It was Thursday, and I was figuring out what set I was going to do that night in preparation for the weekend. My phone rang, and it was my manager. We chatted a little and then he said, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” [I have this bad habit; when anyone asks me to do them a favor, I say yes before I even hear what they’re asking. Ridiculous, I know.]
He told me that the headliner for the show this weekend was a comedian from L.A. He was this awesome guy, and my manager thought I’d get along great with him. He was flying in to do the show in CT and staying at the hotel for the weekend, but once the weekend was over, he’d need a ride back to NYC. Would I mind giving him a lift? I already had said yes, and I trusted my manager and thought, how bad could it be? The answer: it was pretty fucking bad.
I drove the four hours up to the hotel on Friday night. I got myself settled in and then headed right over to the club. I was the MC, and I met the other comic, the Middle, first. (On the road a show is usually comprised of 3 comics. The MC, the Middle and the Headliner.) The Middle was a really nice guy, and I could tell he was funny. Thinking that the headliner was going to be an “awesome guy,” I thought it would be a good weekend. And then he got there.
A total DB, (Douche Bag), he showed up almost an hour late, just in time to go on. The booker, the person who runs the club and books the acts, was pissed. She had to actually drive to the hotel to pick him up. He had fallen asleep.I was in the green room, and I had never spoken to him when he came storming in. He told me it was my fault he was late. He thought I was going to wake him and drive him to the club. Did I get a job at the hotel that I was unaware of? Middle had five minutes left, and I was about to go on stage to do five more minutes and then bring the headliner, DB, up. I tried to be nice. I said, “I was only asked to drive you back to NY at the end of the weekend.” But he wasn't having it. He went on to say that our manager said I’d be driving him around for the weekend and that this included me getting him to the shows on time. He was actually trying to pin oversleeping on me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead, but luckily, I had to run up on stage.
Everyone waited for him to finish what was supposed to be a forty-five minute set. Sixty minutes later he was still going, even with the club trying to get him off stage with the red light, he wouldn’t get off. Finally, he finished. I closed the show, and we were all done for the night.
After a show, most comics eat dinner together. It’s a type of comedy etiquette. DB tells us to wait for him to eat, but then proceeds to set up a one-man-shit-shop after the show. T-shirts, DVD’s, CD’s. Me and Middle grabbed a table and got menus. Both of us were starving. After doing a show, I can easily scarf down an entire meal for four. There’s something about performing that makes you hungry. But me and DB got off to a bad start, so I was trying to make nice and wait for him. DB finally came over, and we ordered. This was going to be some weekend.
TO BE CONTINUED...