I'm Not High (34 page)

But in the meantime, the kids get to play with him. He gets to sit out on the back deck and watch me mow the lawn. If I’m cooking, I’ll make him chop up some basil. I don’t have to tell the guy I love him because I’m sure he knows it.

RV Tour

Last summer, I was going to be touring a lot, and I decided to try something different. If I was going to go on the road, doing family comedy, I was going to take my family with me. Not for some puny little weekend jaunt. For the whole thing. And we weren’t going to fly. We were going to spend a real American summer together. In an RV. My kids are growing up way too fast to be apart from them for such long stretches. Little milestones go by—something simple like the fact that even my littlest, Dorianne, who’s five, can swim now—and you step back and hope you’re not taking any of it for granted. Also there’s this: My oldest, Gabrielle, is eleven and on the verge of entering that whole texting and IM-ing universe, and that really freaks me out.

So the tour dates were all in place, and my plan was to rent the smallest, most navigable RV ever, get them all to pile in it, and along the way we’d hit campsites, barbecues, water slides, amusement parks, and truck stops. I would have even brought my parents, but my mom is so wedded to her routine that she’d have driven us crazy on the road. I’d get a baseball hat that says CAPTAIN or ADMIRAL on it and those little sunglasses things that people attach to the front of their regular glasses—and I don’t even wear regular glasses. This was going to be the best summer ever, filled with Breuer-style togetherness.

My wife and kids bought into the idea immediately. After a few clicks on the RV rental Web site I wound up looking at one I thought I could handle.

“You’ve gotta be crazy,” my wife said, looking over my shoulder. “We’ll smother each other in there. We’ve got to get a bigger one.”

I clicked another. To be honest, I was petrified of driving a really huge RV, but I didn’t want anyone to know.

“That one’s also way too small, Jim,” Dee said. “It’ll get so claustrophobic in there, we’ll kill each other.”

“We may not have to rent an RV for that to happen,” I said, starting to lose my cool.

I clicked on another. A beautiful, manageable twenty-five-footer. Nice sandalwood interior. Entertainment console. Kitchenette. GPS. Seat coverings that were resistant to pudding, glue, finger paint, nacho cheese, and marker stains.

“Let’s pick this,” I said. It was settled. This was the RV in which we’d see the country and bond.

The first hour we were on the road, I realized I just loved the thing. I loved the idea of never having to stop to pee or eat. With all the females in this vehicle, it could have taken three days to travel 108 miles. Having an RV meant we wouldn’t be stopping. It sank in that we were really going to be traveling the USA in an RV.

Dee was in a great mood. Happy to be taking her family on a journey. I wondered how long it would last when the reality that the girls were seated just three feet behind her kicked in. They were doing their best to open every bag of chips on board, along with all the rest of the groceries we’d purchased, then spilling them onto the floor, where they’d get crunched to tiny pieces and slide all over the place. They’d also begun their chorus: “She’s sitting next to me.” “She’s against me.” “Don’t touch me.” “She called me poopy.” “She’s staring at me.” “Can I have some chips?” “I can’t find them.” “She ate a chip out of my bag.” “That’s my water!” “She took my seat.”

A glance at the GPS told me that we’d made it only about forty miles from home. We were still in New Jersey, and our first campsite was all the way across Pennsylvania, located about an hour from Pittsburgh, the site of my first show.

But as the day wore on, a quiet calm settled over the RV, the kids napped, and looking out at the open road—I was now camped in the passing lane, getting cocky, flashing my brights and blowing past slowpokes—I fleetingly wondered why I’d ever chosen to travel any other way.

Until I realized that Western Pennsylvania was a long ways away. I was bored out of my mind, looking at the speedometer, the GPS, and the clock over and over again. I just wanted to set up camp and unwind. By the time we pulled off of I-80 onto the bumpy little county highway that we thought would lead us to the campground, it was dusk. It was getting a lot harder to see anything and we didn’t have any backup instructions; we were just going on full-blown GPS.

“Does it matter that the GPS keeps saying to turn right, Dee?” I asked.

“The GPS knows what it’s doing, Jim,” she said.

“Then how come there’s nowhere to turn right?” I said.

“I have no clue,” Dee said. “Maybe I’ll try using my cell phone, we’ve gotta be really close by now.

“I have no bars,” Dee said, holding up her cell phone.

Concern was now spreading slowly across my face. “Oh, man,” I said. “The GPS isn’t working either. Without the GPS, we really don’t know where the campsite is,” I said through gritted teeth. “Didn’t you have, like, a
paper
map of the area? And,” I said, continuing to freak out, “I guess it’s not like we can
call
anyone for directions!” I scowled, Dee scowled.

But a quick glance back at the kids confirmed that they weren’t concerned with being just a little bit lost. They’d woken fully from their naps and were playing their Nintendo DS games, happily and obliviously eating Cheetos and Doritos. The road became bumpier and more winding, and with every pothole we hit all of the pans and the oven rattled like the whole RV was going to fall apart.

And it was getting darker outside.

That was probably for the best at this point. Because, outside of the RV windows, we didn’t see many houses, and the ones we did see were not ones where you’d stop for directions. The residents were either missing teeth, not wearing shirts, or hanging out with pit bulls who were chewing on old tires—probably from RVs that had run out of gas nearby and been ritually dismantled. Then the road twisted more and driving became more stressful, because I didn’t know how much leeway I had if another car was coming at me.

If we kept driving in one direction, I figured, we had to hit a main road where someone could offer us directions. I was pretty confident that there were people in Pennsylvania who have teeth, who live in cities, and who get to them by driving on a main road. We kept driving for twenty more minutes. There were no main roads.

“I’m just going to pull over,” I said finally. I’m not one of those guys who won’t ask for help. Even when the neighborhood is sketchy. “Next person I see, we’ll stop.”

“Oh, man,” Dee said, sighing. “Don’t ask any of these people. Don’t let them know we’re lost!” The kids kept munching their snacks.

At that point, just turning around and going back to the interstate wasn’t even an option. We’d deviated from the straight-line plan and made a bunch of turns, and it’s not like we could just turn the GPS on and make our way back.

“I’m serious,” I explained. “The next reasonable-looking place I see, I’m going to stop in and ask for directions. And just maybe, I will make it back to this RV without an axe in my head.”

Finally, we happened upon what I think was a motel or gas station or wood shop. The lights were on, and I thought I saw an old woman in the doorway, and I thought I saw an office. The Bates Motel had an office, too, but I was willing to take my chances.

I pulled in on the mystery business’s gravel driveway. There was no sound but the engine of the RV and the slow, gentle churn of rubber tires across the pebbles. Oh, and also the clanging of all those pots, pans, dishes, forks, knives, spoons, Crock-Pots, melon ballers, ice cream scoops, and pie tins that my family members had packed, all stacked in the RV’s kitchen. I broke the silence.

“They’re closed!” I exclaimed, pointing at the rickety houselike structure. “No one here is going to help us.”

“I see an old lady there!” Dee said. “Grow a pair and ask her the way outta here.”

I saw her move, shuffling slowly toward our headlights.

I threw the RV into park. The GPS had safely brought us hundreds of miles. And now this wise old woman was going to take us the last furlongs. I hopped out of the cab. The old woman approached. I looked back and saw my family’s faces huddled under the dome light, still chewing their snacks.

“Ma’am,” I said politely, “I’m looking for a campsite....”

I could see from her body language—a scratch at the crotch region of her tattered housecoat—that she’d obviously fielded this one before. “Make a left out of the parking lot,” she explained politely. “And it’s three and a half miles down the road, on your left ...”

I could hear cheers now coming from the RV. The old woman looked at me and nodded at the RV. We were going to go camping! Or RVing. You know what I mean.

We made it to our campsite and pulled into our spot. This was the only one left and it was right next to the toilets. And when you go to one of these places (a campsite, not toilets) you have to back into your spot. I had never driven the RV more than three feet in reverse before, and it took me about a half hour to do a mediocre job of parking. By the time we got in place, a sizable crowd had gathered. And the girls were yelling that they wanted to finally get out of the RV.

“I wanna ride my Spider-Man bike!” Dorianne said. “I’m just going to jump out, okay? We’re already in the parking lot!”

“Where are the vending machines?” Kelsey asked.

“I’m getting out first, ’cause I’m oldest!” Gabrielle fired back. Then they all raced to the door, pushing and grabbing at each other.

“It’s too dark for bikes,” I explained. “We’re just going to chill out and get some fresh air.”

At first I thought being close to the toilets would be a great thing due to the convenience. But people were going in and out of them 24/7. And when all the parents went to sleep for the night, guess where the teenagers’ dope-smoking and booze-guzzling hangout was? And then there was the smell: a permanent, heavy,
bathroomy
odor.

At about three A.M. the no-good kids all cleared out because it started pouring. It rained all night long and all through the next day. So the girls didn’t get to ride their bikes. We didn’t get to hike. No one went in the lake. We were all stuck in the RV. Just like the day before. It was like
The Shining,
only everyone was Jack Nicholson.

We eventually decided that we should just move on to the next campsite. First, though, we had a little chore to complete: a dump of the RV’s sewage tank. In the rain. This is exactly what it sounds like. There’s a meter in the RV that tells you when you need to get rid of all of the poop and nasty water you’re lugging around. And by that time, it was redlining. I waffled about doing it myself for a second, before Dee happily took the reins. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Because this is one job you just can’t do halfway. If anyone screws this up, our trip is going to be ruined.” She was basically saying that she didn’t trust me not to half-ass it, and I was fine with her logic.

When you rent an RV, in order to suck all the crap out of your ride, you have to hook up a hose, kick a little motor on, and send it all into a receptacle at your local campsite. Guys in rock bands on tour buses often have a rule against dropping loads on the road. I have no idea why or how they decided on this rule—maybe they’re trying to flush the wrong kind of stuff—because we were assured RV toilets never backfire or plug up, and ours didn’t thankfully. You just really want to make sure when you’re emptying it that the hose is attached correctly and the valves are all synced up, otherwise you will be in a world of trouble.

As I sat there watching Dee sync it all up perfectly, I had a moment of realization. I’d been on TV, met my idols, and lived a life beyond my most ambitious dreams. And there I was in the rain, in the middle of nowhere, watching my wife pump shit out of an RV. And I was happier than I’d ever been before.

I owe major thanks to my sister Dorene, who had the unenviable job of typing out this book. As I would hand her pages and pages of unreadable scribbles, she would laugh, get pissed, cry, and then laugh again. Most of all, she encouraged me to keep going. She has been a guardian angel, fiercely protecting me and my family from the showbiz vultures. I love her beyond words.

Special thanks go out to my cowriter, Jeff Johnson, who spent many nights Skyping with me as our kids and wives juggled their lives for us. I was not looking forward to having a writer go through my stuff, but Jeff made this the best experience possible. He caught every emotion and made my own writing more like me. Jeff, you knocked it out of the park.

A huge thank-you to Eric and Steve at FarmHaus Studios. They have been tremendous in bringing to life every vision I have—from Web sites to videos to posters to social media stuff. Without these guys I would not be able to do what I do. Hands down, these guys are my saviors. They are amazingly talented at what they do, and I’ve been blessed to have them work with me. Beyond that, I count them both as friends and role models; having them around makes my life so much better.

A special thanks to my manager, Judi Brown-Marmel. She really and truly gets it. And she busts her rear end to get the real Jim Breuer out there! I trust her and believe in her. A big thanks, also, to Robert Hartmann and the entire group at Levity Entertainment for helping me start this all with
Let’s Clear the Air
. That show was just the beginning; thanks to all their hard work.

Thank you to Peter McGuigan, who saw the potential of this book from the very beginning. He has kept this thing on track the whole way through. He’s the best literary agent out there.

And, of course, I have to thank Bill Shinker, Patrick Mulligan, Lisa Johnson, Lindsay Gordon, Dick Heffernan, and everyone—and I mean EVERYONE!—at Gotham Books and Penguin. This has been exciting from the moment I walked into their office to meet them. What a great group. This company believes in my passion, and has done everything to show me they stand behind this book. And that’s all anyone can ask for.