Despite Dad’s words, that day was the first time my brother said he was proud of me. When it comes to family and friends, either they believe in you right away, before you’ve ever done anything, or they’re your toughest critics and the last ones to offer praise. Those words from my brother further sky-rocketed my mood that day, that week, that month.
The only person who didn’t see me win was my mom. Because she was turning her life over to God more and more each year, she didn’t want to hear me using obscenities and talking about sexual or violent situations. And she definitely didn’t want to go to a place where people drank alcohol. However, I wasn’t upset about it. It’s a true act of love to believe in someone and support them wholeheartedly, even though you don’t morally or ethically agree with them.
At the end of the night I was given the championship jacket, but it was Bernie Mac–sized. I was practically swimming in it, so they promised to get one custom-made with my name on it.
For weeks, I waited for that jacket to arrive in the mail, and it never came. In the meantime, I wore the oversized jacket every day. People accused me of lying about winning the contest and stealing someone else’s coat. But because it had “Def Comedy Jam Winner” emblazoned on the back and I knew that winner was me, no drug could have gotten me higher and no intervention could have brought me down.
Until I met Keith Robinson.
38
* * *
OR IS IT MORE EGOTISTICAL THAT FIVE CHAPTERS LATER, I’M STILL WORRYING ABOUT HOW IT MADE ME LOOK?
I wasn’t “the new guy” in Philadelphia anymore. Everyone knew my name. Comedians who’d never spoken to me before would come up and say, “Congratulations, man.” People who had never seen me perform were saying I was funny, just because that’s what everyone else was saying. And I was taking every show I could hustle, because I needed all the stage time I could get to prepare for when the Def Comedy Jam tour came to town.
I took so many shows that I started making more money. So when Paul lost his job and tried to steal from Torrei’s purse to pay the rent, I decided it was time to start living alone. I carefully prepared a budget, and determined that if I continued to work this hard, I could afford four hundred dollars for rent plus another one hundred dollars for utilities and other expenses.
On a Saturday night a few weeks before the Def Jam show, I stopped by the Laff House, where a local comedian named Keith Robinson was headlining. Although I’d never met Keith, he’d been around for a while and was one of the most respected performers in the local scene. He’d acted in a TV movie with Don Cheadle. I think he even performed on Star Search back when I was in elementary school.
I strutted up to him at the beginning of the night, wearing my Def Jam jacket, and asked him for a guest spot, which I was sure he would give me because of the aforementioned jacket.
“Can I have a spot tonight?”
“What’s your name, young fella?” he responded, in what had to be the most grating voice to ever rub my ear.
“Lil’ Kev the Bastard,” I told him proudly.
“The Bastard?” He screwed up his face. “That’s fucking horrible.”
“Tell me how you really feel.” I smiled, assuming he was joking.
“Fucking horrible,” he repeated. He wasn’t joking. “What’s your name, stupid?”
“Kevin.” Pause, no response. “Kevin Hart.”
“Much better. I wanna see what you got, young fella. Yeah, you can get a guest spot.”
There were several other comedians there jockeying for stage time, but he shut them down and said, “I’m only giving this kid here a spot.”
I was in great form from all the practicing I’d been doing, so I went on stage and boom, boom, boom, I hit them with every joke I had. It was Saturday night, and the place was thick with laughter.
After the set, I asked Keith, “What did you think?” I was certain I’d impressed him with my young, raw talent, and waited for the praise to roll in.
“It was awful.”
“Awful?” In all this time, no one had said anything that direct and harsh to me—especially not an older, established comedian.
“You’re not talking about shit,” he continued. “I’m not getting to know who you are.”
“What do you mean? You just saw me. Everyone was laughing.”
“So what? People will laugh at anything. You’re doing ‘black crowd tricks,’ son. Comedy is about experimentation. You’re rehashing corny bits that have already been done and will always work. It’s TV dinner comedy: prepackaged.” His words hurt, but I tried not to show it. “Stop catering to the audience and start working on being a comedian, young fella.”
I tried to respond, but I couldn’t get any words out. I’d just beat out all the other comedians in Philly. I had to at least have something going for me.
“Now, I definitely saw some pizzazz,” Keith went on. “I saw a solid stage presence and a lot of energy. But none of that set was about you. So it means nothing.”
There’s only so much abuse a person can take. Who was this guy to come out of nowhere and tell me to change my whole act?
“You tell ’em your real name.” He slapped me hard on the back. “It’ll take you further and it’ll sharpen you up. Stay and watch my set.”
I stuck around and saw Keith perform. His entire routine was about him: his life, his point of view, his family. He told jokes about his mom and his brother, sharing insights about them that were so specific, they had to be true. Unlike me, he was very relaxed on stage and wasn’t afraid to take long pauses and let things settle. He didn’t seem to be putting on a persona so much as sharing his own personality at its best. He was right: Compared to him, I looked like an amateur who was trying too hard.
I decided that night to try letting go of my comedy name. When there are no consequences to taking someone’s advice, then there’s no reason not to test it out and see if it works.
* * *
In the days that followed, I told hosts to introduce me as “Kevin Hart.” And I discovered that while Keith’s advice worked for him, it didn’t work for me. I had no swag as Kevin Hart. I wasn’t interesting as Kevin Hart. I wasn’t funny as Kevin Hart.
Just imagine: You’re on a date. You’re at a comedy club. You’re both a little nervous and hoping to have a special night together, a night to remember. You’ve never heard of the performers, but your friend promised you that this club was a good time.
Someone comes out and says: “I’m Kevin Hart. What’s up?”
Someone else comes out and says: “I’m Lil’ Kev the Bastard. What’s up?”
Which one is going to get you more hyped, have you smiling at your date with that look in your eyes that says, “See, I told you this place was fun”?
From the start, Lil’ Kev the Bastard is funnier. He has attitude. He has presence. He’s memorable. He’s original. He doesn’t give a fuck. You are ready to laugh at this little bastard.