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  I convinced the general manager of the Four Seasons, an Englishman, to come one night. I don’t think he understood why I was doing standup. “But you work here,” he said. He was a hotel guy and just didn’t get why I, and 70 percent of his staff, were pursuing other things while waiting tables or parking cars to pay the rent. But he was game and came to a show. I think he was curious how a serious cocktail waitress could possibly tell a joke and make a crowd of people laugh. Years later when my standup career picked up, every time I saw him around the hotel, he asked, in a condescending British voice, “Are you still doing comedy?”

  And then I imagined asking him, “Do you still think I want to serve Lemon Drop Martinis for the rest of my life?”

  AFTER TWO YEARS of open mics, playing to sparse crowds and sometimes no crowds, I developed a solid ten to fifteen minutes of material. I knew I had some good stuff because I was making waiters, busboys, and other comedians laugh.

  It was time to reach for a better class of venue.

  The Comedy Store had an open mic night, too, on Sundays between 7 and 9 p.m., but it wasn’t like you could just show up with five friends and go on. There was a system in place. All first-timers were to come to the Store on Sunday afternoon, along with fifty other comedians, to pick a slip of paper literally out of a hat. Most of the slips were blank, but twenty of them had a number on them. If you picked a number, it meant that you would do three minutes at the following Sunday night’s open mic. The number itself was the order of when you’d go on. So if you picked the number one, you’d go on first. If you picked twenty, you’d go on last.

  I went to that lottery every week and waited outside in the parking lot for five or six hours to put my hand in that hat, and then I got the blank slips for weeks in a row. Back then, there was only two-hour parking by the Store, so I would have to keep running back and forth to my car to put money in the meter. At that time, a parking ticket could set me back weeks. I kept returning every Sunday, regardless. Sooner or later, I told myself, my number was going to come up.

  And it did. I got number fifteen, meaning I would be the fifteenth comedian to perform the following Sunday, so I could expect to get on stage around 8:30 p.m. This was good. The later you went on, the more people were in the room, including the “paid regulars.” They started showing up at the tail end of open mic hours to have a drink or two and hang out with their friends before they’d do their sets starting at nine. Everyone knew that if you could make a regular laugh, he or she might recommend you to do a showcase for Mitzi Shore. And then, if she really liked you, she’d put you on the paid roster.

  I spent the week before my open mic slot polishing my material. Then after what felt like forever, Sunday came around. I went to the Comedy Store, squeezed inside, and waited in the back for the fourteen comedians before me to finish. Finally, I heard the MC Bob Oschack call my name. With my black Liz Claiborne suit and light blue button-down shirt, I marched my cheesy ass onto the stage and did my three minutes.

  Shortest three minutes in my life.

  I’d built it up so much in my mind, with so much adrenaline and anticipation, and then it was over before my brain processed that it was actually happening. But at least I didn’t freeze. I think I did well. People seemed to like it, but I wasn’t sure. I got off stage and the next guy went up. I remember walking to the back of the room to catch my breath.

  A bear of a guy ambled over to me and indicated with a head wag to step outside. I did and he followed. Once we were outside, he extended his hand and said, “I’m Wheels. I liked what you were doing up there. I’m going to recommend you to Mitzi.”

  Just like that, Michael “Wheels” Parise, Comedy Store regular and longtime member of the Andrew Dice Clay posse, became my sponsor. He set me up to do a showcase for Mitzi Shore.

  Mitzi wasn’t at the club too often in those days because she was dealing with some health issues. But she did come in for an hour showcase once a week. So I was one of a small group of aspiring comedians who got on stage and did three minutes for her while she sat in the back of the room.

  Seeing her for the first time, I will never forget the presence she had. If her aura could talk, it would say, “Do not speak unless spoken to.” Mitzi is the Anna Wintour of comedy.

  With her go-ahead, I did the same three minutes I’d done at the open mic. Afterward, she called me over with the wave of her hand. I stood in front of her, ready to thank her for the opportunity and gush like a polite Italian boy. But she didn’t give me the chance. Before I could speak, she said, “I want to see you for ten minutes.”

  It was like a callback. I went back to the next showcase and did my ten-minute set. As I walked off stage, she said, “How long you in town?”

  I was surprised by her question and didn’t know how to answer. I was afraid if I said I lived here, she’d say, “Pack your suitcase and go back home.” If I said I didn’t live here, she’d say, “Don’t bother moving out here.”

  I said, “I live in Hollywood.”

  “Okay.” And that was the end of the conversation. I was dismissed. I walked out of there, thinking, What the fuck did that mean?

  The next day, to my disbelief, I got a call from the Store’s talent coordinator, who informed me that I had been upgraded to “paid regular” status, and could call in for spots at the Comedy Store and earn $15 per fifteen-minute set. A dollar a minute, or $60 per hour, which was a better rate than I was making at the Four Seasons! Of course, you don’t get four sets an hour, eight hours a day at the Store. You are lucky to get one set. I wasn’t doing it for the money—that would have been insane—but I was starving for stage time, especially that stage.

  Every night, I called in and said, “I’ll take any available slot.”

  My reasoning was, the more slots I put in for, the more I’d get. But every comedian did that. Mitzi was really generous in the beginning, giving me three, sometimes four spots a week, which was a good amount of time to hone my act.

  Once I had my slots at the Store, I would work out how I was going to manipulate my Four Seasons schedule to get there. With my seniority (I’d been there for a few years by then), I was able to race to the Comedy Store and do a fifteen-minute set during my forty-five-minute break. This is how it worked:

  1. Exactly one hour before my slot, I would survey my tables and refill everybody’s drink, water, and nut caddy.

  2. I would use the bar’s landline to call the Store and ask if they were on schedule, while pretending like I was taking a phone order. Often, the Store’s schedule was off because someone like Eddie Griffin had popped in to do a set. When a famous comedian popped in, he or she went on stage immediately for as long as the comedian liked, throwing the entire night’s schedule off. Funny that it’s called a “set” when the timing is fluid.

  3. If they were on time, I would leave the Four Seasons ten minutes before my start time at the Store.

  4. I’d drive over there in eight minutes flat. I was like the Waze app before it existed. At stoplights, I changed out of my waiter uniform into nice slacks. I threw on a show shirt I had picked up on the part of Melrose nobody should go to. That clothing store had to be a front for drugs and laundered money. I was the only asshole purchasing the see-through snakeskin button-downs in the “Attitudes for Men” window display. If the stoplights didn’t allow me to change, I would wear my Four Seasons uniform on stage. One time, when I was waiting to go up, someone asked me to get them a Midori Sour. I had even left my nametag on.

  5. After the set ended, I’d race back in time to clock in again and not get in trouble with the hotel manager.

  I spent as much time in the car going back and forth to the Store as I did on stage. But it was worth it. I made the Comedy Store my home base, and it still is to this day.

  I WAS DOING other shows at other clubs, too. The more I worked, the more opportunities I’d find. Just by bouncing around, I started meeting people in the comedy community. Someone might see my act and say, “Hey, I got a s
how in the back room of a restaurant. You should come by,” and I would. Pay, no pay, I didn’t care. I could pay for my life with the money I was making at the Windows Lounge. My pay for comedy was stage time, honing my craft, and learning the beats and the ins and outs of standup.

  If the show was in the back room of a restaurant, I’d try the food. Not for free. Nothing was handed to me for free, ever. But, as you know, I am perpetually starving, and if I saw a plate of ribs go by, I’d have to place an order for myself—but always after the show. I learned this early on in my career. One time, I had a zuppa di pesce before a set. It really throws off your timing if you’re trying to tell jokes between burping up clams and garlic!

  I never ran or organized a comedy show—not my skill set—but I became known as a guy who would do other people’s shows at the drop of a hat. Along with my Comedy Store slots, I was up to ten sets a week. Only a few years in, it seemed like I was on the right path and making headway.

  I was also starting to feel happy with what I was doing on stage. My act was evolving away from the Angry Guy and into the Appalled Guy—a subtle but seismic shift. I wasn’t pissed off anymore, just incredulous about the bad behavior of others. I cultivated the attitude, started to get the beats, and got more physical, more animated up there.

  I came up with three minutes about Ross Dress for Less, which became my signature bit:

  Went to Ross Dress for Less. Anyone been to this nightmare? I went in there, and I thought I walked into downtown Beirut. I thought a bomb went off. Everything was on the floor. How are they shopping? What, are they pulling things off the shelf? Saying, “This is not my size,” and then throwing it across the room? I heard they had cheap jeans there, and I’m in the store, shopping [mimicking rummaging on the floor], and I found a pair . . . in housewares.

  If you’re lucky enough to become known for a certain bit, and you do it enough times, people will start to associate you with it and recognize you for it. People started coming up to me before I went on at shows, saying, “You’re the Ross Dress for Less guy. Could you please do that bit tonight!”

  I met comedian Bret Ernst at the Hustler Hollywood sex shop, just doing some casual shopping . . . just kidding (though maybe he was?). Even the Hustler club had a comedy night. They also had a coffee shop called Hustler Hollywood Cafe, and they made a tasty brew that was sure to get you up! They had a secret ingredient. I think it was heavy cream.

  So Bret and I were both doing the Hustler comedy night, and we chatted on the sidewalk outside. I gave him my card, with a photo of me on it, a pager in one hand and a cell phone in the other, with the tagline “You paged me?” and my number. I could have just said, “Sebastian Maniscalco, Comedian,” but I had to put my stamp on it.

  Bret looked at the card with an expression like “What a dickhead,” but in the most endearing way. He could totally relate because he came from similar roots as me. From there, Bret and I became fast friends. He’s Italian, from New Jersey, and reminded me of the guys from home. Bret is more outgoing than I am, so he knew a lot of people and started to introduce me around.

  I needed the help. I’m not a mover and shaker. I’m quiet. It’s not ideal for any performer to have a wall up, but I couldn’t change who I am. I think some people in the comedy world saw me as standoffish, but that’s not it. I’m like a cat. I prefer to hang back and wait for people to come to me.

  WORKING AT THE lounge and running from show to show was taking a toll. The grind was wearing me down. There are only so many hours in the day, and given the choice between doing a shift or a set, I’d always do the set. With fewer hours at the Four Seasons, I earned less and had to dip into my savings. The cushion I’d diligently stuffed away shrank down to nothing, and then I made the fatal mistake of relying on credit cards to get by.

  Bo was a guy I met doing extra work on Days of Our Lives. He recruited me to sell satellite TV subscriptions out of a mall in South Central L.A. He actually told me that he put the “BO” in “HBO.” I entertained the idea because I could work days and thought I could make more money. This mall had been within spitting distance of the Rodney King riots. I realized on my first day that the population at this mall wasn’t flush with disposable cash. But I thought, with my determination and showmanship, I’d do well. My take would be $100 per subscription. I figured, on a bad day, I’d make $300.

  I stood in that rolling kiosk, using every trick in the book to attract customers. I remember recording Michael Jackson’s thirtieth anniversary special and playing that on a loop on the kiosk TV. At one point, there were a hundred people at my kiosk doing the moonwalk and spins onto their tippy toes, but none were reaching into their pockets to spring for a dish. I learned that people who could barely afford their rent did not want to pay up front for a year of TV. Especially when they could come get this type of entertainment at the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza for free.

  From July through September of 2001, and into the holiday season, I sold a grand total of ten subscriptions. My work ethic was so damn strong, I actually went to the mall to open up the kiosk after hearing the news of the planes hitting the Twin Towers. Every store in the mall had their gates pulled down while I was opening up the shutters of my kiosk. I was afraid that if I took the day off, I would get fired and disappoint the Dish franchise manager or, even worse, Bo.

  Around that time, I was on the phone with my mother when she asked, “How’s it going?” Concern had started to seep into her voice, like she knew what was going on without my having to tell her. I guess telling her I wasn’t flying home for Christmas that year kind of gave it away.

  “Everything’s good,” I lied.

  “Work’s all right?”

  “Yeah, work’s good.”

  “How’s your money holding out?”

  “Well,” I said, “money is . . . it’s bad, Mom. I owe ten grand on my credit card.”

  I blurted the awful truth before I could stop myself, and then I started to cry. The floodgates opened up.

  I was trying to compose myself and didn’t realize she’d passed the phone to my father. He said, “Hey.”

  I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and braced myself for an onslaught of “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Your mother told me,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I just couldn’t—”

  “Sebastian,” he said sharply. “It’s all right. You fucked up. It’s okay. You’re young. You’re allowed. Now, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry. I’m gonna cover the ten grand.”

  What? It was the last thing I had expected to hear from him.

  I blubbered, “You are?”

  “Your balance with the credit card company as of now is zero.”

  “Oh my God. I don’t know what to say—”

  “Your balance with me is ten grand.”

  “I’ll pay you back,” I said. “Every dime. I swear.”

  “You gotta start being smart with money.”

  “I will be. And, Dad,” I said, swallowing back a new rush of tears. “Thank you.”

  He paused. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  All the people I’d met, all the shows I’d done—in that one conversation, I realized how superficial it all was. My parents’ love for me, and mine for them, was the real thing. This one phone call was the most honest, raw, unflinching reveal of myself I’d allowed in years. I was having success on stage and making people laugh, but in that one conversation, I realized that I hadn’t even begun to make comedy that was from the heart, that would touch other people and resonate in a deeper place than some bit about competitive shopping.

  And now I was fired up to reassess my priorities and reimburse my father. No more restaurant meals, nice clothes, or gimmicky business cards. I put everything I earned toward the “Salvatore Maniscalco Payback Fund.” I wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything until I paid him back.

  I went back to the Four Seasons and told my manager that I wanted to work as much as possible, any shift he had.
It was an uncomfortable echo of what I used to say to Mitzi at the Comedy Store.

  “I can give you three shifts a week,” he said.

  “I’ll take it.”

  I worked Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and then I showed up Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday in my uniform and pulled the old trick of waiting by the punch clock for all the other cocktail waitresses to come in, so I could convince them to give me their shifts, too. Some weeks, I worked seven nights and eighty hours.

  I started sending my father checks, $200 a month, whatever I could afford. I would pay my bills, put aside some cash for living expenses, and then write him a check of the rest. My comedy hours were next to nil.

  After six months of this, I called and asked my father, “How much do I owe you?”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  He kept a ledger, down to the penny. “Let’s see, you sent $300 last week, bringing your balance down to $7,300. At this pace, in two years we’ll be square.”

  Not for one minute did I ever resent Dad for holding me to every penny. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I didn’t want a handout. I believe if you screw up, you can’t just skate. There are no free meals, free tickets, or free rides in this life. I’m sure my mother urged him to let me off the hook, but I’m glad he didn’t.

  My father was a hairstylist, not a banker. Writing me that check for ten large had to hurt him, and that hurt me. I wanted to pay my father back, so we’d both hurt less. In the process, our relationship grew tighter, and even more loving than before. He was happy to be there for me in need, and part of how he helped was to teach me to hold myself accountable.

  The love and humility of this experience changed me—and my comedy. I was down to only one or two Comedy Store slots per week. Paradoxically, working less expanded my act. Since I wasn’t going out, I had time to work on stronger material, and was digging deeper for it, too. I started to notice a change in the laughs I was getting. They came from lower in the belly. Hearing the shift made me more comfortable and more confident.