God, if You're Not Up There . . . (23 page)

I heard my voice say, “You like him, don’t you?” I couldn’t believe how cheeky that was of me. Like this was any of my business.

Then I heard his voice say, “I do. The only difference between us was domestic policy.”

Did anyone else hear that?

Then he went out and spoke for forty-seven minutes and got a standing ovation. Grammatically perfect, vivid, lucid, powerful prose. He mentioned me twice.

T
hanks to my Cheney impression on
SNL
, starting with the 2000 election, I was invited to George W. Bush’s second inauguration in January 2005. I had access to the White House if I wanted to go hang out. During the main event, Cheney rose up out of the floor in the middle of Madison Square Garden, his hands in his pockets, surrounded by 35,000 revelers. It was the greatest theater I’d ever seen, Cheney with that lopsided grin on his face looking out at the world like a conquering hero. It was an unimaginable display of power.

Afterward, Cheney had me up to his box. He shook my hand warmly as he always did. He introduced me to a man whose eyes seem to suggest he knew all of the secrets to the universe. The man looked at me the way the workers at Sea World would look at the fish. Cheney said, “This is Darrell. He’s the guy who does all the damage on
SNL
. Heh heh heh.” And the guy just looked at me.

Cheney patted me on the shoulder as if to say, “He’s not so bad. He’s just doing his job.”

A
s part of the inaugural festivities, I was invited to perform for the troops at an event hosted by Kelsey Grammer at the MCI Center in Washington, D.C. Bush 43 gave me a tremendous bear hug and said, “You lost quite a bit of tonnage.” I have to say, it’s different getting a personal comment from the president of the United States than from, say, a bus driver.
What are you suggesting, Mr. President?
But I thought it was a funny line, and I laughed.

During my performance, I said, “Mr. President, not many people get a chance to talk to you. I’d like to make use of this opportunity, because I know I could either crack wise or try to make a difference. So I would like to ask you, Mr. President, is there anything you can do about Brad and Jen?”

He laughed hard. Once again, the thrill of hearing a president laugh at something I said. But it should be noted that joke was written by Beth Armogida, who writes for Steve Martin and the Oscar show, and who has saved my ass on more than one occasion by sending me last-second one-liners.

C
heney was the best laugher of all. He didn’t have Clinton’s famous charm, but I’d say shit and he’d crack up. He was always very nice to me. I ended up performing for him at his Christmas parties, at White House functions, and at various private events.

Once, the vice president summoned me to the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, about a five-hour drive from Washington, D.C.—one of the most fascinating, unsettling gigs I ever did.

The Greenbrier was famous as a congressional hideaway, filled with subterranean bunkers built in the 1960s during the Cold War. The vice president’s people had sent a car to pick me up at the airport, and I was hustled through a maze of underground rooms (the vice president was still taking precautions in the wake of 9/11) until I found Cheney and about forty of his buddies—including Trent Lott, Tom DeLay, Dennis Hastert—eating and drinking and laughing.

Once again, it wasn’t so much Darrell Hammond who was invited but Bill Clinton, so I showed up in character, ready to poke some fun at the gathered Republican power brokers. I started out with a joke about Cheney’s pacemaker—that every time he sneezes, garage doors start to open all over the neighborhood.

At one point, I looked out across the room and thought, Man, it doesn’t get any weirder than this. In fact, it was weird
squared
. After I’d zinged the key players, I spent the rest of the evening hanging out with these guys. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the gathering; it was just a bunch of pals having a good time. Everybody wanted to pose for a photo with “Bill Clinton.” There was one great shot of me reaching out to shake Cheney’s hand, the vice president recoiling in mock horror.

W
hen I attended an event at the vice president’s residence in 2006, where I would be simply myself, Lorne took the precaution of sending his fantastic assistant Lindsay Shookus, who is as good a conversationalist as has ever lived, to accompany me. When I was introduced to Chief Justice Roberts, it became immediately apparent that I didn’t know how to talk to a guy who was fourteen or fifteen times smarter than me.
You don’t have to keep talking to me. You’re a very nice guy, Chief Justice Roberts, but you and I both know that pretty soon you’re gonna get bored with this. You’re going to want to talk about torts and meaningful shit, books you’ve read about the galaxy, and I won’t know anything. And that will be bad. I’ll be embarrassed.
He was very nice, but I was relieved when Lindsay took over.

Brit Hume was there with his wife. Brit was very sweet to me, but his wife walked up to me and said, “Cheap shot.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I assume it was because of the bit I’d done as him during the third episode of that season. Fortunately, Lindsay went over and talked to her, and they were all smiles after that.

But I didn’t like that part of it. I really liked these guys—all of them. Hell, I was impressed that they would even talk to me. By the time someone introduced me to Scooter Libby, Cheney’s chief of staff, and a couple of four-star generals, I thought, I’ve come far through the looking glass.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

My Welcome Outstayed Me

New York City and Melbourne, Florida

2006–2009

A
t the beginning of my twelfth season in 2006, I was in Lorne’s corner office, with its spectacular views of New York out the window, for the first glorious pitch meeting of the year. I was at
SNL
again.
Ah, man, I must be the luckiest motherfucker who ever lived.

But that year, as I sat in that office while everyone introduced themselves to that week’s host, Dane Cook, another thought crept into my brain:
I should not be here.

I called my manager, Bernie Brillstein, and said, “Isn’t it time? Isn’t eleven seasons enough?”

“No, that’s your place,” Bernie said. “You belong at
SNL
.”

Kenny Aymong, the supervising producer and one of Lorne’s top people, told me, “This is your home.”

“I know, but it’s time.”

“Not this year,” everyone seemed to be saying.

So I stayed. For Lorne, for Marci, for Bernie, for the show.

It was awe-inspiring to see people like Tina Fey, Steve Martin, John Cleese, asking Lorne about a joke. Jay Leno would call Lorne to ask about a joke. How could I let him down?

Marci is among the more interesting human beings I’ve ever met in my life. She used to walk up to me and say, “Who’s your rabbi?” And I’d say, “Well, you are, boss.” And she’d start laughing, toss her hair, and walk away. I was once chatting with her at a party, and JFK Jr. came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around to him and said, “I am fucking talking, okay?” (I’m not gay, but if I was, damn . . . he was a good-looking man.) But that’s how loyal and how powerful she is at the same time. How could I let her down?

And yet, by then Clinton had been out of office six years, Gore had been off the political scene just as long, Will Ferrell had left the show, so his Alex Trebek no longer hosted Sean Connery on
Celebrity Jeopardy!
; in those final years I was left mostly with an occasional Dick Cheney and John McCain in a cold open or in a “Weekend Update” segment.

There was one show that stood out, at least to the press, and that was when I did Fred Thompson in October 2007. Thompson, who had been a two-term U.S. senator from Tennessee, was most famous for his role as the district attorney on
Law & Order,
which he took up when he gave up public office. But it seemed his popularity on the show convinced him that he had a shot at the presidency, the real one, so he tossed his hat into the Republican ring, although not very convincingly. He announced his campaign on
The Tonight Show
in September in an effort CNN called “lackluster” and the
Chicago Tribune
called “awkward.” I heard that Thompson’s people were pleased to learn that I was going to be doing him on the show, although I imagine that changed when they learned we were making some fun of his apparent lack of enthusiasm—“How badly do I want to be your president? On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a six.” The
New York Times
said my portrayal was “potentially devastating” to his campaign. I find that hard to believe, but then Thompson withdrew three months later. I was slated to do him one more time, but I couldn’t get the voice right—by then I had my stalker and I was scared out of my wits.

Which no doubt contributed to the fact that in those final seasons, I was on air so infrequently that people started to ask me if I was still on the show.

I
had several years of post-Hazelden sobriety under my belt, but my shrinks still had me on major meds. I did an episode of
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
in 2005 on Lamictal, a mood stabilizer used to treat bipolar disorder, and Zyprexa, an antipsychotic. On just one of those, whatever you are as a human being stops. You simply aren’t there. You don’t feel happy, you don’t feel sad, you feel nothing. And I had to do scenes with Vincent D’Onofrio, a world-class actor. How the fuck was I supposed to do that?

I even made my Broadway debut, playing Vice Principal Douglas Panch in the Tony Award–winning musical comedy
The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
, at Circle in the Square for six weeks during the summer of 2007. Don’t worry, I didn’t sing. Although I wish I could have sung “My Unfortunate Erection”—I think I could have brought a lot of heartfelt emotion to that number. Instead, my character administered the spelling bee of the title and said things like, “That is correct.” But don’t think it wasn’t challenging; I dare you to pronounce
acouchi, boanthropy, mohel, corzya
, and
Ilspile
in front of hundreds of strangers without getting tripped up.

I did Christopher Durang’s comedy
Beyond Therapy
in 2008 at the Bay Street Theatre in Sag Harbor. Working with such outstanding actors as Tony-nominee Kate Burton and Tony-winner Katie Finneran, I knew the only way I could hold my own was to quit taking my meds for the run of the show, so I did, and it worked.

I had a recurring role as a creepy hit man called The Deacon on Glenn Close’s show
Damages
during my final season on
SNL
. Seth Meyers, who became head writer when Tina Fey left the show in 2006 was a big fan of the show, and he was very complimentary. I think it gladdened him to see me get great reviews when I wasn’t doing much on
SNL
. Aside from being a great writer, Seth was another one of those guys who reached out to help me when I was down. I won’t forget it.

I
n 2005 my mother, a lifelong smoker, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Her doctors wanted to do chemo, but she said, “For what?” She was going to go to her death like Ted Bundy to the electric chair.

I flew down to see her shortly before she died in February 2006.

I hadn’t spoken to or seen her in several years, although I’d heard that she and my father never missed an episode of
SNL
, even when they were angry with me for confronting them about what happened in our house when I was growing up.

I brought Eddie Galanek with me. After years of looking after me when my stalkers were around, Eddie had become a good friend. But it was also true that back in 2001, my father had threatened to shoot me. Just a few weeks before 9/11, I made one of many appearances on the Howard Stern radio show. On this occasion, we got onto the subject of my addiction problems, which led to a conversation about childhood abuse. I didn’t get into the details with Howard, but enough of the interview made its way into the Florida papers, and my father was pissed enough to threaten me. I knew he was now enfeebled, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Fear will not be denied.

At the hospital, I approached my mother’s bed, where she lay like a queen who’s used to running the show. She grabbed my hand and said, “You were always my buddy, right?” She always called me “Buddy” when I was a kid. “You were always my favorite. You know that, don’t you, Buddy?” Her Southern accent was perfect.

She looked at me as if to say,
I win, right?

E
ddie and I were barely back in New York when we got word that she’d been moved to hospice, so we turned around and headed back to Florida. Two weeks after our first visit, she was gone.

My father took her death with his customary stoicism. We were gathered around her bed, talking quietly. One minute my mother was breathing audibly, and the next she was silent.

My father looked at her and said, “And this is what happens.”

My parents, both of them, were immensely popular people in their community. The church was packed with well-wishers for my mother’s funeral.