Maybe We'll Have You Back: The Life of a Perennial TV Guest Star (7 page)

At the table reading, the laughs were huge. It felt as if we were at a pep rally to give the world the next comedy dynasty—a
Cheers
or
Taxi
. Unfortunately, this feeling did not last once we got on the set and started the week of rehearsals.

Before this, I had never even visited a set, so it was all new and exciting for me. The main set was the deli itself. In typical three-camera sitcom style, there were rooms with one side sliced off for the studio audience and cameras to see. The focal point of the set was the deli counter. Off to the side was Mr. Singer’s apartment.

Esther Rolle didn’t seem thrilled to be part of the show. On the set she was very cordial, but spent most of her breaks in her room. She confided to me she had played too many maids and wasn’t eager to play another one. But like anyone, she preferred to be working than not. She opened up with how frustrating her last few seasons on
Good Times
were. She resented the silly direction the show had gone in from its roots as a social commentary on a lower-class black family. She reenacted for me a scene in which her son, played by Jimmie J. J. Walker, was supposed to simply take an apple out of the refrigerator but hammed it up with a lot of over the top mugging while he pondered what food was there. I was trying not to laugh, because what she found offensive and clownish was funny to me. I was already partial to Walker because of when I first saw him on TV. I had never seen anyone like him. He wasn’t like the pretty teens on all the other shows I watched growing up like
The Partridge Family
and
The Brady Bunch
. He was skinny and goofy-looking like I was.

I remember the guest actors were all hopeful that they would reappear on the show too, if it were to be picked up. I sat with them at lunch and overheard all of their nervous desperation:

“I was a cop, so if there’s ever a problem again in the deli, they’ll bring me back I hope.”

“I’m the third lead’s uncle. I think I’m in because I’m related to a cast regular!”

“I ordered the fruit salad. Maybe that’s what I could be known as: The Guy Who Eats the Fruit Salad.”

Little did I know that for the next twenty years, all of my hopes would be just like those of these needy guest actors. Like the guy who ordered the fruit salad, I’d always hope that any small connection to the show would be enough to get me back on.

Each day, we’d rehearse the scenes with just the director. At the end of the day, the producers would come to the set for a run-through that for me quickly became a dreaded event. When the assistant director would shout out, “Ten minutes to run-through!” as he set up the row of director chairs in front of the deli set where the top brass would sit and watch, I’d tremble with fear. No live performance of any kind felt as pressurized as that little row of bodies with their notepads in hand, scrutinizing every nuance of the show. When this gang of producers finally did come to the set, it felt as if the bullies had invaded the playground, ready to negate any fun we might have been having. Suddenly I felt like a non-person. When I tried to say hi to the showrunner, he snubbed me; he seemed more worried about the props. Entire sections were totally rewritten. The filming was delayed because some felt it wasn’t ready. There was even talk that the whole thing might be scrapped. The more run-throughs we had, the more time everyone had to get nervous and pick the show apart. The showrunner was a nervous guy to begin with, and the network couldn’t afford to be casual when they’ve invested millions of dollars in a new series.

After each run-through, we’d get syllable-by-syllable notes on how to do each line. The showrunner told the black guys how to talk “blacker.” I felt uncomfortable watching this preppy little guy with glasses strut and bob his head precisely demonstrating the proper lingo and movements: “Yo, Shell! You-be-cool-bro!” I wondered if the black guys were offended, but they just said, “Got it” and took the notes.

I just had a few lines. My big moment occurred when a black guy came in for the first time, and I had to act terrified, as if he was going to rob the place. But I would get conflicting notes from one run-through to the next. I’d do what the director had told me to do during rehearsals, and then in the notes session get chewed out by the showrunner for being so off. Once he said that the viewers would change the channel because of me. The director never came to my defense. When I told him that I was confused, he just told me that I had better get it together and stop being so nervous.

After run-throughs, the writers retreated to their offices for long hours of rewriting. The production assistants would deliver the revised scripts in manila envelopes to the actors’ homes either late that night or early the next morning. I kept waking up in the middle of the night and reaching outside my door for that envelope to see what lines of mine had survived from that day’s run-through. I remember leafing through the script and freaking out when I’d see lines that I thought I hit the day before had been cut. Now I know that scripts always start a little long so lines will be trimmed as the week progresses and the first ones to lose lines are the secondary characters, but to this day, even if I know I had a great run-through, I’ll always worry about getting cut. And back then, I was really a nervous wreck.

With good reason, it turned out. The most horrifying run-through of
Singer & Sons
came just a few days before we were finally going to tape. Afterwards, I did not get one note, and that just did not seem right. I went over to the showrunner and asked if what I did was okay. He made no eye contact and walked right past me as if I were dead. I freaked out. I needed reassuring, so I sought out the woman who was tutoring the young actress on the show and had worked with the showrunner before. She was blunt. She said that it looked like I was gone. She said that’s the way it’s been with him on his other shows. No notes, you’re off.

I rushed home and called my agent. He confirmed the bad news. The showrunner wanted to fire me. But why? The agent could only speculate. “Why do you think?” he asked.

“Maybe I was nervous. I admit that. But everyone is telling me something different, or they’re completely ignoring me.”

My agent had some sobering ideas. “You know what, I don’t think this guy wanted you, even from the beginning. He created the show and had a vision of your character, and then the network thrust you upon him.”

“Then why’d he hire me in the first place?”

“This happens more than you know. Sometimes a producer will not fight the network at the start to get their project green-lit, and then they might have their first choice waiting in the wings once it’s off and running. He might have been auditioning others for your role even after you were cast. But sit tight. The network’s trying to convince him to let you stay on.”

That whole weekend I was a mess of insecurity and self-loathing, but in the end they did convince him to let me stay. I was still nervous knowing I wasn’t to his liking, but was relieved as all hell to still be there. Esther Rolle took me aside and gave me little pep talks. “Don’t let anyone in show business ever determine your self-worth. You’re wonderful.”

On tape night the audience was packed, mostly with those who were bused in from various Hollywood tourist spots and been handed tickets by guys with the job I once had.

What they try to downplay when pawning off the tickets is that a half-hour show usually takes three to five hours to tape. Not only did a new or little-known show have to bus its crowds in, they often had to feed them and sometimes even had to pay them to sit through the taping. Later in my career I witnessed studio ushers having to escort out deranged, screaming homeless people from the audience. They probably got in because the ticket guys were desperate to earn their money by getting any warm bodies into the seats.

Why does everything take so long? Each scene that you see is done at least two times to get different camera coverage. And after a scene, the writers will converge on the set and try to come up with funnier lines right there on the spot. Sometimes these huddles could take as long as half an hour. There’s a warm-up host, usually a stand-up comic, who has to keep the crowd hanging in there by tossing out candy bars, T-shirts, and praying someone has a birthday so the audience can all sing “Happy Birthday.” One time, I could swear he stretched by having everyone sing “Happy Birthday” to someone who had one coming up in two weeks.

During the taping, the few lines I had seemed to click. The showrunner, my one-time adversary, began warming up to me. He shook my hand for the first time, finally not afraid that acknowledging me in any way would indicate he wanted me around. With a big smile, he told me I had done a great job. But I made a mistake and told my acting coach about my close call. I should have expected Claudette’s response.

“Now do you see how crucial it is you get coached?”

Claudette did have a nurturing side. She was not this dour Nurse Ratched—more like a seductress from a horror film. On tape night of that first episode, she had been there on set cheering me on. She watched me do my first scene and hugged me afterwards.

“I am so proud of you. You have come so far. Now we have just three more shows to get through, sweetie. Call me when you have the next script. We got to get working on it as soon as possible.”

It wasn’t easy for me to sever the ties. I was still traumatized from my near-firing. I got coached for the next three episodes, but was getting more resentful. And Claudette doubled her fee. She informed me that coaching for a part is an entirely different, more involved process than coaching for an audition. But, of course, it was because she knew I had money now. I told myself to just pay the new fee and know I had done everything I could. The producers may have gained some confidence in me, but my parts were still very small. In one of the episodes, I had two lines and had to high five one of the “cool” black guys. That hour Claudette worked me over and over on it. I was paying double the normal fee to have this theater professional carefully evaluate my high five.

“Do it again. Fred, do it again but extend the arm higher and straighter.”

So I did it, and she said, “Much better. That’s the way to high five!” That’s how insecure this business makes you feel—that you need to pay for high five lessons.

The run-throughs got a little less scary for me over the next three episodes. The mood on the set relaxed just a little. The series regulars talked about possible time slots that might be good for the show and hopes of real estate purchases should it become a success.

After the four episodes were done, the showrunner seemed glad I was kept on after all. Apparently, I had delivered an awesome high five. I am a big enough man to give credit to the coach, if that is what did it. Unfortunately, my high five wasn’t awesome enough to save the show. It aired on Saturday night for four weeks in June of 1990. I remember checking the paper when the weekly Nielsen ratings were posted and having to look far down the list to find our show. It probably only got the attention of die hard
Empty Nest
fans, who were livid that for four weeks, their beloved show was preempted for something called
Singer & Sons
. It died a quick death and most likely did little to help heal race relations as some on the set had envisioned.

Since my casting had been so swift, I thought it would only be matter of time before I got another full-time gig. Instead, more than twenty years later,
Singer & Sons
remains the only time that I’ve had the chance to be a regular on a new series. It also remains the most tense set I’ve ever been on. And I’m glad, because after that, almost every show has been great by comparison. Worried about finances, I decided right then that I was done with acting coaches. There was no ugly confrontation when I broke it off. I just stopped calling, and thankfully, she didn’t track me down to ask why. I told myself that it just wasn’t worth it. I had decided that auditions were all so arbitrary anyway that it made as much sense as paying someone to coach you on how to pull the lever on a slot machine.

8

OTHER PEOPLE’S HOMES

N
eglecting to tell me I had been booked for a week of work just days away was the last straw in my deteriorating relationship with the William Morris Agency. The agent who had originally taken me on had moved to another department, and I had been “dropped in the lap” of another agent. I’d soon find out being dropped onto someone’s lap isn’t always a good thing. People like when something or someone is their own discovery. This agent had an oversized roster of clients he had passionately found and carefully placed on his own lap. The William Morris Agency is huge. If you aren’t a hot commodity with a production deal or a name like Brad Pitt or Tom Hanks, it’s not just easy to get lost in the shuffle, it’s almost guaranteed.

If the wardrobe lady hadn’t called for my sizes a few days in advance, I would’ve been in a depressing comedy condo in Dayton, Ohio, trying to decide which of three mustard containers in the fridge contained the least bacteria as my name was being introduced at the table read of
Lenny
. This would be my first network guest appearance since
Singer & Sons
. In that seven months since I played Sheldon, the timid deli guy, half that money I earned had gone to taxes, living expenses, and the rest to my agent and coach.

The role I was to play was in a new show featuring Lenny Clarke, a stand-up comedian who had immense popularity in his hometown of Boston. In his self-titled show
Lenny
he played a good-natured working-class lug, working two jobs trying to make good for his family. Mainly he worked for the electric company, but at night sometimes moonlighted as a doorman at a fancy hotel. I’d be playing the bellhop.

The set was a great contrast to the stress and panic from the
Singer &
Sons
set. At the run-throughs, the producers were very accessible, greeting me and telling me I was doing a good job. After the first run-through, Lenny mentioned there was a good chance they’d “bring me back.” That was the first time someone said that to me. I remembered that on
Singer & Sons
, that was the magic phrase the fruit salad guy longed to hear.

Only the show was not doing well in the ratings, but everyone on the set was still fairly optimistic. Just a few more episodes were produced after my appearance and I never did return.

“What the hell’s
Lenny
?” was the first thing my mother asked when I told her I was on it, and that was what most people who saw it on my résumé also wanted to know. But it was significant to me because I got that part on my own without any coaching. And it also lit the fire in me to leave my agent and find one who, like me, felt getting booked on a show as a cackling dopey bellhop was something worth noting.