WHAT NAPOLEON AND I HAVE IN COMMON (AND IT’S NOT HEIGHT, BECAUSE HE HAD TWO INCHES ON ME)
I’ve had a lot of families in my life. I had the family I was born into: my mom, my dad, my brother.
I had the family I married and fathered: Torrei, Heaven, Hendrix.
Then I had the family I worked with: my fellow road warriors, most of whom are still warrioring with me today.
War is definitely the right metaphor for what we did: We attacked the country. Any town in the United States with a comedy club, we invaded. In the afternoons, we hit the streets, the barbershops, and the malls to find new recruits. In the evenings, we murdered and killed (and occasionally bombed). And at night, we conquered the bars, the clubs, and the nightspots to find . . . other kinds of recruits.
Combat turns men into brothers, and that’s what the constant touring did to us. Like most brothers, we came to love each other, but we also fought. We learned to respect each other, but we also formed resentments and rivalries. Above everything, we were dedicated to the mission: to march up the long, right-hand road to success. Shortcuts may get you there quicker, but all the experience you gain on the long road allows you to stay there once you arrive.
In everything that has happened in my life since then, my brothers have been there for me. Besides Nate—who’s more like our creepy uncle—there are four more of them. It’s time for you to get to know them better.
Na’im Lynn has already been mentioned many times. You know that I met him in the Philly scene, he was my first road warrior, and he’s been performing with me ever since, so nothing more needs to be said. He’s taken up enough space in my life. He doesn’t need to be taking up any more space in my book.
Harry Ratchford was a friend I met on the Los Angeles comedy scene. He stopped performing soon after that, but we kept hanging out. He was loud, outgoing, and a naturally fun guy. He made people around him smile and feel good. His marriage, like mine, was crumbling into open warfare, so whenever things got rough with Torrei, I’d call Harry and we’d drive to Crazy Horse Too in Las Vegas, where it was impossible to stay mad. Meanwhile, his wife and Torrei became close friends. I have no idea what they did while we were gone—probably went to Thunder from Down Under.
When Harry was promoted at his graphic-design job one day and then fired the next for reasons that neither of us understood, I told him: “Right now, I’m making twenty-five hundred a weekend. I wouldn’t mind giving you a piece of the pie if you wanted to write with me and help me build on the material I have, until you can figure things out.”
I’d never hired a writer or felt like I needed one, but I was willing to do anything to help a friend. It turned out, however, that I did need a writer, and Harry was more of a help to me than I’d expected. After each show, we’d run through the set together:
“That part where the girl you’re on a date with tells you milk makes her shit was funny, but what if you said ‘me too’ afterward?” he’d suggest.
“Oh, damn, that might be funny. Or not. I’ll try it, though. Let’s see what happens.”
Over time, Harry came to understand my voice as well as I did. As my set for the next hour-long special came together, I’d find he had just one or two suggestions after a show, but each would make the material stronger.
Harry never found another job, either because he believed in me or because he was unemployable. To this day, he’s still my writer. He also keeps my ego in check, for free.
Will “Spank” Horton has always thought he was better than me—ever since we met as kids. He used to heckle me in clubs when I was starting out, but now that I was making it, he wanted to get in on the act. Since he was sure that he was funnier than me, he decided to become a comedian.
“Yo, I been doing this shit for a while, man,” Spank called to tell me after Soul Plane came out. “I’m starting to pop, baby. You gonna start fucking with me—just watch.”
The next time I performed in Philadelphia, he did a guest spot, and I was impressed by his charisma and presence. Because he’s so outgoing and vibrant, he can “personality” his way through a set and get big laughs even though he neglects the craft.
Afterward, Spank called and asked if I had any room for him in my next show. I said, “It’s in Atlanta, but if you can get yourself there, no problem.”
He got himself there. Turns out he had a college friend named Wayne who worked at Philadelphia International Airport, so he had a hookup for cheap flights.
Before the show, Spank went to the greenroom, made himself a drink, and met Nate, who greeted him with his usual charm: “Don’t be touching that, man. That’s Kevin Hart’s liquor!”
Back at the hotel that night, I asked Spank what he wanted from comedy. He told me that he wanted a career. So I thought carefully about what I was getting myself into, on account of the fact that he doesn’t shower until someone complains about the smell, and made him an offer: “Right now, it’s just Na’im and me on stage. We wouldn’t mind bringing you out with us. We could take over a whole night and make it our shit. But you’ll have to find a way to get to these spots yourself. I don’t have the money right now.”
“Dude, I’ll figure it out,” he replied. “Just tell me what I gotta do.”
Joey Wells was hosting a night at a place called the Comedy Union when I first arrived in L.A. I performed there, and he soon became a part of the Madden games that Harry and I played at Rodney Perry’s house. We put in so many hours on the game that sometimes Rodney’s wife would have to cut the power in the house to get us to stop.
Then Joey had a streak of bad luck: a bunch of his gigs got canceled, his relationship fell apart, his car got towed, and he didn’t have enough money to pay his rent or even to get his car back. It was a story I could relate to.
For months, Joey was walking and taking buses everywhere, but pretending like he still had a car. He didn’t want to ask for help. Not because he was too proud, but because he was too nice. Joey is one of the most gentle, thoughtful guys you’ll ever meet. Eventually, Harry and Rodney had a secret meeting with me about Joey. They explained the situation, then suggested that I throw him some work.
That night, we went to see Joey at the Improv, and—boom boom boom—he slayed. Afterward, I pulled him aside. Actually, I don’t pull people aside. I got a loud mouth, so it was more like a public announcement. “I’m trying to get an hour together. You wanna do some fucking writing with us? I talked to Harry. If something’s going on, you can always tell me, man.”
Joey said he was all right, but I kept insisting, until finally he looked me in the eye and said: “When do I start?”