Kevin: Wait, man, what’s the point of even doing this if I can’t be me? What I should do is stop using you like a crutch and trust that I’m likeable and funny just as I am, whether I’m talking to one person or a hundred.
After that conversation with myself, I exhaled, and fifty pounds of pressure seemed to lift off me. It was like an epiphany or an exorcism or a punch in the back of my damn head.
I knew then that Lil’ Kev the Bastard was dead.
The problem is that Kevin Hart still needed to come to life. I’ll never forget the day that happened and I learned to be myself on stage. Because my life depended on it.
41
* * *
NOT AFRAID TO BE AFRAID
It was a Tuesday, which was always a dead night at the Laff House, but it was a chance to get some stage time in and make a little money during a day off from New York. The audience was usually a smattering of comedians and their friends, with TuRae claiming the night as host.
I arrived with Spank and Na’im, and sat in the back with the regular comedians—Buckwild, Shawn Clayton, and Tommy Too Smoov. The room was nearly empty otherwise, except for a small group of rowdy guys sitting at the center table in the front of the house, yelling at TuRae as he was trying to host.
“Yo, man, I know those guys.” Spank nudged me. “Bad dudes. From the Richard Allen projects.”
TuRae did his best to keep it together on stage, but he was clearly rattled. “All right man, look, you know, we gonna get this show started and have a good time. Who’s ready to have a good time?”
“Yo, shut the fuck up and bring the next nigga on!” one of the guys in front yelled.
I looked longingly at the exit and tried to think of plausible excuses I could make to leave, or at least not perform. I didn’t know how to handle them, because they were at a level far beyond heckling. They weren’t there to laugh but to start something that neither I nor anyone else there could finish.
Shawn Clayton went on first, and they went after him instantly. “You’re a weak-ass nigga,” one of the guys yelled.
“Yeah, I am a weak-ass nigga,” Shawn replied. “I know that cause I used to run from all y’all.”
They laughed, but I looked up at Shawn and he wasn’t laughing. My hands began trembling, and before I could stop it, my next thought was: Mom, help me. I’d never before, as an adult, been so scared that I wanted to run to my mama.
“Fuck this. I’m going up there,” Buckwild said bravely after Shawn’s set ended. I felt like those might be his last words. On stage, he had a fast-talking, rough-voiced street persona, complete with cheap gold-colored jewelry. I think his confidence that night came from the mistaken belief that he had street cred and would be able to relate to these guys on their level.
“You know, y’all niggas in here trying to stunt on me, you better back off, cause we all trying to get money in here, know what I’m saying?” he began. Then he threw in his catchphrase, which never failed to crack up Philly audiences: “Dick suck everything.”
Next thing he knew, the toughest-looking killer in the group stood up, said, “Get outta here,” and threw his drink in Buck’s face, drenching him with alcohol and ice cubes.
“Did they just do what I think they just did?” I stuttered to Spank.
“Oh, they done did what you think they just did, and they ’bout to do more.”
I couldn’t believe what had just happened. The stage was a sacred barrier, and just in case someone did get rowdy, there was a security guard in the club, Brother Carlton. Where the fuck was he?
Buckwild took off his glasses, then brought them to his shirt and started cleaning them slowly, as if in a daze. I’d never seen Buck do anything slowly in my life. When he was done, he mumbled salaam alaikum into the microphone. He kept repeating it like it was a magic spell to cast peace over the club. “I’m saying salaam alaikum, brothers.”
He put his glasses back on and made one last attempt to pacify them, mentioning the neighborhood he was from. Their response: “We know where you at. We know your block. Get on out of here, motherfucker.”
And that motherfucker got on out of there. He was done.
TuRae scrambled back to the stage and worked up all his confidence to tell them, “Y’all gotta calm down and let these here comics perform.” They proceeded to tell TuRae that they knew who he was and exactly where he lived too.
Brother Carlton leapt into action. He was twenty minutes late in leaping, but at least he was gonna finally take care of this and get them out of there. He walked to the front table, bent down, and started talking to the guys in a low whisper. Every now and then, he’d clap one of them on the back and say, “That’s all I’m saying, all right? Come on, man, y’all know how it is.”
Even from the back of the room, I knew what was going on: He was pretending like he was doing something. He wasn’t saying shit, other than talking to them like they were his friends. Nobody was gonna get kicked out of that place tonight except the comics.
Eventually, Brother Carlton straightened up, walked away, and waved. “Go ahead, TuRae. We good.”
I shook my head in despair. I was up after the next comic, and everyone in the room knew that all Brother Carlton had done was give these guys a free pass to do whatever the fuck they wanted to the remaining performers.
The next victim was one of the best in the city: Tommy Too Smoov. He was a true professional, famous for playing different characters on stage, and I knew he’d stick to his set. As he began his first impression, however, the guys in the front came up with another move I’d never seen in a comedy club before.
“You ain’t funny,” one of them snarled. “You broke as hell.” All of a sudden, whap, dollar bills were flying everywhere on stage as the guys made it rain.
I looked around for Brother Carlton so I could tell him with my eyes: “I don’t know what kind of talk you just had with those guys, but I don’t think it worked.”
However, I couldn’t find Brother Carlton’s eyes. All I saw was the door of the club closing really quickly. I think he figured, If I’m not inside the club to see what’s going on, then I’m not responsible for stopping what’s going on.
“All right, well, that’s my time,” Tommy was saying when I turned back around. He quickly gathered as many bills as he could and walked off stage. “Least I got paid for the night.”
Ol’ Kevin Hart was up next. As soon as TuRae announced me, I was grateful I’d killed off the name Lil’ Kev the Bastard, because the heckles would have been merciless.