Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [76]
Jane the janitor was probably the most refreshing person to talk to in the entire building. A black woman in her sixties, she didn’t have an ounce of show business in her. Usually when I saw her, she was pushing a gigantic trash barrel on wheels. She always had a genuine smile on her face and seemed happy to see me. When we spoke, it was never about the show. It was always about family. During these conversations we were never interrupted. It was as if there was a shield around us.
During my spectator period, I would sit with the show’s announcer, Don Pardo, who would sip tea to keep his throat loose and ask me about my parents. He also lived in New Jersey, and despite the generation gap, we knew many of the same places. He cracked me up. I had started talking with Pardo the moment I was hired on the show. When he first laid eyes on me in the hallway outside of studio 8-H, he shouted in the same voice he used for the show’s introduction, “Ladies and gentlemen…Jay Mooohr!” He had been the voice of NBC for so many years and had done so many commercials that whenever he spoke to me, I felt comfortable. I had heard Don Pardo’s voice so often that when he spoke, I felt as if I was sitting at home in my living room. Hearing Don Pardo shout my name was a career wake-up call. I must have arrived if Pardo was saying my name.
Once I asked Don Pardo who was his all-time favorite out of all the musical guests that ever appeared on Saturday Night Live. He answered in his booming voice, “Are you kidding me, man? B.J.” I asked him, “Billy Joel?” Pardo erupted, “Bon Jovi!” I was surprised, to say the least. Pardo was at least seventy years old, and his declaration caught me off balance. When I asked him if he was serious, he smiled. “That motherfucker can sing,” he said. Fair enough. Maybe it was a Jersey thing.
Don Pardo, Theresa the nurse, Jane the janitor, and officers Ron, Billy Mac, and Fat Phil all helped make my Saturdays seem bearable. They listened to me and always had something nice to say. They never wanted anything from me but to see me smile. As I spent more and more time with them, it began to dawn on me that for whatever reason, these people simply liked me. Not me the performer or me the comic. They never saw that when they looked at me. They liked me for who I was. There wasn’t a phony bone in any of them, and I loved them for it.
Fourteen
Lorne
THOUGH I had always heard wildly varied descriptions of Lorne Michaels, I really liked him. To hear fans of the show tell it, Lorne was the guy that changed television. Here was a guy who came out of nowhere—Toronto, actually—and made an indelible mark on the entertainment landscape with Saturday Night Live. He was immortal. He was a guy who told the network and the entire old establishment of America to stick it. He broke the biggest comedy stars ever, and he created a new kind of celebrity, a cool not-ready-for-prime-time-players celebrity. And it was all because of Lorne Michaels, genius.
But to some people in the entertainment community—and certainly many former cast members—Lorne Michaels was downright diabolical. To them, Lorne was a man who would step on his grandmother’s throat to make a nickel. He was daft and put on airs. He was completely out of touch, notably with how uncool he had become. He also had no recollection of how cool he once was. I always figured the real Lorne Michaels was somewhere between these two versions, and I never had any sense that he was operating on some sort of diabolical level.
Some past and present cast members were convinced that Lorne wouldn’t sleep at night unless he made their lives miserable. Not me. No matter how pissed I ever got at Lorne Michaels, I never forgot what he had done for me. I had an illness that the show’s lack of structure brought out of me. I had spent hours at a time on my knees praying to God not to let me die in my office or dressing room. I had suffered panic that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But I was