by Mike Epps
But I pulled it together, went in there, and nailed it again. I nailed it for Comic Strip.
T.C. and I were driving back home to his place when we got the call. We hadn’t even made it to the I-10 and T.C.’s phone rings.
The part was mine.
T.C. and I looked at each other like That’s it. That’s the moment we’ll always remember, when I went from a comic to a star. I’d beaten out a parking lot full of more famous guys and I was going to be in Next Friday with Ice Cube. I could pay off my debts. I could tell everyone I grew up with who said I’d be nothing that they could suck it. I could show the world what I could do. This was the break I’d been waiting for all this time.
In that car, I felt like my life was really starting. I got my phone out and I called everyone I ever knew and told them that I got the role.
My buddy T.C.—who’s been with his Joanie since forever—was always saying to me, “Why don’t you have a steady girl?”
So, on this day, I had an answer: “Hey, T.C.,” I said. “You know what? Now I do have a steady girl. Her name is Comedy. She’ll never forsake me as long as I don’t neglect her.”
I was so moved by that idea that right there in the car I gave a little speech:
Your art is like being in a relationship. You have to spend quality time with it. You can’t leave it for a long time and come back to it and think it’ll still be there. You have to be faithful to it. You have to give it all you’ve got. As much as you put into it, that’s what you get out of it.
Comedy saved me. I’m never giving up on comedy. How could you not be faithful to something that saved your life? That pays you? It’s always there, no matter who else runs out on me. God gave me the gift. It’s almost like they’re hand in hand in my heart: comedy and God, because the gift came from Him. Good, God, gift—all the g’s.
I’ve always had the attitude that I won’t lose. I’m a fighter. When I get in hard situations, I fight hard. And so, that’s been my life: Challenge after challenge. Blessing after blessing.
T.C. said, “You do know, right, that you still have to film the fucking thing?”
13
Forever Day-Day Jones
I was so scared I was going to fuck it up. It was a do-or-die situation for me. I was entering into a movie that was more than just a movie—it was a cult, so huge—and Chris Tucker, the guy who was in the original with Ice Cube, had been incredibly good. It was a lot of pressure.
For the time we were going to be filming, they put me up in a hotel in Valencia. This place had high-thread-count sheets and room service and a view. I was wearing a brand-new watch that a guy at CAA, my first agent there, had given me, and new clothes. I felt so good. But when I checked in, the script was laying on the bed and I realized it was all really happening, and I was going to have to work.
“You’ll be great,” Cube said when I met him on the set in South Central. He could tell how scared I was. “Don’t sweat it.”
The Next Friday plot centered around a guy, Deebo, a bully who gets out of prison. To get away from him, Craig (Ice Cube) moves out to the “fake-ass Brady Bunch suburb” of Rancho Cucamonga, California, to live with his uncle Elroy, who won a million dollars in the lottery, and his cousin Day-Day: me.
When I walked on that set, everybody just went quiet, and I could swear every one of them was looking at me so disappointed, like, Sure wish we could have got Chris back.
The first scene I did with Ice Cube was the one where my baby mama sprayed me with some Mace and I had to tell him about meeting her and about her stalking me.
At the end, the director called “Cut!” and there was total silence. I was sure I’d fucked it up and was about to get fired.
You know, when I started in Hollywood, I didn’t like to audition until I realized that—guess what?—you’re gonna have to do it in front of these people anyway. Even if you get the fucking job, you still gotta prove yourself, motherfucker. Every day that you show up on the set, that’s the audition again; but it’s even worse to fuck up on set, because they’ve already hired you.
So I stood there on the set of Next Friday listening to the total lack of laughter around me, and I thought, I’m going to have to call all my friends, and my mom, and say I got fired. Almost worse: T.C. had gotten a job there working as an associate producer, and so if I had to leave, he’d probably be screwed, too.
Ice Cube was standing there. He must have known it was bad, but he wasn’t saying anything.
“That was bad, huh?” I asked him. “Nobody’s laughing.”
“It’s not the time for you to be funny,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s always time for me to be funny.”
“No,” he said. “This is the establishing scene of me and you. Don’t worry about being funny right now.”
Then it was time for me to be funny, and I remember coming out of the house and I saw John Witherspoon, who played Craig’s dad, Mr. Jones, sitting behind the camera. He had this look on his face like Motherfucker, you better be funny.
When they said “Cut,” John wasn’t laughing. I was, like, Fuck.
Time for another take. I had to make it happen now.
Second time I came downstairs, I killed that shit. John Witherspoon laughed his ass off. And it was then I knew I was going to keep that job.
That was one fucking blessing, getting that part. I paid off some back child support and some old loans. And over time I got comfortable acting, and Ice Cube and I got to be friends.
There are long breaks between scenes when you’re filming, and a lot of standing around. During one break, Ice Cube and I were there in the doorway of a kitchen, waiting to start shooting again. I didn’t want to go on too much about all his songs, but I was a fan, so I was trying to be cool. Quietly, though, I started beatboxing one of Cube’s old songs. It took a few seconds before he noticed; he smiled and started quietly rapping over it. I got louder and he got louder and then we were doing the whole song, full voice.
When that movie wrapped, I couldn’t wait for it to come out. I was so proud I’d done it.
New Line had a private jet and it took us around the country to promote the movie. There I was, me from Naptown, traveling around with Ice Cube. That was my first time on a private jet. I couldn’t believe it.
I kept saying to T.C., “We’re on a jet!”
One of our bookings was on Queen Latifah’s talk show. She was an iconic figure to us at that time. It was amazing to hear the teaser: “Coming up next: Ice Cube, talking about his movie Next Friday!”
Ice Cube went out there in his Next Friday shirt and sat with her on the chairs. He talked about being in N.W.A and his family. He talked about his work with kids: “If you don’t love yourself, you gonna fall victim to yourself.” He said, “It’s not always easy, and I think it’s not even supposed to be easy.”
Finally, I was up. Queen Latifah introduced me as his “hilarious co-star, Michael Epps.”
I ran out there with my big jeans and my Next Friday sweatshirt.
Queen Latifah asked me how I got cast.
“I was performing at the Comedy Store on Sunset and Cube saw me do my thing.”
“He’s a pro,” Ice Cube said.
“You looked real comfortable,” Queen Latifah said.
She said Chris Tucker did an amazing job and got his start with the first film, and that I did a good job following in his footsteps: “You’ve stepped into that new character like he would have been.”
“I’m glad he didn’t do it!” I said. “I just approached it like it was a role. Ice Cube said, ‘Don’t even worry about that, man.’ Kids be saying, ‘Is Smokey going to be in the movie?’ I said. ‘No, Smokey’s in rehab.’”
I was learning how to play the game, and traveling with Ice Cube was great; we did straight-up hood shit. We played basketball and shot dice and smoked a lot of weed. And it helped getting to do publicity with him so when I went out by myself I knew what to do.
Th
e only downside to being in Next Friday? I get called Day-Day Jones on the street every goddamn day of my life. It’s going to say DON’T CALL ME DAY-DAY on my tombstone and everyone walking through the cemetery’s going to be like, “Oh, and over there you can see the grave of Day-Day.”
“How long will I be Day-Day?” I recently said to a packed crowd in D.C.
“FOREVER!” they shouted.
It gets a little old, getting called Day-Day all the time. But you know, I can’t complain. Because being Day-Day got me that house and it has saved my life at least three times.
The first time was at Home Depot. I got in an argument with this little Mexican guy over some nails or something. Well, I walk out of the store and all of a sudden ten Mexican guys were there waiting for me in the parking lot. The main guy was six foot three. I’d never seen a six-foot-three-inch Mexican before. This was some kind of custom-made Mexican. He said, “You tell my nephew to go fuck himself?”
I tried to say no, but then the nephew comes along and says, “Yeah, that’s him!”
The giant Mexican stares at me and I notice that he not only has teardrops tattooed on his face, he has so many that they drip down his neck and past his shirt’s neckline. They probably drip all the way down his fucking body, an ocean of teardrops. And he’s getting closer and closer to me.
I’m about to beg for my life when he gets close enough to get a good look at me and says, “Wait. Are you Day-Day?”
Now I get called Day-Day on the street all the time and I tell people to stop calling me Day-Day.
But standing in that Home Depot parking lot, I saw things differently.
“Yes! That’s me! I’m Day-Day!”
I sang the Next Friday theme song. I danced. I did the lines. The Mexicans laughed their asses off, and that’s the first reason why I’m alive today.
The second happened in the spring of 2000 when my guy and I went down to San Diego to visit with T.C.’s sister and family. We wound up grabbing half a bowl of loud green,* so we were feeling pretty paranoid.
I can’t remember exactly how, but after our family visit, we got in my truck and ended up at a Mexican border checkpoint—you know, like you do when you’re high and holding. We did not want to be there, but by the time we saw where we were, it was too late to turn around. If you spot a NO DRUGS ALLOWED sign and immediately do a U-turn and peel out, the cops tend to think something’s up.
So we decide to just go for it. We’re heading into Mexico. No problem.
At first, we’re good. We’re rolling through the checkpoint, just being cool. They’re going to wave us through . . . But no. At the last minute, a Mexican border patrol lady officer waves for us to pull over.
Fuck. We didn’t even plan on going to Mexico. Now here we are, almost definitely going to jail in a matter of minutes. We pull over and roll down the window. We must smell like a forest. But then I see the agent recognize me.
“Well, if it isn’t Day-Day!” she says.
“Yes!” I say. “Day-Day! That’s me!” And I start doing every joke from Next Friday I can think of.
“I’m here to borrow some sugar!” I say in Day-Day’s voice.
She starts laughing. I keep going until she’s doubled over cackling.
“You guys have fun,” she says, waving us through.
“Damn,” my guy says as we pull away. “Look at that. Your ability as an actor just saved you from how bad you are at being a criminal.”
“Why are you surprised?” I said. “That’s the story of my life.”
We turned up the music and drove into Mexico.
And the third time that movie saved my life happened about a year later.
Do not try this at home.
Jeff and I were back in Naptown, out west off of Twenty-Seventh and Clifton, in an area called the Land. We were hanging out, smoking a blunt, just cruising around, when we come up on a bunch of kids pushing and shoving and calling each other names. I was going to keep driving, but then I was just like Naw! I stopped my truck on Clifton.
“Uh, Mike?” Jeff said.
But I was out and around a lot now. I was famous. I wondered what kind of power I had back home, if maybe I could make the place better. I thought of myself when I was a kid. I wished someone had tried to make me do better. I wouldn’t have listened to them, probably, but it still would have been nice.
“Hey!” I shouted at the kids.
They turned and looked. They were about to run or to come fight me, I know, but then they recognize me from Next Friday and start getting excited.
“Day-Day!” one shouts. “What you doing here?”
“Going to see a friend at the barbershop,” I say. “Now let’s talk a second.”
I told them they should stop fighting each other. Shit’s bad enough without that. They have to find what they’re good at, I say, and find a way to get out of this. They don’t want to be like this forever, right? I keep talking, trying to get through to them. They’re nodding, but I could tell the second we got back in the truck they’d start punching each other again.
“Tell you what,” I say, “if you be nice, I’ll give you a hundred bucks apiece.”
Now they’re listening.
“What’s the catch?” one said.
“No catch,” I said. “Just I don’t want you to fight. If you don’t fight, I’ll give you the money.”
They looked at each other.
I took out my wad of money and their eyes got wide. I peeled off $100 for each of them.
No big surprise: Another dozen kids materialized up out of nowhere. But I couldn’t not give them money when they never fought to start with. What message would that send? So I give each of them $100, too.
They start freaking out, shaking my hand, patting my back, saying thank you and I’m the best and all that. But that’s not why I did it.
“I love you, Mike!” one of them shouted after us as Jeff and I got back in the truck.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I was so glad I was famous and so glad I had that money. It was the best way to spend it, giving back to my old neighborhood.
Right after the movie had wrapped, I had gone back to Indianapolis and had knocked on the door of the house on Carrollton that we got evicted from, the one with the white picket fence.
A man had answered the door. He and his wife had bought the house and were raising his family there.
“I used to live here,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
“Listen,” I said, “I used to live here as a kid and we got evicted. Now I’m in show business. I would like to buy the house from you.”
“Well, we’re not selling it right now,” he said.
I was really disappointed.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try again another time. Thanks anyway.”
And once again the door in the fence clicked shut behind me.
I was worried that I’d never get to buy the house. I was also worried I’d never get another movie role, in fact. Because here’s something not a lot of people know: I got in a fistfight at the Next Friday wrap party, with one of Ice Cube’s bodyguards, Big Sleep.
Well, actually, Big Sleep got in a fight with some other guy first. I saw him fighting and I just jumped in, started fighting with whoever I could reach. I was just a hood motherfucker. I was on drugs at the time, too. I was doing coke a lot. But it was a stupid thing to do. And I think it really fucked my relationship up with New Line Cinema. After that, I felt like they looked at me like Oh no, we thought he was a real actor, but he’s a fucking heathen.
It was a dark time. I was getting roles here and there and I was playing clubs and I was getting better and better, but the whole time I was on coke, and I was doing two- and three-night binges. I used to do coke so much, I couldn’t sleep for days. I’d be up for three days, mouth dry, hungry, depressed, crying one minute, laughing the next. Happy, talking shit. I had, like, four, five different personalities going at once.
And just like before, I’
d call home to talk to my mom, and once again she could hear it in my voice.
“Why you doing this to yourself?”
“Because I’m tired,” I’d say.
“Listen,” she said. “Being tired ain’t enough.”
“Well, what else I gotta do?”
She said, “You’ve gotta be tired of being tired. Being tired ain’t enough. Takes two of those. Two tireds.”
I wasn’t there yet. I was still functioning. I hadn’t hit bottom. I felt sure I wasn’t an addict. I mean, I have an addictive personality, but I didn’t love cocaine. I did it, but I never loved it.
I knew guys that would do drugs and they weren’t depressed or nothing; they were just, like, “So, what y’all doing tomorrow? Let’s do coke again.”
But I was the type of dude that when that shit came down . . . Wooo, that’s the worst fucking feeling that you ever want to have in your life. I wouldn’t put that on my worst enemy. It was like being in hell. I’d get songs trapped in my head. Whatever song was the song at that time, I couldn’t sleep, because this song was just in my head.
And voices.
It was pure misery: I couldn’t sleep and I wasn’t hungry, and when I finally woke up, it would just be pitch-black in the room and my mouth would be dry and I felt so bad, because I said so much fucked-up shit and did fucked-up shit while I was high.
My conscience would show up, like, Why would you do all of that shit? What’s wrong with you? Why you putting yourself through this shit? This is not going to make you more funny. This ain’t gonna make you happy.
But I think I didn’t feel I deserved to be happy after the life I’d led. It was just a cycle of shame. The only thing that made me feel better was work.
And, luckily, I was about to get plenty of that.
14
“Remember the Time”
No matter how rough anything was in the rest of my life, I always showed up on time and worked hard to get it right. Work made everything better, and distracted me from things I didn’t want to think about.
I did so much fun stuff. There was How High with Method Man and Redman—I came in originally just as a writer to punch it up and help make it funnier but ended up appearing in it, too. In 2000, I shot a movie in Toronto called Bait with Jamie Foxx. He plays this small-time thief who gets caught stealing some shrimp—sorry, prawns—and then the cops use him as bait to catch this bigger criminal. I love that movie. And at the time I had a publicist who was this beautiful Ethiopian chick who I ended up being in a relationship with. (Elena and I were no longer together.) But she kept trying to make my life better. And when women try to make me better, that’s when I get stubborn and do everything to be the opposite of what they’re trying to make me. She wanted me to work out more; instead, I started eating a ton of potato chips.