needed to see how many people were going to watch me have a heart attack.
During my first year on Saturday Night Live, I worked pretty regularly doing stand-up on the college circuit. Just getting the show made me an easier sell, but even those trips were fraught with peril.
On one trip, I was sitting in Newark Airport waiting to catch a flight when I felt a surge of fear flow through my body. I looked around the terminal and saw everyone living their lives. None of them had any idea mine was about to end. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to die around these people. I tried to make eye contact so I could judge by their reaction if I looked as if I were dying. No one flinched. They all acted normal. The flight number was announced and people began boarding the plane. I looked at the tunnel that led to the plane and all the people lined up and huddled together in it as if they were in a meat grinder. It seemed preposterous to follow them. I thought of what it would be like to feel this way while climbing through 30,000 feet. Boarding the plane was the equivalent of a death sentence. I picked up my bags and walked outside to catch a cab back to my apartment.
To say the least, this made my agent’s job difficult. I freaked out at the last second and ditched a few gigs in a row. The shows I managed to make it to, I was so scared of panicking while I was there that I couldn’t speak to anybody.
I was late a lot, too. I had a show at Millikin University in Illinois. I flew from Newark Airport into Chicago’s O’Hare for a connecting flight to somewhere else. The plane was not a puddle jumper or a prop, it was just smaller than the one before it. I stared at the shiny side of the plane and pictured the tube inside that waited to suffocate me. I wasn’t getting on. I walked to the rental car counters and asked them how far it was to Millikin. They all told me it was a five-hour drive. No problem, I thought. If I rent a car and leave now, I’ll be only an hour late to the show.
However, I had another problem. I wasn’t old enough to rent a car. Hertz, Avis, Budget, Dollar—I begged them one by one to rent me a car. I told them that I was on Saturday Night Live and I was on my way to my own concert. The law is the law, they all told me. You have to be twenty-five to rent a car. I was going to have to hitchhike, steal a car, or miss another show.
I took a seat on the edge of the baggage carousel and shivered at the thought of getting on another plane just to get back home. Every asshole in the world was renting cars that day. They had no idea how great they had it. They could walk up to a desk, and if they had a driver’s license saying they were twenty-five, someone would hand them the keys to a car. Assholes, all of them. They came and they left, into their rented cars and away from the planes and the tubes.
My reverie was broken when a woman at one of the counters where I had already begged called me over. She told me discreetly that she loved Saturday Night Live and would rent me a car but cautioned me that I couldn’t tell anyone. It was a deal.
I drove for five hours and passed nothing. I was safe. Nothing else existed. If I let any sensory information in, I would start an avalanche that I couldn’t possibly stop. I did the show and counted each routine after I finished it. I had been keeping a list of how many jokes I could get through before I started to panic. At Millikin University I stopped counting somewhere in the teens and eventually finished the show. I had a car outside that made me feel safer. When I finished the show, I said good night and walked out of the theater and back to my car. I pulled out of the school grounds and very quietly made my way back to Chicago.
That night I slept in a motel near O’Hare that was so disgusting I didn’t crawl under the blankets. I lay on top of the bed with my clothes on and counted my heartbeats. There was a small stove next to the bed that could
During my first year on Saturday Night Live, I worked pretty regularly doing stand-up on the college circuit. Just getting the show made me an easier sell, but even those trips were fraught with peril.
On one trip, I was sitting in Newark Airport waiting to catch a flight when I felt a surge of fear flow through my body. I looked around the terminal and saw everyone living their lives. None of them had any idea mine was about to end. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to die around these people. I tried to make eye contact so I could judge by their reaction if I looked as if I were dying. No one flinched. They all acted normal. The flight number was announced and people began boarding the plane. I looked at the tunnel that led to the plane and all the people lined up and huddled together in it as if they were in a meat grinder. It seemed preposterous to follow them. I thought of what it would be like to feel this way while climbing through 30,000 feet. Boarding the plane was the equivalent of a death sentence. I picked up my bags and walked outside to catch a cab back to my apartment.
To say the least, this made my agent’s job difficult. I freaked out at the last second and ditched a few gigs in a row. The shows I managed to make it to, I was so scared of panicking while I was there that I couldn’t speak to anybody.
I was late a lot, too. I had a show at Millikin University in Illinois. I flew from Newark Airport into Chicago’s O’Hare for a connecting flight to somewhere else. The plane was not a puddle jumper or a prop, it was just smaller than the one before it. I stared at the shiny side of the plane and pictured the tube inside that waited to suffocate me. I wasn’t getting on. I walked to the rental car counters and asked them how far it was to Millikin. They all told me it was a five-hour drive. No problem, I thought. If I rent a car and leave now, I’ll be only an hour late to the show.
However, I had another problem. I wasn’t old enough to rent a car. Hertz, Avis, Budget, Dollar—I begged them one by one to rent me a car. I told them that I was on Saturday Night Live and I was on my way to my own concert. The law is the law, they all told me. You have to be twenty-five to rent a car. I was going to have to hitchhike, steal a car, or miss another show.
I took a seat on the edge of the baggage carousel and shivered at the thought of getting on another plane just to get back home. Every asshole in the world was renting cars that day. They had no idea how great they had it. They could walk up to a desk, and if they had a driver’s license saying they were twenty-five, someone would hand them the keys to a car. Assholes, all of them. They came and they left, into their rented cars and away from the planes and the tubes.
My reverie was broken when a woman at one of the counters where I had already begged called me over. She told me discreetly that she loved Saturday Night Live and would rent me a car but cautioned me that I couldn’t tell anyone. It was a deal.
I drove for five hours and passed nothing. I was safe. Nothing else existed. If I let any sensory information in, I would start an avalanche that I couldn’t possibly stop. I did the show and counted each routine after I finished it. I had been keeping a list of how many jokes I could get through before I started to panic. At Millikin University I stopped counting somewhere in the teens and eventually finished the show. I had a car outside that made me feel safer. When I finished the show, I said good night and walked out of the theater and back to my car. I pulled out of the school grounds and very quietly made my way back to Chicago.
That night I slept in a motel near O’Hare that was so disgusting I didn’t crawl under the blankets. I lay on top of the bed with my clothes on and counted my heartbeats. There was a small stove next to the bed that could
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