Maybe You Never Cry Again Page 15

  “That was pretty good, Bernie,” the emcee told me.

  It was better than pretty good. I knew it, and he knew it.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I went home.

  “How’d you do?” Rhonda asked me.

  “I killed.”

  I looked at Rhonda. The face on that woman. I could see she was worried. She knew how much I wanted this.

  “I love you, baby,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  Two days later the man from the Cotton Club called me at work. “Bernard,” he said. “What are you doing Tuesday night?”

  “This Tuesday?”

  “Every Tuesday.”

  “What did you have in mind?” I said.

  “A regular gig. Gonna call it the ‘Tuesday Tickler.’”

  I took a moment. “I think I can handle that,” I said.

  Next Tuesday I worked at Dock’s all day and went home and showered and hustled over to the Cotton Club. And there it was on the marquee, in big-ass letters: TUESDAY TICKLER WITH BERNIE MAC.

  Shit.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Bernie Mac and I’m your host for the evening.”

  Sweet.

  I did Andy Griffith as a black man. Had ’em rolling on the floor.

  I was off and running. People weren’t just coming to laugh on Tuesdays, they were coming to see Bernie Mac.

  Sometimes, hell—I was in The Zone; I could do no wrong. Like slow-motion basketball: Every shot, pure net.

  Other times, I couldn’t even find the backboard.

  I remember one night this guy came backstage after the show. Never saw him before in my life.

  “Bernie Mac?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You ain’t funny.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the show,” I said.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t enjoy it. Not a damn bit. I didn’t enjoy it because you ain’t funny, brother. Now Eddie Murphy, he funny. Richard Pryor, he funny. But Bernie Mac—he ain’t funny at all.”

  “Well,” I said, “thank you for taking the time to share that with me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. And he left.

  I went and got myself a beer and thought about what the man had said. And it’s a strange thing about people. We like to tear each other down. Why is that? What do we get out of it? And we’re always comparing. I know Eddie Murphy’s funny. But what does that have to do with me or my show?

  I’m here to focus on my own damn self and give you the best damn show I can. I’m not here to compete with Eddie Murphy. I don’t want to be Eddie Murphy. I’m busy being Bernie Mac.

  I called over to the Comedy Cottage, a white club. Owner wouldn’t even take the call. I went in person. “I’m Bernie Mac,” I said. “I do the Tuesday Tickler at the Cotton Club.”

  “We got all we need,” the owner said.

  Maybe he thought I was too raw for his audience.

  I went over to Catch a Rising Star for open mike. Lot of white faces in the audience. Ninety percent white. I found I was editing myself, trying to keep it clean, wanting to be liked—we’re always wanting to be liked—and it took some of the bite out of my routine.

  But they still clapped.

  I’m gonna tell you the truth now: White audiences are a lot easier than black audiences. I ain’t lying. Black audiences—they tough. They sittin’ there all dressed up, slouching, arms crossed, sipping champagne from the bottle, and it’s like they want you to fail. We here to laugh, motherfucker, and when you come out of the gate you better got-damn make us laugh.

  If you don’t make them laugh, they’re gonna eat you up. “Nigger,” they’ll say, “you ain’t funny.” “Nigger, you suck.” “Nigger, don’t you ever go near a microphone again.”

  Whites give you the benefit of the doubt. They’re thinkin’ their nice white thoughts: We’re here to have a good time. We’re here to be entertained, and by golly we will be entertained. They’re so polite: They’ll applaud even if you don’t make them laugh. Maybe white people feel guilty: “Hey, our bad. We brought you here as slaves.”

  Take the bad with the good, brother, and don’t be affected by either.

  Listen and learn. And keep going. You can do it.

  “Bernie,” my mother used to say, “you should never stop reaching for the stars.”

  A lot of people condition their children for failure, she told me. Kid wants to be an astronaut, mother tells him to aim lower; maybe manage men’s shoes at the local department store. Father says, “Astronauts gotta be smart, boy! You too dumb to be a astronaut!” A child believes that. He goes nowhere. That same child with a different message could have been the first black man on the moon. Hey—that’s a good point! When we gonna see a brother on the moon?

  “You have a dream, it’s your dream,” my mama used to say. “Live it. Ain’t no one gonna live it for you.”

  So that’s what I was doing, Mama. Living the dream.

  “‘YOU’RE AFRAID TO SHOW PEOPLE WHAT YOU’VE GOT INSIDE. AND THAT’S WHERE THE BEST STUFF IS, THE STUFF THAT’S BURIED DEEP DOWN.’”

  13

  GIVE MR. MAC FIVE MINUTES

  One night the owner of the Comedy Cottage caught my act at Rising Star. Came round to buy me a beer. “You know, Bernie,” he said. “You’re really getting strong. We gotta talk.” This is the same sumbitch who wouldn’t take my calls; this is Mr. We Got All We Need.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I called him. He was refurbishing the club, and he’d changed the name to The Last Laugh.

  “I’m glad you called, Bernie,” he said.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I said.

  He was reopening in a week, and he wanted to know how I’d feel about being there for opening night. I felt okay about it, I said. So I was there—and I tore the place up. I sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”: the black version.

  “What’d I tell you, Rhonda?” I asked my wife when I got home.

  “About what?”

  “About owning this town.”

  “What about it?”

  “Rhonda! Pay attention, woman.”

  But she wasn’t paying attention. She was looking at this brochure she’d picked up from one of the girls at the state mental hospital. A hotel in Las Vegas had a promotion going; they were practically giving the rooms away.

  “We should go,” Rhonda said.

  “To Vegas?”

  “Why not? God knows we could use a vacation.”

  “What about the tickets?”

  “Don’t you know that guy who knows that guy—?”

  She was right. I did know a guy who knew a guy. And I called him. And he got me four cheap-ass tickets. For Rhonda, Je’Niece, myself, and Rhonda’s mother, Mary.

  It was pretty exciting. I’d never been on a plane before. I told them I wanted seats over the wing, because I figured we’d be safer with a wing under us. I was like a big kid, grinning from takeoff to landing. White people wouldn’t understand that feeling. White people get on planes all the time. They born on planes.

  Same thing with photographs. White people, they got pictures of themselves every minute of their lives. Here’s little Libby, coming out of Mother’s ’gina. Here’s a picture of her first poop. Ain’t it cute and green? Here’s Libby and her little friends on her first birthday, on top of the got-damn Eiffel Tower.

  Black people, they lucky to have one or two pictures of themselves. I ain’t lying. I don’t have a single good picture of my mother.

  So anyway, we got to Vegas. Made it. I don’t have to tell you about Vegas. They pump adrenaline into the air. We checked into our hotel and I saw that Redd Foxx was performing on the Strip. I love Redd Foxx. I called the place and they said we were in luck: They still had a few tickets.

  “Rhonda,” I said. “We’re going!”

  We left Mary and Je’Niece back in the room and hopped the shuttle to the Strip. We got there with time to spare, but there was alread
y a big crowd out front—and they were restless. People were pushing and shoving to get in. This little old man next to us got knocked down, and I helped him to his feet and told everyone to give us some got-damn air. Next thing I know, with all the noise and confusion and everything, Rhonda and I found ourselves slipping into the place through a side door.

  We went off to find our seats, but we must have made a wrong turn somewhere, because we were going along past an open door when I saw Redd Foxx inside, sitting on a chair, nodding off.

  I guess we woke him up. He raised his head and opened his eyes and looked right at us. I didn’t know what to do. So I did what any fan would do. “How you doing, Mr. Foxx, sir?” I said. “My name is Bernie Mac. I’m a comedian from Chicago.”

  “I’m sick, that’s how I’m doing,” he said. “Sick sick sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Bernie Mac.”

  “From Chicago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was studyin’ me, sizing me up. I was just excited to be there. I was about ready to further embarrass myself by telling him again what a big fan I was; how my whole family had always loved him; how everybody in the old neighborhood would come out in the street after his show and do Redd Foxx impersonations.

  But he spoke first. “You want to do five minutes?” he said.

  “Huh?”

  Didn’t even look at me. Turned and hollered for Slappy White, his old stage partner. Slappy walked in.

  “Slappy, this is—”

  “Bernie Mac,” I said.

  “Right. Bernie Mac from Chicago. Give Mr. Mac five minutes.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Foxx.”

  “Don’t say nothin’,” he said. “Get out there and do what you do. But when I give you the light, say good night and get your ass offstage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Slappy, take him down.”

  I turned to look at Slappy. He was giving me about as cold a look as you can give a man. But Redd was the boss, and he didn’t have much choice.

  Slappy took me and Rhonda backstage, where he told us to sit down and wait for the place to fill up. I looked out from behind the curtain. There was a lot of people there, still looking for their seats. A lot of people. Don’t get me wrong. I’d been in front of plenty of audiences before, but this was Las Vegas. These people had paid good money to see Redd Foxx. They weren’t expecting no Bernie Mac.

  Rhonda held my hand and I closed my eyes and we said a little prayer. When I looked up again, I saw Redd Foxx coming toward us. He smiled at me and Rhonda. It was a friendly enough smile, but for some reason it made me more nervous than ever.

  “Here we go,” he said, and Slappy parted the curtain and went out onstage and waited for the applause to die down. He gave a little speech, welcoming everyone to the show, then introduced me. “We’re bringing out this guy from Chicago,” he said. “I don’t know who he is, and frankly, I’m not even sure he’s funny.”

  This got a big laugh. He had to wait awhile for the crowd to pipe down. Then he said it: “Ladies and gentlemen, Bernie Mac.”

  Well, I was already sweatin’, but I got out there and the spotlight nailed me and I made my way across the stage and picked up the microphone.

  “Say, what a handsome bunch of people!” I began. “And so happy looking! Bet you ain’t gonna look this happy when you get up from the blackjack table.” In those days, I was the Polite Guy. I was very cautious. I didn’t want to alienate anyone. Then I told a joke, and I got a laugh. So I followed it up with another joke, and a bit about my grandmother, which got a bigger laugh. And even though I seemed to be doing pretty well, all I could think was, I’ve got to get off this stage.

  I’d been up there more than the five minutes already, and I was waiting for the light, and it wasn’t coming. So I looked over to see what I could see, and what I saw was Redd Foxx, and he was smiling and signaling; he was motioning with his hand, a circular motion: Keep going.

  I did another ten minutes. “Black people, when they die—they want a good send-off. That’s why they always have life insurance, so they can get themselves a nice casket and have a fancy catered affair and impress their friends from beyond the grave. But Blue Cross/Blue Shield—no sir, they ain’t gonna waste their money on that. That’s why they can never afford no medication.

  “Anything wrong, they take aspirin. ‘He got a fever.’ ‘Give him some aspirin.’ ‘He got chills.’ ‘Give him some aspirin.’ ‘He stepped on a nail.’ ‘Crush up some aspirin and rub it all over.’ ‘He got shot.’ ‘Take the whole jar of aspirin and put it right in that hole there. With some duct tape or old newspaper or something.’”

  Finally Slappy gave me the light and I got off the stage. The audience was whooping and hollering, and Redd Foxx was smiling at me. “That was some great shit,” he said. “You’re funny, kid.”

  I was sweating. Soaked. I didn’t know what to say.

  Slappy was looking at me, too. But he wasn’t smilin’. I figure maybe he’d wanted me to bomb.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Foxx,” I said finally. “That was very nice of you—letting me go out there.”

  “Bernie Mac, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you know, Mr. Mac, you do have one little problem. You’re funny, but you don’t want to be funny. You want to be liked. Now if you open yourself up, and you get real, and you start taking comedy seriously—well, there’s no telling how far you’ll go.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re afraid to show people what you’ve got inside,” he said. “And that’s where the best stuff is, the stuff that’s buried way deep down.”

  “Deep down,” I mumbled, echoing his words. I must’ve sounded pretty thick.

  “You can’t be afraid to fail, Mr. Mac. If you’re afraid to fail, you won’t dig down inside. And if you don’t dig, you won’t be giving us anything real—you’ll be keeping the good stuff locked away.”

  With that, he marched right past me and out onto the stage. The crowd went wild, but I couldn’t hear them. All I heard was the blood roaring in my ears.

  For days afterward I couldn’t stop thinking about what Redd Foxx had told me. I remembered how it used to be in grade school, in class, not wanting the other kids to know I got an A. I wanted them to like me. Smart kids—nobody liked them.

  I remembered racing my brother, Darryl, to the front door, or jumping up when the phone rang, or hoping there was something in the mail for me.

  I was doing the same got-damn thing onstage: I wanted the audience to like me. I wanted them to go home in got-damn love with me.

  Redd Foxx was right. Comedy isn’t about playing it safe. It’s not about taking the middle road. Comedy is about risks, about puttin’ it out there.

  Some people might get offended, sure. And some people won’t like what you have to say. But you have to give it to them straight, unedited and uncensored. Else what’s the point? Why you even up there?

  Funny thing is, Redd Foxx hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know. He’d just helped me see it better. He had pointed out that in comedy, as in life, we were always facing choices. And Redd Foxx—well, the man had strong opinions about the right choices.

  After three days in Las Vegas, three days of good clean family fun, a little low-stakes gambling, and a lot of serious thinking about comedy, I went back to Chicago fortified. I felt ready to make it happen.

  But I had a couple of stumbling blocks to get through. For starters, we came home to discover that our landlord needed us gone. I don’t even remember what it was, but it’s always something. My sister’s pregnant. My brother just got out of jail. My uncle’s wife kicked him out for good this time. We had to move, and we had to move fast.

  We found a place on 107th and King Drive. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t much, but we didn’t have the time or the money to find better. It was two rooms and a f
ull bath, with a small kitchen. There was a door off the kitchen that was bolted shut, and I asked the landlord what was back there.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Ain’t your business.” He was a rough type. He wasn’t looking for a friend, just some fool to pay the rent.

  The day after we moved in, we got a red note on the door about the gas not being paid. I called the landlord and told him, but he said he was on top of it and for us to just ignore it.

  Then I got to Dock’s and I’m frying my fish and the phone rings and I hear the manager saying, “No, there’s no Bernie Mac here. You got the wrong number.” He hung up and the phone rang again, but I got to it first. It was somebody over at The Last Laugh.

  “I just called over there,” he said. “Some guy told me you didn’t work there.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “What’s up?”

  He asked if I could do a show Saturday, and I said I could—and that I’d call him later, after work.

  The manager had been watching me from across the room, staring and listening. The minute I got off the phone, he came over and got in my face. “I got news for you, boy,” he said. “Here, at Dock’s, you’re not Bernie Mac. You’re Bernard McCullough. Ain’t no Bernie Mac here.”

  I damn near hit him. But I didn’t let it get to that. We had some strong words, though. Then I called Kevin Carter, who got me the job in the first place, and said I needed a transfer; it wasn’t working out with this guy. Kevin and I was close. And he knew I was a good worker. He got me transferred the next day.

  I had a drink with him to thank him. He didn’t look so hot. He put away three shots of hard liquor to my one beer.

  “What’s going on, Kevin?” I said. “You’re drinking awful quick.”

  Kevin said the company was in trouble. Dock’s had grown so fast that they didn’t have a system in place to handle the money, and the books had gone all to hell. They were talking to some management outfit to come in and help them run the place. He was worried about his future.