But I didn’t consider the fact that I wasn’t performing on that particular night; I was only networking and promoting my upcoming shows. So from Torrei’s perspective, the fact that everyone knew me at the clubs just meant I was a club rat. The fact that I was sitting at a table getting drunk with a bunch of comedians just meant I was an alcoholic. It looked like I was having a good time partying in New York, like I was choosing to go out with the guys every night rather than be with her.
On the way home, she was annoyed. “You call that the struggle?” She scowled. “Looked like a good time to me.”
“You should have come up on a day when I was performing,” I tried to explain. “What you saw was me building relationships, me getting people to come to my shows, me doing what I have to do to get into these comedy clubs.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re all sitting there drinking and laughing all night, and you didn’t get on stage one time. At least at home, you’re performing and working and making money. I don’t know what you think you’re doing there, but I know what you’re not doing there: putting time into our relationship.”
And that was that. She never let me use her car again.
47
* * *
WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING. (WHICH MAKES ME WONDER WHETHER TOUGH PEOPLE SHOULD LEAVE OR STAY WHEN THINGS GET HARD. I DID BOTH, SO EITHER WAY I’M TOUGH.)
In the past, when I wasn’t able to use Torrei’s car, it wasn’t too big a deal. I could take the bus to City Line Avenue and then ride with Keith. Sometimes he’d even pick me up.
But now that I had my own shows, there were nights when Keith wasn’t going to New York and I had to make it up there on my own.
The Amtrak train was too expensive, so I had to catch the Greyhound or Peter Pan bus, which could take as long as five hours round-trip. It would have been easy to just not go to New York when I didn’t have a ride, but I refused to get lackadaisical. I had no room to be comfortable or slack off; I felt an obligation to Keith because he’d invested so much time in me. I’d seen Big Jay and other people drop off, and I didn’t want that to happen to me.
Just like in Philadelphia, I found the underground rooms and urban nights in New York. I started doing it all. But now my goal wasn’t for people to laugh, like it had been when I started comedy, but for them to understand who they were laughing at. I was still working toward conveying more authenticity and relatability on stage.
Some black comics at the time were picky about the rooms they played. “Naw, I ain’t goin’ for that white shit.”
A lot of white comics were the same: “I’m not messing with that black shit.”
And a lot of people of all colors would say: “I’m making money over here. I’m not going over there to perform for food. Hell no! I’m above that.”
Because my goal was to appeal to everyone so I could sell out big venues like the Def Comedy Jam tour did, I played the rooms that were frowned upon by other comics. My job was to make all kinds of people laugh, so anyplace where there were people was my home.
My thought was: New York is so big, and there are so many places to perform spread out across the city and beyond, why not just do them all? I never turned down anything. Sometimes I got sent away. Sometimes I got burnt. Sometimes I traveled seven hours to do a college show where no one laughed and I wasn’t paid. But not once could anyone say that I didn’t try.
The comics who made it from that time were the ones who felt the same way and thought: I’m not above this place or these people. No one is. I’m here to get on stage—any stage. If you grind without that mentality, then you’re wasting your time.
Over time, because I never said no, the bookers took a liking to me. Most exciting of all, Estee at the Comedy Cellar let me host on a peak night. I tried hard not to let these small steps go to my head, because I saw other comedians mistaking success at a local club for fame. They’d confuse familiarity—like the waitresses and valets knowing who they were—for popularity. If they went just across the river to another borough, they’d be in trouble.
Slowly I started getting paid in something besides food for most of my New York shows, though the money wasn’t as good as it had been in Philadelphia. At some shows, I’d make as little as five dollars; other spots paid twenty-five dollars; and on a good night with multiple sets, I’d end up with seventy-five bucks in my pocket. The end game was to add up what I was making that month and make sure I could pay my rent, utilities, transportation, and food.
* * *
Eventually, I got a big break financially, and it came from a Philly comic, Buckwild. He was stepping down as host of a Saturday night show just off the strip in Atlantic City and offered me the opportunity to take over. It paid one hundred and seventy-five dollars each week, which would allow me to cover my expenses every month and have money to spare. It was my first chance to run a room and book the talent. So I was excited to help out newer comedians, just as TuRae and Keith had done for me. So many guys I looked up to, like Donnell Rawlings and Rob Stapleton, were running rooms in the underground comedy scene, and that had given them the flexibility to perform anywhere.
The opportunity seemed like a dream come true—until I arrived and saw pretty quickly why Buckwild had quit. The club was called Sweet Cheeks. As I should have extrapolated from the name, it was a male revue. Some nights, however, to bring in more customers, the owners would turn it into what they called a nightclub but in reality was a hood bar.
When I arrived that first night, the place was thugged the fuck out with dudes partying, fighting, playing pool, and preparing to destroy comedians. My introduction was the DJ announcing over the sound system: “That’s enough. Time for us to start the comedy show.”
Then the music stopped, and I was expected to somehow get everyone’s attention and respect.
All I said was “Hi, I’m Kevin Hart,” and the yelling began.
“Stand up, Kevin!”
“Go home, Kevin!”
“Fuck you, Kevin!”
My heart froze. This was a whole club full of guys like the Richard Allen hecklers. I wasn’t going to be able to get a single joke out. So I just introduced the next comic and cleared off the stage. He tried to push through his planned material, despite the heckling, and got destroyed by the audience. He didn’t even finish his set.
I forced a smile onto my face, walked back out, and tried to do something like the speech I’d given the Richard Allen thugs acknowledging the truth of the situation. I thought that would go over well. But less than a minute into it, a voice boomed through the room: “Naw, man, enough!” I looked to my right to see a bald, bearded giant holding a hot buffalo wing. He took a bite out of it, I guess so he wouldn’t waste it all, then threw it at me and sat down. It hit me all saucy on the side of the face. I could feel it bounce off my cheek, leaving a burning red mark of chickeny shame.
I was furious.
“Stand back up!” I yelled at him. “You think just because I’m here telling jokes, I’m not a man? I’m a man first.”
“You not a man, you a chicken,” someone called out.