“I want my manager to come see you.”
Attell’s manager, a big, friendly dude who looked like a cross between a jock who’d smoked too much weed and an extra from Planet of the Apes, came the next week. He introduced himself as Dave Becky, said he loved my set, and set up a meeting at the place he worked, 3 Arts Entertainment. He wasn’t as hot of a manager as Katz, but he was up-and-coming and well respected. I was relieved that I hadn’t shut all the doors to my future by saying no to Katz.
* * *
I came home excited about this second chance and asked Torrei if I could, just this once, borrow her car. I even promised to come home early, since I didn’t have any shows that night.
Her response: “Whatever. You’re not gonna see no bitch in my Jeep. You get up there on your own.”
The meeting was at four in the afternoon, but I was so worried about being late or something going wrong on the way that I planned to leave that morning at ten. My friends were baffled that I was taking this meeting so seriously.
Zachary: What’s it for, a job?
Me: No, it’s just a meeting. I’mma see what happens.
Zachary: Sounds like a waste of time.
Me: This could be big. You never know.
Zachary: What if they cancel that shit? Do it another day when you have to be in town anyway.
Zachary always wanted to schedule life at his convenience, and consequently he had a reputation as someone who was irresponsible and whose word couldn’t be trusted. I was learning to treat everything as if it were a high priority, because that next meeting or show or dinner just might be the one where you get what you’ve been looking for. It just takes one person to say one thing, and your whole life can change. If success happens in part by chance, then the more you expose yourself to it, the luckier you will be. I worked hard in order to get lucky.
And I was lucky the day I went to that meeting. I’d never been in a place like Dave Becky’s office before. It felt like something out of a movie. We met in a big glass conference room in a big glass building, at a big glass table surrounded by plush armchairs. It looked like the kind of place where the decisions that run the world get made.
Dave, who always dressed like he was coming back from the beach, introduced me to a guy in a suit who seemed to be about my age and who never spoke, even when I shook his hand. As they both sat down, almost in unison, across the table from me, I felt both intimidated and excited. It’s funny to remember how awed by this I was, because I’ve compared notes since with other comedians and no one has said they were impressed by a conference room. “What happens in here?” I kept asking. “Who else comes through here? Who? Wow. So what’s a 3 Arts?”
I kind of knew what a manager was, and that this was someone who was supposed to get me more gigs and more money, but I had no idea what a management company was or what they did. My mind was reeling with questions: Am I starting to make it now? Is this how all the big stuff starts happening? What’s the catch?
Fortunately, Dave didn’t call what I was doing shit. He called it craft. One of the great things about working with someone young is that they’re not jaded, bitter, or cynical. Dave said some of the same things Barry did, but in words I could hear. He explained that my goal right now should be to keep working on my craft, and he would look for opportunities and bring them to me.
“I don’t know what you’ve experienced in the past,” he continued. “With me, there’s no paperwork. There’s no contract. There’s nothing binding you to me. We just shake hands. If you believe in the things I’m saying, let me show you what I can do. If, later on, you don’t feel like I’m doing enough for you or it’s not working out between us, you’re entitled to leave. It’s that simple.”
It made sense, and I couldn’t see a downside. I didn’t even have to pay him: He just took a percentage of my pay for the work that he brought in. “Okay,” I told him. “I don’t have a manager, so now I guess I have a manager.”
He smiled and we shook hands. “What are the next steps?” I asked.
“Just keep getting stronger in comedy. The best way to get the right people’s attention is to hone your craft. Your stand-up is going to open up all the doors you need.”
I walked out of his office into the busy, nobody-saying-hello, strangers-won’t-even-give-you-directions streets of New York, and it felt weird. I was a professional comedian with a big-time manager now. I had thought I would feel different somehow. But it was more like losing your virginity: Everyone says it’s such a big deal and it will make you a man, but afterward, you’re still you. You look the same, you talk the same, you have the same amount of money in the bank . . . Or maybe you pick leaves out of your hair, hope Ms. Davis didn’t see you, and go back to your mom’s house. Either way, nothing’s different.
I decided to stay in New York that evening. I walked around the city until the comedy clubs opened. Then I went to the shows, sat in the back, talked to the other comics, and caught the last bus home. I kept waiting for lightning to strike me or a marching band to start playing, but nothing happened.
The only thing that changed after the meeting was that every week or two, Dave would call to check in and ask how things were going. It was nice to have someone whose job it was to care.
So I kept hustling and booking those rooms.
“Do you have any spots?”
“Can I do your room?”
“How do I get an audition?”
“Can I start a night here?”
More often than not, I eventually got those spots, those rooms, those auditions, and those nights, until I was going to New York every day. I was successful not because I was the most talented person they’d seen and not even because I was the most persistent person they’d seen; I have no doubt that there were people more talented, more persistent, and harder working than me. But there was one other thing that gave me the winning edge, and will always give you the winning edge: being likeable.
No person succeeds alone. Success is a community effort. The more relationships you have, the better you’ll be able to survive, thrive, and grow. A lot of times, I’ve seen people booked for parts on TV shows and films who weren’t the best actors, but everyone liked them, was treated well by them, and knew they’d enjoy having them on set.