Lorne decided to take a chance on me. It was a different time, the show was new, and he wanted a mix of talents. He and Tom Schiller caught my act at the Poletti High talent show and I guess I stood out. Not an especially great night for me. I’d been better. The time I did a stiff-legged walk like Mr. Gregus, who taught English, and said, “I infer my pants are wet”—that had been a sensation. Kids repeated it for weeks. But junior high is its own thing. Freshman in high school, odds were against me. For the talent show, I did my Harvey Korman voice, my Eric Severeid, a Carpenters song with funny lyrics (“It’s only just a gun”) and that was about it. Not my routine about the one-legged streaker, because the vice principal said no. Some applause was there, some laughs, but killing? Nowhere close.
The two adults looked past that. “They’re not going to go nuts for a freshman,” Lorne told me. “Not when everyone can see them. Age is the most unforgiving caste system.” I nodded to show I got it, though I thought he meant cast, as in a bunch of actors. Tom Schiller came back with a can of grape soda from the refreshments table and I accepted it gratefully. “Conor,” Lorne said, “let’s talk about what’s next.” A couple of months later, school was out and I was sitting on the floor at 30 Rock, my head next to but not touching Laraine Newman’s denim-clad knees. Everyone watched John Belushi pretending to eat out the potted ferns behind Lorne’s desk. Intimidated? I was. That room was crowded with talent, and no one was shy about being heard. Except me. Nor did a gang of twentysomethings, and even thirtysomethings, yearn to hear what this high school freshman had to contribute.
Well, you learn. I guess the turning point came a few weeks in. “Morrison the Cat!” I piped up, meaning Jim Morrison of the Doors plus Morris the Cat, then popular on commercials. Michael O’Donoghue removed an elegantly-furled joint from his mouth and aimed some smoke at the ceiling. “That’ll go on page 37, right opposite ‘Scenes We’d Like to See,’” he said. You get it, right? He meant I sounded like Mad magazine. Hey, I liked Mad, but I knew better than to say so. What I did say: “Go lick a sneaker, it’ll help your breath.” The words came out before I knew it, and next there was a “Hunh-hunh-hunh-hah” rising from the couch—Aykroyd. Belushi joined in, his gut shaking, and Chevy cocked a smile and edged one eyebrow out toward his ear. That meant he approved.
The laugh became general. It took over the room, and Lorne leaned back, hands behind head, a broad smile on his face. I think he’d been wondering if I’d make it, and now, he saw that his hunch would pay off. I picked at the white rubber part of my Keds and tried not to smirk. As for O’Donoghue, he flushed. “Not your sneakers anyway,” he muttered. I let that lie. Sometimes the comeback shows that you won.
Michael came around. The two of us wrote the stuttering baby sketch and, my favorite, the fake ad for Fume, “the dietary aid that provides delightfully different personal emissions.” He’s dead now. So’s Belushi, of course. And Eric Severeid. Time takes us all.
Third show I did the one-legged streaker, and man, it killed. I just hope the vice principal was watching.