“I’m leaving at three. If you’re at City Line Avenue on time, you can roll with me. If not, I don’t know what to tell you, stupid. Bad time for games.” Then he hung up.
I ain’t going, I decided on the spot.
Then, on the next spot, I decided, All right, fuck it; I’m going.
I figured out the bus lines, and got to City Line Avenue shortly before three. Keith pulled up at three sharp, then walked around from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat. Evidently he still expected me to drive him.
“I’m glad you’re serious,” he said as he stretched out to sleep. “I want you to know that I wouldn’t lie to you. You see the way everyone treats me up there? That’s because I know what I’m talking about and I know what I’m doing. They trust me, and I’m going to prove that to you today.”
At Catch a Rising Star, we saw Wanda Sykes perform. Afterward, Keith introduced me to her. “Wanda, tell dummy who got you up here.”
“You did.”
“How many times have I cussed you out, Wanda, for not doing what you were supposed to?”
“A lot of times.”
“Did I ever once lie or mislead you?”
“No.”
“Little dummy here got something, Wanda. But he stupid—he don’t know how to use it. I’m trying to show him how to work it.”
Wanda turned and spoke to me directly for the first time: “Well, shut up and listen, stupid. He knows what he’s talking about.”
As we made the usual circuit, Keith encouraged me to notice details that I’d previously overlooked. “You really are a dummy. You’ve been coming up here all these weeks and missing the whole point. All these people are coming up, and what? They got a piece of paper in their hand and they got a tape recorder on the stool.”
“I noticed that. They’re working to get better.”
“No, young fella! These guys are working for the weekend. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, they’re preparing for the big shows on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. That’s where your packed houses are. Until then, everybody’s trying to polish their set for the weekend. And they’re trying to polish their weekend sets so they can get TV spots. And they’re trying to kill their TV spots so they can get their own television show. If you stay ready, you don’t ever have to worry about getting ready.”
“I get it. I’m ready!”
“No, dummy. Remember that set Wanda did? Did you notice how she changed some stuff around at the next show at Carolines? That’s the level of refinement you need to learn. She knew that if she moved that one line further back, it would get a bigger laugh. And it did. Next time you see her, I guarantee that she keeps it there and adds some more to it.”
When we saw Wanda do another set at Dangerfield’s and she did exactly what Keith had predicted, that’s when it hit me like a lightning bolt: I was frustrated before at Keith for constantly telling me I wasn’t ready when I believed I was. A firm “no” is the ugliest sound in the world, and it triggers a defensive response in the brain: “Naw, you’re wrong!” But he was right: I wasn’t ready. I still knew nothing about the art of comedy. The problem was not Keith’s slowness. It was my impatience.
I recognized that I had a lot of work to do to get to that level. Instead of thinking about getting on stage in New York, I needed to think about removing, rewriting, reconstructing, shifting, and shaping every phrase in my set, examining every nuance from my tonality to my gestures. One of the comics who had this perfected was named JB Smoove. He was very animated, and before he even opened his mouth, audience members already knew they were going to have a good time and bust up laughing. As I worked to sharpen my act at my Philly shows, I tried to focus on what was naturally funny about me.
Keith was relentlessly critical when I asked for feedback. The biggest lesson I learned from him was how to hear a “no” or a “stupid” or a “Get the fuck outta here with that” and to not take it personally, but instead see if there was a lesson behind it.
I don’t know why Keith Robinson was the guy I shut up for and listened to. Maybe it’s because he was the only person I’d met who was as strict, systematic, and demanding as my mom.
In life, some people can cut through the noise and get through to you in a way that others can’t. If you’re playing sports, one coach may not reach you, but another will. Or no coach may be able to get through to you, but a teammate will. When it comes to your future, your mother may be telling you exactly what you need to hear but putting it in a way that makes you disregard her. However, Calvin from two doors down the street says the same thing, and it comes off as so simple and helpful that you pay attention and take action.
Cultivating the ability to listen to advice I didn’t want to hear, objectively evaluate it, and know when to implement it didn’t come naturally to me. I had to learn it the hard way, from someone who was very difficult to listen to. It was one of the most valuable gifts Keith gave me.
43
* * *
A WELL-RESPECTED MAN
“Hey, little dummy thinks he should be on stage up here already.”
It was the end of my first night in New York without Big Jay, and I was at the Comedy Cellar, standing awkwardly on the periphery of The Table. Keith was introducing me to a comedian I admired, someone who would become another tough mentor and eventually a good friend, an inspiration who was never too shy to say what was really on his mind: Patrice O’Neal.
“Oh, is that what you think?” Patrice snapped at me. “You got some jokes? Let me hear one of your jokes.”
“Why do people get on—”
“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear your jokes for real; it was a figure of speech. Jesus, Keith, he is dumb.”
I winced at his words. “Shut up and take it.” Keith nudged me. “This is what we do.”
“Tell him to go back home,” Patrice went on. “I can tell he’s not funny. Look at that stupid face. He looks like he’s about to cry or something.”
I stood there, reeling, then decided not to take Keith’s advice. I didn’t have to take it, not when I could throw it back. “I ain’t stupid; you stupid.” I thrust a finger in his face. “Look at your teeth. You look like you should be in a rodeo or something.”
“Ha, New Guy attacked back!” another comedian at The Table yelled.
Soon, everyone was yelling and talking over each other and snapping on each other. I had no idea what was going on, except that they didn’t seem so intimidating anymore. This wasn’t the grown-ups’ table. It was the kids’ table.
“Should we let Dumb Kev sit at The Table with us?” Keith asked the group.
“Naw, keep him at the loser table,” Patrice said. “I don’t wanna sit near him. I don’t want to see that ugly face. He looks like he smells. Keep him over there.”