He said three people were in front of me, so I waited. I knew it would be worth my time.
When my turn came, I hopped into the chair and introduced myself. He said his name was John. When he finished, I looked in the mirror, and just like when Greg cut my hair in middle school, I felt like a new and better person. “Hey, man, can you be my barber? I just got out here. I’m a comedian. I don’t know where else to go.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you. I saw you at the Improv a few weeks ago. Somebody was heckling, and you said, ‘Man, shut your ass up with your teeth over there looking like baby shoes.’ You was right: They looked just like baby shoes. I thought, Yo, this little motherfucker is funny as shit.”
That was the last time I received a compliment at Platinum Cuts. As people grew to know me there, I’d walk in and they’d go, “Oh, you think you a comedian? What’s funny about you, nigga? You just look funny.”
“Man, get the fuck out of here with your damn lopsided head,” I’d snap back. “You look like a stop sign that someone hit with a baseball bat!”
Finally, I’d found a place in Los Angeles that was like the Comedy Cellar table, where I could keep my skin thick and my wit sharp. Platinum Cuts became my church. I spent every Sunday there, talking trash and learning about the world.
* * *
To keep my New York edge, I began letting my friends from the Comedy Cellar crash at my place when they were in town performing or auditioning. One day, when Patrice O’Neal was staying with me, I came home from the barbershop and called out, “Patrice?”
Silence.
I went to my bedroom, put on my slippers, and sat on the edge of the bed. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I wanted to hang with Patrice. Maybe he was here somewhere.
I went to the back room, opened the door, and saw that big motherfucker slumped in a chair, intently focused on something.
“Hey, man, what’re you doing?”
He jumped out of the chair. “Shut the door! Shut the door!”
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
“Shut the damn door so I can clean myself up!”
That’s when I noticed that his pants were open and there was a bottle of baby oil on the desk. “Oh, oh no, man, my bad. Aw, shit . . .”
I backed out and closed the door.
Fifteen minutes went by before he emerged from the room.
Patrice: Hey, man, there’s nothing to say.
Me: I think I’m permanently scarred.
Patrice: I’m sorry. I didn’t know nobody was back.
Me: Okay.
Patrice: Just don’t say shit, man.
Me: You’re my friend, so of course I have to honor that friendship . . . and never let you forget the moment we just shared.
Patrice: Come on, man.
Me: I’m gonna put this in my set. I’m going to put it in my movie. I’m gonna put it in my book. Just you wait and see.
Patrice decided not to wait and see. I love him with all my heart—and that’s why I never let him forget it or all the other great moments we shared. He’s somewhere in heaven right now, jerking off with the angels.
58
* * *
IF I THINK I’M TOO GOOD FOR YOU, BUT YOU REJECT ME, THEN WHO’S TOO GOOD FOR WHO NOW?
As the expiration date of my holding deal approached, I felt like a racehorse ready to charge through a starting gate.
What I discovered, however, was that on the other side of the holding deal was something called waiting for another deal.
The auditions I went on when my holding deal ended were different than the meetings I’d had after Just for Laughs. In a meeting, they were interested in who I was. In an audition, they usually weren’t. It was a cattle call for actors. One of my first big auditions was so bad that the casting director took the script out of my hand and said, “Okay, that’s enough, sir.”
“Would you like me to try it another way?”
“We don’t want you to do it any other ways. That’s enough for us.”
The word “no”—or sometimes the more polite two-word rejection, “thank you”—became as much a part of my life in L.A. as traffic jams and parking tickets.
“Kev, what happened to that audition you went on?”
“Didn’t get it.”
“What about that pilot?”
“Didn’t get picked up.”
“How about the—”
“Nope.”
A new routine settled over my life. It consisted of going to casting calls and not getting the part. More auditions, still no part. Finally getting a part, shooting a pilot, and waiting for the pilot to get picked up. The pilot doesn’t get picked up. More calls, more auditions, more testing, more pilots—nothing happens. Hey, there’s a call for extras. I’m desperate. Why not? Show up and hope it turns into a speaking role. It doesn’t. Maybe I’m not a good enough actor? Get acting coach. Start cycle from top.
One of the reasons I was able to survive all the rejection was because it was so familiar from my childhood. Can I play with my friends? No. Can I go to a movie? No. Can I check out that party for just a few minutes? Hell no.
Every experience is a potential life lesson. Even if you don’t appreciate it at the time, each struggle in the present is preparing you for something else in the future.
* * *
Hollywood is a horrible place for a relationship, especially since Torrei and I had packed all our emotional baggage and brought it with us. Any problem between us was exacerbated by living in a city where we had no family or close friends.
The nightlife swallowed us up. It wasn’t like going out in Philadelphia: Everything in Hollywood had shine on it. It was full of the most beautiful women, the most expensive cars, the hottest clubs, the classiest restaurants, and an endless parade of celebrities and wannabe celebrities.
Most of the people could barely afford to even be in these places. Just about anywhere else in the world, what they were doing would have been called partying. But in Hollywood, it was called work. People justified spending all their time and money on going out, drinking, drugging, and fucking because it was networking. One day they might wake up with that special someone who would make their career—though more likely, they’d be passed around, used up, and spit out.
And I was right there with them, throwing my life away. I didn’t want to be home. I didn’t want to be in a relationship. I didn’t want to be arguing all the time. I didn’t want to be stressed out about my career. I wanted to be at the clubs drinking.
When Torrei and I went out together, I drank even more. And every time we drank, bad shit happened. We’d wake up, try to put the pieces back together, and promise not to drink again, then go out a few days later and do the exact same thing.
One day, we came up with a way to put a permanent stop to this pattern of partying, drinking, arguing, retaliating by flirting with other people, occasionally hooking up with those people, denying it, and then screaming at each other for hours. At the time, it seemed like the most logical idea ever. The thought process went something like this:
1. We keep fighting over jealousy issues.
2. That must mean we really care about each other.