Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [2]
We were talking as equals—equals of sorts, anyway—because I no longer worked for him. I liked the man more than I ever had—even more than when I was sitting in his office and he told me that I was the future of Saturday Night Live.
At 3:00 A.M. we both picked up our coats and walked out together. Just before Lorne stepped into his limo, he turned to me. “It was really good to see you again, Jay,” he said. I assured him the feeling was mutual.
As Lorne’s car drove away, I began to hail a cab but was stopped by Max, the show’s transportation captain. Max had just witnessed Lorne and me parting company. He asked if I was going home, and I told him I was. He motioned for a black Lincoln Town Car to move forward and take me home.
It was the first time I truly felt like I belonged to one of the greatest traditions in television history.
One
Comedy is Truth
the Moment
Before Anticipation
I WAS sitting on a couch all alone in the writers’ room feeling like an idiot.
It was my first day at work on Saturday Night Live and I was told to arrive at 11:00 A.M. for a meeting with Marci Klein and Michael Shoemaker. Marci was the show’s talent booker who functioned like a producer at large, and she had basically hired me. “Shoe” was a longtime producer of the show. The previous night I had gone to bed early in mortal terror of being late. Imagine, here is the greatest job you will ever have, and you’re the asshole who shows up late. Not me, baby.
My alarm was set for six in the morning. The plan was to get up early, take a steambath, work out, rough out some sketches for the show, and then head uptown to the office. I had a dream that night that all my sketches sucked and I got fired. When my alarm went off at the crack of dawn, I was so grateful to still have the job that I hadn’t started that I kneeled next to my bed and thanked God. I spent the rest of my morning racking my brain for better ideas. I went back over my sketches and reassured myself they were fine. Needless to say, the gym and the steam were out. It’s probably a bad idea to take a steam while you’re hyperventilating anyway.
From the time I left my St. Mark’s Place apartment in the East Village, I never touched the ground. Didn’t these people on the street know where I was going? If they knew, they would all be looking at me differently. Buying coffee on the way to the subway, I had to fight the urge to blurt out, “I’m on my way to Saturday Night Live! I’m the new guy!” I swear I came really close. I figured there would be some jerk who wouldn’t believe me. I would have to stand there and explain everything to him and convince him that I wasn’t lying, I really was the luckiest guy on earth. After all that, I would be running a little behind, so I kept my mouth shut.
I bought a newspaper to read on the train but I couldn’t even see straight, let alone read the New York Post. I kept checking my watch to make sure I wasn’t running late. With each stop along the way, my breath grew a little shorter. This is a joke, right? Who am I kidding? There is absolutely no conceivable way I belong on SNL. They are all going to find me out. I’m a fraud. Someone made a mistake here. Me? “Forty-ninth Street!” Uh-oh. Here we go. I walked up the stairs from the train, and when I reached the top, I first saw it.
Rockefeller Plaza is an impressive piece of architecture. It almost looks like a missile the way it juts defiantly into a menacing skyline. The ice skating rink is directly in front of the main entrance of the building, but it’s a story below street level so you can lean over the railing and watch couples skate, which is a nice touch. When you enter the building, the paint on the wall is covered with beautiful yet imposing drawings of Greek gods. These