Based on a True Story Read online

  So I had an offer to do a movie but no ideas. That’s when Frank came to the rescue. One night while we were working late on Update, Frank came up with a concept. The movie would be about a guy who is good at getting revenge, so he and his buddy open a revenge-for-hire business. Later in the film, it turns out his buddy is actually his brother. SPOILER ALERT!!!!!

  We brought on a third writer, Fred Wolf, who worked with us at SNL and had plenty of motion-picture experience.

  —

  Robert Simonds told us that the next task was to select a director. This turned out to be a problem. I wanted Frank to direct Dirty Work. He knew the script better than anybody and had studied film at NYU. But the biggest reason I wanted Frank was that I already knew him. If we didn’t hire Frank, I would have to meet some new guy and learn his name and pretend-laugh at all his jokes and ask him if his parents were still alive and listen as the guy told me that they both died last week, days apart from each other. Then I would have to buy the guy an expensive watch. I really hated meeting new guys.

  So I got Robert Simonds on the phone. “Robert, I think we need to talk about a director.”

  “I got just the guy,” said Robert.

  “Is it Frank?”

  “No, it’s Bob Saget.”

  “What are you, nuts?”

  “Let me ask you this, Norm: What comes to mind when you think of Bob Saget?”

  “I don’t know. A bunch of shit, I guess.”

  “Norm, he’s more than Full House and America’s Funniest Home Videos. Did you know that he’s already directed a film and won a Student Academy Award?”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. It was a film school documentary called Through Adam’s Eyes. It was about his seven-year-old nephew who underwent facial reconstruction surgery. I watched it. Very moving stuff.”

  “Well, thanks for the wonderful news, Robert. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run.”

  “What’s the hurry, Norm?”

  “I have to buy Bob Saget an expensive watch.”

  When Frank, Fred, and I were writing Dirty Work, we had actors in mind for each part. I don’t have the imagination necessary to create a man out of nothing, so we decided to go the opposite route: We wrote the movie by choosing our dream cast first and then writing characters based on them. We wanted Don Rickles. We got him. We wanted Chevy. We got him. We wanted Jack Warden. We got him. We wanted Sandler. We got him. We wanted Chris Farley. We got him. We wanted Bill Murray. We’re still waiting to hear back.

  Our only problem was that we had written the script as a buddy comedy, and we hadn’t yet cast the buddy. When it came to comedy films, Frank and Fred were experts. They told me that since I was a skinny guy, my buddy should be a fat guy. I got real mad and decided I needed to remind them who was boss.

  “That’s a bunch of horseshit. What about Laurel and Hardy? They were both skinny and they were really funny.”

  Turns out I was wrong on that one. So I continued, as my face grew red with anger.

  “And what about Abbott and Costello, or Ma and Pa Kettle, or Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise, or Jackie Gleason and Art Carney, or Belushi and Aykroyd?”

  It seemed that every example I came up with not only hurt my argument but bolstered theirs. But I saw a way out.

  “Well, it takes a big man to admit he’s wrong, and I admit I’m wrong, so I’m a big man. A big, big man. What about you two, are you wrong?”

  Frank answered. “No, Norm, Fred and I are right.”

  “That’s what I thought. Which makes you both very small men. And I feel sorry for you.”

  We looked at every fat guy in Hollywood, but nobody seemed to work for the role, and we were beginning to panic. Then one night, three days before we were supposed to fly to Toronto, I happened to turn the TV on and, for the first time ever, I saw an episode of MADtv. An actor named Artie Lange was talking straight to camera, not in character, and he was hilarious. What impressed me the most was that he wasn’t relying on fat-man tricks; he had a melancholy about him that reminded me of Belushi. I knew instantly that he was the guy for the part, so I phoned Robert Simonds and told him about Artie. But it was a big part and he informed me that an audition was necessary, so Artie met with Bob Saget and me.

  Artie’s reading was perfect and I knew we had our man. When he left, Saget and I phoned Robert Simonds, and Robert said, “If he works for you guys, let’s do it.”

  But an hour later, Robert Simonds called back. “Bad news. The guy’s got a big coke problem.”

  “So what?” I said. I had six grams of morphine rushing through me.

  “Listen, Robert, you know as well as anybody that it’s drugs that make a guy funny,” I said.

  “Of course, Norm, but this guy got caught. He went to jail. It’s public record. That’s why he’s back in New Jersey, out of the business.”

  “Goddamn!” I said.

  “Look, we can still make it work,” Robert said, “but we have to be sure he stays clean the entire time he’s in Canada. Can you promise me that?”

  “No,” I said.

  —

  It was such fun to be back in Canada, my true home strong and free. I was born in the Great White North and I remain to this day a Canadian citizen and I will till the day I die. I’ll tell you why. Canada is the country that shaped me, that taught me right from wrong, that turned me from a boy to a man. Also, that American citizenship test is way, way too hard. Trust me, I’ve tried it quite a few times. But no more. You know the old saying: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me thrice, shame on Adam Eget, pretending to be me and failing even worse; fool me four times, shame on the guy behind the desk at the Immigration and Naturalization office, who said he would see what he could do for a hundred clams and then said that he couldn’t do a damn thing but kept the hundred clams anyway; fool me five times, shame on the filthy homeless bum who could rattle off all the presidents in less than a minute but then the moment I gave him twenty dollars to do the test in my stead took off running down the street with a whoop and a holler; fool me six times, shame on me again, for threatening to burn down the federal building in New York City if I wasn’t given citizenship immediately. There would be no seventh time. Nobody ever accused this old country boy of being stupid. But it turned out to be all for the best, anyway. I’ve finally come to my senses. I was born a Canadian and I’ll die a Canadian and I will forever be proud to count myself a citizen of Canada, the fourteenth-greatest country in the world.

  A month after our first phone call, Bob Saget and I walked down the longest street in the world, Yonge Street in Toronto. People recognized Saget everywhere we went and would say, “Hey, you’re Bob Saget!” and Saget would turn to them and say, “Thank you,” as if it was a compliment. It was hot and crowded and dirty on the longest street in the world.

  Yonge Street runs near a hundred twenty miles from north to south. You can visit the Hockey Hall of Fame there or have a donut and a cup of coffee at Tim Hortons, and the runaway kids are on every corner, selling love to the Americans, who go up there to make movies cheap. And in the summer of ’97, the kids that nobody misses were missing and there was a bad man on the loose. And it wasn’t Saget. And it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Adam Eget either, I don’t care what anybody says.

  Adam Eget had done things, sure, but they weren’t bad things. They were the things that young men do when they need money. Breaking and entering, stealing cars, selling those pills you’re supposed to take when your ankle hurts real bad, smuggling cigarettes across the border, and jerking off punks under the Queensboro Bridge for fifteen dollars a man. Those kinda things. But nobody ever got hurt meeting Adam Eget. Still, Saget and I decided we would keep Adam Eget outta sight so the Ontario Provincial Police wouldn’t be sniffing around the movie set. If they saw a way to blame this whole Yonge Street unpleasantness on a young American boy, that would be just dandy with the Canadian John Law. Just dandy.

  34

&nbs
p; MR. WARMTH

  They say you should never meet your heroes, and I guess they’re right, okay. At least that was the experience I had with one of the actors on Dirty Work. He didn’t disappoint me as an actor. He was brilliant in the film. No, this man disappointed me in a deeper way. He disappointed me as a human being. I’m speaking about Don Rickles.

  Now, I was a huge fan of Mr. Rickles and was thrilled at the prospect of finally meeting him. I guess I knew just about every word from Toy Story, where he played Mr. Potato Head. I also loved him in Toy Story 2, where he reprised his role as Mr. Potato Head. And I would be negligent if I didn’t mention how great he was in Toy Story 3, where he played Mr. Potato Head.

  But I also knew him from The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, where he was a frequent guest. When he visited Johnny, I must say, in all candor, I never found him funny. Johnny, a true gentleman, always kindly introduced Don as Mr. Warmth, and then Don would come out and, let’s just say, not live up to this nickname. Don would immediately begin in on poor Johnny, being boorish and, yes, I’ll say it, in some cases downright insulting. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no fan of phony-baloneys. I like a man who is direct; I like a man who is honest and plainspoken. But there is a big difference between frankness and insults designed to hurt people. And somewhere along the way, I think, Don lost sight of that difference.

  I approached him the first day, in the makeup trailer, and introduced myself as I sat down. “I just want to tell you, Mr. Rickles, that I feel so honored that you would agree to be in the film, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir.”

  He shook my hand. “That’s very nice, Norm. By the way, I spoke to the home. Your room will be ready Tuesday.”

  The trailer erupted in laughter, and I felt rage deep in my soul. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and saw that my face was beet red. I wasn’t on any waiting list for any type of home, as Mr. Rickles was clearly suggesting. But I swallowed my anger. I was determined to find the real man through my own kindness and love.

  “Mr. Rickles, I would be honored if I could take you out to one of Toronto’s finest restaurants and buy you dinner tonight.”

  “I have a better idea, Norm. Why don’t you go to a shed in the desert with a rake and go BRAAAAAAP!!!!!!” This awful classless burping noise got the cheap laugh I’m sure Mr. Rickles is used to, but not from me. I could feel myself begin to shake with rage as everyone laughed at me. But I held it together.

  “Well, maybe a raincheck, then, sir. If there’s anything you need while you’re here, just let me know.” I could see I’d finally gotten through to him, because he gave a wide smile and put his arm around me. “Actually, Norm, there is one thing you could do for me, if it’s not too much trouble, and I’d be forever grateful.”

  I was so happy to finally reach the real Don Rickles, and I said, “Anything, sir; what would you like?”

  “Well, Norm, I’d like you to get a monkey and an organ grinder and run around the room going, ‘I lost my sock, I lost my sock.’ ” And Mr. Rickles then pranced around the makeup trailer, doing a grotesque pantomime of me searching for a missing sock.

  Now the laughter rose to a volume I’d never heard, but I knew it was not genuine laughter; it was the type of laughter that springs from nervousness and embarrassment. I felt burning tears run down my cheeks, and I fled the makeup trailer. I took a nice long walk, trying to compose myself. I think it was the comment about losing my sock and then running around telling everyone that hurt the most. Some things are just beyond the pale. I thought of Johnny Carson and how he was able to take this sort of abuse from Don, time after time, while the whole nation watched. It was a testament to Carson’s great security as a performer. Any other host would have had him ejected from the studio.

  When I felt whole again, I returned to the makeup trailer and decided to give Mr. Rickles a few words he’d probably never heard but certainly needed to. I stormed in without knocking.

  “Now, listen, Mr. Rickles, we are going to be working together in this film and I do not want any hard feelings, so I have a few things to say. I think that much of what you do is frankly insulting; it is completely uncalled for.”

  “That’s great, Norm; now, why don’t you take a train to Wyoming and milk a Clydesdale.” This was again followed by a long period of embarrassed laughter from everyone present. It stung like a wasp, but I kept my dignity and with a quavering voice told him once again how happy I was to have him on the project.

  I don’t regret telling Don Rickles what so many were afraid to. I guess, looking back, my only hope is that one day Don will remember my words, reflect on his life, and make some really meaningful changes in the way he chooses to treat people, especially strangers who pay good money to see him in nightclubs and theaters.

  35

  THE SHOOT

  The shooting of the film was a blast, but getting to work with such experienced and talented movie actors proved to be a double-edged sword. Now, I understand that all swords have two edges, so let me save some time by taking that back and just saying that getting to work with such experienced and talented movie stars was a sword. By watching these actors work, I could study them and steal many of their acting tricks. But I always felt they had no respect for me as the star of the film. Often I would catch them gathered together as I performed a scene, and I could not ignore their withering glances. They looked at me the way real vampires look at Count Chocula.

  But that was not to be the worst of it. Not by a long shot. I had brought Adam Eget to Toronto to assist me on the film. Once again I must emphasize with all the vigor at my command that Adam Eget never once assisted me.

  On the tenth night in Toronto, Bob Saget woke me in the middle of the night. There was a problem with one of the cameras from the previous day’s shoot, and we would have to redo a scene before the sun came up. So I stumbled out of bed and phoned Adam Eget, but there was no answer. I knocked on his hotel room door. No answer. So I took a cab to the set.

  We reshot the scene, then I rushed back to get two hours of shuteye. When I woke up, there was Adam Eget with a muffin and a coffee.

  “How’d you sleep, boss?”

  “Not well. Where the hell were you last night?”

  “I was in my room.”

  “I phoned you a hundred times; you didn’t pick up.”

  “Oh, yeah, that phone is broke,” he said, blushing.

  “I knocked on your door for ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, I think that door might be broke too.”

  “Where the hell is my paper?”

  “What paper?”

  “The Toronto Star you bring me every day with my muffin and coffee.”

  “Oh, the guy at the front desk said they went out of business.”

  “That’s absurd. Go get me my Toronto Star, Adam Eget.”

  He returned ten minutes later with a newspaper with the front page torn off. “What’s going on?”

  “The guy said you could have this one for free since it has no front page.”

  “Tell me the truth, Adam Eget.”

  “A young man’s body was found in a ravine last night. He was a teenage runaway, just like the rest. I thought you might suspect me.”

  “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “No, of course not, boss.”

  “Well, where were you last night, then?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I did what I always do when I have insomnia. I went out and found a ravine to relax in.”

  “A ravine?”

  “Yeah, a ravine.”

  “Was it the ravine where the teenager’s body was discovered?”

  “Oh, no. Jeez, I could see why you’d be suspicious if it was the same ravine. No, this kid was found two ravines over.”

  “Well, who the hell goes to a ravine to relax?”

  “Not me anymore, that’s for sure. This whole thing’s giving me the willies.”

  “Well, I told everybody that you weren’t in your room last
night. The police will be all over the set, and if anybody tells the cops that…”

  “I’m scared, Norm. Should I buy a gun?”

  “A gun? No. That would be the worst thing you could do. If the police talk to you, you have to tell them you couldn’t sleep last night so you went for a walk down Yonge Street.” I paused for a moment. “You wouldn’t kill a string of runaway teenagers, would you?”

  “Norm, you know I couldn’t harm a fly.”

  “Right, but what about a teenager?”

  “Never.”

  “Okay, buddy, let’s get to work.”

  That morning’s scene was one where Artie and I got in a huge bar fight. It was very physical and involved a lot of stuntmen. I didn’t want the stuntmen to roll after they landed, ’cause I always thought that looked fake in movies. I wanted them to stop abruptly when they hit the cement, which was much more painful for the stuntmen. Frank, Fred, Saget, and I were going through the choreography of the thing when I saw two police officers in the corner, speaking with Adam Eget. “Hold on, guys,” I said. “My stupid friend needs my help.”

  By the time I’d made it to Adam Eget, he was already cuffed and being led away. “Hold on, hold on, there must be some mistake.”

  “We’re just going to the station and having a little talk, that’s all,” said one of the cops.

  Well, that settled it. There was not much I could do but get back to work and forget about this. Chris Farley showed up and we all sat down to have some breakfast. Twenty minutes later I got a phone call. Adam Eget had made a full confession to the murder of fourteen teenagers.

  I phoned Robert Simonds at once.

  “Robert, you’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you.” I told him the whole affair.

  “Norm, I’m gonna be straight with you, because I’ve been in this business a long time. If the star of a movie has a personal assistant who, during the production of that movie, butchers over a dozen teenagers, that’s gonna hurt at the box office.”