My Contribution to Comedy
I first saw Elgin Reeves at an improvisation club in Atlantic City, New Jersey, at a time in my life when I was beginning to enjoy blossoming fame as a stand-up comic. I had already been given a wealth of bookings in clubs and colleges across the country, done guest shots on several TV sit-coms and even appeared with Jay Leno on The Tonight Show. I felt I was destined in time to follow in the footsteps of comics such as Jerry Seinfeld and Tim Allen and land my own series, but that milestone in my career was to be years away yet.
The night I met Elgin I arrived early at the club, pumped up and ready to go on. I was the headliner, the star, and not due to go on stage for at least another hour and forty minutes. Rather than feed my claustrophobia by sitting in my closet-size dressing room, I sat at a table in the back of the club, drinking a Perrier with a twist and trying to impress a young cocktail waitress with long red locks, a generous chest and a slim waist. Demond Jefferson, a local comic who was about five years behind me on the comics' career path, was hosting the show and was at that moment having his makeup applied.
I was making definite progress with the redheaded waitress when into the club walked Elgin Reeves. He stood, unnoticed, by the front door for several minutes. Finally, I turned and spotted him. Elgin was the stereotypical geek portrayed in so many movies, from the Forrest Gump haircut to the thick-rimmed, Coke-bottle glasses held together with electrical tape, to the high-waisted, flood-length pants. If there is such a thing as a man's man, then Elgin could be described as a nerd's nerd.
"Who the hell is that?" Demond asked when he came out of the dressing room and spotted the opening comic.
"That outfit has got to be part of his act," I laughed. "No one can be that far out of touch with fashion, not even someone from New Jersey!"
"Hey," Demond called to the new arrival. "Are you the opening act?"
"Yes, sir," Elgin replied with all the personality and warmth of a cigar store Indian.
"Get your butt into makeup, then. You're on in ten minutes."
As more paying patrons entered the club, I relinquished my table to an elderly couple from Philadelphia. Then I went backstage and watched the host's opening monologue from the wings, waiting to see Elgin Reeves perform. It was a game I played, watching new comics and predicting whether they would succeed or bomb. So far, I had been right about ninety-five percent of the time.
The moment long, lanky Elgin Reeves stepped meekly up to the microphone, I decided he would most definitely bomb.
"The guy's dying out there," Demond observed five minutes into the act.
"What booking agent hired that guy?" I asked.
"The one who'll be looking for a job tomorrow is my guess."
Elgin began badly by telling pathetic jokes about his unpopularity at high school. Some of the audience chuckled out of politeness, but most reacted with stony silence.
"Anybody got a hook?" I joked.
"You know a performance is pretty bad," Demond replied, "when there is more laughter in the wings than there is in the audience."
"Like I said," Elgin continued, unperturbed, in his boring monotone, "I always wanted to be the class clown when I was a kid 'cause comics were cool. Take my friend, Sam Kinison, for example."
The sudden transformation from Reeves to Kinison was incredible. It was like going from zero to sixty miles an hour in a Porsche, from Jekyll to Hyde in a split second.
"Wow!" Demond exclaimed, suddenly impressed by Elgin's performance. "That guy does a great impersonation of Kinison."
Although Reeves still looked like a genetically engineered offspring between Bill Gates and Peewee Herman, his voice, actions and humor became those of the late loud-mouthed Sam Kinison. The audience roared its approval at the politically incorrect screaming rants that were characteristic of the late Pentecostal preacher-turned-comedian. After a few minutes of Kinison, however, Elgin once again became the unfunny social misfit he had been at the start of his act. It was Superman putting on the glasses and becoming Clark Kent again. After two or three more lame jokes, the comic said goodnight.
Demond walked out on stage and shook the comedian's hand.
"That was Elgin Reeves," the host yelled above the sound of applause.
The audience continued to clap loudly, and more than half of the customers in the club gave him a standing ovation.
After two more comics, it was my turn.
"Our last performer is one who's been a favorite here in the past ...."
I doubt anyone in the audience paid much attention to my introduction. They were still talking about Elgin Reeves, the man who was to become the next comedic sensation.
* * *
When I first saw the movie Amadeus back in high school, I found it difficult to understand Antonio Salieri's obsessive envy of Mozart. Little did I know then that I would someday experience those same feelings toward a fellow comedian. Was it because I had been wrong in assuming he would fall on his face that first night in Atlantic City? Or was it because he had catapulted to fame while I continued the slow but steady climb up the ladder?
"Everybody thinks this Elgin Reeves guy is some kind of a genius," I complained on more than one occasion, "but he's really nothing more than an impersonator."
Most people disagreed with me, pointing out that his jokes were original and not material taken from the comedians he impersonated so well.
"Besides," they would argue, "impressionism has always been a popular form of comedy."
That was true. Men such as Rich Little and Frank Gorshin built long, successful careers around doing impressions of celebrities. But I refused to concede the fact that Elgin Reeves deserved such high critical acclaim and public adoration for his work. To me, he was simply a nonentity living off the careers of other, far more talented comics.
Meanwhile, my own career was still on the upswing. However, while I was appearing in venues such as Comedy's Last Stand in Cleveland, Elgin was booked in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. I was lucky to get a five-minute guest role on The Drew Carey Show while Elgin had gotten his own comedy special on Home Box Office. I don't mean to whine like a five-year-old, but it just isn't fair!
Not long after Elgin's smash HBO debut, I played an improvisation club in Philadelphia, following Demond Jefferson, who had worked his way up to opening for more established stand-up comics—like me. It was quite natural that he and I should discuss Elgin's phenomenal career since we had both been present at its birth.
"Did you catch his HBO special?" Demond asked as I was eyeing a blonde in a short skirt and low-cut blouse. "Yeah," I replied unenthusiastically.
Demond continued praising his colleague effusively. "I loved the bit he did about Belushi, Candy and Farley going to a Weight Watchers' meeting. It was a great skit! Man, I laughed so hard, I almost ...."
I rudely cut him off.
"You know what I find weird?"
"What?"
"As popular as he's become, how come Elgin's not been seen on the talk shows? He's never been on Leno or Letterman."
Demond shrugged indifferently.
"Maybe he hasn't got the time. Besides, it hasn't hurt his career any. He's probably the top money-grossing comic."
"And why hasn't he been offered a TV series or a movie deal?"
"Who knows? It's just possible Elgin doesn't feel he's ready to make the move to Hollywood. What difference does it make?"
"Maybe none," I mumbled beneath my breath. "But I intend to find out."
Over the course of the next several months, I devoted my spare time to learning whatever I could about Elgin Reeves. I was not surprised to discover that he had led an unremarkable life prior to becoming a stand-up comic. Reeves had been born in a sparsely populated town in western Pennsylvania, too small to merit a Walmart. He was an average student, not very popular with his classmates—most of whom didn't even remember attending school with him. After graduation, he went on to Penn State but dropped out in his third year. Then he spent eighteen months working at various odd jobs before deciding to become a comedian.
There's got to be something more to this guy, I thought, disappointed that my research had led nowhere. No one gets that far that fast in this business without help.
After several moments, I realized I had my answer. Someone had helped Elgin Reeves on his journey to stardom. But who?
* * *
Elgin's success continued to grow at a breakneck speed, and so, too, did my envy of him. I was a personable guy, all modesty aside. I got along quite well with my male friends. Children and animals liked me, and women adored me. I had built a good, solid act over the years. How then did a pencil-neck geek like Elgin Reeves beat me to the top?
I'll be the first to admit he could imitate Phil Hartman, Benny Hill and Andy Kaufman flawlessly, but I was wise enough to know that talent alone was never enough to ensure success in show business. One also needed stage presence, unbridled ambition and influential friends; yet Elgin Reeves didn't even have a manager!
I temporarily forgot my professional jealousy when I was invited to be the opening act at the MGM Grand's New Year's Eve Comedy Special. This was by far the biggest boon to my career yet. In fact, the gig was almost enough to make me believe in Santa Claus again. My joy was soon dampened, however, when I learned that none other than Elgin Reeves was to be the headliner.
I checked into the MGM Grand late in the afternoon on December 29. A rehearsal was scheduled for the following day at nine. With the last vestiges of Christmas cheer still softening my disposition, I bought a bottle of expensive champagne and knocked on Elgin's door.
"Hey," I said by way of greeting, when he opened it, "remember me? I was the headliner when you first appeared at the improv in Atlantic City."
"Oh, yeah," he replied laconically, making me feel about as welcome as an IRS auditor or an outbreak of herpes.
"Mind if I come in?" I asked when no invitation was forthcoming.
He hesitated, as though thinking of a polite way to refuse. Without waiting for a response, I rudely pushed past him into the room.
"Why don't we celebrate your phenomenal success?" I asked, waving the bottle of champagne in front of his face.
"I'm sorry but I never touch alcohol," he protested.
"Well, I'll celebrate then," I said, popping the cork and drinking directly from the bottle.
My well-meant attempts to engage Elgin in meaningful conversation failed miserably. He knew nothing at all about politics, sports, music or movies.
It figures! He probably spent his entire childhood alone in his room with only a Commodore 64 as a companion.
I decided to stick to a topic he did know something about: comedy. Beginning to feel a nice buzz from the champagne, I suggested we sharpen our humor by doing a little improv session together, a sort of comics' jam session.
"Now?" he asked.
"Sure. It'll be fun. Why don't you start by doing an impression of Jack Nicholson?"
"I don't do Nicholson."
"What? Everyone can do Nicholson! Hell, even I can sound like him if I try."
"I don't do Nicholson."
"Okay, forget Jack. How about Mick Jagger? Can you do him?"
"I'm afraid I can't improvise," Elgin reluctantly confessed.
That was absurd! I had never met or heard of a stand-up comic that couldn't improvise. It just didn't make any sense. Unless—the thought struck me like a bolt of lightning—he didn't write his own material. That had to be it! Elgin Reeves could act and sound like Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy and all the Marx Brothers—except for the ever-silent Harpo—but he lacked the sense of humor needed to come up with original jokes on the spur of the moment.
"I guess I'd better get going," I said, growing bored with my reluctant host. "It's getting late, and we both have to wake up early tomorrow morning for rehearsal."
Without waiting for a response, I took my half-empty bottle and returned to my own room. Despite the champagne, I didn't sleep well that night. My usual envy was now accompanied by resentment and a burning curiosity to know who wrote Elgin Reeve's material.
* * *
I woke early the following morning, hung over with a splitting headache, but thanks to my old the-show-must-go-on determination, I took a couple of Advil and managed to make it through rehearsal. Despite the throbbing in my temples, I stayed to watch Elgin rehearse. I hated to admit it, but his act was superb. It was as though I had spent forty minutes watching George Burns, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Red Skelton and George Carlin performing at the MGM Grand.
I tried to put an end to my jealousy once and for all by telling myself that, not writing his own material, Elgin Reeves was nothing more than an actor and that he was not a true comedian in the same sense that I was. Yet the following night when he closed the show with a standing ovation, my resentment reached an all-time high.
The hell with my own career, I thought.
I was going to expose Elgin for the fake he was. My great contribution to comedy would be to rid it of its counterfeit king.
I spent months following Elgin Reeves from city to city, venue to venue. Wearing dark clothing and sunglasses, I spied on his every move. But he never went anywhere except for the clubs he played and the motels he stayed in. Furthermore, outside of an occasional fan seeking an autograph, he received no visitors.
In the meantime, while I was busy running around the country from coast to coast playing a poor man's Sherlock Holmes, my own career was rapidly going downhill. I had to cancel several bookings in order to pursue my revenge against the bogus stand-up comic. Soon word got around that I was undependable. My agent tried to talk some sense into me, but when I refused to listen to reason, he threw up his hands and quit.
My stalled career only sharpened my anger toward the gawky comedian. Why should Elgin live such a charmed life where he could continue to sail smoothly toward international superstardom on a calm sea, while I was playing chutes and ladders with fame and fortune?
At some point during that time, my envy and resentment finally got the better of me. I like to think I experienced a nervous breakdown and that I was not completely responsible for my actions. Yet that is probably just my way of rationalizing my irrational behavior.
The fact of the matter is that I was so obsessed with what I saw as Elgin Reeves's undeserved success that I decided to kill him. I even went so far in my insane scheme as to buy a handgun from a shady pawn shop in Las Vegas and stalk my intended victim for three days before summoning the courage to act. Posing as a tourist from Kalamazoo, Michigan, I entered Elgin's hotel where I used a credit card to get inside his room. Then I waited there in the darkness for several hours for him to return from his last show of the evening.
I must have fallen asleep, or perhaps there was a greater power at work that night. But when I awoke in my hiding spot between the second bed and the wall, I was to meet, at last, the brains behind Elgin Reeves's act, the brilliant men whose humor had made him such a success.
My nemesis sat alone at a small table in the hotel suite. In front of him were several pads of lined paper and more than a dozen sharpened pencils.
Concealed by the dim light, I raised the gun and took careful aim. The blank expression on Elgin's face made me stop. Although his hand wrote across the foolscap at a furious pace, there was no sign of comprehension on his countenance. His mouth slackly hung open, and his eyes were turned to the back of his head.
I lowered the gun and called to him.
"Elgin?"
I spoke softly, afraid any loud noise might do him irreparable harm, which was odd since I had gone to his hotel room, intending to kill him.
"Are you all right?"
The four-letter words that proceeded to spew out of Elgin's mouth were not spoken in the comic's own voice. His head suddenly jerked up and turned in my direction as a second voice apologized for the profanity.
I stared at the vacuous expression on Elgin's face, trying to understand what was wrong with him. As I watched his right hand continue its rapid scribbling on the pad, I realized that he was in some sort of a trance and was unaware of his surroundings. Then the truth hit me at last. The geeky comic with neither personality nor sense of humor was a psychic—a living portal through which many of the greatest talents in the business could enter our world from the other side.
I turned and tiptoed out of the room, not wanting to disturb Lenny Bruce or Will Rogers as they worked on their new material through Elgin Reeves. As I walked to the rear lot of the hotel where my rented Toyota was parked, I removed the bullets from the gun and tossed them into the hotel's dumpster.
I no longer envied Elgin Reeves's success, for it was not his own. It belonged to men such as John Belushi, Andy Kaufman and Phil Hartman—who died way before their time—and to others such as Bob Hope, Abbott and Costello, George Burns, Jackie Gleason, Laurel and Hardy, and Milton Berle, the legendary men who had devoted their lives to making people laugh.
As I drove away, I vowed to revive my ailing career. It would take a few years, but I would eventually ascend the ladder and reach the top. I would go on to join the ranks of George Carlin and Robin Williams and leave an indelible mark on the entertainment world. But neither my long-running television series nor my many successful movies would equal the contribution I made to comedy the night I spared the life of Elgin Reeves.
Salem knows all about professional jealousy. For years he plotted against Morris the Cat.
