On the fifth week of the competition, TuRae scheduled me in the headlining slot as the last comic of the night. When he introduced me, he seemed as excited as I was: “Yo, it’s been four weeks in a row. Somebody’s gotta stop him, man! Is this gonna be the week?”
I felt like I was a big deal now, and I grabbed the mic with confidence. I was getting comfortable with my set, so instead of just trying to remember my material, I was able to think about pausing, pacing, facial expressions, and being more animated with my body. Most exciting of all, because I was a familiar face, I started making friends with other amateur comics and feeling like part of the scene instead of an outsider. Acceptance is a drug as powerful as crack.
By that time, the crowd had leveled off at about eighty people, but they were all ordering drinks and spending money. After I won again that night, TuRae sat down next to me and said, “Hey, I’m going to Virginia tomorrow. I got a show up there. You wanna roll?”
Instantly, the world got a lot bigger than the Laff House. I hadn’t even considered the fact that there were other comedy clubs to perform at. I could be doing this every night! However . . .
“I can’t,” I told him reluctantly. “I gotta go to work.”
“All right, I feel you.”
He walked away from the table and I sat there alone, watching the blue back of his shirt recede into the club, feeling like I’d just blown a big opportunity to make something of myself.
32
* * *
K HART QUITS HIS DAY JOB AND NEVER LOOKS BACK. (ACTUALLY, HE KIND OF GOES BACK, BUT THAT’S IN CHAPTER 98.)
After I won my sixth contest in a row, TuRae approached me again. “Hey, I got a gig way out in West Chester, Pennsylvania, if you wanna come with me this week.”
“Man, I still got this job, you know.”
“I know.”
You can say no to someone once, and they may ask again. You can even say no twice and get another shot. But three nos and you’re definitely out.
I was one no away from being out. The job I’d loved so much was suddenly a prison. There was a whole world of comedy clubs out there I was missing out on. If there were other amateur contests like this one, I could make a good living doing this. But even if there weren’t, I could still make my rent and food on seventy-five dollars a week. I was so confident, the possibility that I’d lose a contest didn’t even occur to me.
* * *
Here are some of the things people might say to you when you decide to pursue your dream:
“I know you’re excited about this right now, but you can’t make a living at it.”
“Are you sure this is what you want to do? Take some time and really think about it.”
“Don’t quit your day job.” “Stop dreaming.” “Be realistic.” “There’s no money in it.” “It’s not a smart choice.” “There’s too much competition.” “You’re not good enough.”
Many people will tell you to ignore these doubters. Others will tell you to listen and then prove them wrong, which worked for me in those first shows. But I’m going to recommend something better that I learned much later: Don’t invite them into the conversation. You already know what you want to dedicate yourself to, so you don’t need to ask for their approval. There’s no need to seek external approval when you already have internal approval.
That’s why, even though I had sought everyone’s advice about performing at that first open mic, I didn’t ask anyone about quitting City Sports to become a stand-up comedian. I just did it. It was all or nothing: I was ready to give this my all, and I didn’t want anyone saying anything to me otherwise. I was going to be a professional comedy amateur.
Even though I’d made up my mind, there were a few people I had to share that information with, people who made me nervous as hell: the managers at City Sports and my mom.
When I gave my two weeks’ notice at City Sports, the manager, Brandon—who’d been to the club to see me perform—couldn’t believe what I was saying.
Manager: Kevin, are you serious right now? You want to be a comedian?
Me: Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to be.
Manager: A comedian, Kevin? What’s going on? You have a career here. You’re good at it. There’s room to grow. You could get to corporate and be making seventy-five thousand dollars a year, and you’re just going to throw it away because you won amateur night at some comedy club?
Me: Pretty much.
Manager: I’m worried you’re letting this go to your head. You know, you’re headstrong; that’s your problem.
I didn’t say “okay” this time. I said:
Me: I know what I want to do with my life. I quit.
Less than two months before, these same people had been encouraging me to try comedy because I was so funny. Today, they were telling me to stop doing it. They believed in me then; now, suddenly, they didn’t believe in me?
I couldn’t understand it at the time, but later I thought about it. The problem is, many people want you to do things, up to the point where they lose control of you. As long as they’re still your boss or mentor or partner or good friend, it’s fine. But if it starts pulling you away from them or making you more successful than them or keeping you too busy to see them as much, then your dream can become their threat.
I knew who my real friends at the job were, people like Alice, because when I told them what I was doing, they supported me. “Keep going,” she said. “You’re gonna make it. Go be a star.”
After I gave my notice, doubt crept in: It wasn’t going to be easy to live off my winnings from amateur nights, especially since TuRae would probably want to let someone else win or another comedian might show up with louder friends than mine.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have to worry about this problem for long. When I went to the club to perform that next Thursday, they told me that the amateur competition had been canceled because it still wasn’t bringing in enough money for the club.
My entire life plan was made and destroyed in the space of a week.
What was I supposed to do now?
33
* * *
A LICENSE TO KILL
I still needed to break the news to my mom.
First I bombed the SATs. Then I dropped out of community college. Now I’d left my job, abandoned my plan of becoming a Nike rep, and switched to comedy, which wasn’t even going to pay the rent anymore. She’d sacrificed so much for me, and I was about to disappoint her yet again.
“I don’t want to go back to City Sports,” I explained nervously. “I really want to give this a chance.”
I studied her for a reaction. She didn’t look angry. She didn’t reach for a Hot Wheels track. She didn’t change her expression at all. She thought about it for a few seconds, then responded: “I believe in supporting anything you tell me you want to do with your life.”