Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [3]
I had arrived at the security desk just before 10:30 A.M. Plenty of time to spare. I gave the security guard my name and told him that I was a new cast member on Saturday Night Live. The guard had a thick Caribbean accent, and it was obvious that he didn’t really give a shit who I was. He asked me who my contact was. I had never heard that expression before. I had heard, “Who are you going to see?”—but never “Who’s your contact?” I muttered the unthinkable: “I don’t know.” That’s one way to get yourself to the back of the line. Tell the guard that you don’t even know who your contact is. He told me, the dummy with the backpack and no contact, to wait, and he began chatting up a young lady.
Three minutes later, the guard asked me again who my contact was. I told him Lorne Michaels. Why fuck around, right? The guard called the receptionist on the seventeenth floor to tell her that I had arrived. She wasn’t there.
The guard cradled the phone against his ear for about ten minutes while he checked in about fifty more people. He put the phone down and walked away to help someone else. He didn’t say anything to me. At this point, I was becoming panic-stricken. I couldn’t remember a single name to give this guy and it was clear I was going nowhere until this guy connected with somebody upstairs. I looked at my watch: 11:05. Later, pal.
I slinked through “Checkpoint Charlie” with the next group of suits. Damn, why didn’t I wear a suit? I tried to blend in as best I could, walk-strolling onto the elevator. My backpack was sticking out about a foot behind me, so I leaned up against the railing. I was still about two feet from the door. I was officially in everyone’s way. I prayed for the doors to close before the guard arrested me.
The elevator doors whooshed closed, and we began our ascent—the eight suits and the jackass in the back with a two-foot backpack taking up all the room. All the suits were blue. They would stay blue the remainder of my stay on the show. I felt really cool pushing the elevator button for seventeen. I figured they all knew what floor that was and would wonder why I was going there. No one even flinched. I stepped off the elevator at 11:07 A.M. The carpet on the seventeenth floor was also blue. This was where the writers’ offices, the writers’ room, reception, and executive producer Lorne Michaels’s office were located.
After getting my bearings, I noticed what looked like a reception desk to my right. I walked over to introduce myself to everyone, but found that everyone was no one. I was hit with the funny feeling that I was the only person on the floor. To the best of my knowledge, I was right. So I took a seat on a flower-print couch that looked like it had been flown in from Miami and waited.
At one o’clock, the receptionist arrived. She began setting up her desk and checking her voice mails. I had to pee. I asked her where the bathrooms were and prayed she didn’t ask me who my contact was.
Walking down the hallways of the seventeenth floor is impressive and intimidating. The walls are lined with photos from past episodes of the show. Every photo, no matter how tall you are, is at eye level. As I walked toward the bathroom I passed Eddie Murphy, Dan Aykroyd, Mick Jagger, Bill Murray, Martin Short, Adam Sandler, Chris Farley, Dennis Miller—everyone. They were all frozen in time, each a piece of history, a part of the heritage of the show. I walked too far and found myself in an office covered in Christmas decorations—in August. Very decorated and very empty. Good God, I had to pee!
On my way back from the toilet, I backtracked through John Belushi, Gilda Radner, Paul McCartney, and Madonna. I reached the reception area and sat alone on the flowery couch for another half hour. When the receptionist returned, I told her who I was and that I was supposed to meet with Marci Klein and Michael Shoemaker. She told me that neither one of them would be in until at least