There are many things about me that I’m sure might be of interest to readers. Things I’ve never really told anyone. I’ve always been a private person, but I wanted to make sure I got a few things down in writing, just in case anything happens to me—or before I forget!
Like, here’s something: People might be surprised to learn that I’m a speed reader. I took a course when I was a kid, and one would be hard pressed to name a book I haven’t read. Books are my constant companions. Like, last year, I went to Turks and Caicos over Christmas and read “The Count of Monte Cristo” on the way there and “Anna Karenina” on the way back. I’m glad I read them in that order. It might have ruined my vacation otherwise! So, you know, stuff like that.
Not sure how much time should be given to my standup years, but I’ve thought of a few stories that might be worth mentioning. There was one night at the Improv when I made a woman sitting in the front row laugh so hard that she went into convulsions and eventually lost consciousness. An ambulance had to be called, and she was taken to Roosevelt Hospital. It was touch and go there for a while, but thankfully she pulled through. I visited her the next day with the best bouquet of flowers that New York had to offer and humbly stood by while she told the nurse how “damn funny” I was. Pretty embarrassing, but what choice did I have?
From that point on, everyone started calling me Killer. People came to the club in droves, asking if Killer was going on. It wasn’t bad for my social life, either. No sooner would I finish a set than there would be half a dozen women at the bar, trying to talk to me. “Kill me! Kill me!” they would pant. I would choose two and off we’d go. One particular night, the husbands showed up. (I had no idea they were married—swear to God!) Fortunately, my father taught me how to box when I was a kid, and there’s no doubt I could’ve turned professional if comedy hadn’t called me. In any case, I was not to be trifled with. I calmly explained this to both husbands, but they were not impressed. Two minutes later, they were lying flat out on the sidewalk, whereupon their wives and I hopped into a cab and I did another set across town. When it was over, I bought a round of drinks for everyone, even though I didn’t have a penny to my name. (Interesting stuff, right? Hope it’s useful. Either way, I’m good—your call.)
There wasn’t much money to be made in standup back then, so I supported my fledgling comedy career by working as a tour guide at the Central Park Zoo during the day. I’ve always had a deep connection with animals and I thought that would be the perfect job for me.
And it was, until some kid was admiring the polar bear and decided to jump the railing to get a closer look. I was in the middle of giving a tour when I heard screams coming from the kid’s parents and raced over there. The boy was on the ground in a state of shock, as the polar bear hovered over him, about to attack. As luck would have it, a few months prior I’d attended a lecture at the New School by one of the world’s foremost Ursus authorities, Dr. Meyer Dusenberry, who explained that if we were ever face to face with a bear we should create a cacophony. Without a second to lose, I grabbed the lid of a hot-dog pot from a nearby Sabrett’s cart, leaped over the fence, and frantically rattled the lid against the bars until the bear retreated. Then I slung the kid over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry (learned from my years as a volunteer with the F.D.N.Y.) and returned the youngster to his grateful parents. They offered me a huge reward, but I declined, saying that my reward was seeing their happy faces. No amount of money in the world could top that!
I kept in touch with the boy throughout his youth, and, after his parents lost all their money in a Ponzi scheme, I put him through college and medical school. Today, he’s on the verge of a monumental cancer-research breakthrough and is slated to appear on an upcoming cover of Time. I told him I preferred to remain anonymous in the article. (You don’t have to include this in the book, but, if you want to, I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.)
People always ask me what I would’ve done had I not become a comedian. Besides the aforementioned stints at prizefighting and animal husbandry, I was also a child prodigy at the piano. By the time I was eight, I was playing Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata No. 29 in B-Flat Major flawlessly. There’s no telling how far I could’ve gone, but my budding career as a virtuoso ended when my “friend” Frenchie dropped a bowling ball on my foot. It broke my third and fifth metatarsal bones. I lost all proficiency with the pedals, and my tone was never the same. As I look back on that incident, what’s most galling to me is that I was only two strikes away from a perfect game when the “accident” occurred. Many years later, I ran into Frenchie at Yankee Stadium and accidentally dropped a fist in his face.
