T WAS a typical Thursday night. As usual, the show needed to be rewritten, mostly to cut time and punch up the jokes on each sketch. But what the show didn’t need was fifteen grown men sitting around a table arguing over what to name a fictitious high school that would be seen in the opening of one of the sketches. So we sat around for hours. Someone would say, “Washington High School,” and three other people would roll their eyes and say, “No!”
I never grasped who was steering us, but I was sure we were going nowhere fast. I began to sweat. In intervals, almost like contractions, I would feel unreasonable terror. I didn’t care what they named the school, yet I found myself blurting out names like Central and Montclair just to put a stop to it. But on it went—the naming of a high school, an act with no bearing on the content of the sketch whatsoever.
Leaving the writers’ room during rewrites was verboten. If you so much as got up to make a phone call or stretch your legs, Jim Downey would ask where you thought you were going. One Thursday around 3:00 A.M ., Tom Davis walked out of his office through the writers’ room holding a suitcase and his guitar. He was wearing a knee-length parka and a pair of bright red mittens, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. Two-thirds of the way on his journey through the room, Downey asked incredulously, “Tom, where do you think you’re going?” Tom Davis stopped, turned toward Downey, and replied, “The bathroom.” Then he walked straight to the elevators. I envied Tom’s courage. About as far as I went was later in the winter when Dave Attell and I sneaked out at night to do stand-up downtown. We would act like we were going to the bathroom and return three hours later to discover that no one had even noticed we were gone.
I spent each Thursday night planning my escape. I thought constantly about how to organize my flight. Rewrites in the wintertime were murder, because winter is high school basketball season. Jim Downey was a rabid high school basketball fan. His high school alma mater in the suburbs of Chicago was a national powerhouse during the years I worked on the show. Jim would bring in tapes of the high school team’s games and make us all watch them. His enthusiasm was unbridled and contagious. With Downey pointing out the highlights in the game, you wouldn’t even realize that two hours had passed at first. But after a while, you began to notice.
I grew to resent Jim Downey’s precious high school. I mulled over the idea of bringing in some home movies to show everyone. Sometimes as late as two in the morning, Downey would put a high school basketball game tape in his VCR, which meant you were gonna be there a while. With Harvard-educated guys arguing over the name of a high school, we had an uncanny ability to always be way behind schedule. Downey would raise his voice a little and say, “C’mon, guys, we have eleven sketches to rewrite!” to rally us. We would all focus long enough to finish one sketch—and then Downey would put another tape in the VCR.
It wasn’t until my second season that I realized that Downey was going through a divorce. He lived by himself and was lonely. His whole M.O. of making us watch those high school basketball tapes and arguing over the name of a meaningless fictitious high school was so that he could have some company during the early morning hours between the time that the writers left and when the other staff came in the next morning.
At one point during the debate over the name of the high school, I had to make a quick decision: leave or kill. I couldn’t leave the building because all of my belongings were in my office on the opposite end of the writers’ room. There was no way to collect my things and discreetly exit. So I began doing some deep breathing at the table to catch my breath. I looked around to see who was in the room. I wanted to see who was there. I needed to know who was there. I
I never grasped who was steering us, but I was sure we were going nowhere fast. I began to sweat. In intervals, almost like contractions, I would feel unreasonable terror. I didn’t care what they named the school, yet I found myself blurting out names like Central and Montclair just to put a stop to it. But on it went—the naming of a high school, an act with no bearing on the content of the sketch whatsoever.
Leaving the writers’ room during rewrites was verboten. If you so much as got up to make a phone call or stretch your legs, Jim Downey would ask where you thought you were going. One Thursday around 3:00 A.M ., Tom Davis walked out of his office through the writers’ room holding a suitcase and his guitar. He was wearing a knee-length parka and a pair of bright red mittens, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. Two-thirds of the way on his journey through the room, Downey asked incredulously, “Tom, where do you think you’re going?” Tom Davis stopped, turned toward Downey, and replied, “The bathroom.” Then he walked straight to the elevators. I envied Tom’s courage. About as far as I went was later in the winter when Dave Attell and I sneaked out at night to do stand-up downtown. We would act like we were going to the bathroom and return three hours later to discover that no one had even noticed we were gone.
I spent each Thursday night planning my escape. I thought constantly about how to organize my flight. Rewrites in the wintertime were murder, because winter is high school basketball season. Jim Downey was a rabid high school basketball fan. His high school alma mater in the suburbs of Chicago was a national powerhouse during the years I worked on the show. Jim would bring in tapes of the high school team’s games and make us all watch them. His enthusiasm was unbridled and contagious. With Downey pointing out the highlights in the game, you wouldn’t even realize that two hours had passed at first. But after a while, you began to notice.
I grew to resent Jim Downey’s precious high school. I mulled over the idea of bringing in some home movies to show everyone. Sometimes as late as two in the morning, Downey would put a high school basketball game tape in his VCR, which meant you were gonna be there a while. With Harvard-educated guys arguing over the name of a high school, we had an uncanny ability to always be way behind schedule. Downey would raise his voice a little and say, “C’mon, guys, we have eleven sketches to rewrite!” to rally us. We would all focus long enough to finish one sketch—and then Downey would put another tape in the VCR.
It wasn’t until my second season that I realized that Downey was going through a divorce. He lived by himself and was lonely. His whole M.O. of making us watch those high school basketball tapes and arguing over the name of a meaningless fictitious high school was so that he could have some company during the early morning hours between the time that the writers left and when the other staff came in the next morning.
At one point during the debate over the name of the high school, I had to make a quick decision: leave or kill. I couldn’t leave the building because all of my belongings were in my office on the opposite end of the writers’ room. There was no way to collect my things and discreetly exit. So I began doing some deep breathing at the table to catch my breath. I looked around to see who was in the room. I wanted to see who was there. I needed to know who was there. I
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