Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [55]
It was incredible to sit in someone’s office and share horror stories. Although I was no longer having panic attacks, I still had vivid memories of how crippling they were. The thought of “what if?” was always in the back of my mind. The thought I had much more of was “Why can’t I enjoy this?” I didn’t have anyone to blame. I never blamed myself. I never blamed Lorne Michaels. How could I? All he did was give me a chance.
Jason Patric hosted. So did Patrick Stewart and Helen Hunt. Blind Melon performed and I got high at the wrap party with Shannon Hoon, who has since overdosed and died. Sara Gilbert came through with Counting Crows. All of these shows run together for me because I wasn’t in any of them.
When I wasn’t on the show, I just kept drinking and drinking. I kept leaving halfway through the show on Saturdays. I kept skipping Good-nights. I wasn’t on the John Goodman show, either. The final episode of my first season Heather Locklear was the guest, and she was game for anything. Fred Wolf wrote a “Home Shopping Network” sketch for her, in which she was selling blenders and saying such lines as “It’s so easy even a Mexican can use it,” “At this price you couldn’t get it cheaper off a drunken Indian,” and “Why not buy two in case a Puerto Rican steals it?” The phone lines were lighting up after every line she spoke.
I had only one line on the Heather Locklear episode, but I didn’t care because finally it was over. I was in a Melrose Place sketch playing the gay guy. I walked into the scene and said, “That’s me. Gotta go!” And off I went.
The previous August, I was shoved headfirst into a tunnel and began the struggle. The more I struggled, the more everything tightened up around me. The walls, the elevators, my rib cage, my arteries—they all constricted with each passing week. But on the night of May 14, I came out the other end of the tunnel and saw the sun.
I breathed deep on my way to the final wrap party of the year. A few of my friends had attended the final show, and I decided to bring them along. One by one, they put their arms around me and said things like, “You made it!” Not “Congratulations” or “Great job,” just you made it—like a soldier returning from war. In fact, there was nothing to congratulate me on. I hadn’t really done anything except survive.
The day after the final show, I boarded a plane for Los Angeles. For the first time in twenty weeks, I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t have to worry about sketches or fake pitches or who liked me. I didn’t have to worry about panic or anxiety. I didn’t have to worry about being too early or coming in too late. My first year on Saturday Night Live was over, and I wasn’t a rookie anymore. All I had to do was rest for a few months and return refreshed.
I spent that summer with my girlfriend, Nicole, who is now my wife. I spent day after day on the beaches and night after night in the bars. I was renting a nice house in the Hollywood Hills and bought myself a Mustang convertible. I would drive for hours with the radio blasting louder than Joe Dicso could talk, and I slipped into a calm midsummer languor.
I did more stand-up than I ever had in my life. I would perform at a Laundromat if there was a microphone. Onstage, I found no politics. I would say something and the audience would either laugh or they wouldn’t. I finally had the mike back in my hand. At SNL, I couldn’t get the mike, and when I did, it was pinned to my suit jacket and I was allowed to speak only one line. After my shows, I would sit with the other comics and get bombed. No matter what city I was in or who I was around, the conversation always turned to Saturday Night Live.
Comics would ask me what it was like and I didn’t know what to say. I would plaster on a fake smile and tell them it was fantastic. That’s what they wanted