A receptionist brought me into Damon Dash’s office, where he sat in a brown leather armchair, wearing a white T-shirt with sleeves down to his elbows. He got right to the point: “We got a funny idea for a movie. I wanna do it, and I think you’ll be funny as the star.”
“Huh?” He wanted me to be the star?
“There’s just one thing: Y’all gotta write the movie first.”
“What?” He wanted me to be the star and the writer—after seeing me perform just once.
“Capone. Smokey. Charlie Murphy. They’ll all be writing with you.”
“Okay.” Charlie was not only a great comedian, but Eddie Murphy’s older brother.
It was a crazy conversation. He was talking to me like I was already on board and best friends with everyone involved. I didn’t ask about a contract or how much I was getting paid. Even if he was going to exploit me, it would be worth it for the experience.
He put me in touch with the other comedians he’d mentioned—Capone Lee, Smokey Edington, and Charlie Murphy—as well as a staffer from Roc-A-Fella who would oversee the process. We started going to Charlie’s house two days a week to work on the script, which was about a good kid on parole trying to make ends meet by robbing houses.
I came to love Charlie, except for four things:
1. He lived in New Jersey.
2. His house was two miles away from the bus stop.
3. He had a car.
4. He refused to pick us up.
So twice a week, Smokey and I would take the bus to Jersey, walk two miles to Charlie’s house, work for four or five hours, and then walk two miles back to catch the bus to Manhattan.
It took us less than two months to complete the script. When we turned the script in, Dame didn’t ask us to change a single thing. He just found a director and started planning production. Dame was the first real doer I’d met: He didn’t overthink things or try to make them perfect or worry about everything that could go wrong. He just made things happen.
The movie, Paper Soldiers, was the first film set I’d been on. With the exception of me, the cast was mostly accomplished people: Beanie Sigel, Memphis Bleek, Michael Rapaport, Stacey Dash, and Jay Z.
When I showed up to work on the first day, Dame was there with the director, who never really got a chance to direct because Dame kept talking over him. I don’t think many people on that crew had much experience making movies.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked as we prepared to shoot the first scene.
“Yo, B, just be funny. Just be you.”
“All right, I can do that.”
That was the only kind of direction I got all day: “Yeah, man, y’all got some funny shit, just do it. Do the funny shit.”
Dame had no idea how to direct, but he was a genius within that lack of knowledge. If I ever did something he didn’t like, he’d say, “Naw man, that shit-ass. Don’t do it like that. Do some funny shit, yo.”
“Was there anything specifically that you didn’t like about it or would like to see?”
“Yo, just do the same shit but be funny.”
The dialogue I had walked so many miles to write was barely used. Instead, we improvised all day. Though the process was loose and unstructured, it was amazing to be trusted with the freedom to do whatever I wanted and be my best. It would come as a shock later when directors wanted me to follow a script word-for-word. I never felt like the scenes turned out as well.
I was new to being around so many high-profile people, so I was careful never to overstay my welcome—even when I was actually being welcomed.
Memphis Bleek: Kev, you wanna come out tonight? We going to this club.
Me: I got spots.
Memphis Bleek: Get the fuck outta here with your spots. What the fuck’s a spot?
Me: It’s a show at a comedy club.
Memphis Bleek: Have fun. I’ll be getting laid.
* * *
Even though I was spending less time in Philadelphia than I ever had, Torrei was understanding. Filming a movie made sense to her: That was work. She even drove to New Jersey one day to watch me act, and her support meant a lot to me.
Two and a half weeks after we started filming, we were done, and I was back on the New York grind. I nearly forgot about the film until, one day, Dame called out of the blue and said, “Yo, the DVD is about to drop, man. Y’all be on the lookout for it.”
He invited me to a screening with the cast and crew. And I was shocked: It was funny. It was moving. It had heart. It was actually good. To this day, I still don’t know how it turned out like that. Dame had no film-producing experience. I had no acting experience. It was never released in theaters. There was no marketing for it. There was no publicity. But it worked.
A few weeks later, I was performing and a group of guys came up to me afterward, yelling, “Yo, yo! Oh, shit, from the B & E gang. You funny as shit, man!”
“Huh?”
“Oh, you funny,” they said and moved on.
At another club that same night, someone stopped me: “Oh, shit, the dude from Paper Soldiers! Damn, what up, man? You crazy.”
That was how I learned that the DVD had hit the streets and become an instant hood classic. As it continued to spread, I became snap-your-fingers famous. People would see me in the street and start snapping their fingers: “Oh, shit, that’s my man from . . . uh . . . oh, shit (snap, snap).”
I think Dame Dash paid me $175 for the whole thing. And it was worth it.
53
* * *
SQUEAK CRUNCH SMACK
During my year of craft honing, Dave occasionally sent me to small auditions—not because he wanted me to get a certain part but because he wanted me to know what an audition room, casting agents, and the overall process were like. It was a way to get comfortable with something that’s an uncomfortable experience for anyone: being judged.
I didn’t get any of the parts, but I didn’t expect to. However, after my third audition, Dave called with an opportunity he felt like I had a good shot at landing:
“Look, it’s very hard to get an audition for Saturday Night Live, but I got you one. I told Lorne Michaels that you were a new, hot young comic on the scene, and he said that’s exactly what he wants and asked to see you.”
“What? Saturday Night Live? This could be game changing. Life changing.”
Holy shit, I’m about to get SNL, I thought—until Dave added: “They want you to come in and do three characters.”
“Characters?”
“Yeah, find three impersonations you’re great at. You got this!”
I didn’t have shit. Maybe Tommy Too Smoov would have gotten it, but I’d never done a goddamn impersonation in my life.
I spent the next two weeks thinking about characters I could handle. I eventually settled on one basketball player, Avery Johnson, and two actors, Robert De Niro and Denzel Washington.
That was the moment my fate was sealed.