Based on a True Story Read online

  “Sure you know him,” Steve said. “He’s Beam Me Up Scotty.”

  And outside the Regency House, we all laughed loudly for different reasons in the cold autumn of New York.

  —

  A little fame can be an embarrassing thing, and I was to learn that lesson often. I mean, I’m used to it now, like when Mr. Abernathy says, “Hey, Piscopo, that stew’s not all for you, ya know.” Mr. Abernathy, he’s lived at the boardinghouse forever, and when I first moved in, he called me Piscopo and I never corrected him. I should have years ago, but if you don’t do something right away, you never do it. And, after all, one name is as good as another.

  One time, that first year on SNL, I got recognized by an actual celebrity. It was Slash, whom I had admired for some time both for his incredible guitar playing and his hat. It would never occur to me that a guy like Slash would even know a bum like me existed. But that’s the great thing about showbiz. A famous guy like Slash, whom you’ve never met in your life, runs up to you in the streets of New York, shakes your hand, and treats you like you’re both old friends.

  “How you doing, buddy? What’s new?”

  “Oh, not much, Slash, just same-old same-old. You know how it is. Hurry up and wait.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it.”

  When you’re in showbiz and you meet another guy in showbiz, you’re supposed to play it cool, but me, I get real nervous. Slash asked if we could speak in confidence, and so we found a corner where we could talk and be unheard by the unfamous.

  Slash leaned in to me close.

  “Have you talked to Chucky lately?”

  I didn’t know anyone named Chucky. “Not for a while, no,” I said. “Why?”

  Slash got even quieter. “He’s not in good shape. When was the last time you talked to him?”

  I felt sweat everywhere. “I don’t know. Probably four months. He seemed pretty good, considering.”

  I knew I had to get out of there quickly, before Slash realized I was not who I was pretending to be, a close friend of his who shared a mutual friend named Chucky with him. Chucky, who was not in good shape. But I could hardly just run away.

  “Listen,” said Slash, “if you have a chance and could go see him, it’d mean the world to him. Like I said, he’s not in good shape. Although, I guess, knowing Chucky, that shouldn’t come as a big surprise.”

  “No,” I said meaningfully, “it sure shouldn’t,” and then I shook my head sadly, and so did Slash.

  I still think of Chucky from time to time. I like to hope Chucky’s doing better, but knowing Chucky as I do by pretending to know Chucky, chances aren’t good.

  Oh, and that girl who was quietly sobbing on the elevator—I saw her again, but only once, and it was the damnedest thing. It was months later, and I entered the elevator and there she was. Except this time she wasn’t alone. She was with the gregarious guy, the guy I’d seen console her months earlier, but now he wasn’t consoling her, he was yelling at her and telling her she had no business looking through his drawers. Her head was bent down and she quietly wept.

  Years ago, I was friends with Andy Warhol and was present when he uttered his prophetic statement, “In the future, everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes.” Andy did not live to see his words take shape in our world.

  I work in the following manner. I listen to my subject, and I absorb all he has to say. When I discover his essence, I become him. My process is the same that Lee Strasberg teaches actors; you could call it method writing, I suppose.

  I had Mr. Macdonald over to my brownstone for an afternoon tea and he stayed a month. It was the longest month of my life as I listened to what he called his “great antidotes.” These were either dishwater-dull true stories or preposterous lies—he wrote The Jerk for Steve Martin, he was Canada’s minister of defense, he used to like brussels sprouts, but not anymore. I’m still afraid to enter my guest room, which is filled knee-high with his SNL jackets, Norm Show T-shirts, and Dirty Work hats. And, hiding among his laundry, hypodermic needles. Now he phones me and I leave the poor answering machine to listen.

  But, still, I remain confident that I will find the truth of the man, which will then enable me to become him. I am determined to make Mr. Macdonald appear interesting, engaging, and, most of all, funny. This last bit is the most difficult task, because the man is simply not funny. Fortunately I have a razor-sharp sense of humor, always have. Here’s an example of what I find humorous:

  A professor of history buys a dog, and a colleague asks, “Have you thought of a name for the beast?”

  “Why, certainly,” says the professor. “I was thinking of naming it the Holy Roman Empire.”

  “But why?” asks his bewildered friend.

  “Well, it’s really quite simple,” replies the history professor. “You see, the dog is neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.”

  I should say I recounted this joke to Mr. Macdonald at an early meeting and was answered with the blankest of stares. Pearls before swine.

  But my opinions are meaningless, because in this upside-down world, Mr. Macdonald is famous and I am not.

  In the future, everyone will be anonymous for fifteen minutes.

  16

  WINNING BIG

  I’ve been winning a lot of money very quickly. Gabe and I are sitting in the coffee shop, looking at his iPad, which is displaying properties in Billings. Things are moving beautifully fast. Can it really keep up?

  My bets are consistent, between ten and twenty thousand per game, usually one game a night, on a rare occasion two. Much to the delight and surprise of Gabe, I have had five straight nights where I’ve made no bets at all. But Gabe is not the only one noticing. Jimmy, Bill, and Jake, who all work at the Mirage Sports Book and are fine fellows, have noticed my restraint, and I can tell from their faces that they are not happy. It isn’t the money. They’ve seen me win much more in much less time. I’ve never made them break sweat. But this time I haven’t been playing like a loser, and the boys at the Book don’t like this one bit. Where is the old Norm, sweating, pacing, wincing, losing? Who is this reasonable man making these reasonable bets? Gabe and I agree that tomorrow I will pay off my Mirage marker, take my profit, and move my action over to Caesars Palace. But I have one last bet to make before we go.

  —

  An hour later I’m in line at the Sports Book.

  I have been up all night studying the lines, and I’ve discovered a trend that I don’t think any of the big boys have seen. This is when you can make serious money. My plan is to bet higher than my regular bet, since Texas looks like a lock. I decide to bet thirty thousand dollars on the underdog Rangers, which would net me 75K and change. But I never make that bet. I never make that bet because Providence steps in at the last second.

  “Ten million dollars on Fernandez,” a man whispers.

  “Certainly, Mr. Guardino,” another man whispers.

  In the line next to mine stands a hulking man whose expensive suit makes him look no less a brute. He reaches the front just as I do and opens a suitcase filled with chips, which the teller begins to painstakingly count. I look up at the board to see who this mafioso is betting on. Fernandez is a boxer, and he pays 11 to 1. This guy is betting ten million dollars on a huge underdog. That’s good enough for me. I empty my pockets.

  “Three hundred sixty thousand on Fernandez,” I say.

  Jimmy looks at me suspiciously. “I’m gonna need authorization for that,” he says, and he makes a call to the back office. Moments later, the head of the Sports Book, Jake, comes out. “You sure you want to bet this much, Norm?” He knows if I win, it will pay four million. He also knows I have been winning consistently for a week. What he does not know is that once I win this bet I will never make another wager as long as I live. He thinks a good long time before finally rapping the top of the table. “Okay, book it. Good luck.”

  The fight isn’t on for another four hours, so I wander over to the poker room and sweat Gabe for a bit. I decide
I’ll give him the business. “I bet it all, Gabe. I had a hunch.” I want to get a rise out of him.

  “Oh, God, this would never have happened if the chips were in the safe where they should be. What’s the bet?”

  “It’s a boxer. His name’s Fernandez.”

  A guy from the other side of the table hears me and lets out a big laugh. “Fernandez? That bum has a glass jaw. He won’t last thirty seconds.”

  Gabe checks his iPhone. “He’s even money.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He is now. The line tends to move dramatically when a guy from the mob bets ten million dollars.”

  “You’re kidding,” says Gabe. “You saw this?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I got my bet in at eleven to one while they were still counting his ton of chips.”

  Gabe smiles. “Lucky man.”

  “Thanks, Gabe.”

  —

  That evening I invite everyone I meet in the casino to my room, and we settle around the giant TV screen. We have shrimp cocktail and beef on skewers and bowls of ice cream and tumblers of scotch and cigars and women and just about everything a man could want. In my hand is a ticket that will soon be worth four million dollars, much more than my goal. I get my realtor from Billings on the phone and we talk for a good hour. I explain I’ll be needing a bigger ranch. And I explain I will be needing an arsenal of weapons to keep the bad people away from the ranch. After I get off the phone, I conference with Adam Eget in the corner to explain in detail what his duties will be on the ranch. Before I can finish, the fighters enter the ring. The man announces the challenger Fernandez’s name and my hotel room goes nuts. The ref is giving his instructions to the fighters, and I notice how calm Fernandez is as he stares his opponent down. We all rise to our feet as the bell sounds to begin round one.

  Fernandez moves in quickly, and the other fellow hits him and knocks him out.

  The hotel room is silent for a moment. Then I scream as loud as I can. I grab a pillow from the sofa and rip it open, sending feathers flying. I hit the wall as hard as I can, and there is a huge hole where my now-broken hand was. I grab the glass table in the center of the room and overturn it, sending shrimp and ice and nachos and drinks spilling onto the carpet. I run over to the counter where the liquor and glasses are and, with a backward swipe of my arm, I clear it, and broken glass flies everywhere. My guests shield their eyes and try to find the door. There is a great deal of noise now as people stampede out of the room. Now it is only me and Adam Eget, who is sitting on the edge of the sofa.

  “What’s the problem, buddy?” he says.

  I kick him as hard as I can in the shins and race down to the Sports Book. “What the hell happened?” I shout to no one and everyone.

  Jimmy smiles his wry smile. “An eleven-to-one dog lost. It’s been known to happen, Norm.”

  “But, Jimmy, what about that mob guy? He bet ten million.”

  Jimmy laughs. “Oh my God, Norm, why didn’t you ask me? That was no mob guy. That was Longshot Louie. He bets anything that’s five to one or better. He’s got so much money he doesn’t care.”

  “Longshot Louie?” I said. “Longshot Louie?”

  “Yeah,” says Jimmy, in his calm, seen-it-all voice. “Speaking of long shots, you been watching the ball game? Nobody saw that coming.”

  In a daze, I look up at a TV screen and see that the Texas Rangers are ahead 5–1 in the ninth.

  I get the boys and we check out to go over to Caesars, and I’m seething. Gabe keeps saying, “Man on tilt.” We finally get there, go through the whole procedure again, and get three hundred thousand dollars in chips. This time I make fifteen bets on baseball games, for twenty thousand a game. Hours later I’m lying on my new bed, hugging my new pillow. Adam Eget sits in a chair beside the bed, sweating hard and staring at me. Gabe enters.

  “Hey, pal, I heard you been flipping coins. What’s the damage?” That’s what Gabe calls it when you make a bet that is 50–50 except for the juice. He calls it flipping coins against a really lucky guy.

  Adam Eget jumps to his feet. “Gabe, he lost fifteen straight bets. What are the odds of that, right?” I wish he hadn’t asked, because I know Gabe will know the answer.

  “About one in thirty thousand,” he says, and this gets Adam Eget excited and more sweat drips down his big squidbilly head.

  “Then he’s due, right, Gabe? He’s due. I mean, what’s the chance of him losing another?”

  “A little more than fifty percent.”

  “But that makes no sense. He’s due.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell the coin.”

  I tell them both to scram and I lie there, wallowing in my manmade pride and cursing all that is good in the world. I pick up the phone. “You guys got any Wild Turkey 101 down there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send up all you got.”

  Five weeks pass.

  17

  FIRST WEEK AT WORK

  The languorous joy of Mohonk, where we had had breakfast on cedar tables in the morning and spent our evenings laughing with drink and new friendships in front of a roaring bonfire next to the lake, became, as all things do, a memory. The next week we were on the seventeenth floor of Rockefeller Center, a beehive of activity and stinging rejection, where we had to learn and learn fast.

  We were all just kids back then. Well, not kids, really, but we were very, very immature. I got to know my fellow freshmen very quickly: Jay Mohr, Dave Attell, and Sarah Silverman. One of them I loved and one of them I hated.

  I hated Dave Attell. But I only hated him because I loved Sarah Silverman, and she loved Dave Attell.

  The first year was tough. Sarah, Jay, and I had been hired as featured players. It was a tough position to be in—languishing somewhere just shy of being a full writer and a full performer. We were expected to write sketches for the big dogs, but we were also allowed to write ourselves small parts in the sketches. The problem was, we were stand-up comics and we were competing with actual sketch writers, who knew what they were doing. These writers were very smart and literate, and many of them had attended Ivy League schools. The roster was made up of Ian Maxtone-Graham, Lew Morton, Dave Mandel, Steve Koren, Marilyn Suzanne Miller, Steve Lookner, and—the brightest and funniest of them all—Jim Downey. You just didn’t get much smarter than these young lions of comedy. That’s why I was so flattered when I learned that they had given me the nickname “Einstein.”

  “Hey, nice sketch this week, Einstein.”

  “I bet you have some good ideas for Alec Baldwin, huh, Einstein?”

  “Hey, Einstein, we’re hungry. Can you go get us a buncha sandwiches, Einstein?”

  That kinda thing.

  I was honored that these smart, educated folk had given me the moniker. But the truth was, I was nowhere near as smart as Alfred Einstein. Shoot, I wasn’t even as smart as that new scientist, the one with the wheelchair and the funny way of talking. But I wasn’t gonna let the eggheads and bluestockings in the writers’ room know that.

  Despite the high praise of my co-workers, I had trouble getting any of my sketches on the air. But I remembered what Downey had said and stayed close to the Fab Four and their leader, my friend Adam Sandler. Some of the writers would give me bit parts in skits, which allowed me to keep my job. Ian Maxtone-Graham, Adam McKay, Steve Higgins, and Tim Herlihy were especially kind, and Sandler was always sure to throw me a bone.

  One time I came close to blowing it with Sandler, because I was a rookie and not used to the nuances of acting in sketches.

  Probably the toughest part of acting, and something you never learn in stand-up, is having the sharp wit to react when someone calls you by a different name. Sandler had written me into a sketch as his co-star. It was a huge opportunity for me, and I was determined not to blow it like I had blown every other opportunity in the joke I called my life. I studied that sketch from front to back, which I had been told by Downey was the correct order in which to study it. It was my big break, and I wasn’t abo
ut to screw it up.

  On Saturday night I was nervous but ready, like a great athlete. We were trying out the sketch at dress rehearsal. The only way you got the sketch on the real live show at 11:30 P.M. was to destroy at dress at 8:00 P.M.

  Sandler hit me with his first line:

  “Hey, Frank, did you hear about that meteor hurtling toward the earth?”

  By this time, I lived in the same apartment building, the Regency House, that Adam lived in, and we shared an office, so I was good friends with him and he never called me Frank; he always called me Norm. Naturally, when he called me Frank I didn’t respond, and so Adam repeated his line, but I noticed there was an edge in his voice. If I’d been thinking, I’d have realized at this point that I was Frank, because Adam and I were the only two people in the sketch, but I wasn’t thinking. I was looking at things around the set, one table in particular. It was made of brown wood and reminded me of a table I’d once seen in a table store. So the two of us didn’t say anything at all. About twenty minutes passed and finally the show ended. Boy, Adam was really steamed at me about that one. And Lorne was too.

  Every Wednesday we would submit our sketches, and this is where the most curious thing would happen. From the beginning I had submitted my Answering Machine sketch, which I knew would be a blockbuster and in which I had a starring role. The sketch was based on the first joke I ever told onstage and was the funniest thing ever. Seriously. I wrote the sketch and brought it to table every single week. Some weeks it would get no laughs at all. Others it would get two, or three, or four. That’s the way comedy works. They either hate you or they don’t completely hate you. You can never tell which it will be beforehand.

  Every time I submitted the Answering Machine sketch, I would be sure to write Sarah Silverman in, as she was struggling, like me, and any airtime was valuable to her. Also, using Sarah gave me a dynamite end to the sketch.