Everything Is Horrible and Wonderful

by Stephanie Wittels Wachs

  Harris: Okay I’m gonna call her now to check in.

  Me: Are you going to tell her?

  Harris: No. I’m going to stay sober. I had a hiccup.

  Me: Do you have a game plan for how to make that goal a reality?

  He responded immediately.

  Meeting a day. Three calls a day. Steps.

  • • •

  Two weeks later, Pete Holmes aired a two-hour “Totally Weird” podcast in which Harris talked openly with the world about his heroin addiction and “recovery.” While I applauded his candor and could see from Twitter that he was inspiring the masses, it was infuriating to hear him talk about his sobriety when I knew he was using again. The whole thing made me sick.

  As I listened to Harris tell his story, I had the bizarre experience of hearing things that I’d never heard before. Each new piece of information he revealed was like a tiny little stab to the heart with a scalpel. I knew he’d been keeping things from me since he started using, but it really blew my mind that I was hearing all of this for the first time alongside millions of strangers.

  Harris wasn’t the first addict I’d known and loved, so I was aware that deceit was part of the disease. One of my best friends from childhood died of a drug overdose ten years earlier—a mix of cocaine and heroin. He was only twenty-five at the time. His girlfriend, another good friend from high school, was also an addict. I distinctly remember her nodding off in the middle of conversations and being hesitant to let her stay over out of fear that she would steal something. Addicts lie. I guess I just hadn’t put my brother in that box.

  On the podcast, I learned a litany of new things about my brother.

  1. He’d been going to dangerous parks in the middle of the night to score heroin.

  2. He did this often.

  3. He was robbed one night at one of these parks.

  4. He called in sick from Parks for four days and sat at home alone, shooting heroin.

  5. During this staycation, he had a “mini overdose.”

  He told Pete Holmes that Robin Williams had gone to the same Malibu rehab as him. He said it’s sad when anyone dies, even though every single human dies, but that it’s extra sad that the world doesn’t have Robin Williams’s comedy anymore.

  “And it’s sad for his family,” he said.

  Then he paused. And I could hear in that small silence that he thought about his family. He thought about Mom and Dad. He thought about how destroyed they’d be if they lost him.

  “If I go out again now that it’s shooting heroin, I could die. That’s it. It’s not fun anymore. It’s life or death now. I don’t want to do that to my parents. I don’t want to do that to myself. Um. So I’m taking it more seriously now. And I’m in a good place.”

  21

  Eulogy

  No one ever gets to hear his own eulogy. It’s likely the most adoring thing anyone will ever say about us, and we never get to hear it.

  Remember when we threw a funeral party for Dad’s seventieth birthday, and everyone brought a eulogy to read aloud. It was dark, sure, but delightful. Much like Dad. You and I got on the mic and told our favorite “Dadisms:”

  “Sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you.”

  “The cemetery is full of indispensable people.”

  “Wake up and pee! The world is on fire!”

  “Pussy pulls the freight train.”

  That night, he got to hear how much everyone loved him. He’s frugal with smiles but was beaming that night.

  I keep thinking, maybe if you’d been able to hear the eulogy I delivered at your real funeral, you would’ve realized how much I loved you, and you wouldn’t have done the thing you did. Maybe I could have saved you.

  I said lots of things I’m sure I never said to you in any sort of earnest way.

  Like:

  “He made the rest of us look bad. He was the funniest. He was the coolest. He had the most creative, inventive, limitless mind that was perpetually working. He was never fully present in any single moment but always functioning on multiple levels—always thinking and revising, always surveying the room for new material, always typing a new joke on his iPhone or finger pecking furiously away on his laptop. He was a true and tremendous talent who accomplished more in thirty years than most people accomplish in a lifetime.”

  “He was loved for his comedic genius, yes, but people also admired who he was as a person. He was as raw, honest, and genuine as they come. And even though he could be exasperatingly stubborn, he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He possessed an innate charm that drew people in. He was able to make everyone in the room feel like they were his best friend. He was kind and forgiving, generous and compassionate. He really seemed to give people the benefit of the doubt. He understood that on a basic level, we’re all the same. We’re all human, and we’re all just doing the best we can. In his words: ‘Let’s stop finding a new witch of the week and burning them at the stake. We are all horrible and wonderful and figuring it out.’”

  That was my favorite thing you ever said.

  That is my favorite thing anyone has ever said.

  And it was exactly you—horrible and wonderful and everything in between.

  • • •

  You used to love to come up to school and talk to my students when you were in town. They idolized you because you got paid to do comedy and said the word fuck a lot. And because you were so real and human and devoid of pretense, you made them think, “If he can do it, I can, too.” You worked so hard but made it sound so effortless. I asked you once how kids who are interested in stand-up learn stand-up because I was teaching a comedy elective, despite the fact that I was not a comedian and had no prior experience. You said, “You watch stand-up and you write jokes and you get onstage a billion times and do it and learn what sucks and at first you imitate your idols and then find your own voice. The end.”

  The night you died, I got a text from a former student, an aspiring comedian whom you’d met several times over the years. It was so sweet—I wish I could have shared it with you. He said, “It was his example that made me believe it was really possible that I could make it in comedy, and he inspired me more and more as he continued to blossom as a writer-performer… Thank you for introducing me to him. And thank you for making me believe I could follow in that path. I owe the both of you for making me the person I am today, and I wish he could know that.”

  Did you not realize what you meant to people?

  Everyone worshipped you, yet you still felt so alone. In the Pete Holmes podcast, Pete literally said to you: “Please feel loved in this reality.” It sounds like a bullet point in a self-help book, but you didn’t feel loved in this reality, and you certainly didn’t love yourself. I think this was the root of the problem. You literally told me when you were home last December detoxing that you’d burned every bridge to the ground. It was such a ludicrous statement and so clear that it was coming from the darkest, most self-loathing, of places, one that was triggered by a severe dopamine drought in the brain. It also just wasn’t true. You had body dysmorphia of the soul. I mean, maybe you’d pissed off an ex-girlfriend or two, but who doesn’t have that on their resume?

  Maybe it would’ve turned out differently had you heard all the beautiful things people said about you after you died. Maybe you would have finally understood how loved you actually were.

  I’m going to tell you now.

  The series finale of Parks and Recreation aired one week after you died and included a title card at the end of the show that read: We love you, Harris.

  See? Loved.

  Upright Citizens Brigade hosted a mind-blowing tribute show in your honor the week we were in LA packing up your house. It was such an emotional purge. Laughing and crying, crying and laughing. So many people and feelings and stories. My father-in-law babysat Iris at your house (s
he slept in your music room) so that Mom, Mike, and I could attend. When we arrived, everyone welcomed us with lovings. That was a word you liked to use. I think it works nicely here. Kulap Vilaysack, Scott Aukerman’s wife, led us to some couches in the front of the house that she’d reserved for us. Can I just take a moment to say that I love her? I love her. She is truly the greatest person. She still regularly texts and calls to check in. She helped us pack up your entire house the week after your funeral. She is the real deal: a superior and stellar human being who loved you very much. She and Jeff Ullrich, who founded the Earwolf podcast network with Scott, created these badass T-shirts in your honor that said Motherfuckers just wanna laugh, one of your most beloved quotes, sold them online, raised $25,000 in profits, and donated all of it to your scholarship fund.

  I didn’t know Jeff, but he reached out six months after you died to share some thoughts about you. In the email, he said, “I think I’m telling you this because I wish I could have told him.” Oh, I feel you, Jeff. In this one section, he described a characteristic that so many people bring up when they talk about you: “In the same way people describe transcendent politicians, Harris made you feel like you were the only person in the room, and that what you thought mattered. He didn’t care that you were a nobody podcasting entrepreneur (in 2010: what the fuck is a podcast?), and there were very famous people sitting eight feet away. He’d ask you questions, listen to your answers, agree, argue, take another drag of his smoke, and make a joke. I can’t tell you how important that was to me.”

  Jeff also told me about this one very Harris interaction you had together at the SF Sketchfest in 2011. Now he’s sober, but at the time, Jeff was drinking too much. He was there trying to launch Earwolf, and lots of important comedy people who could help make his dream a reality were hanging out at this one hotel bar. Knowing how important it was that he make a good impression, you pulled him outside for a cigarette and said, “Dude, I can’t let you go back in there. There are tons of comedians and celebrities in there who you need to start podcasts with, but you are getting sloppy. Come with me to Jack in the Box, I’ll buy you a burger.” And you did! Then you put him in a cab and made him call it a night. He credits you with saving him from himself that night. As a posthumous thank-you, he recently took a trip out to Houston from LA of his own volition to talk to my students about how to be a podcast-network-creating bad ass. You couldn’t talk to them anymore, so he did it for you.

  See? Loved.

  Anyway, the tribute show was packed. You should’ve seen it. There were literally five hundred people in the theater, and a line wrapped around the block. They had to stop selling tickets because the venue was at capacity. The show started at seven o’clock and didn’t wind down until well after two in the morning with live music later in the night.

  Your Sarah Silverman family got on stage first, which was apropos since this is where you got your start. They showed a heartbreaking slideshow created by your dear friend, Rob Schrab, of your days in their writers’ room, on set, and beyond. A cover of Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life,” sung by Sarah and accompanied by your band, Don’t Stop or We’ll Die, underscored the video. You guys originally recorded it for Rob’s wedding. The song was slow and sweet, even more poignant than the original version. The video was brutal. And beautiful. I sobbed. Everyone sobbed.

  Sarah couldn’t be there that night, but she hosted another tribute show a few days later at Largo, where she discovered you nine years before. Chelsea Peretti did a set straight from the depths of her soul. You seemed to drive her bananas, but she clearly loved you. (I think this is how most people who loved you felt.) Also, Jon Brion played. Jon Brion, Harris! You would have died. Again. Ha.

  Sarah posted this series of tweets the night you died:

  Did you know she felt this way? That she loved you so much? She truly loved you. Sometimes, I scroll through Instagram and see a photo she’s posted of you and her together, and it disorients me every time—like you two had been hanging out that day and took the photo then. But then I see lots of comments with multicolored heart and teardrop emojis and have to re-remember that you didn’t.

  Most of the Parks and Rec actors and writing staff got on stage to share their favorite Harris stories. There were dozens and dozens of them. They must’ve talked about you for close to an hour. Everyone had something to say. Most of the ladies’ memories involved a marriage proposal from you to them. Amy Poehler looked right at Mom and thanked her directly for the gift of you. Mike Schur explained that you had “many passions. Most of them were pointless garbage.” Then he and Joe Mande, another writer on the show, acted out a series of texts between you and Mike over the years, many of which related to Phish (pointless garbage) and many of which were completely ignored by Mike. Some favorites included:

  OCTOBER 26, 2012

  Harris: Dude sick Tweezer from Halloween 1990 show on XM 29. Then amazing segue from Foam into Fee, prob my fave set from pre-Rift era.

  Mike: [silence]

  Harris: Welp, take ’er easy!

  JULY 8, 2013

  Harris: Phish opened set two with “Energy” by Apples in Stereo. You like those guys, right? I’d never heard the song but it was enjoyable.

  Mike: Get back to work.

  Harris: Was this one of the most important texts you have ever received?

  Mike: No.

  DECEMBER 29, 2013

  Harris: I’m backstage at Phish and all of Mike Gordon’s family is raving about Parks and Rec to me. So I sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart. Do you want me to request Sample in a Jar for you?

  Mike: Glad for you. I kind of think we should ask Phish to be on the show, for the Unity Concert episode. They seem like they’d be into it.

  Harris: The good news is I kiiiiinda maybe already floated it by their manager. He’s into it.

  Mike: So the “good news” is that you unilaterally acted on the show’s behalf and made a major production decision for what might be the series finale?

  Harris: That is correct, yes.

  Mike: Oh Harris. Don’t ever change.

  Harris: Love ya bud!

  May 5, 2014

  Harris: Yawn, second time as the answer to a Jeopardy clue, no biggie.

  Mike: [silence]

  MAY 14, 2014

  Harris: Just realized that Dr. Saperstein is the name of the OB-GYN in both our show and Rosemary’s baby. Coincidence?

  Mike: [silence]

  May 20, 2014

  Harris: Listen, you’re better at symbolism and metaphor than I am. I’ll give you a mountain bike if you watch the new Jake Gyllenhaal movie on demand and explain to me. It’s called Enemy.

  Mike: [silence]

  May 23, 2014

  Harris: Horny?

  Mike: I desperately hope this wasn’t meant for me and was sent accidentally.

  Harris: Nope. 100% for you, friend. I was trying to build up as many unresponded-to texts as possible to show people at lunch next week cause it was getting funny to me.

  JULY 18, 2014

  Harris: I couldn’t come in today because of butthole stuff. Went to a doctor. Just keepin’ it trill with you.

  Mike: “Butthole stuff?”

  Harris: If you want me to get technical with you I can…

  How did you keep a job? Mike was your boss. Truly astounding.

  Matt Besser, one of the UCB co-founders, got up and read an incensed email from an audience member who had been deeply offended by “Badger’s Promise,” a weekly show that you and Armen used to do. The email-writer vowed to boycott the theater as a result. He hated it more than anything he had ever hated before in his entire life. Recounting the story brought a tremendous smile to Matt’s face.

  At some point, someone got up and read a letter from Louis C.K. I honestly can’t remember who it was. Pieces of the night are blurry. Regardless, it wa
s intense and sad and beautiful:

  Harris was a rare guy. He cared so much about his work and about comedy in general. He was a kind and wise kid. That’s how I thought of him. A sweet, fucked-up kid. Always a little unshaven, always a bit of pervert in his smile, but such a decent chap, and he cared compulsively about you when he talked to you. I think he was so in touch with his own flaws and fears that he had sympathy for everyone.

  I worried about him all the time. I didn’t know if he had his shit together. I knew he felt too big in all directions. I knew life broke his heart every day. You could see that. I had lost touch with him in the last few years which I really regret now.

  I had no idea he struggled so much with heroin. I have lost too many friends to heroin. I hate it. It makes me mad. But when I heard Harris was gone… What a horrible shock.

  Two weeks after you died, you were supposed to start shooting Master of None. Eric Wareheim ended up playing the role, which was based on you and originally named Harris. However, in true Hollywood fashion, you had to screen test to play yourself, which caused a fair amount of anxiety and stress. What if you didn’t get the part of yourself? You were used to seeing things fall through—pilots, projects, etc.—but you really wanted this to work out. When they formally offered you the role, you were like Charlie from Willy Wonka getting your golden ticket. It was six days before you died.

  This was the last project you would ever work on, but it was going to be the project that would catapult you into the next stage of your career. It was supposed to be a beginning, not an end. A few days after you died, Aziz sent me a long email sending his condolences. In it, he talked about what the show would mean for you:

  I’m not sure how much he told you about the project we were working on together but he was the first person I wanted on board. He was fantastic. It was great seeing how much he’d grown as a writer and storyteller. He was a leader. He was hilarious. He challenged me in the best ways when everyone else was ready to move on. He was only there three days a week and we all hated those two days when he wasn’t around. My little brother wrote on the show and loved him and Harris was like a mentor. He was so sweet to him and all the other younger writers.