Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [72]
Mike Shoemaker, one of the producers, announced to us that the door was going to open soon, so we all walked to Lorne’s office and milled around the wall with the letters, which was in front of the half-dozen secretaries stationed outside his office. When the door opened I was reading a protest letter from a guy who was appalled that we used the word nut over and over again. I never read where the guy lived because the wind from the door caught all the letters, blowing them up into the air, leaving them desperately clinging to their thumbtacks. I turned from the wall, walked into Lorne’s office, and at the top of the first column of the corkboard was a yellow index card that read GOOD MORNING, BROOKLYN.
Oddly, I didn’t feel particularly elated. I knew it deserved to be up there. I walked back to my office and a few people patted me on the back and offered congratulations. When I saw Steve Koren, he was beaming. “First sketch!” he called out, stretching his hand up for a high five. Being first was a big deal because it meant that we had written the funniest sketch of the week. I instinctively walked to the phone to tell my friends that there was a reason for them to watch the show. Shortly into my first season, I had stopped calling because whenever my sketch was cut, the first question they asked when I saw them was “What happened?” But because “Good Morning, Brooklyn” was scheduled to lead the show, I decided that it was safe to spread the word.
After I had finished calling everyone—except my parents, who had long since gone to bed—I walked back toward Lorne’s office. I was going to see if Marisa Tomei was still around so I could thank her. I found her in Marci Klein’s office, reintroduced myself, and told her how much fun we were going to have. She was very engaging and bright, and we chatted for ten minutes or so. But the conversation took a turn when she asked me how long I had been a cast member.
Without sounding the least bit defensive, I explained that I wasn’t a cast member yet, I was still a featured performer. Her face dropped. “You’re not even a cast member?” she said, half as a question, half as a statement. It became obvious that she didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Her answers grew shorter and she stopped making eye contact with me. I said good night to her and went home, carrying with me a funny feeling that it was best I hadn’t awakened my parents.
When I arrived on Thursday night for rewrites, Jim Downey pulled me aside. I was about to learn how many different ways you could get your legs broken. “We’ve got to talk about ‘Good Morning, Brooklyn,’” he said ominously. He explained that Marisa Tomei didn’t want to do the sketch, though he promised to try and talk her into it. I decided I would do the same.
I found her again by Marci’s office and confronted her. “Why don’t you want to do ‘Good Morning, Brooklyn’?” I asked her straight out. She began rambling that after the movie My Cousin Vinny, she didn’t want to be typecast as an Italian chick. She didn’t want people to think that was all she could do. I told her that the sketch was great for her and it was funnier because she was in My Cousin Vinny. People wanted to see her do something like this, I pleaded. She wouldn’t budge.
I knew that if I pressed her further I would run the risk of pissing the host off. I didn’t think Marisa Tomei telling Lorne what an asshole I was would be a good way to get more airtime. You could try and change the host’s mind, but if he or she didn’t want to do your sketch, what could you do? Nothing. It was eliminated. For the rest of the week, with your legs broken, you would crawl in and out of studio 8-H and curse every sketch that was being rehearsed.
I never believed that everything happens for a reason. I have always known, however, that everything does happen. My campaign for the sketch to remain in the lineup was legitimate, and I was grateful to Downey for going to