I wanted to pass. “That’s all right, I’m good. Move on to the next performer.” But my respect in this scene was important to me, so I trudged toward the stage like it was the electric chair. As I did, I tried to figure out what to do. I knew I couldn’t perform my set because they’d keep interrupting it and making fun of the punchlines. These guys were here to laugh at us, not with us.
As I got on stage, I realized that there was only one thing I could possibly do to survive the situation—and that was to throw out everything I’d planned and talk about what was going on. I couldn’t stop them or befriend them, like I’d seen others try and fail to do that night. The only thing I could do was what no one else had done: talk about what it felt like to go on stage and perform in front of them. Tell them the truth of my experience, because it was all I had.
“This has been weird all night, guys, okay?” I began. I felt like I was performing for my life. The stage is a vulnerable place. To people who like you, you’re in the spotlight. To those who don’t, you’re at the center of a target.
I recalled the lesson I’d learned as the little guy in school: With humor and logic—or even better, humorous logic—you could disarm someone without fighting.
“Y’all threw drinks on one dude,” I continued. “Y’all threw money on somebody else. That one guy admitted he was a bitch. I’m sitting in the back praying for help from my mama. This can’t keep going on and on. For one thing, there’s probably a stripper out there who really could have used those dollar bills to pay her rent. So why don’t we break the chain right here?”
It was the first time I was glad to hear silence in a comedy club. They were listening to me, because I was speaking to them, not at them.
As I grew more comfortable, I began sprinkling in material from past sets that applied directly to the situation. “Everything I say up here tonight is a joke, okay? I don’t need none of you guys coming up to me after the show, talking about, ‘So who’s the funny one now?’?”
Suddenly, I heard quiet, begrudging laughter, the kind that happens when someone keeps their mouth closed and the chuckle escapes through their nose in a little puff of air. It was the smallest laugh I ever got, but it was the biggest relief. In that moment, something broke open inside me, and a wave of calm washed through my body. I became comfortable within my fear. I realized that what these guys had been picking up on the whole time was people trying too hard. It was exactly what Keith and TuRae had told me I needed to stop doing. And because these guys were predators—trained to sniff out and pounce on the slightest vulnerability—they were more attuned to weakness than even the most discerning comedy crowd. I was surviving this only because, for the first time in my short comedy career, I wasn’t trying. I was just being.
The rest of the set flew by. Everything came out of my mouth effortlessly: “I don’t like to fight; I get scared real fast. Don’t you guys be making no sudden movements. In fact, put your hands on the table so I can see ’em.”
It may not have been the funniest set I’d ever done but it was one of the best so far, because I wasn’t just playing the role of a scared guy on stage—I was a scared guy on stage. I was telling them that they’d won, because that was the only way for me to win too. I did get heckled a few times, but I was the only comic who got off that stage without being humiliated.
It is through our most extreme experiences that the biggest growth happens—if we survive them. That night, I learned how to be vulnerable on stage.
42
* * *
LIFE OF A BALLER
Kevin Hart, however, had money problems, as usual.
Not only was going back and forth to New York with Keith calling me stupid the whole time starting to wear thin, but I wasn’t making money on those nights. Some weeks, we drove to the city five times.
I told Keith that I was performing under my own name and getting better, but I needed more stage time. Still, he wouldn’t let Jay and me get on stage in Manhattan. This meant that I had from one to three free days a week to perform in Philly, and always on off-nights, which wasn’t enough to earn rent money.
I understood then why TuRae never wanted to go to New York with me: He had a good setup at home. He had rooms all over the Philly area that brought him good, consistent money. He didn’t want to give all that away, because someone would instantly take his place, and he seemed happy where he was. I guess that was the difference between me and many of the people I met over the course of my career: I always wanted to be bigger; I always wanted to do more; I always wanted to find the next step and the step after that. I didn’t want to settle like I had in school and on swim team. This is as true today as it was then.
When that envelope with a rent bill for four hundred dollars was slipped under my door, I looked in my sock drawer and all I had was a hundred and fifty. I wasn’t even close. I didn’t have the heart to ask my mom for money again, but between help from Torrei, who’d recently been hired to work for Adelphia cable, and my brother, I managed to make the month’s rent.
When I paid, I told my landlord that I was working hard to make it as a comedian and had gotten a big opportunity to start going to New York. “Look, I assure you that once I get a rhythm going, I’ll figure out how to be on time with the rent every month.”
Fortunately, the landlord was understanding, and said he’d give me a little leeway while I got things together.
After our next trip to New York, I talked to Big Jay about it as he drove me back to my house. His solution: “Fuck this. Let’s not go anymore.”
“We don’t have a choice,” I protested. “If we go back to doing what we were doing before, nothing’s going to change. This is at least a way out. Once we know some people in New York, maybe we can even get on stage without Keith.”
“Good luck with that. I’m tired, and I’m out.”
Jay wasn’t being callous or cruel—he was taking care of himself. He was understandably fed up with spending what were sometimes twelve-hour days going back and forth to New York like an unpaid chauffeur.
But with Jay backing out, I now had two problems: no money and no way to get to New York. It is in these moments that you get nostalgic for a day job. At least there’s a structure, set hours, a predictable paycheck, and a clear path.
The following afternoon, Keith called with the usual instructions: “Hey, meet me at City Line Avenue at three o’clock.”
“Jay said he’s not coming.”
“Why not?”
“Cause he’s not getting on stage. He said he wants to get on stage.”
“Didn’t I tell him to be patient and trust the process?”
“I guess he don’t trust it.”
“Do you trust it?”
I wasn’t sure if I trusted it or not, but it was the only process I had. So I told him, “Yes.”
“Then are you coming today or what?”
“I don’t have a way up there.”
“If this is something that you want, figure out a way to City Line Avenue. Find me there, and I’ll take you the rest of the way.”
“Okay. I may be a little late, on account of having to take the buses there and everything.”