by Jeff Dunham
Not long after that, my friend Jordan Cox and I had a similar conversation. We were at his apartment and were killing ourselves laughing at some of the wacky jokes and bits I’d come up with for Peanut. Out of the blue and in the middle of the laughs he just stopped and looked at me and said, “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing where?”
“In Waco.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You’re in Waco, man. You need to do what you need to do. It’s time for you to go.”
Here was another crossroads moment. I knew Jordan was right. College life was over. The helicopter could go with me.
I thought for a minute and said, “Yeah… I know.”
Sometimes people who lived there would laugh at me when I said I loved Waco. But I did. It wasn’t the town. It was the friends. Everyone’s life would go on. Some of the closest relationships and friendships would remain, but most would be memories. It was time to pack up and head for Hollywood.
Peanut: Hollywood was beckoning.
Jeff: Right.
Peanut: It was time for us to ditch our real friends for a new set of phony ones.
A month later, in September of 1988, my friends in Waco threw a going away party for me. The next day I drove to Dallas, parked the 300ZX in the back driveway at my mom and dad’s house, and hitched my forty-foot-long, loaded-down helicopter trailer to the back of my Nissan Pathfinder. As I pulled out of the driveway the next morning, my mom told me to stop. She ran inside the house. A minute later she came to my driver’s-side window, and with tears in her eyes handed me a little bag of cookies.
I cried as I drove away from our house. I was my parents’ only child and I had just left them in the driveway, waving a tearful good-bye.
But I knew it was time to move on and to move forward… to keep pursuing the dreams I’d had since childhood, and the Carson goal I’d set eight years before. I had three strong characters and the funny was growing. I had no more excuses. Here we go.…
CHAPTER FIVE
Better Five Years Late
Than One Day Early
I’d made the long drive from Dallas to Los Angeles many times before, but this time I was pulling a forty-foot trailer with a two-seater helicopter sitting on it. I had about $6,000 to my name, and a truckful of dummies, tools, and dreams. I ended up in Redondo Beach, California, where Keith’s aunt and uncle, Dave and Billie Bowen, rented me a room for $400 a month. That was a darned good deal even in 1988.
I was still signed with William Morris, and Mike Lacey booked me at Comedy & Magic regularly. He was still convinced that I was perfect for The Tonight Show, and even more so now. So I was living in Los Angeles, I had an agent, and the audiences laughed at what I did. Having never forgotten Jim McCawley’s promise to see me again, I focused my efforts on getting on the show by making my act tighter and funnier. Lacey did some prodding and talked Jim into coming to see me again. I had been doing my six minutes everywhere I could as often as possible for the past six weeks. I knew I was ready.
It was now early December of 1988, barely two and a half months after actually moving to Los Angeles. That’s a crazy short amount of time to have been in LA and to potentially be ready for Carson. There was a good reason for that, though. Unlike most comics who moved to LA to seek fame and fortune, I’d already been performing for eighteen years, and now I’d been working my butt off in LA, specifically honing my act with this one goal in mind.
It was a good show with a great audience that night in Hermosa Beach. I nailed it and McCawley saw it all. He met me in the Green Room afterward and congratulated me on my improvement. He loved Peanut, the little dummy of me, José Jalapeño, and the worm in the bottle. He said I’d done a great job making it just right for Johnny and The Tonight Show audience, and that he’d call me the next day and give me a date. I still have that old answering machine with the message from his assistant giving me the details. I was on the books for December 30, a Friday night, no less! I was stoked. It was finally going to happen. I almost couldn’t believe it.
I flew back to Dallas for a week to visit my parents for the holidays. And when I told them I was finally going to be on The Tonight Show, they couldn’t have been more excited. They literally told everyone they could, even strangers in line at Luby’s. The three of us went to Neiman Marcus in Dallas, and Dad and Mom spent a little over $1,200 on my show outfit, which included an unbelievably nice Armani jacket. That was another important part of being on Carson, unlike the talk shows today. Back then, you dressed really well for the King of Late Night.
I flew back to Los Angeles a couple of days before the show. Jim and I had agreed that the night before I would run my set at the Comedy & Magic, and Jim would be there to make any last-minute notes.
That night the audience wasn’t as good as they had been a few weeks before, but I still did okay. I was a little worried when I went back to the Green Room and McCawley wasn’t there to give me his notes, but Lacey told me not to worry and to go home and get a good night’s rest. He said it was going to be great. Taping was the next afternoon at four P.M., and I needed to be ready.
The next morning, I woke up early and I was an excited mess. My parents had phoned everyone, and people were calling to say they’d seen my name in TV Guide. At about nine A.M., when I knew McCawley usually arrived for work, I called his office. His assistant said he couldn’t take the call, but he’d get back to me as soon as possible. An hour went by. I tried him again, and after being put on hold for what seemed like an eternity, he finally picked up.
“Any notes from last night?” I asked excitedly.
The long pause was deafening. He took a deep breath. “Jeff, I made a mistake. You’re not ready.”
Wait. What did he just say? I didn’t want to hear the next sentence. My hopes and dreams and all that I’d worked for so long were now hanging in midair.
“But, it’s in just a few hours… what?” I faltered.
Jim replied, “I’ve taken you off the show and I’m looking for another guest. I’m sorry.”
I will never forget that moment. I had been on cloud nine. I was within hours of my goal, and now, as it all started to crumble, it was more than heartbreaking: It was devastating. There was nothing else in my life at that time that was as important as this one career goal and dream. I sat there on the phone, not wanting to hang up, hoping that somehow he was pulling a joke, or that he would change his mind.
He started talking again. “Look, this doesn’t mean you can’t ever be on. Right now, you’re just not ready.” And then he shared with me a piece of wisdom that I didn’t want to accept but I understood fully. He said, “When you do stand-up for Johnny Carson, it’s better to be five years late than one day early.” He encouraged me to “keep working” and then he hung up.
For a long time I stood there, staring at the wall in front of me with the dead phone still to my ear. I looked down at my desk and touched my father’s electric pencil sharpener that he’d given me from his office a few years before. As I touched it, the knot in my stomach tightened even more. When I moved to Los Angeles and was setting up my desk, I plugged the sharpener into the wall and vowed to never empty the shavings until I had been a guest on The Tonight Show. Not hours before, I had looked at it, knowing I would be emptying it before midnight. I pushed it back a couple of inches. I hung up the phone.
I had to call my parents and as many friends back home as I could to let them know the show wasn’t going to happen. To drive the knife even further into myself, I couldn’t help but watch the broadcast that night. Johnny’s monologue was great, the audience was hot, but the person that McCawley found to take my place was a girl named Merry Christmas. And that was the only reason she was on… because her name was the same as the greeting. Maybe I would have gotten on if I had a dummy named Happy Hanukkah.
After New Year’s, I did what I’d always done and that was to keep working. The always passionate and committed Barbara Hubbard had book
ed me at a few more colleges in the past few years, and along the way I’d picked up an agent for the college circuit. This was a great arena for me, offering more experience and exposure with a younger audience. The money was good and I was traveling regularly now for the first time. The road isn’t exactly easy, but I was slowly learning the tricks of travel when it came to getting through airports quickly, how much to carry on, what to do when flights are canceled, et cetera. In large towns and small, well-endowed schools and the less fortunate, I was also treated to the gamut of housing and sleeping arrangements. One night it would be an okay hotel or motel, the next night it could be someone’s house or in a cold, drafty, unused dorm room. These were nights alone on the road, night after night, town after town.
Most of my money in 1989 came from colleges, small comedy clubs, and a few corporate gigs. The clubs were B rooms at best, and they booked me as a middle act. Headlining hadn’t happened yet. Most important, though: All these gigs in all these different kinds of places with so many different types of audiences let me simply work on my act. My work ethic was pretty simple: If I was getting laughs, I was doing things right. If the crowd wasn’t rocking, then I had to improve or lose whatever wasn’t working. Both the college and club audiences were unforgiving and honest. If they liked you, they let you know. If not, for me anyway, they usually wouldn’t boo or heckle, but they weren’t generous with their response.
Dave Douds, the William Morris agent who signed me when I won the college competition, still tried to open doors for me as best he good. He was a senior agent, but I don’t think many of his cohorts thought much of his new client. Think about it—William Morris was one of the biggest, most prestigious talent agencies in the world with clients like Bill Cosby, and now the state-fair agent signs the college-aged ventriloquist. Yikes. I don’t think Dave was talking anyone at Morris into really taking me seriously.
In early 1989, Douds somehow got me onstage at the Melrose Improv to do a guest spot. I was given eight minutes to do my thing. Melrose at that time was what I considered a very dark but hip club. All the Hollywood elite would show up, including industry folks and the best of the best comics. It was the hangout, and I was not one of the guys.
Most people in the business looked down at me, and I could literally feel the internal groan when I walked onstage at Melrose. I was not hip or slick or cerebral. I was not a New York comic. I was a young guy wearing a tie and holding a dummy. But I got up there that night, and the audience just happened to dig what I did. In the crowd that evening was the ever watchful Budd Friedman, the man behind all the Improv clubs and the TV show A&E’s An Evening at the Improv.
That night Budd walked up to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, Budd Friedman. Congratulations, kid, you got the show!”
“Thank you very much. And, nice to meet you.” I said. I had no idea just how important Budd could be to me, nor did I know what a good relationship with him could do for a comic. I’d done so many of these guest spots around town for various clubs with Dave dragging me here, there, and everywhere that I didn’t really know the significance of our handshake. I didn’t even realize that evening was an audition for television! But that night was the beginning of a long and very important relationship.
Budd Friedman and the Improv Comedy Clubs were the chain to be in good with if you wanted consistent employment across the country. Just about every comedian wanted to be a regular in the Improv chain, but it was a difficult fraternity to be invited into. Anyone who wasn’t a pure monologist wasn’t considered a “real” comic. If you used any kind of prop, it was a crutch. So I was handicapped as a variety act. Guys felt like you were relying on something other than your wits and spoken words to get laughs. There were plenty of comics on the road who, without ever seeing my act, had concluded that ventriloquism was a tired and sad old vaudevillian art, pigeonholed in the same class as plate spinning and mime (my apologies to plate spinners and mimes), and that an act like mine could never be as hip or edgy as “pure” stand-up. Rarely did anyone have the balls to say anything directly to me, but throughout my eighteen years of working the club circuit, I found personal insults about my characters and me more than once on comedy club Green Room walls.
Peanut: Should we tell him?
Walter: Probably.
José: Sí.
Peanut: We did it!
Jeff: WHAT?
Peanut: He didn’t understand; let’s move on.
There were a couple of club owners and bookers who were as disdainful as some of the comics. While on the road one weekend doing college gigs, my agent set up an audition for me at Catch a Rising Star in the Big Apple. The Catch clubs weren’t quite as prestigious or important as the Improvs, but they were a good stepping-stone.
Longtime friend and fellow ventriloquist Al Getler accompanied me to the club that night. We got there early in the evening, long before the show started so I could talk to the club manager and find out when I was to go on. This was a showcase night, which meant comic after comic would go on, each doing a fairly short bit.
When we found the club manager, I introduced myself, and reminded him that Dave had arranged the gig. He greeted me with a disagreeable smirk. Then, in a voice dripping with condescension, he said, “Oh, yes… hmmm… let me think. You’re something I… don’t… like.…” This was a first for me. I had no idea what he was talking about. Did he mean a Texan? Baylor graduate? Protestant? Then of course it hit me.
“I’m a ventriloquist,” I said.
“Oh… yes,” he replied nastily. “Well, you’ll be on at about ten o’clock.”
“Okay,” I said. “How long will I have?”
“Six minutes. You’ll get the light.”
Nice. That was fine. Al and I waited. The show started at eight, so two hours passed. Then two more. Now it was midnight. Comic after comic kept going up, and another would be introduced. I found the manager again and asked him where I was on the list. “Don’t worry; you’ll get on.” He grinned.
It was now after one A.M. Al had a wife and two little girls at home and plus I knew a fuck you when it was in the air.
“Ready to go?” I asked Al.
“Hell yes,” he said. “You’re better than this.”
I always try to not let the ego get in the way of a good business decision, but this was no way to treat anyone, no matter what. We left, and Al and I have laughed about that guy ever since. Whenever I see Al I say, “YOU’RE SOMETHING I DON’T LIKE.
Walter: I think we found the title to your next book.
Jeff: Gee, thanks.
Walter: I wonder where that club manager is today.
Jeff: I’m not sure.
Walter: Probably still booking clubs… READ THIS AND WEEP, LOSER!!!
Jeff: Stop it.
Walter: Okay … LOSER!!
For every negative experience, there have been a bunch more good ones along the way. At least that’s how I remember it. As cool as it was to meet Budd Friedman and to get the booking on A&E’s An Evening at the Improv, more important was the small flurry of phone calls it caused in the next couple of days. Budd didn’t book the talent in all the Improvs around the country, but soon he would want me to audition for the woman who did. Eventually I would be introduced to Debra Sartell, the Jim McCawley of the Improv chain. If Debra liked you, you had a load of work ahead of you. But… you had to prove yourself first. You had to go to comedy boot camp. Welcome to the nightmare gig in Las Vegas.
Not all Improvs and comedy clubs are made equal. There are the A rooms, and the B rooms, and the… well… shit holes. I’m not going to say the 1990s Vegas room was an exact shit hole, but it certainly made you realize really quickly if you had what it took to be a road comic.
Inside the Riviera Hotel and Casino was the Vegas Improv. It’s where a comic got his or her chops. It’s where you had to prove yourself. The crowds were tough, the guy who ran the room was a tyrant, you had to pay for your own drinks, and meals were with the hotel staff in the
employee cafeteria. Mmmmmm… casino food! There was no ego allowed in this paradise.
Unlike other clubs around the country that usually had one show a night every day except Friday and Saturday (when there were two), this joint had the comics doing three shows a night, seven days a week. That was twenty-one shows a week! Twenty-one! (I still have a copy of my first check from Budd for those twenty-one shows—I made a total of $850 before taxes and commissions.)
The first week I was there, I was the middle act, and the headliner was Bill Engvall. I got along great with Bill and knew him from Texas. He even gave me a suggestion for Walter, and that was simply to use the word dirtbag as a punch line, because it was such a “Walter” word.
Jeff: Walter, what do you do for a living?
Walter: I write greeting cards.
Jeff: Could you give us some examples?
Walter: All right… how ’bout a get-well card?
Jeff: How does that go?
Walter: Sorry to hear you’re sick… dirtbag.
Jeff: Anything a little kinder?
Walter: Belated birthday… sorry I missed your birthday… I thought you were dead.
Jeff: Do you have anything that’s a little more romantic?