Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [58]
On June 13, the show contacted my agent, Ruthanne Secunda, and asked for an extension on the option. They wanted until July 6 to make their decision to bring me back, and they required it in writing. When Ruthanne asked me what I wanted to do, I told her I wanted to tell them to make up their minds on or before July 1, just like it said in their contract. She warned me that we might not want to force their hand. If they were asking for an extension, then they obviously hadn’t made up their minds yet, so why be combative? I agreed to the extension and felt even more inspired.
I would show them. If they would just let me return, I would hand in sketches every week and walk out onstage for Good-nights. I desperately wanted to go back. If everything was terrible again, at least I would know what to expect. I would deal with it. I was medicated.
On the afternoon of July 6, Saturday Night Live exercised my option. It was afternoon in Los Angeles and nighttime in New York. I woke up that morning knowing that I would receive an answer, but I hadn’t anticipated the show taking until after dinner to give it to me. It was an already long day that seemed longer. By the time the news came, I was terrified. I knew that I didn’t want to be on Saturday Night Live for only one year—certainly not for the year I had just gone through.
Eleven
From the Cradle
ERIC CLAPTON kept hugging me.
It was the first show of my second season. Clapton had an album coming out called From the Cradle. It was a great blues album. On it, he covered some Willie Dixon songs and other blues songs that had inspired him throughout his career. He was onstage on a Thursday afternoon doing a sound rehearsal. I walked into studio 8-H just in time to watch him play “Five Long Years.” A week earlier I had seen Buddy Guy in concert in Central Park. “Five Long Years” was on Buddy’s new album as well. When Clapton walked offstage after the song finished, I approached him, introduced myself to him, and shook his hand. He took my hand as if we were friends from college and it had been years since we last saw each other.
“I saw Buddy Guy play that song last week and I didn’t think it could be played any better, but you did it,” I said.
Clapton put his arm around my neck and started laughing. “Aw, thanks, man,” he said.
“Buddy doesn’t look at the chords, though,” I added.
Clapton went bananas. He started laughing so loud that people across the studio were looking over to see what on earth was making Eric Clapton crack up. The guy was doubled over. He kept laughing and barely squeaking out, “You’re right! You’re right!”
I started to become self-conscious. Everybody was looking at us, and he just kept laughing. I didn’t think what I said was as funny as he did, but he kept hugging me and telling me how right I was. I wanted to tell him that he really shouldn’t find me this interesting. I wanted to say, “Dude, relax. You’re Clapton!”
Eventually Eric Clapton and I broke off our embrace long enough for him to walk to his dressing room. I stood there for a moment, letting what just happened sink in.
I was woken up by a tap on the shoulder from Marci Klein. “What were you two just talking about?” she asked.
I didn’t want to explain to her who Buddy Guy was or who wrote the song “Five Long Years” and how I didn’t expect Clapton to react the way he did. Instead, I played it cool. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Nothing. We were just rappin’.”
I figured that if I could make Marci believe that Eric Clapton thought I was cool and that sometimes Clapton and I just talk and make each other laugh, that she might tell Lorne what a hot property I was—and that would lead to my being in more sketches. No such luck.
Marci jabbed her finger