Dynomite!: Good Times, Bad Times, Our Times--A Memoir (35 page)

One night, with his dressing room door open, Randy and his band and crew were doing their group prayer. A cross-dressing male backup dancer from Bernhard’s act walked by in a mini-skirt and fishnet stockings and announced to no one in particular, “I gotta tape my dick in this goddamn mini-skirt!” Bet that was the first time Randy ever heard
that
sentence—at least I hope so.

As the rare performer who has worked completely white crowds at country concerts as well as completely black crowds at the Apollo, I believe the unspoken reality of American life is that black and white prefer “separate but equal.” People who hope for a colorless world do not want to hear this but, despite civil rights legislation aplenty from the ’50s until today, racism is part of the fabric of our society. I am not referring to public racism, which affects schools, employment, and housing for which the government demands integration. I’m talking about racism in our private lives. “Government cannot make us equal,” black conservative Brian W. Jones has written. “It can only make us equal before the law.”

Here’s a simple test I have used for years. Go to your favorite bar after 6 p.m. Look at the groups of the same sex (not gay) hanging together. Those are the people they have chosen as friends. I’m talking about a bar in a big city with lots of different ethnic groups, lots of interaction with different races at work, at school, and so on. How many of those groups are mixed in color? Very, very few. No one needs to feel guilty about that. It just is what it is. There is a Tyler Perry movie and there is
The Hangover
—and the characters in one do not hang out with the characters in the other.

An exception to this antagonism between the races—and there are always exceptions—is when people of different races date or marry. Sex can overcome anything!

Pryor and Prinze used to tease me: “You and your white women and your white posse!” It seemed whenever I went to the Store, I would have at least a couple of my writers with me, and my girlfriend would be white too. Brenner had a funny line when he saw black comic George Wallace walk up to the Store with two white women: “George, you are so lucky that there are so many white girls who want to hurt their parents.”

All but one of my serious relationships have been with white women, something I never would have guessed when I was opening for the Panthers!

When I dated Nancy, a secretary at Warner Brothers, she would often stay at my townhouse. Once, while she was there alone, a man with a deep Southern accent phoned.

“You got a nigga there?”

She was shocked.

He continued, “We don’t allow niggas living with white women’round here. We gonna come getcha!”

He hung up and a very distraught Nancy called me on the set.

She worked in the entertainment industry, but she did not know comedians. We go right for the jugular. When she told me what happened and described the caller’s accent, I knew immediately it had been Landesberg playing a joke on her. I laughed. But I do not remember her laughing. She was shaken.

The only black woman I was serious about was Edie. We met at some comedy event during the
Good Times
years. She was considerably younger than me and had been the only black to that date in the Rose Bowl Queen’s Court. She was absolutely stunning and phenomenally poised and classy for a teenager. She reminded me of a young Lena Horne. When she gave me her phone number, I couldn’t believe it. That I then dated her and we lived together was amazing to me. My lawyer, Jerry, would take her to lunch just so people would think she was “with” him.

She loved to go out and be seen. She loved to shop. She loved to tan by the pool (yes, black people tan). She slept most of the day and then spent most of the night partying with her friends. She was a black Paris Hilton before there was a white Paris Hilton. She loved doing talk shows and game shows and going to events with me, from awards shows to movie premieres. Otherwise, I was on the set during the day, with my writers in early evening and doing my act at the Store at night. The arrangement was clear: She would be stunningly beautiful and I would buy her almost anything she wanted. There were few guys on the planet who would not have traded places with me in an instant.

The only thing I would not get her was her own Mercedes. I gave her mine to drive and also paid to have her car fixed whenever she wanted. But she wanted her own—and did not like my refusing her wish. That argument was the only one we had, but it was the beginning of the end of our time together. It was the car or me! Obviously we are not talking about love in this situation. After about a year of a not-very-emotional relationship, we broke up, seemingly on good terms.

A month later Jerry received a lawsuit with my name on it for “alienation of affections.” I was shocked and hurt. I decided to settle out of court. Almost immediately Edie apologized to me, saying that the lawsuit was her family’s idea. She did not give me back the money, though.

I have not been seriously involved with a woman of color since. And I don’t think black women across America are screaming, “Oh no, without Jimmie Walker, what are we going to do now?!” That’s just a personal choice I have made. We are free in America to be politically incorrect.

People used to think we go around with fried chicken in a paper bag. But things have changed. Now, we carry an attaché case—with fried chicken in it. We ain’t going to give up everything just to get along with you people.

Who said that joke? Pryor in the ’70s? Eddie Murphy in the ’80s? Chris Rock in the ’90s? Dave Chappelle in the ’00s?

Answer: Godfrey Cambridge, 1965.

Any black comic in America could “adapt” that joke today and it would still kill—especially if he threw in a few F-bombs and a “nigger” here and there.

12

On the Road

I HAVE SPENT MOST OF MY ADULT LIFE ON THE ROAD. SURE, I STARRED on TV, but my life was always all about the stand-up. All I have ever wanted to do was get on stage and make people laugh. Not that doing almost three hundred shows a year in clubs across the country is easy. I have played bowling alleys where the stage is at the end of a lane and I had to wear bowling shoes. I have played Chinese restaurants—“Jimmie Walker
and
a Chinese buffet for $19.99.”

I am booked at the Sahara in Atlantic City for a three-month gig in the lounge. I arrive at the airport and look around for the car that is supposed to pick me up. I see a limo with a Sahara sign on it and find the driver sleeping. I tap on the window and say, “Are you here to pick up Jimmie Walker?”

“J. J.?”

“J. J.?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, sorry. You know what’s happening? We have WrestleMania in town.” This was WrestleMania IV at the Trump Plaza in 1988. “I’ve been driving all day. I’m really tired. Do you know your way around Atlantic City?”

“Yeah, I’ve worked here a lot.”

“Would you mind driving?”

“Yes, I would. That’s your gig.”

“Thought I’d ask.”

At the Sahara the female desk clerk says, “Oh my God, J. J.! What are you doing here?”

“I’m working in the lounge. I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Really? I never even heard. Where are you staying?”

“I’m staying here. Where else would I stay?”

“Uh, you know it’s WrestleMania? We’re booked.”

“I’m supposed to have a room.”

“We don’t have any rooms.”

I ask her to call Jay, the entertainment director.

“I’m sorry, Jay didn’t get your reservation in on time. It’s a little crazy. It
is
WrestleMania. But we’ll figure something out.” After an hour she wrangles me a room. I open the door and see a guy jerking off on the bed. I wince, close the door, and return to the reservations clerk. I tell her there is somebody still in the room.

“Oh, I guess they didn’t clear it. Well, you know, it
is
WrestleMania.”

She gets me another room, but it faces the Trump Plaza and the bright lights from that tower reflect right into my room. For someone who works at night and sleeps in during the mornings, this is a serious problem. I ask her for another room, but she shakes her head: “It’s WrestleMania.” Okay, fine.

The next day I go to the valet to pick up the car they usually lend to the entertainer playing the hotel.

“J. J.! I love that show, man!” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m working the lounge. I’m here to get the club car.”

He looks at me like I am insane. “You know it’s WrestleMania? All the cars are taken.” I ask him to call Jay, who tells him to send me down the street to a rental car place where I can get a car and that the hotel will pay.

I walk to the rental car place. The guy at the desk says, “Holy shit, J. J.? I love you, man! I used to laugh my ass off at that ‘dyn-o-mite’ thing. What are you doing in town?”

“I’m working the Sahara.”

“So what are you doing in here?”

“I need a car.”

“We don’t have any cars. Didn’t anyone tell you? It’s WrestleMania.”

“But I’m going to be here for three months. I need a car.”

“Let me see what I can do. But keep in mind, it’s WrestleMania.” After an hour he locates an available rental and I drive back to the hotel.

The valet says, “Parking is full. It’s WrestleMania.” I give him the keys and let him figure out what to do.

I go to my room, but it has not been cleaned up. I see the maid, who is about to leave the floor, and I stop her.

“I think you forgot to hit my room,” I tell her. “It’s a little funky in there.”

“I’ve been working since six o’clock this morning,” she says sharply. “You know, it
is
WrestleMania.”

I do my show that night and tell the tale of my trip so far. Jay comes up afterward and says, “Very funny, man. But we would appreciate you not doing that story. It makes the hotel look bad.” I say, “No problem.”

But when I go back to my room, it still has not been made up. I see the maid again and she gives me the same line: “It’s WrestleMania.” Okay, now I am getting annoyed.

I do my second show that night, and I tell the story again—and it absolutely kills. Jay says, “Didn’t I ask you not to do that story?”

“Come on, Jay, what’s going on? I can’t even get a clean room!”

“We’ll take care of it,” he says, “as soon as WrestleMania is over.”

The next day the valet drives my car to the pick-up area. It has a gash about a foot long in the side. “Hey man, what happened to the car?” I ask.

He looks at the damage. “Man, that is bad.”

“It wasn’t there when I checked it in yesterday.”

“Well, you know, it
is
WrestleMania.”

That night in the lounge I tell the story again. Jay waves me over to speak with him. “I’ve asked you twice not to do that story. I know you’re getting laughs, but you’re getting laughs at the expense of the hotel. We can’t have that. Maybe it’s best that you leave.”

“Fine, I’m leaving.”

The next day I board the plane to LA and settle into my seat. I turn to the guy next to me. It is the same guy I saw jerking off in the hotel room. I change my seat.

I am a road comic.

I spend a lot of time on planes and in airports. On the first day that planes could fly after 9/11 I went to the Las Vegas airport. I had a gig and it was time to help people laugh again. Everyone in the country was nervous, on edge, and a little bit scared too, especially if you were about to get on an airplane. I didn’t know what to expect at the terminal. Inspectors searched my bags for what seemed like half an hour, but I finally made it through the checkpoint.

Security at airports is very tight. If your first name is Muhammad, your last name better be Ali.

Walking through the concourse to my gate, an airline agent saw me and yelled, “Hey! Dyn-o-mite!” Not a smart move. She was hauled away by security guards, screaming, “Wait a minute! It’s J. J., the ‘Dyn-o-mite’ guy!”

Please, if you see me at an airport, a simple “Hey Jimmie” will do.