The War for Late Night_ When Leno Went Early and Television Went Crazy - Bill Carter [221]
He perceived the analysis emerging from certain corners of show business: Conan had played the patsy. At the very moment his career was exploding—when Fox and ABC would have torn up their floorboards to build a fire to attract him—he had allowed himself to be lured into staying where he was, because NBC had dangled The Tonight Show far in the distance.
But he had no second thoughts—not about any of that. The most important question for him had been and remained: Where can I do good work? Hanging on at NBC and Late Night all but guaranteed he would have every opportunity to do good work as he waited out the promise of The Tonight Show in his future.
Conan could not imagine doing anything different, either in his initial call to accept confinement in the waiting room for five years or in his final call to reject the ultimate insult of NBC’s wait-and-switch maneuver—the thirty-minute delay.
O’Brien took solace in his conviction that he was the only individual in the whole fucking mess who could say with total honesty that he’d held up his end of the bargain.
Could Jay Leno really claim that?
Conan had already thought about what he might say to Jay if he ever did chance to run into him again: “I know you think you’ve won, but you have no idea what you’ve lost.”
It wouldn’t have the slightest impact on Jay, Conan knew, because Jay would simply shrug and say, “Hey, I’m getting my numbers.”
Between the tour, keeping up with his growing legion of fans via Twitter, and prepping for the new show on TBS, Conan had plenty to occupy his mind and keep it from drifting again and again to fantasy confrontations with NBC executives, imaginary exchanges with Jay.
Conan was thankful for that, and immensely thankful for Liza and the kids, and for Jeff Ross and the others who had stood beside him in this sandstorm and never took a step sideways. They would all be back for the next ride in his career carnival, no questions asked, no regrets.
All of that helped in his sensible commitment to move on.
But still, sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the house was quiet and the bed was warm, Conan would lie awake, sleep impossible, the replay machine running in his mind, generating scenes wilder and more stunning than anything his always blazing imagination could ever have conjured.
Liza would wake and watch him for a while, just lying there, staring blankly. And then Conan O’Brien would softly say:
“What the fuck happened?”
EPILOGUE
WE’RE THE NETWORK
A few years after he stepped down from The Tonight Show, Johnny Carson met Jerry Seinfeld for dinner in Los Angeles. As one of the many comics who broke through into public consciousness thanks to a showcase on Johnny’s show, Jerry was thrilled at the invitation.
As they talked about the comedy business they both loved, Jerry said to Johnny, “In my entire career as a stand-up, one of the things endlessly debated in every comedy club I was ever in was: Who do you think is going to take over The Tonight Show when Johnny leaves? For like twenty years I had that conversation. And the one thing none of us realized was that, when you left, you were taking it with you.”
Johnny had broadly agreed, Jerry said later. The point, Jerry explained, was that the show—the way Johnny did it; “the institution,” as people called it—effectively ended the day he walked off that stage. After that, what was left? A time slot, another guy in it, and a name that essentially meant nothing. Because, Seinfeld pointed out, nobody in the business ever said, “I’m doing The Tonight Show.” Instead they all said, “I’m doing Jay; I’m doing Dave; I’m doing Conan.”
Observing the NBC events of late 2009 and early 2010, Seinfeld found himself astonished at the psychic bloodletting that