I'm Not High (11 page)

“You guys are
sick
!” I even threw in a courtesy laugh for their trouble, even though I thought the joke was in extremely poor taste.

“It’s real,” Kevin said. “A Mack truck hit his car head-on, and they had to pry him out with the jaws of life. The man now has bolts in his hips. No shit.”

“For real?”

“Yep,” Kevin said. “He says that when he was on his deathbed, Jesus came to him and asked if he wanted another shot at life. Now it’s all he talks about.”

“Well, we ought to have something to talk about on the drive to Naples,” I said. Lou and I were on a bill in Naples that weekend.

“Don’t get in the car with him!” Kevin warned. “I’m begging you. He’s nonstop with Jesus.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He’s not gonna infiltrate me. I just hope Jesus doesn’t mind Metallica, ’cause that’s what’s getting us to Naples.”

The whole drive to Naples I jammed metal and teased Lou, who was trying to point out the music’s shortcomings. “Lou,” I said, cranking some AC/DC, “I don’t have evil thoughts when I listen to this music, but is it truly evil?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Absolutely. It is definitely evil. You know what, tomorrow you ought to go to a service with me.”

“Church in Naples?” I asked. “No thanks, Lou.”

“It’s going to be way different than you ever experienced.” He prodded me for forty-five minutes until I cried uncle.

“Okay, Lou,” I said, conceding. “Why not?”

The next morning we walked into a place that looked like an overgrown lawn mower shed.

“How did you even know about this place?” I asked.

There were no stained glass windows. There was no image of Jesus. The “church” was filled with a wide array of worshippers, some in jeans, some all dressed up. The congregation looked like a gathering of ordinary people sharing something in common. The service was actually right in tune with what I’d believed my whole life. You didn’t have to be ordained or a priest, or wear a fancy outfit, to share your message. You just had to speak from your heart.

It seemed like all of my Florida road gigs brought me closer to something—friends, faith, an unforgettable lesson. One late Thursday morning in the spring, I was waiting tables at Innisbrook, and I got a phone call. It was Brett, one of the head guys at the Comedy Scene.

“Dude,” he said sternly. “Get out of work. There’s a huge opportunity in Jacksonville at a new club called the Punch Line tonight. You gotta be there by seven thirty.”

“You’re crazy!” Jacksonville was a five-hour hoof. It was almost noon.

“Hear me out,” he said. “They have a bunch of clubs. If you nail it, it’s four weeks of work. I sold you hard to them; time to pretend you’re sick and get someone to cover your shift.”

“Well ...”

“Are you in, Jimmy?”

“Yeah!” I said. “Thanks for thinking of me.” Innisbrook was packed. I tried to bribe the bartender to cover my shift for the next two hours.

“Nah,” he said. He wouldn’t take it. “Just go knock ’em dead.”

I hit the road with twenty dollars in my pocket (good thing he didn’t take my bribe), which was about all the money I had to my name. There were no ATMs in those days, so I was hoping to earn enough money to be able to eat and drink, or that twenty was going to get stretched a long ways. The whole drive I was envisioning the four weeks of stage time. I was going to crush the room. Five hours later I arrived at the club, only to learn they hadn’t sold
any
tickets, so there was no show. The owner did give me keys to a condo, though, and told all of the comedians we’d try again the next night. Well, their big Friday-night early show had eight people. The late show had twelve. The other comedians were nervous about getting paid, but the headliner said he’d asked the owner for a small advance and gotten one. I boldly went and asked the guy for a twenty.

He laughed in my face. “Bro, I just don’t have it,” he said. “Look around. If we draw a crowd tomorrow night, I can pay you twenty-five dollars. Until then, I have nothing. Sorry.”

This little venture was turning into a real kick in the nads. At least they were feeding me wings, otherwise I’d have starved. By Saturday night I was down to eleven bucks.

The other comics weren’t as broke as I was and decided to go dancing at the hotel across the street from the Punch Line.

“I have no money,” I explained, pouting. “I can’t join you.”

The headliner, a thirtyish guy, said, “I’ll spot you ten bucks. There’s a band over there. Maybe you’ll meet a chick.”

I hated loud clubs, and that’s what this was. Every silly jacked-up Jacksonville nut was in this Holiday Inn. I wanted out immediately, but the comedian who’d driven us from the condo to the club that night was intent on staying. But before we could even go inside, a bouncer relieved us of ten dollars each for the cover charge. Now I had no money for a drink. The headliner was intent on making sure I didn’t sneak away. “C’mon, I’ll buy the first round.” We walked into a smoke-filled, loud cesspool of bad mall suits and cocktail dresses.

I finished my drink and figured it was my destiny to have to walk all the way back to wherever the condo was. My plan was to first stop back at the Punch Line and see if I could hitch a ride from a cook or waitress, if anyone was still there. I headed toward the door, but as I was about to exit, the singer in the band started wailing. His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. It was amazing. Faced with a long walk home or listening to this guy belt out precision Journey lyrics, I decided to turn around and hang out for a few songs.

The guy was wearing jeans three sizes too small, his hair was total metal curly frizz, and his shirt was popped open wide enough to let his carpet of chest hair breathe. Amused, I took a step farther and stopped dead once again. It was Jimmy Sciacca! My high school buddy.

Like in
The Matrix,
everything froze, and I pushed my way to the front of the stage and started yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy!”

In the middle of their song, he finally recognized that it was me yelling his name, and without a second thought, he said, into the mic, “Holy shit! Are you kiddin’ me?”

After a sucky weekend, this was a small miracle. It turned out Sciacca lived in Orlando, not far from me, and we kept in touch. Since then he’s toured with me, been a part of my radio show, and performed on his own all over the place. I stand by my word when I say he has one of the most amazing voices God ever gave anyone.

Toward the end of my stay in Florida, I had a moment when the temptations of being on the road took me off my path. Temptations come for all of us, but especially those who have even the tiniest bit of fame and some free time. And when you hit those little roadblocks, you can lose your message and your way. By the end of this trip I had to look in the mirror and ask myself what I was doing it for.

I was on a bill with Gallagher’s brother, Gallagher II (who looks exactly like his brother, squishes stuff, too, and, well, that’s a long story), and afterward a bunch of folks (but not Gallagher II) went out for some drinks. Many drinks. By the time we wound up in what I thought was a dive bar, I was severely polluted. Now, I’m generally a happy drunk who can find the good in everyone. I didn’t and don’t usually drink a lot, but that night, for some reason I was raring to go.

So we were sitting in this dive bar, and all of a sudden this woman just hopped up on the bar and started taking her clothes off in time to the music. I could not believe my eyes. I became really concerned for her safety and told her to get down from the bar immediately.

Her response was to take her pants off. In my state, I thought she was on a bad acid trip or something. I started unbuttoning my shirt, then I tried to throw it to her, saying, “No! No! No! Put this on!”

Everyone in the club, except for me and the bouncers, started laughing. Could no one recognize what was going on? And the more I reached out to cover her with my shirt and then my jacket, well, the more upset the bouncers got. Finally they lifted me up and manhandled me out the door.

Drunk and angry, I fumed in front of the club. My friends came outside and pointed out that we had actually been inside a strip club. That was how out of it I was. Humiliated, angry, and yes, still intoxicated, they helped me get back to my hotel room, where I rode out the bed spins and passed out, only to be woken up by my own intense projectile vomiting a few hours later. I opened my eyes to see a geyser splattering the floors. When I stopped puking a half hour later, I was oddly lucid for a drunk guy. Then came the self-loathing. I looked around the room and thought of how careless I was. Had anything Steve Harvey said sunk in? I wept most of the next day, and when I wasn’t weeping, I was praying. I didn’t want to be another guy chewed up by the road.

It was now time to go to New York. I had to get out of Florida, pursue my dream, grow up, and be a man.

Engaged

By January of 1992, I��d been back in New York for a while with one thing on my mind: my career. I didn’t want to see any chicks, date any chicks, nothing. Five months later, I was engaged to be married.

The whole reason I went up to New York was that a year earlier, a fancy Big Apple manager—who shall henceforth be known as the Rat—saw that I was a rising star in the stand-up world and told me that if I came to New York City, he’d manage me and get me on TV. I’d just landed a couple of guest-starring spots on the Nickelodeon teen sitcom
Welcome Freshmen,
which filmed in Orlando, but I wanted more. The Rat, I was sure, could pave the way.

So for a solid year in Florida I saved every penny. I worked three shifts at restaurants, from five A.M. until one A.M. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was getting $200 and $300 to do comedy road gigs on weekends or picking up dough emceeing at the Comedy Scene in Clearwater. I was building up my material and my cash reserves. Before I moved, I periodically checked in with the Rat from Florida to make sure we were still on. When I’d met with him previously, in New York, he would spin his Rolodex, showing off all the famous names. I was going to be one of those names.

Every journey begins somewhere, and mine started in my old friend Phil’s parents’ basement on Long Island.

As I got out of the taxi and schlepped my suitcase to their door, Phil’s mom was waiting to give me a hug. She squeezed me, and without so much as a hello, she said, “Do you know who the hell this Dee woman is? You’re not even living here yet and she’s leaving messages for you, Jimmy. Doesn’t that strike you as a little forward? ”

I had no idea which Dee she could be talking about. I was friends with a Dee in Florida. I’d met her through that girl Kelly, with whom Kristen had tried to set me up—Dee was Kelly’s best friend, and from time to time I used to stop by Dee’s house to make her and her parents laugh. I had fun with them. But why would Dee be calling me now? And here? It didn’t make sense. “This Dee gal is a pain in my ass,” Phil’s mom continued ranting.

I apologized to her for all the phone calls, then went inside and called my mom to let her know I’d arrived safely.

“Did you call Eddie yet?” she asked. Mom knew Eddie was the considerate, thoughtful older brother who would help me out if I needed it, and I was sure that knowing we’d been in touch would give Mom no end of comfort.

“Ma,” I said. “I just got here, I will get to it.

I blew off both Dee and Eddie for a couple weeks. I was in New York to become a big star, with leather pants and a pet kangaroo. I wasn’t there to fill up my social calendar.

But when I landed a gig in Manhattan at the renowned comedy club Dangerfield’s, I figured it was time to meet with Eddie. I’d told Eddie that I was going on at eleven P.M. and that he should meet me at the club beforehand, and I’d impress him even more by telling him about the TV developments my manager was working on. I got dressed in a shiny silver satin shirt and my fancy skinny black jeans, and I was rocking my Daryl Hall-esque mullet. I blew it dry, so it was extra fierce and spiky, then took the LIRR into the city, hopped in a cab to the Upper East Side, got to the club, tipped the driver, and went inside.