Is My Bow Too Big? How I Went From Saturday Night Live to the Tea Party (8 page)

Monday at SNL: “Meet the Host”

Lorne’s elegant corner office on the seventeenth floor of 30 Rock overlooks St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the spot where the Christmas tree is lit each year. It’s traditional classy. His own private bathroom has a picture of him with the Beatles, and another of him with Belushi. There are a few leather chairs and a big bulletin board with 3x5 cards that list that week’s hosts and sketches in chronological order. Lorne, the producer and creator of
SNL
, sits behind his desk like a happy Buddha. Al Franken sits at his right hand near the popcorn bowl. Across the desk sits Willie Nelson in the guest host chair. The rest of us sit on the floor around them, like pre-school children. In an accent that I can’t quite put my finger on, Lorne Michaels (born Lorne Lipowitz) says, “Victoria?”

“…Well,” I respond nervously, “I was thinking of doing a handstand on the Update Desk and singing ‘I hate my mother’ because it’s Mother’s Day?” People chuckle. All I knew about
SNL
was that it was sarcastic. I didn’t have a clue how to write a sketch.

“Oh. It is?” Lorne pauses, then, “Kevin?”

“Hans and Franz. Subliminal Guy.”

“Nora?”

“Sweeney Sisters.”

Lorne nods, “Dana?”

Dana Carvey is always in a happy, twinkle-eyed mood like a little leprechaun with a secret he can’t wait to tell. He lets five brilliant ideas flow out of his talented imagination, “Church lady meets the mom who gave her up for adoption; Ching Chang gives his pregnant pet duck a wedding; Billy Idol discovers his mother is the Queen of England; Choppin Brocoli’s mom is Carly Simon.”

“We can get her,” Lorne says quickly.

“The Queen or Carly?”

“Either one.”

Everyone laughs.

When Chris Farley joined the cast, he seemed more nervous than even me. When Lorne would ask him for his ideas, Chris would turn red and his eyes would water and he’d shake and flip his hair back a few times, squeeze his hands together, and then rub them on his pants. Everyone would giggle at his cuteness. When I’d sit near him, he’d stutter while looking at the ground and his whole body would turn in like he was trying to be invisible. He was so shy around girls.

After we all shared our ideas, we were dismissed while the host told Lorne which ideas were his favorites. I’d go to my office and make a long distance call because it was free.

Tuesday at SNL: “Writer’s Night”

Everyone stayed up all night writing. I stared at the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter. Lorne invited his favorite cast members to dine with him and the host. I’m not invited. I knock on Jan and Nora’s door. There’s no answer. I creak it open and say, “Hey, what y’all workin’ on?”

They give me an annoyed look and shut the door in my face. I wander through the halls, and open the head writer’s door.

Tap, tap, tap.

“What ya workin’ on?” Rob glances at me, grunts, and continues writing furiously.

I proceed to Lorne’s secretary. She has a huge diamond ring and an attitude. After an hour of waiting outside Lorne’s office, I am permitted to enter.

“Lorne, no one wants to write with me.”

“Did you bring them food?”

“Yes, I did. I don’t know how to get on the show!”

He says something obscure like, “Victoria, you are more apparent than you think you are.”

“But I haven’t had any lines for five shows, and I’m embarrassed to be in the goodnights because I’m bowing but I didn’t do anything.”

Lorne picks up the phone and begins dialing either Steve Martin or Paul Simon. He only talks to famous people. He’s always perfectly groomed and he always looks happy, like his life is perfect. He has a fish tank sitting next to his desk. I think little fish must make him feel peaceful. Lorne starts talking on the phone as if I’m invisible. After five minutes, I quietly back out of the room and return to the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter. I realize the last train for home leaves in twelve minutes, so I run to the train station in the dark, figuring that if I’m running, the criminals will think I’m already involved in a crime.

Wednesday at SNL: “Read-Through”

We sit at a big table in a big conference room and we’re all given a big pile of scripts. Everyone quickly flips through the pile looking for their names. I see mine twice. Once in Kevin’s “Subliminal Guy” sketch, and once in the sketch I wrote, where Willie Nelson and I sing a duet. I glance around the room. My seat assignment since the beginning is between Jan and Nora. I realize neither has made eye contact with me for years now. No wonder I’m uncomfortable. At least they don’t hug me anymore, like they did in the beginning. They were masters of the junior high school girl clique techniques: the snaps of disgust, the patronizing body language, the secret whispers when they’re staring at you, my joke that mysteriously disappears after they sleep with the writer. I honestly think they are plotting to poison my coffee. I pour it out and get another. It all came to a head when Dina, the talent coordinator, called all the cast and writers into a meeting to discuss what was wrong with the show. I wasn’t going to speak. I was too shy and too honest. Suddenly, Dina calls on me, “What do you think is wrong, Victoria?”

I sputter, “Wha…?”

She asks again, “What do
you
think is wrong with the show?”

I look around. I could shrug and keep my mouth shut and regret this moment forever, or I could answer honestly and regret this moment forever. Suddenly, a surge of adrenaline rushes through my body. “Do you really want to know what I think is wrong with the show?”

Dina nods. No one is paying attention, so I stand on the couch. I’m shaking with righteous indignation. I repeat several times, like I’m DeNiro, “You really wanna know? You really wanna know? You really wanna know?” After three years of holding it in, I let it out. I point at two people. “What’s wrong with the show is these two people! They’re mean. They slam doors in peoples’ faces. They gossip. They refuse to do bits, and basically tear down the overall morale. Everyone else is a team player. They are…
b***hes from hell!”
(Okay, I said a bad word.)

Silence.

Everyone is stunned. Jan and Nora slowly rise and slip out the door.

More Silence.

I look around. I know everyone feels the same, but I’m scared now. I know the b’s are going to kill me. Sarcastically, I say, “Well, thanks a lot everyone, for backing me up.”

Dana says, “You didn’t hear anyone disagreeing!”

Laughter.

Later, I visit Lorne’s office. “I guess you heard about my b***hes from hell speech.” He laughs. I continue, “Lorne, I’m really scared of them. I think they want to kill me.”

He smiles, “Oh, Victoria, I think you can take care of yourself!” Then he picks up his phone and starts dialing someone famous.

After my speech, the weird thing was, all the unspoken, unresolved tension was released. I burst the zit. I lanced the boil. I relieved the pressure. The white blood cells that had been fighting the infectious disease of show-biz egos for three years had finally popped the pimple. Everyone felt better. The boys were different than the girls. They were competing for airtime too, but had a healthy aggression. When one lost the fight they’d pat each other’s butts and have a beer together.

So now, in my third year, as I sit here on Wednesday between Jan and Nora, they ignore me not just with hatred and jealousy, but also with a little fear mixed in. I glance around the room and notice Sissy and Mr. Kirkenbauer of the Standards and Practices Department. What do they do? One sketch in read-through says the word “penis” fifty times. I’m glad I’m not in that sketch. I mean, it isn’t a bad word, but it doesn’t seem like a Christian thing to do. Besides, if I were selected for the sketch, how would I get out of it? Tell Lorne that naming body parts goes against my religious convictions? I had already asked him to be excused from a sketch where I was required to pray. I told him it felt blasphemous. He said sweetly, “I understand. No problem.”

The guys in the cast swaggered into the room. Their comic minds are like muscles in a gym, or degrees in a college, or millions in a bank account. Their value as humans was right between their ears, and they know how valuable they are. Many of them are physically very short. But here in this room, in this city, at this time in history, they are very tall. Models stalk them.

At the head of the table, next to Lorne, is Willie Nelson. He looks just like he does on TV. Wow. For some reason he looks good with long hair. It suits him.
Okay. Let’s see
, I think to myself,
there are 150 pages here. So, we’ll probably finish at six-ish. So, I’ll make a long distance call (because it’s free) and catch the 7:03 train.
I sit through three hours of skits—I mean sketches. Lorne looks at people condescendingly if they use the word “skit.” He says skits are what you do in college. Suddenly, it’s my turn. Lorne reads aloud the duet I wrote for Willie and me:
The Boyfriend Song
. He continues with the stage directions, “Willie and Victoria are seated on stools, center stage.” My stomach tightens as I whip out my ukulele and sing,

“Oh I’ve got one boyfriend I talk about food with

One boyfriend I like to talk crude with

One boyfriend I share a Quaalude with

     (Not really, I don’t believe in drugs

     it just rhymed perfect there)

One boyfriend who’s mean…”

Willie laughs. Maybe he likes it. Nora and Jan roll their eyes.

I run to the train station in the dark figuring that if I’m running, the criminals will think I’m already involved in a crime.

A.F.K.A.S. stands outside smoking while I rush upstairs to see my precious baby, Scarlet. She’s asleep. I stare at her and kiss her cheek. I change the TV channel in my bedroom from Home Shopping Network (he really watches that?) to Johnny Carson. I sip wine by the bedroom fire. I’m amazed that I have a fireplace in my bedroom. I drift off to sleep fantasizing over and over that Willie and I are singing together on TV.

Thursday at SNL: “Blocking”

I’m anxious to see what sketches, if any, I’m in. It’s 3 p.m. I’m outside watching Scarlet jump on the trampoline in our gorgeous Connecticut backyard full of autumn trees. This will never last. Only rich people can live like this. And I might be fired tomorrow, especially if I swallow this bite of donut. So I spit it out on the ground, and Poo-Poo (the Maltese), and Buster (the Yorkie) run up and start licking it.

Ring.

“Hello. Oh, hi Marcy.” Marcy Klein never wears a bra, which is ironic, since her dad is Calvin Klein—famous for manufacturing underwear! I don’t know Marcy’s job title. It’s something important sounding like talent coordinator, or producer. Lorne likes to surround himself with the rich and famous. I just found out that Dina, the Mysterious Voice, grew up playing with the Kennedys. Basically, Marcy’s job is to call us to tell us what time we need to come in for work, and she swoops her hair out of her eyes a lot.

“Am I in something? Uh huh. Uh huh. Wow, my Willie Nelson skit…etch is in? 5 o’clock? Wow. Okay, I better run. Okay, bye.” I run in the house, grab my purse, a scrunchie, my coat, car keys, and lipstick, then run outside. I kiss Scarlet. I tell A.F.K.A.S. to watch her on the trampoline, and run to the car. I just barely catch the 3:30 train. I read
People Magazine
and four tabloids while fantasizing me and Willie Nelson strumming on live TV, singing
my
song,
The Boyfriend Song
, which was written six years ago. I dash through Grand Central, run twelve blocks, panting, to 30 Rock, and get to the set of 8-H one minute before we start the camera blocking.

Willie is “unavailable,” so I sit alone on a stool next to an empty stool and sing my six-year-old song with my ukulele. My song is on the cue cards. I know it by heart, but invisible Willie doesn’t. After five minutes, I’m done. I say hi to the wardrobe department and they show me a couple of dresses I might wear for my potential duet. Then, I run to the train station, figuring the criminals will think I’m already involved in a crime.

I timidly choose the Bar Car on the train. I’m the only woman. My best friend, wine, is nearby. I see all the businessmen recognize me from the corner of their eyes. I get my drink. We all look weary. What a price to pay to live in the Garden of Eden. Us workingmen, we never see our children or our wives, or our gardens; only the ugly Bar Car and tired faces, and office walls.

As the wonderful chardonnay seeps into my veins, I start fantasizing other sketches I could write. I mean, I wrote this one, and it’s almost on. I have the power. I trudge through the sliding train doors at the Westport stop, down the steps, and search for my car in the dark parking lot. I feel a little safer here because I am the poorest person in this town. There’s nothing anyone would want from me. I drive my blue pick-up truck through the winding country roads, past million-dollar farms sleeping in the shadows of lilac bushes and three-hundred-year-old oak trees, plaques that say “Est. 1875,” and stone walls. It’s very dark and lonely. There are no strip malls, gas stations, or streetlights. Not where the rich people live. Finally, I burst through my front door. A.F.K.A.S. completely ignores me. I have no idea why he’s mad at me. I fall asleep thinking about Willie Nelson. He would never be mean to his wife.