Gasping for Airtime (19 page)

But by the time “Rock and Roll Real Estate” aired on
Saturday Night Live,
the sketch had been read at three consecutive read-throughs. It had been rehearsed three times on Thursday or Friday night and three more times on Saturday for camera blocking. It had been performed in three live dress rehearsals in front of three different studio audiences. When David Duchovny, Molly Shannon, and I took our places during the second to last commercial break of the season, the sketch was about to be done out loud for the thirteenth time in three weeks.

The show had run like clockwork and the sketch did not get cut. It bombed horribly, which was made worse by the fact that I was dancing around like a jackass during its demise. Each time the sketch had been cut, I had performed it the next time with a little something extra at the read-throughs and the rehearsals. Twelve times I gave everything I had. My intensity increased incrementally with each performance or rehearsal. When the sketch reached America on the thirteenth try, it got no laughs. The sketch, like me, was tired.

I finished the sketch knowing that it had tanked. I knew the reason it tanked was because I had no more energy. I now hated the sketch. They could have taken it away from me whenever they wanted, which made the actual performing of the sketch more of a fuck-you than the great experience it should have been. When the sketch ended, I pulled my Rod Stewart wig off by myself, ripping out some of my hair that was bobby-pinned to my scalp and the wig. I didn’t care. It was over. Once again, I had survived the madness for twenty weeks.

The season-ending after-party was held at the skating rink at 30 Rock, and it was an extravagant affair attended by countless celebrities as well as former hosts and cast members. I actually enjoyed myself at the party and didn’t get as drunk as usual. I got home at a decent hour, went straight to bed, and slept until 5:30
P.M
. the following day. I woke up to pee and went right back to bed and slept until early Monday morning, at which point I woke up to pack for my afternoon flight back to Los Angeles.

On the flight, I took out a yellow legal pad and began to make another list. This was a list of things that I would have to be assured would change if I was going to return to the show. I was prepared to walk away. If I was going to be on
Saturday Night Live
for a third season, things were going to have to change. Never again, I wrote, would Don Pardo scream, “And featuring!” before he announced my name. If I came back, it was going to be as a full cast member. Never again would I have to sit in an elevator shaft on a show night and scribble caveman drawings on the walls in pencil. Never again would someone write me into a sketch as a guy who says nothing, like some extra they dragged off the street.

Over the summer, I continued to add to my list. I made it abundantly clear to my agent that if I was to return to the show, these changes would have to be implemented. If I remained on
Saturday Night Live,
I had firmly made up my mind that I was going to be treated better, and I didn’t care if I had to put it in writing. I wanted more money, not as a reward for the great work I had done, but for standing around and eating shit over the last two seasons. I figured that if the show had more of a financial interest in me, they might choose more of my sketches on Wednesday nights. I went over my plans with my agent, Ruthanne, and my manager, Barry. I was ready for battle.

I learned that summer that you can’t fight someone if he doesn’t show up.

On July 1, the NBC lawyers called my agent. Instead of begging to have me back, they were asking for an extension on the option until July 6, just as they had done the previous year. I told Ruthanne that I wanted an answer now instead of later. Again, she reminded me that it probably wasn’t best to push their hand if they were asking for an extension, so again I agreed to the five-day extension. I pacified myself by polishing the complaints on my list.

On July 6, the show called and asked for another extension. This time they told my agent they needed until July 14. Again, I agreed to the extension and the power of my list slowly disintegrated. On July 14, the show called my agent and asked for another extension. They now needed until July 24 to decide if they wanted me back. My lists were useless. Like the previous summer, I had been stripped down naked and made to wait by the phone. Just like last year, I was hoping the phone would ring and praying that I was still welcome on the seventeenth floor of 30 Rock. Then, on July 24, the show called my agent and asked for another extension.

When Ruthanne called me to relay the news, I didn’t shout or complain. I didn’t ask her advice on how to proceed. I remained calm. I took a breath and told her, using a single word, that I was finished with it all. I told her to go back to the show and tell them that I didn’t accept their option. I told her no. She explained to me that by doing so, I might be helping them make their decision. I no longer cared what their decision was. I was done.

This was the biggest professional decision I had ever made, but I was never so sure of anything in my life. It was over. How could I go back? If I decided I wanted to go back, I had a list of demands that I wanted met. But now I was on the fifth extension of the option, and with each extension I had been stripped of negotiating power. I don’t know what was said behind closed doors or what considerations were involved in rehiring me. I didn’t care. It was over.

I tried for twenty weeks to put a square peg into a round hole. I took a summer off and tried it again for twenty more weeks. I was defeated. I no longer wanted to swim upstream. I was tired of dressing rooms and Marisa Tomei and sketches getting cut after dress rehearsal. I was tired of waiting for Jim Downey to finish watching high school basketball games. I was tired of getting fall-down drunk at the after-parties. I was tired of Rob Schneider looking at sushi through a jeweler’s loupe. I was tired of hearing “you can’t say
get laid
” at 12:15
A.M
. on
Saturday Night Live
. I was tired of complaining, and most of all, I was tired of being a phony.

Like many performers, when I was first hired for
Saturday Night Live,
I had a constant feeling of “What am I doing here?” Now, two years and forty shows later, I was still asking the same question. How bad do I want to go to work for a group of people that need five extensions to decide whether they wanted me back? In regards to
Saturday Night Live,
I would never ask myself that question again. I was empty. I had no fight left in me. They had won. I was tired.

I needed a nap.

W
HEN
I think back on
Saturday Night Live,
I see the show in a series of snapshots. Three types of shots play out in my head. The first group of photos are very benign. I see the writers’ room with all of the chairs in it, the stage in studio 8-H, the hallways and the pictures on the walls, and the corners and the sides of people’s faces. I have no emotion when I think of these things. I feel as if someone I don’t know is showing me pictures of the inside of their house.

The next set of snapshots always makes me smile. I see Fred Wolf, who does not smoke, walking around with an unlit cigarette in his mouth all night on Tuesdays; Bob Van Rye and Jane the janitor smiling; Jim Downey walking out of his office and brushing his teeth at the same time; Dave Attell in his denim jacket; Adam Sandler, David Spade, and Tim Meadows all laughing at one of Sandler’s stories; the couch I sat on my first day; Norm Macdonald smiling and lighting up the room; and Don Pardo ready to tell the world who will be on
Saturday Night Live
that week.

The final group of snapshots I see in my head are more like little short movies. They are snippets of conversations and pieces of sketches that last a few seconds, but linger with me for days. The longer these scenarios repeat in my head, the more they trigger other memories that I had temporarily forgotten. All of these vignettes are special. I enjoy thinking back on them when I am lying in my bed alone at night. One montage ends in a single image that stands out above all others: May 14, 1994, Phil Hartman and Chris Farley’s last show.

The final sketch of that show was a musical tribute to Phil, who had received a bronze tube of glue from the cast earlier that day to commemorate the nickname given to him by Sandler. Wearing a double-breasted charcoal suit with a maroon and white polka-dot tie, Phil began the sketch by smiling and addressing the camera: “Ladies and gentlemen, as we close out our nineteenth season, let’s say good-bye to the
Saturday Night Live
family singers.” Phil waved his hand toward the stage behind him and we all marched out.

The entire cast, as well as all the featured performers, filed onto the stage and began to sing “So Long, Farewell” from the movie
The Sound of Music
. There were fourteen of us onstage, and we were all dressed as our recurring characters. We all belted out: “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen good night” and waved good-bye.

Then Adam Sandler and David Spade sang by themselves, as the Gap Girls: “We sell you jeans, like even if they’re too tight.” Then Sandler and Spade giggled like girls and danced off the stage. That left twelve of us. Some of us waved when we should have squatted. Some of us squatted when we were supposed to wave. The entire thing was very poorly rehearsed.

Next, Melanie Hutsell as Tori Spelling and Tim Meadows as Ike Turner sang to Kevin Nealon, who didn’t have any lines in the song. The three of them danced off the stage. Then Norm Macdonald, Sarah Silverman, and I sang, “We’re not on a lot, so we better try and score” and we danced off the stage. As we exited, Sarah jumped up on my back and Norm sort of sulked along behind us with his hands in his pockets.

That left seven people on the stage. Mike Myers as Linda Richman from “Coffee Talk” sang his solo and did a hora off the stage, and the crowd went bananas. That was the first applause break of the sketch. Ellen Cleghorne sang as Zoraida the NBC page, and she too received an applause break.

Four people stood on the stage and continued singing “So long, farewell.” Rob Schneider as the Copy Guy and Julia Sweeney as Pat sang a duet and left the other cast members standing behind them. Michael McKean was dressed as Lenny from
Laverne & Shirley
. He sang, “I don’t have a character yet, but I was on
Laverne & Shirley
.” He did his dance off the stage as Lenny, and the crowd applauded along with hoots and hollers.

That left one person onstage. It was Chris Farley dressed as the Motivational Speaker. Before he even opened his mouth, the crowd went apeshit. He started to walk to the front of the stage, hitching his pants up as he walked. At this point in the sketch, the song had slowed down to a lullaby and Chris began singing softly, “So long, farewell, hey, what am I, chopped liver?” He let out a yawn and sat down on the edge of the stage and continued, “I need to sleep in a van down by the river.” Chris yawned again and bowed his head as if he had fallen asleep.

Phil Hartman walked out from the side of the stage and sat down next to Chris. As Phil sat, Chris rested his head on Phil’s lapel. Phil then looked at the camera again and said, “You know, I can’t imagine a more dignified way…” That’s when his voice cracked. The glue. It was the last thing he was going to say on
Saturday Night Live
as a cast member. The sight of Phil’s eyes getting moist was stunning. His voice quivered as if he might cry, and he paused for a second to collect himself. He continued speaking into the camera, saying, “To end my eight years on this program…” Chris cuddled up into Phil and Phil sang, “Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.” The camera angle on the last “good-bye” switched to the crane camera that swung through the studio. Phil was looking up as he sang. Farley nuzzled in closer to Phil and moved his head from Phil’s lapel to his shoulder. The sketch ended like that, with Phil Hartman and Chris Farley sitting onstage together, sleeping and singing “Good-bye.”

The stage lights dimmed and the only light left on the stage was a small spot focused on Chris and Phil. The entire stage was dark except for the circle of light on the shoulders and heads of Chris and Phil. When this snapshot comes into my mind, it remains longer than the others. It’s as if you were staring into a lightbulb the moment someone switches it off. The room goes dark, but you can still see the coils of the bulb.

Whenever I think of Phil and Chris sitting together on the stage in studio 8-H in the early morning hours of May 15, 1994, to say that it was all worthwhile is belittling. It was glorious.