that this was the end of one problem and the beginning of many more.

  The immediate relief was quickly replaced with two concurrent issues: first, diarrhea in my shorts; and second, the need to have more diarrhea. So, at seventy-five miles per hour, I had to return to the crush syndrome position, but now in a puddle of poo. And, there’s another thing about diarrhea in a very small, enclosed space: the wrenchingly awful odor. I opened the windows and returned to the fuck chanting, while in full clench at about eleven miles out from my exit.

  I remember looking down and laughing maniacally at my choice of wearing shorts, because at least pants would have contained the mess. Also, with seepage, the car seat was getting the runoff. Fucking first class. A flash of my winking and doing a finger gun to the flight attendant ran through my mind. Things were so good back then, some two and a half hours before. Now, I was in a kiddie pool of shit. And the thing about it was, I was so close—I had come so far, just to be derailed by a bump. I finally made it to the exit and had to move int
o stage two of a strategy session with myself. My situation was very delicate.

  I drove toward the hotel and pulled over in the secluded, upscale neighborhood where the resort was. I was about two minutes away from it, but I knew I had to do some cleanup before driving in. My plan: use my T-shirt to wipe up and put on clean clothes, at least getting semi-presentable (besides the stench) as I drive up.

  But herein lay the rub. Getting up again. The move to the trunk would inevitably cause more problems than it would solve. But I had to change shorts, right? I mean, they were soused. I tried a slow rotation toward the door and knew better. I had to just accept the fact that I had to do this as is. I put the car back in drive and drove the remaining half mile to the hotel.

  As I approached the gates, I shut off the headlights, like it was a heist. As bad as this was, I still had my dignity and wanted the best possible chance of doing this without drawing extra attention. My goal: to spy if the valet was there so I could pull up without being spotted. Then, I would get as close to the entrance as possible, jump out, grab my bag in the trunk and hightail to the bathroom inside, hoping to skirt anybody there.

  It was around 2:00 a.m., so the hotel, from my vantage point, looked clear of any hotel staff. I went through the mental checklist again just to be certain—backpack then trunk then bathroom—then gunned the gas and made my move, causing a slight sloshing effect below in the seat.

  Oh, and by the way, the poor seat. My rental car seat was really in dire shape, being all diarrhea-ed on and such. I jerked it into park and was reaching for my backpack in the passenger seat when I was startled by the sound of an opening door.

  The valet. Right there, as if he had just materialized. Leaning over, full of shit, with my head craned around meeting eyes with him, I must have looked like a cornered, dying animal. His face showed all. A strange combination of earnest intention, shame, guilt, and hope, along with the strained smile of someone covering up the stark reality that something smells and looks incredibly rotten. Knowing I had no time to waste, I darted past him with my backpack, leaving the door open, and rushed into the hotel lobby.

  The lobby was grand in scale and decor, and the registration desk was a good distance to my left. A man emerged behind the desk as I hobbled in at a swift pace and I just yelled out, “Bathroom?” Barely acknowledging where he pointed, I continued my harried move to salvation: a toilet, toilet paper, and running water. After some aimless rambling, I finally saw the dark wooden door. The finish line. The end of this Old Testament–style, punishing journey. Stripped naked in a stall, I spent the next five minutes finishing what I had started.

  And then a sudden realization hit: I had left my bag in the trunk with all my clothes.

  I spent a long sad moment staring at the pile of soiled shorts, boxer shorts, and T-shirt on the bathroom floor, knowing I had no options left. I just wanted to die now. Quietly exhale and die on the bathroom floor of the Langham resort in Pasadena, California. And let the crime scene cleaners come in and do what they do.

  After several dozen heavy sighs, I sucked it up and began the grunt work of wiping down the shorts with toilet paper. I put them back on, figuring I would have to get back to my car, grab my keys and get my stuff, run back to the bathroom and change, and then, finally, check in to my room, where I could take a shower.

  With great discomfort, I redressed in my diarrhea outfit and began frantically cleaning up the scene as best I could, culminating in picking up the boxer shorts to throw out. When I left the stall, I saw there was no receptacle for garbage but instead one of those baskets because in place of paper towels, there was only cloth.

  After all this, luxury (just like the first-class airline food) once again punched me in the gut with irony, and I was faced with the moral quandary of dumping a shit-soaked pair of boxers in a pile of towels for the cleaning person. Motherfucker, this wouldn’t end. Having gone through the entire toilet paper supply, I decided to wrap the boxers in paper toilet seat covers to at least make an effort at mitigating the problem. I ran back and wrapped the boxer shorts like I was swaddling a baby.

  While doing this, the door to the bathroom opened, and I jerked up to see a large security guard with his hand on a baton. I froze. And then it all became clear. I saw what he was seeing. Not long before, a heavy-set, balding middle-aged man had driven at a high rate of speed into the hotel entrance, bounded out of his car covered in diarrhea, and run into the hotel. And now, he found that person, standing in the bathroom holding a wad of toilet seat covers in his hands.

  “I’m a guest at the hotel.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Let me explain,” I said.

  He moved slowly toward me, because what else would anyone do?

  “You need to come with me,” he said.

  What followed was a long, sad walk toward the lobby, the guard keeping me at a healthy distance with his baton, while I tried desperately to explain to him that I was sick and not insane. I even offered up my now shit-soaked license to prove I was a hotel guest. In the end, I was able to convince him of my story and I was checked into the hotel by some very kind and smell-tolerant clerks.

  In the morning, as in about four hours later, I met the cast and creators of Archer for the first time and yawned my way through the event. After the panel, I called for my car, realizing I never even bothered to check it.

  As I waited in the porte cochere (pretentiousness, remember?) for the valet to bring it around, I was mortified at the thought that some poor attendant had to drive it even the one hundred yards to the lot, given its condition. I mean, I had used my front seat as a diaper. Then the car pulled up and an attendant got out smiling.

  “Mr. Benjamin.” He gestured me in as he hopped out. I slowly poked my head in and took a whiff. Curiously, it smelled fresh and clean. I looked at the seat and saw that it had been scrubbed. Whoever had parked the car the night before had steam-cleaned my seat. It was like nothing had ever happened. I asked the valet if he knew anything about the strange person who had done this and he had no idea.

  “Umm, seriously, do you know who worked last night? Because I had diarrhea in this seat and now it’s all gone.”

  He gave me a smile that read, “I hate all the guests here.” I guess he took it as a joke, and in many ways, it was.

  Anyway, it was a true “first-class” miracle. I handed the valet a five-dollar tip (I’m not a millionaire, and he didn’t clean it) and drove away. If you’re out there, man who cleaned my rental car, thank you.

  CHAPTER 22

  How I Failed at Differentiating My Two Characters of Bob and Archer

  I did the same voice. The end.

  EPILOGUE

  My Failure Is an Option

  Imagine the feeling of accomplishment after training so long and running and finishing a full marathon. You’d remember that moment forever and feel proud that you were able to do what you set out to do. But what if you did the same extensive training, began the marathon, got separated from the pack, got disoriented, turned around, and ran the wrong way for miles, only to find yourself back at the starting line? That’s a way better story than finishing a marathon. Not to mention, you probably ran like thirteen miles in that story. That’s a lot.

  When I die, I will probably be remembered as something of a success. My obituary will list my accomplishments, the family I left behind, and most likely string together some kind words about my career. Nothing about my shortcomings. Only I am privy to the map that outlines my life the way I drew it. A cartographic collage with rivers of misgivings and shame, oceans of mismanaged emotions and finances, archipelagos of overeating, and mountains of self-doubt and petty grievances.

  It won’t speak eloquently of my penis envy. I have often stated that what I lack in penis size, I make up for in penis envy.

  It won’t share with the world my unhealthy habit of being perpetually boorish and intellectually unsound. It
will specifically omit my predilection for smelling my own feces on toilet paper after I wipe. It will also fail to mention my very frequent and unyielding insistence on being boring while drunk. It won’t even hint at that time I drunkenly ordered what I thought was a prostitute on a website only to find out she was a licensed masseuse. All that scented oil wasted on miscommunication.

  And it certainly won’t reveal that after registering to vote for the first time in 1984, I voted for the Republican Ray Shamie for Senate over John Kerry, just because I liked his slogan: “You can call me Ray!”

  But isn’t this a fate that most of us share? So much of my life has been a succession of small personal failures, and still, I will be remembered for the good fortune. Isn’t the life squandered the real story of mankind, once you take away the will to survive? Walt Whitman wrote,

  I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

  And what I assume you shall assume,

  For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

  I loafe and invite my soul,

  I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

  I lean and loaf. All the time. And yet we don’t celebrate the loafing and the leaning. This is the spirit in which I told you my tales. The scope of my indifference fills the air with the fetid stench of the failed spirits who came before me. Look at Whitman’s words in this light. In the disquieting light of the freedom to fail.

  During the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur, people of my faith fast for twenty-four hours, and on the night of the fast, they go to synagogue and pray to God to be absolved for the sins they committed that calendar year. Everyone stands and repeats the litany of sins that we ask God to forgive. The list is endless. So many sins. And every year, we beseech God to hear our plaintive cries for mercy because, in our hearts, we are all failing all the time, in so many ways. Here’s a couple of highlights: