We were in Austin, and I had flown Torrei out to spend the weekend. The guys weren’t happy about this. There were times when Torrei and I would be in the middle of a full-blown screaming match as I was waiting to go on stage. I’d tell her to wait a minute, I’d do my set, then I’d walk off stage and pick up with her right where we’d left off.
A local promoter and his girlfriend took us to Sixth Street after the show to do the club crawl. While we were drinking, his girlfriend began flirting with Wayne, and the promoter got mad and took off without her.
She started asking us for cocaine. I explained that drugs weren’t our thing, unless she was looking for Tylenol, in which case we went Extra Strength. As we headed out to another club, Torrei said she had to use the bathroom.
“We were just in that place for two hours, but the minute we leave, you gotta go?” It’s always a bad sign when you get upset at your wife for something you wouldn’t get upset at anyone else about.
Torrei and the cokehead girlfriend ran to a bar across the street to use the bathroom, and Nate went to get the car while we waited for them.
When Nate pulled up, Torrei and her new friend still hadn’t come back. We checked the bar they’d gone into. They weren’t there. I called Torrei—no answer. We fanned out to search for them.
I walked into a bar a little ways down the street and spotted the girls. A tall, bearded fifty-year-old dude who looked like the bar manager was trying to kick them out. I found out later that it was because Cokey had been asking everyone for drugs.
I ran over: “Hey, my fault. That’s my wife. I got her.”
The bearded guy shouted, the veins in the folds of his neck bulging, “They need to get the fuck out of my place now!”
“Hey, chill, I got ’em.”
Drunk, the girls were annoying, even to someone who wasn’t married to one of them: “We’re just having fun! What’s his problem?”
The manager grabbed Torrei’s arm as she tried to walk deeper into the bar.
I shoved him away from her. “I said, ‘I got her’! Get your hands off my lady!”
Two security guys appeared out of nowhere and instantly put me in a full Nelson, or a half Nelson or some sort of Nelson—whoever the fuck Nelson is, he had it in for me that night. He’s probably part of the Jones family.
The guys carried me out of the bar by my neck, ripping my shirt in the process, and then held me up in the air. Moments later, the manager burst through the door with Torrei, pushing my face out of his way with the palm of his hand.
My friends saw what was going down and ran over. “Get your fucking hands off him!”
“Yo, I’m good. I’m good. Just let me go.” The security guys released me. But I wasn’t good.
I walked away as calmly as I could pretend, then quickly pivoted and ran back toward the bar, where the manager was still holding on to Torrei.
His eyes widened as he saw me coming for him like young pygmy dynamite. (If I ever get into wrestling, Young Pygmy Dynamite is gonna be my ring name.) He put his head down as if to tackle me, so I stopped running and, boom, I hit him. Then I got a few more shots in. It was a rare opportunity, because I’ve never hit anyone whose head was at a lower level than mine. Usually I have to swing up, like I’m saluting.
In summary, I whupped the ass of a fifty-year-old man. It’s pathetic, I know. So far in this book, I’ve only been in fights with women, children, and old white men. If Young Pygmy Dynamite actually was in a wrestling league, he’d definitely be the villain.
The security guys went to get the cops, and my crew turned and ran. I dashed to the SUV and yelled: “Nate, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” We did a head count, made sure we weren’t missing anyone, and then noticed the car wasn’t going anywhere: Fucking Nate was adjusting the mirrors. “Fuck it, Nate, just go!” He flipped on the turn signal, then sat there waiting to pull out. He eventually crept into the traffic lane, driving like an old man, which I guess he technically was. I hadn’t seen a car go that slow since I last took Heaven on the kids’ rides at the amusement park.
Suddenly, I spotted a faint flash of red lights in the rearview mirror.
“Everybody chill!”
I turned around to see two cops on bicycles pedaling in the distance and gaining on us. With Nate at the wheel and Sixth Street traffic, we were no match for them.
I pulled out my wallet, removed my money, and handed the bills to Spank in the front seat. “If I go to jail, come get me. Here’s everything I’ve got. No matter what happens, none of you know shit, okay?”
The police pedaled up alongside us and asked us to pull over. A cop came to the window.
Cop: They’re telling me there was a fight going on back there. Do you know anything about that?
Spank: I don’t know nothing about that.
Cop: How about you? You know anything about this fight?
Nate: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Cop: And you, in the backseat, do you know who was fighting?
Wayne: We was all fighting.
Everyone: What the fuck, Wayne?!
Cop: Get out of the car!
After that, Wayne was dead to me as a security guard.
The officer told us all to sit on the curb. His partner sauntered over, looked at me, and exclaimed, “Hey, it’s Kevin Hart! I loved you in Soul Plane.”
I could tell right then that he was a crooked cop, because the only way he would have recognized me from that movie was if he’d seen the bootleg.
“Look, man, none of them did nothing,” I told him. “The situation is that my lady here was drunk. She was asked to leave that bar, and as she was coming out, someone put his hands on her. There was a little tussle. It’s not—”
“Then why’s your shirt ripped?”
“That was my lady did that.”
“The guy back there says you assaulted him.”
“What?” It was time to show this fan some acting. “Why would I assault that man? Like, why would I put myself in that situation? You know who I am. I wouldn’t risk my career like that.”
“All right—stay here.” He walked away and spoke with his partner. Then they talked with the manager and came back.
“Listen, it sounds like the situation got out of hand. If you go over there and apologize to that man, we’re good. I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”
I walked over, apologized sincerely, shook his hand, apologized again, realized he was probably more like sixty, apologized one more time, and then returned to the car.
“All right.” The cop waved us off. “Y’all stay out of trouble.”
That was the moment I knew that I was making progress in the world. I was officially famous enough to get out of going to jail, but not so famous that I was taken to jail as an example.
I also had new material. I figured the story would be good for at least five minutes of the hour I was putting together for my next special. Though when I added it to the set, I conveniently left out the fact that the bar manager I punched out was pushing sixty.
78
* * *
IT TOOK ME HALF A DAMN HOUR TO COME UP WITH A WAY TO EXPLAIN WHY IT’S IMPORTANT TO COMMUNICATE WELL, SO I HOPE I COMMUNICATED IT WELL, OTHERWISE IT WOULD BE KIND OF IRONIC