And here’s what that was: more comedy clubs than I could ever imagine in a city, more talented comedians than I’d ever seen in a night, a seemingly endless supply of audience members, and a total lack of parking spaces.
We must have chauffeured Keith to seven comedy clubs that night, and we spent most of the time searching for parking. When he finally finished around one in the morning, he took us to a brick-walled basement club called the Comedy Cellar. The show had ended for the night, and upstairs there were a few lingering customers and a table full of loud comedians, who greeted Keith as he entered. I recognized some of them from television: Patrice O’Neal, Rich Vos, Jim Norton, Bill Burr.
Keith led us to an empty table. “Y’all hungry?” he offered. “Order some food. I’m gonna take care of you.”
He then stood up and headed to the long, dirty, drink-filled table full of loud comics.
“Can we sit with you?” I asked.
“No, that’s The Table. It’s for real comedians. Y’all ain’t qualified to sit there.”
He walked off, leaving Big Jay and me by ourselves.
“What the fuck is this, man?” Jay griped. “This is a waste of time. He didn’t even let us get on stage.”
I tried to be positive about it, but after sitting there for another ninety minutes while Keith completely ignored us, I had to agree: “We took him everywhere he wanted to go. Now he’s pretending like we don’t even exist?”
Around three in the morning, Keith decided to notice us again. “Come on, y’all,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We didn’t say a word as we shuffled back to the car. “What did you dummies see tonight?” Keith, in high spirits, asked as we began the long drive home. We said nothing. “What did y’all see? Did anything pop out to ya?”
“Man, we saw you perform seven times, and you ain’t even talk to us,” I finally said.
“I saw a lot of taxis trying to hit my fucking car,” Big Jay grumbled.
“That’s all you saw? Open your eyes, dummies. What you saw was a comedian get on stage seven different times and work on his material seven different ways. You saw a community of comedians. And you saw how many comedy clubs?”
“A lot,” I replied. “But why couldn’t we go on stage?”
“It’s not about you getting on stage, stupid. It’s about you seeing what’s out there. This is the world where you need to be if you wanna make it. I could easily get you guys into these clubs, but I’m not using my good name to help nobody that’s not serious and not making this a number one priority.”
“We’re serious. We just think we should have had the chance to get up.”
“Shut up about the get up. Get serious about learning. They spit on me for years before I could even think of getting up somewhere.”
I relented. “Okay, okay. We’re serious about learning.”
“Then keep rolling with me, and everything will fall into place.”
“All right.”
Jay agreed: “All right.”
Then Keith fell asleep and didn’t wake until we pulled up next to his car.
* * *
We drove Keith to and from New York four different times in the next week.
The following week, it was another four days.
Each trip was the same: We watched him perform in some half a dozen clubs, sat around like sullen children while he talked to famous people at the Comedy Cellar, then drove him back to Philadelphia while he slept in the backseat. It was some Mr. Miyagi shit.
When Keith finally deigned to introduce us to his friends in the scene, it was solely to tease me about my stage name and make the point that Lil’ Kev the Bastard wouldn’t fit in at The Table with people like Patrice O’Neal, Jim Norton, and Bill Burr.
On the long ride home that night, instead of crashing out, Keith spent the whole time talking to me. He said the reason he’d offered to take me to New York was because he’d seen me bombing on material that I wasn’t sure about. The fact that I was testing myself and trying out new material let him know that I had potential—if only I would get rid of what he called the hacky, pandering garbage.
“The main thing is to come from the heart,” he went on. “Say something that matters, rather than stuff you think the crowd wants to hear, and you won’t go wrong—even if it doesn’t go over well. All that matters is you.”
“But what should I do to make that stuff funny without pandering?”
“Just tell the truth, then work your way to funny from there. When you let them in on what’s really going on with you, you’ll automatically find the jokes in your life.”
“What’s an example of someone who does that?”
“Look at Richard Pryor. That’s why he’s still unanimously the number one comic. Sometimes life is brutal, and he isn’t afraid to come out with his truth and say it. And when he changes his mind about things, he isn’t afraid to tell people he doesn’t feel the same way anymore. Just speak what you know, dummy. I lived in the projects back in 1980, but they’re not the same now. So I don’t speak about them and pretend like I know what it’s like to grow up there today.”
My heels were still dug in a little, so I told him some of the things I was worried about: losing momentum, not being memorable, not being funny.
“I get it,” he replied. “If you have pretty girls in the audience, you don’t want to bomb in front of them. And a black crowd will give you a nice booing. But you have to look at the bigger picture, which is growth. I’ve been through all the stuff you’re going through and had the same worries, so trust me when I tell you that you’re going to get worse at first and then you’re going to get better. Much better.”
On my free nights, I tried taking his advice: I started performing as Kevin Hart again. And I struggled every time.
“What’s up, y’all?” I’d begin. “I’m Kevin Hart.”
The audience would stare at me blankly. It felt like I was forcing myself to be normal. I’d gotten so used to being a clown on stage that I didn’t know how to be myself. I wasn’t connecting with anyone in the audience. And being exhausted from all those late nights in New York didn’t help.
I asked TuRae for advice. “You’re still trying too hard,” he said. “Just talk how you talk. Can’t nobody steal that. Be Kevin, and whatever you think is funny is just gonna have to be funny.”
I felt like I was at war with myself.
Lil’ Kev: Don’t listen to these dudes. They’re trying to fuck up your game.
Kevin: But remember the graduation dinner? That was me just being me, and everyone loved it.
Lil’ Kev: Those fools were your teammates. They knew you. At these here clubs, nobody knows you. You gotta explode and grab ’em by the throat and keep ’em laughing.
Kevin: What about City Sports? I had new customers cracking up and loving me there every day without even trying.
Lil’ Kev: Look how far we’ve come together. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. You’re not enough on your own. You need me.