He left, and I stood alone backstage in my eight-hundred-dollar Hugo Boss outfit, trying to process what was happening.
Wait! What the fuck? Hold on, everybody stop. Is this a joke?
I saw Dave running toward me, like a football coach ready to help an injured player off the field. “Buddy, are you okay? I just heard. In all my years in the business, I have never seen anything like this happen. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Let’s get you out of here and back to your room.”
In the car, Dave called and emailed everyone he knew from the network until, finally, he got off the phone and confirmed: “Okay, look, they’re not picking up the show. They apologize for that. They’re saying they moved your flight and you can go back home tomorrow.”
“That’s it? It’s over?” If anything was a sure thing, it was this show.
“They’re saying it doesn’t make sense for the network right now. This is so fucked up. It’s the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever seen!”
“I flew the whole cast here. Who’s gonna tell them?”
“I don’t know, Kev. These are answers I don’t have. I’ve never seen—”
Suddenly, something in me shrugged. It was a shoulder. That shrug sent a signal to my brain: The decision has been made. What’s getting to the bottom of it going to accomplish? Nothing. What’s moping about it going to accomplish? Nothing. You’re still you. Nothing’s changed. Look how beautiful New York is outside that window right now.
I interrupted Dave. “I’ll let everyone else know. I’m fine, whatever. Tell them not to change my ticket. I’m down here for the weekend for the upfronts, and I’m gonna experience the upfronts.”
Over the course of the night, I got in touch with each cast member and broke the news. I told them that either I could change their flight to the next morning or they could stay to make the best of the weekend.
I was the only one who chose to stay. I was determined to show the industry that I wasn’t defeated, slumped over, depressed, complaining. That wasn’t gonna fix anything.
I went to every event and every party possible. I danced, drank, socialized, and had a blast. From managers to agents to studio heads, it seemed like everybody came over to see how I was doing—“Are you all right? I heard what happened, buddy. I just wanna say it’s so unfortunate.” Everybody, that is, except the executives at ABC.
“I’m fine,” I always answered, truthfully. “These things happen. It’s the business we’re in.”
In the process, an interesting thing happened: Once people saw that my confidence in myself wasn’t rattled, they understood that I had more going for me than that show—and instead of feeling sorry for me, they became more interested in me.
I wondered as I flew home on Monday: Where did I get this from? Who was it that jumped into my body at that moment to hold back the hurt and the tears?
It must have been my dad. If it ain’t no big deal to get chopped up with an axe or walk out on your family, then it definitely ain’t no big deal when something as minor as a sitcom gets canceled.
Besides, if The Big House didn’t work, there was still Soul Plane. I could bypass television and go straight to film.
62
* * *
THE NOSE SMOKER
You could not tell me that Soul Plane wasn’t going to launch me to fame. I had my own trailer on set. I was number one on the call sheet, above people who were more established than me: Sofía Vergara, Snoop Dogg, Mo’Nique, and Method Man. They even built little ramps for me to walk up and stand on so I wasn’t dwarfed by those tall-ass actors.
Everyone knew I was inexperienced, so they were all encouraging, especially Mo’Nique, who became my set mom. We had Popeyes chicken for lunch, In-N-Out burgers for dinner, and laughter all the time. Every day on set was a great day.
Except the day I got high with Snoop Dogg.
I was sitting in Snoop’s greenroom with him, Method Man, legendary pimp Bishop Don “Magic” Juan, and a bunch of humidifiers. All they did in there every day was smoke.
Bishop lit a blunt, put it in his nose, and inhaled. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me at first. I’d never seen anyone smoke through their nose before—and I haven’t since. He passed the blunt to me. “That’s yours,” I told him. “I’m not putting that in my mouth, brother. That is yours for life.”
“Smoke with your unc,” Snoop said, handing me his blunt. “Come on, nephew.”
“Sure, I’ll smoke a little with you.” I didn’t think at the time that it was like telling Evander Holyfield that you’ll go a few rounds in the ring with him.
All I remember is that Snoop kept smoking and passing me the blunt, smoking and passing, smoking and passing, until I could only see smoke and couldn’t see the pass. I felt him nudging me, and through the haze, I forced my mouth to form words. “How high are we trying to get? Because I think I’m there.”
Pretty soon, I couldn’t see the smoke. My eyes were closed, and I couldn’t remember how to open them. I got scared. How was I gonna explain this on set? Snoop got me so high that I forgot how to open my eyes. No one was gonna believe that. My career was over. I’d let everyone down. Why did I do this? I’m an East Coast guy, I shouldn’t be fucking with the West Coast. Maybe they can just write a part into the script where I get blinded by exhaust from the plane. Do planes even have exhaust pipes? Fuck, I’m so high. I want my mom. Oh, there she is.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Here, take this. You’ll feel better.”
She handed me a blunt. I put it in my mouth and inhaled deeply. I could taste the end of it. It was slimy. Then I heard Bishop laughing.
That fucking nose-smoker! I’d just introduced his snot to my digestive system. I got even more paranoid. My dick started itching. I began to worry that I’d caught something from him. It started spreading. I couldn’t see, and my whole body was itching. I scratched my chest. It felt like there were sores everywhere. I mean, why was he smoking through his nose? Probably because he had some disease in his mouth. I was done.
All I remember about the filming that day was that when I climbed the ramp to get to eye level with Sofía Vergara, I fell off.
That was my first and last time smoking with Snoop.
* * *
While we were editing the movie, I got a phone call from Dave: ABC had changed its mind again. They’d decided to cancel Married to the Kellys and wanted The Big House to take its place.