The Biloxi, Mississippi, chapter of the Richard Lett Fan Club has its one and only meeting in New York City. Photo courtesy of Richard Lett.
People are more than a little surprised to find out that I have attended church regularly my whole life, and presently sit on the board at Central, Vancouver, because I am one of Canada's most controversial and edgy stand-up comedians. With CDs entitled Am I Being Insensitive and At Least There's Drinking, it's easy to understand why fans and colleagues would see this in conflict with following the teachings of Christ, or even a belief in God.
Comedian Richard Lett
“Why do you go to church?” they ask incredulously. I usually joke that being in my 40s, it's a pleasure to go anywhere where people say to me, “It's so nice to see young people here!”
I believe most people have been in, and felt the presence of, God. My faith is not based on wondering if God might exist, for I know He does. My faith wanes when I lose belief in myself, not God.
***
I was determined to get my New York City debut show. I had performed stand-up comedy in every pub, club or life-threatening situation across Canada, but had never performed in the birthplace of stand-up, and the Holy Mecca for all its practitioners. I finished my shows in Montreal and took the bus across the border to see what I could find.
I stood in Times Square, on probably the most famous intersection in the world, neon signs bigger than my hometown, June morning sun reflecting off infinite towering glass. I was alone and took a photo of myself, proving to everyone, and myself, that I had made it there.
I bought a Variety magazine and found the comedy section. There are more full-time comedy clubs in Manhattan than in all of Canada. I bought a phone card, stationed myself at a phone booth outside Trump Towers and started cold calling.
The policy in general at comedy clubs in New York City is that early in the week, you can get on the stage if you bring friends and family willing to pay the cover and a two-drink minimum. They are called “Bringers” and they are not the most flattering way to achieve stage time, but that's the way it is. The higher the status of the club, the more people you have to bring.
Of all the clubs I got through to on the phone, Stand-Up New York was the most famous. Everybody from Jackie Mason to Jerry Seinfeld plays it. Jody, the woman who handles the booking at Stand-Up New York, tells me that I can do a set the following Tuesday if I bring 10 people. I think of everyone I know in New York, and if they each bring one person. “How about six?” I ask.
Jody pauses on the phone and says, “Okay, six. But remember, if your people don't show up, not only will you not get on, but we won't like you very much.”
I thank her emphatically. I start hunting down my three friends. It's Thursday. Lots of time.
Thursday — before Memorial Day weekend …
The author in Times Square. Photo courtesy of Richard Lett.
Finally Tuesday comes around and the city is back up and running. My friends, who had assured me they would make it, now talk of being exhausted and needing to stay in. It becomes clear to me by about noon that none of my people would be showing. “Darling,” one of them say, “no one goes out the day after a long weekend.” A sense of doom follows me as I wander around Hell's Kitchen and sit in Memorial Park. I try talking to tourists to tell them about my show, but with no free tickets or even a flyer, the effort quickly proves futile. It's mid-afternoon, and still several hours until my scheduled show, but I can think of no way to get six people there. I give up and slump against my bench. According to my subway map, Stand-Up New York is on West 57th. What lies between the club and me is the most famous park in the world. I decide to take a walk.
Central Park is glorious: endless paths of moss and green, lakes upon lakes upon lakes, and boulders cropping up, an eternal connection to the earth. Situated in the middle of the busiest, noisiest city of 14 million people, somehow the park absorbs it, and only the breeze in the leaves and a distant clip-clop of a horse and carriage can be heard. I strolled past baseball diamonds, Woody Allen sets, paddle wheelers and pretzel stands, finding myself a part of it.
As I walked, an irony struck me. “How strange,” I thought (or said, I can't be sure), “to be in such a beautiful place and have no one to share it with, to be here alone. And then in a voice as clear as mine (and less raspy) I heard three words that have kept me going through even the harshest of circumstances. He said, “You're not alone.”
I smiled. “Right. Of course, how could I forget that?”
I found a boulder, and I climbed up, took off my boots and socks, rubbed my feet, and prayed. Prayed as hard as I ever had. I said, “Lord, don't worry about the show. If this is it, if this is where my little jokes have gotten me, to be in this beautiful place with You, then I am good.”
Then I took out my notebook and looked at my material. Jody said I had seven minutes, so I went over the jokes. I walked through the park and found Stand-Up New York in time to watch the end of the show before mine. Posted on the marquee was a photocopy with a list of names. Mine was third.
Jody walks up. “Richard, where are your people? It's quarter to, they're supposed to be here by now.”
“I think they're late.”
“Well, can you call them?”
I said, “Sure.” I stepped outside with my dead cell phone to my ear, pretending to call, pacing and looking at my watch.
Two beautiful blonde girls bound out of the dark. “Oh here it is!” one of them squeals.
I said, “Are you here to see the comedy?”
“Yes,” they spout in unison, jumping up and down excitedly.
I said, “Are you here to see anyone in particular?”
“No, we're just here to see comedy.”
I don't know if in the history of New York comedy and its “bringer shows,” this idea has ever been used before but I just acted on impulse. I said, “Are you sure you're not here to see …” I pointed to my name on the sign, “Richard Lett?”
The girls looked at me, and bit hard. Their eyes sparkled with stars. “Are you Richard Lett?” I smiled. “Yes, yes. We're here to see Richard Lett!!!” An older man followed. The father of the two, obvious by his tired but enthusiastic smile, stood behind them.
I said to him, “Would you mind telling them at the box office that you're here to see me?”
He said “Sure, as soon as the rest of our people get here.” A cab pulls up, and three guys jump out.
Jody walks out, and I grin. She says, “I knew your peeps would show.”
Nobody bothered to ask how this family from Biloxi, Mississippi, knew this comedian from Vancouver, B.C., but being the Tuesday night after a long weekend, they represented a full third of the audience, and that's all that mattered.
I was sitting at the bar going over my notes in my book when Ellen Cleghorn from Saturday Night Live came in. She had dropped in to do a set, and so a few comics got bumped. Not me though, I had my people out there. As Ellen's getting ready to go on, she looks over at me and beams a smile, pointing at my book. “It's all funny. I can tell.” Wow!
While Ellen is on, Caroline Rhea shows up. If the backstage wasn't buzzing before, it is now. Jody walks around telling some other comics the bad news, and then she walks up to me. “Carolyn's talk show got cancelled so Carolyn's probably gonna do about half an hour, then you're on for seven.”
As planned, my material is well thought out and smooth on delivery. The audience hits for me right away, and my Biloxi family are thrilled. My two angels sit front and centre, their peals of laughter emanating as the room fills up. At exactly seven minutes, I close with my talking car bit, and my first New York audience erupts with an ovation. As I cross the floor, I can see a crowd of comics gathering by the booth. A kid grabs my arm: “Chris Rock is here.”
And sure enough he is. Before I can think about my own set, one of the world's best comics, and a personal hero of mine, follows me to the stage and does an hour.
The Biloxi family could care less about Chris Rock. They love me; they wave at me and give me the thumbs up. I even have to gesture for them to return their attention to the stage.
After the show, I stood surrounded by my newly acquired fan club (Biloxi chapter). Rock walked by. I said, “Good set, Chris.”
He said, “Thanks, you too.”
The girls scoffed. “You were the best!” As Dad bought my CD with a crisp American twenty, I explained to the girls that Rock had been working on new material, and I was doing my “A” stuff, but it didn't matter to them. That day wasn't about Chris Rock for them. For them, that day was about Richard Lett. A memorial day to be sure.
As I rode the subway back to Queens, I was left with one of those unwipeable grins as I considered the events of my day. The path from a prayer on a rock, to my New York City debut, to credibility and purpose, to sharing the stage with Chris Rock. And His kind and knowing hand in all of it. His Presence not just in beautiful parks and churches, but late shows at comedy clubs too.
And that's why, if you attend a Presbyterian church anywhere in North America, you might see me some Sunday, looking like I don't quite belong. A road comic — on his own. But never, ever, alone.
