I don’t usually complain. I don’t drag my feet. I don’t resist things I have to do. This wasn’t me. But I was worried that it would push back the timeline for my next special. It might take four months to get another good fifteen minutes together.
Just before the show began, Harry and I stood backstage with the other comedians who were performing: Tommy Davidson, DeRay Davis, and Cedric the Entertainer. It was stunning to me, and probably to them, that I was the headliner. Harry and I went back and forth, unsure whether to give away some of the Seriously Funny material or try to get away with using something from Grown Little Man.
The room was packed with celebrities, and each comic who went on destroyed. Fifteen minutes before my set, I still had no idea what I was going to say on that stage. I huddled up with Harry and said a small prayer I’d started reciting before each performance, thanking God for the moment and the blessings. As we leaned into each other, Harry asked, “What material are you most comfortable doing?”
“Well, all I’ve been doing lately is the Seriously jokes.”
“So do those. We can write new material for the special.”
“Yeah, you’re right—we can just fucking write new jokes. I’m gonna go out there and give ’em the best shit I got.”
It was another right-or-left moment, and thankfully, I went right.
By the time I danced onto the stage, the audience was so heated up that the room exploded after every phrase I spoke. I fed off that energy and grew larger and louder. When I hit the fifteen-minute mark, I wasn’t ready to stop. So I pressed on: “I love the fact that my wife is crazy. I don’t want a happy woman.” Then I went off for another ten minutes on my relationship, and relationships in general. When I was done, I’d burned through twenty-three minutes of Seriously Funny, but just about all the people in that room were out of their seats, giving me a standing ovation that didn’t seem to end.
When the All-Star special aired and the DVD came out with a relatively unknown comedian headlining after all these amazing performers, people started investigating.
“That motherfucker’s funny. What’d they say his name was?”
“Kevin Hart.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s the guy from Soul Plane.”
“Oh, yeah. What else he done?”
“I think he got his own special.”
“I’m gonna go back and watch that shit.”
In the last year, I’d done Comic View, One Mic Stand, Grown Little Man, and more than a dozen films and television shows that I’d hoped would launch me. But everything either hurt me, did nothing, or helped just a little. For some reason, this appearance—the only one out of all these that I didn’t want to do—became the thing that propelled me to the next level.
When I did club shows afterward, I felt a heightened sense of anticipation in the audience. They weren’t just seeing a comedian they were curious about or had heard about from a friend or recognized from a cult movie anymore. They were seeing Kevin Hart.
That was the moment that gave me the right to refer to myself in the third person, because that was when a public Kevin Hart was created, who is pretty much the same as the private Kevin Hart, which now that I think about it means I don’t really have that right. But writing me above would look even more egotistical. You know what . . . Fuck it, that’s my goddamn name, I can say it all I want. I don’t gotta explain myself. Not that you asked me to—but some of you were thinking it. You know who you are.
In the end, I didn’t regret giving away my material at all. In fact, it was one of the best worst decisions I’d made in my career.
I’ve learned so many valuable lessons in my life, and this was one of the most important: Do your best, always. Because you never know who’s watching.
As Curtis Mayfield once said, “It may not come when you want it to, but when it does, it’s right on time.”
80
* * *
I DESERVE EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS TO ME IN THIS CHAPTER AND MORE
When you’re touring and you’re in an unhappy marriage, your resistance to temptation is low.
You know that. Your buddies know that. Your woman knows that. So instead of her being your wife, she becomes your parole officer.
Her whole life becomes about trying to find out the truth. This can only go in one of two directions: Either she’s right and she investigates you until she gets proof, or she’s wrong and she investigates you until she drives you away. Either way, you both lose.
As for the cheater who hasn’t been caught, a psychological miracle happens: The more he tells lies, the more he believes them. His secret life moves into a compartment in his mind that’s locked and sealed when he’s with his wife.
All this is my way of explaining that when I denied seeing other women to Torrei, I actually believed what I was saying. This may seem hard to buy, but because the facts Torrei was saying were wrong, I was able to be honest with her on a technical level. Here’s how that worked:
Torrei says: “You’re not doing a show. You’re just sneaking out with one of your side bitches for the weekend!”
The facts are: 1. I am doing a show. 2. None of my side bitches are coming to that particular show. 3. This is because I invited three random women I met online.
I say: “You’re crazy. I’m doing a fucking show. I’ll take a picture of the damn club marquee and send it to you to prove it!”
Is that real honesty? Of course not. But everything I told her was true, so the fact that she distrusted me made me feel like I was the victim in the situation. Then I’d go to the show and feel justified in hooking up with one of those three women because I deserved it after being so mistreated. The lengths the human mind will go to deceive itself are incredible.
Some people know how to hit the brakes before things spiral out of control, but I was not one of those people. I’d never gone to college, so being on the road was my way of making up for it. I basically got a dual degree in business education and performing arts while living in a mobile fraternity.
Once, when I was in Louisville, Torrei and I were arguing on the phone about where I was the night before and what I was doing.
“I was with Na’im!”
“You wasn’t with no goddamn Na’im!”
“I was. I’ll call Na’im right now and prove it!”
I dialed Na’im on three-way. Na’im’s not stupid—the moment I opened my mouth, he knew exactly why I was calling and who was listening in silently.
Me: Na’im, fucking please, real quick. Just tell me what we were doing last night.
Na’im: Hey, man, I don’t like getting in the middle of this relationship stuff. Don’t be lying to Torrei, saying you was with me, ever.
Me: . . .
Na’im: Why you be treating her like this?
Me: Wait!
Na’im: Nah, man, you gotta stop. Don’t be making her look stupid when she’s all alone out there in L.A.
Me: Whose fucking side are you on?!