Life of the Party: Stories of a Perpetual Man-Child (11 page)

We sat down at the bar and within seconds our bartender, kind of cute, smiling, walked up to us. Eddie didn’t hesitate.

“We need two shots of tequila, two margaritas, and two beers,” he barked and turned to me, “because this needs to start happening
now,
and happening more often. Because if this is how it’s going to go down, it’s going to take us five fucking years, and we need to have it in by the end of the summer or the publishers at MTV are going to have our heads!”

The confused bartender prepared our order, her curiosity clearly piqued. Eddie kept on. “Seriously when we sold this thing, you said it would happen ‘all the time’ and here we are, week three, with nothing written. I want you to drink those drinks and make it happen. Either that or go to that table and start writing.”

Eddie looked at me for a response as the bartender arrived with our drinks. I realized that in fact
everyone
in the restaurant was staring at me now, waiting for me to say something.

“Sorry.”

“You’re damn right you’re sorry. Now you go over there and start writing about this, whatever ‘this’ is.… Write about the damn bus ride for all I care, just write!”

As I took my drinks to the table, I heard the con start.

“I hate to be nosy,” the cute bartender said, “but can I ask what you guys are talking about?”

“Talent,” Eddie exhaled, and the bartender laughed along with him. As I sat with my back turned, Eddie laid down his story, peppered with just enough truth to be convincing.

“My buddy over there is the Number One Party Animal in the country, or so says
Rolling Stone
. He sold a book to MTV about partying around the country using only the American transit systems—buses, trains. It’s called
American Transit.
This is our third week on the road and nothing has really happened. So we stopped here on our way from the Poconos to Philly in hopes that something really massive goes down, but this is our second bar and so far it’s proving a bust.”

Eavesdropping from my table, I realized this was my cue to come back to the bar and introduce myself, to corroborate Eddie’s story. For the next two hours or so, Eddie and I sat with the bartender. We drank and made her laugh, and I watched as she slowly fell in love with Eddie. I don’t think either of us realized what a great foundation we had laid until 5
P.M.
when other people started showing up. She leaned across the bar and said, “I know this town doesn’t seem like much, but we rage here.” Eddie and I both laughed, but she was serious. “Why don’t you guys take my car, go back to my house, take naps, and let me prove it to you? I live three blocks from here, super easy to get to. My roommate is gone, so you guys can get some rest, shower, come back, and I promise you a party you’ll never forget.”

With an offer like that, we had no choice but to accept. So we took her keys, found her house, and, as we both lay in her bed, laughed at just how far Eddie’s con had gotten us.

“What the fuck is wrong with people that they trust that easily?” Eddie said.

“What the fuck is wrong with you that you can so easily get people to do things like give you their car and house without suspicion.”

We giggled, drunk, and fell asleep. When we awoke, it didn’t seem so funny. It was dark, we were already hungover, and a stranger had entrusted us with her house and her car. Things had gone too far already and we felt like fucking creeps. We decided that, whatever we had gotten ourselves into, we needed to get out. We would drive back to the Mexican restaurant, give the bartender her keys back, walk back down to the bus station, get our bags, and hop on a late bus to Philly.

But as we pulled up to the Mexican restaurant we noticed that the once empty parking lot was packed. We walked through the front door, heads hung low, to find what I can honestly describe as the hardest raging party we had seen since our days at FSU. Chicks were dancing on the bar, dudes pumping their fists, a python hanging from the rafters (not really, but it felt like that), all while music throbbed out of the sound system.

The party stopped on a dime at our arrival. Then, as if out of a movie, a Seth Green–looking guy approached, opened the
Rolling Stone
I was profiled in, looked at the pictures, looked at me, looked back at the pictures, and then yelled into the crowd, “It’s really him!” Again, as if out of a movie, the crowd began to jump, shout, and cheer. I looked at Eddie, who looked back at me in disbelief as we were pushed to the bar where shots were lined up. The crowd was already chanting “Drink” as we approached.

There, we found our hostess smiling. “I called all my friends and told them we had to show you guys how hard we party. I also bought the Tyson fight. Everyone is here for you guys and the drinks are free, so have a good time.”

Like any great night of drinking, we were pulled in a hundred different directions, barely hearing anyone, taking lots of shots with strangers, and wondering if anyone would let us put fingers in them. I remember being told how great the Poconos were, how they knew how to party. I remember telling people about
Rolling Stone
and Oliver Stone. And I remember getting into an intense discussion with a guy about how dogs could fuck through a fence and, somehow, how that related to glass blowing.

At the end of the night our hostess gave us a wink as she yelled last call. She pulled us aside and told us to hang back as the bar cleared out, last call didn’t apply to us. A moment later I looked over to see a smiling Eddie in front of a table of fifteen girls, at the head of which was our bartender.

Eddie grabbed my arm. “She said they were for us.”

This is when things get hazy (also, coincidentally, when the first joint was lit). I remember that the bar was ours to do with as we pleased, and we did. We tried spitting fire. We did belly-button body shots. I set my sights on a tall blonde, who must have told me one hundred times that she “wasn’t wearing no panties.” We played “I never,” and laughed as we walked our way through town and back to our hostess’s house, smoking yet another joint.

As we stumbled in, the blonde and I found ourselves on a couch, away from everyone. We kissed the kind of kiss that you can only have with a stranger, the kind of kiss that suggests there is much more to come. I was so high that I literally imagined my hands were Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, exploring recently acquired, unknown territories. They were met with such frenzied excitement to the north that the next logical step for the pair seemed to be to travel south. But as they headed south, they were stopped by Indians. They tried to push forward, but once again, the Indians held their ground. This confused the explorers, considering they had heard so much about the spoils of the land down south.

If you aren’t into analogies: I felt her up but she wouldn’t let me finger her. I tried one last time so she wouldn’t tell her friends I was a quitter when she stopped kissing me and whispered, “Look, I’m just doing enough to get in the book.”

So out of it, and sooo wasted, I looked back at her in confusion. “What book?”

“Uh, your book.
American Transit
?”

Right! I did my best to get out of what was now an awkward situation. “Of course, my book, oh you are totally in it.”

We went back to kissing, my hands now turning into Frederick Cook and his crew, who explored the terrain of the North Pole. Meanwhile, my South Pole begged for attention.

As this was happening, Eddie, always the gracious guest, figured he owed it to the chick who had set up the entire evening—the bartender whose house we were at—to repay her kindness. He took her back to her room and fucked her.

We left the next morning, thankfully with no fanfare, and caught a bus at the station, sleeping the entire way. That night we recounted the adventure to my cousin and his friends before the concert. And the next day I got a call from John Beimer, who with a heavy heart told me that he was moving home to Florida. If I wanted, I could take his place in New York. So I did. Eddie went back to L.A. to “tie up some loose ends” before moving to New York, and the next month I sublet an apartment on East Eleventh and Third Avenue for the two of us. But Eddie knew from day one that New York wasn’t really for him. He lasted half of one month and one Atkins Diet before an opportunity to run some coffee field in San Salvador opened up and he tapped out.

*   *   *

I neither remember the town we stayed in that night, nor do I remember the name of our hostess. I remember the simple layout of the town, that Mike Tyson fought his first fight since getting out of prison that night, and that whatever town that was, they partied harder than most places I’ve ever been. I sometimes wonder if they remember us, that night, and the stories we told. Who can say?

But I can say this much. Dear tall blonde who wasn’t wearing no panties: I don’t know what you’re doing these days—whether or not you’re married and have kids like me, or where you live. I’m genuinely sorry I don’t remember your name. But I am a man of my word: You definitely made it into the book.

7.

The Flesh Prince of Bel Air

Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down, and I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there, I’ll tell you about the time I met the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It was June of 1998 and I had been doing stand-up for roughly six months. My version of stand-up at the time was basically just throwing a party on stage—all crowd work, very little material, even less clothing. This is when
Time Out New York
wrote an article about me, telling the masses that I was their connection to college kids when it came to comedy.

There was some truth to that, but not as much as you’d think. I was younger than most comics working the clubs, having just graduated college a year before, but at twenty-six, I was also well older than the college kids I was apparently connecting with. At the time, I had been working the front door, barking for the Boston Comedy Club in New York City. “Barking” meant that I stood in front of the club and tried to pull any living, breathing person into the club. I basically harassed anyone who dared to walk down West Third Street between Thompson and Sullivan. If I brought in more than twenty people over the course of a night, I got stage time. So, taking into consideration that the club was one block away from NYU, I decided to let any college kid that looked 21-ish into the club for free, often explaining that our drinking-age policy was somewhat lenient. What college kid wasn’t going to appreciate the performance of the guy who got him in to see the likes of Dave Chappelle, Dave Attell, Jim Breuer, Jim Norton, Greg Giraldo, Tracy Morgan, Dane Cook, and Jay Mohr for free, and who, with a wink, told him it was a “mandatory” two-drink minimum? In short, I killed in that room.

That, coupled with my reputation as “The Number One Party Animal in the Country” and the piece in
Time Out,
got the eye of a few casting directors—but most importantly it got me noticed by Barry Katz, a talent manager and owner of the Boston Comedy Club. Barry is notorious for two alleged things, rigging
Last Comic Standing
and stealing money from his clients, neither of which happened to me. He read the article and immediately set up a showcase to see me perform. One of the best things about Barry was that he could make magic happen when it came to a young comic’s career, mostly because he owned the club you were going to perform at, so he could stack the lineup. Knowing this was my big shot, I filled the room with college kids, ending my set with the story of the time I took acid and went to Disneyland.

Barry liked me and one Friday, he set up another showcase for me to perform in front of David Tochterman, the head of the television department at Overbrook Entertainment, Will Smith’s production company. David, Barry told me, had the golden eye when it came to comedy development. He had worked at Carsey-Werner during its heyday and had discovered the majority of their talent: Tim Allen, Brett Butler, Roseanne Barr.

I didn’t really have a “tight ten” at the time, so I just improv’d my set. I couldn’t tell you what I talked about other than Puerto Ricans and black people; all I know is it was of the moment, and it killed. David approached me after and asked if I would be interested in a development deal. I just melted. Every comic wanted the coveted development deal, the greatest gift you can get from Hollywood, other than a blow job from Scarlett Johansson or seed from Steven Spielberg. A development deal is when a comedian gets paid a ridiculous amount of money not to work for a year—absolutely ridiculous, right?—in order to develop a sitcom for the person paying you. Most of the time they fizzle into nothing, but sometimes they turn into hugely successful TV shows. It was like one attempt at a half-court shot for a million dollars. I had heard about development deals from other comics, but never thought in a million years that I would get one. But there I was, six months into comedy, still working the door at the Boston Comedy Club, with a six-figure development deal hanging over my head.

David and I walked down the street to a wine bar and he explained two things. One, for this deal to go through, Will Smith had to take a liking to me, which was no problem in my opinion since I had been following him since seventh grade. And two, that shaking hands with black men was complicated. After walking me through a parade of handshakes that more mimicked getting tape unstuck from your hand than an actual handshake, he told me that he would set up a meeting with Will for the upcoming weekend and warned me not to fuck up the handshake. I told him I got it.

*   *   *

That Saturday, I was in a taxi with my new manager, Barry, who had staked his claim on my career like a codependent pimp, heading to the recording studio that Will was basically living out of while recording his new album,
Willennium
. As we waited in the lobby, I asked Barry to hold my camera and take a picture of us after the meeting. I remember the look on Barry’s face when I asked. It was as if I had just told him I’d like him to jerk me off with his feet.