Read Online Almost Interesting by David Spade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Spade
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shots he said, “Wait, I need to see this guy’s ID.” This was the biggest needle scratch moment. Obviously I didn’t have it with me. I mean I did, but it said I was twenty. So in a major buzz kill move, he took the shot back. All the fun was sucked right out of the moment, and a heap of embarrassment packed on top. But on the bright side, I was going to be getting regular spots at the Improv now. Then it hit me . . . I was going to have to move to Los Angeles.
Shit was about to get real.
I flew home and told my mom. She had moved back to Scottsdale after the L.A. job wrapped up. She was happy for me, but scared about things like where I was going to live, what I was going to eat, you know, important issues that didn’t cross my mind. But the window was open for me and I had to go for it. And in a stupid move, I sold my car for the money that I would need to get started in L.A. In a stupider move, I sold it to my brother Bryan, who said he would send me the cash but never did. And in the stupidest move, I was now in L.A. without money or a car. All I have is two twenty-minute spots at the Improv for thirty-five dollars a pop. Jim Vallely told me I could stay on his couch again, and thank God. He also had an old girlfriend who rented me a car for eighty dollars a week. (I was already ten dollars over my budget.) The car was an old light blue Dodge Dart with three on the tree, which means it was a stick shift but the stick shift was on the steering column, so it was hard to drive. It had a crack in the windshield, the works. But I loved it. I ran out of money pretty much a week in. Jim told me I could have the change he kept in a jar so I took it down to Ralph’s for a rotisserie chicken. I went home and doused it in A-1 steak sauce. Yummy. The Improv would let you eat there on nights when you had gigs, but you had to sign for your meals, which meant that when check day came around I’d be looking at a grand total of five dollars. It was lean stuff, survival mode. But I was getting spots onstage, which was all that really mattered.
After I had spent another weekend on his couch, Jim had had enough of me, and told me that he had a friend going to England who would sublet me a studio down on Stanley and Santa Monica Boulevard. This, I found out later—and I was officially the last one to find out—was a very gay neighborhood. Being from Arizona, I would parade around down to 7-Eleven and back with no shirt and Quiksilver shorts. All day, every day . . . like a little Joe Dirt in training. There were a lot of wolf whistles that I certainly never picked up on. But my most memorable night in that studio was spent lying on the futon on the floor (no frills in this place) and listening to a woman scream bloody murder next door. I didn’t know if they were having sex or he was killing her. (I’ve never heard girls get loud during sex; whenever I look down at them they just say “Continue.”) I lay there missing Arizona, and all my friends hanging at my mom’s house. All I could think was, What if something happens to me? I don’t even know where a hospital is! I don’t know anybody and I don’t have health insurance. (I know, what a pussy.) The screaming escalated and I was terrified. I picked up the phone to call 911 . . . but I couldn’t do it because I thought they would know it was me and would come kill me. So I got a huge knife from the kitchen and I sat on the bed, facing the door and holding the knife. I was ready to kill whoever came in. I was also scared shitless. The sun came up around 7:30 A . M . the next day and woke me up. I had fallen asleep on my side with my face on the knife. All that drama and I could have died by stabbing myself in the fucking face while I was sleeping.
One day, after a few sets at the Improv, they got a call from a casting director from Police Academy 4. They were looking for a wisecracking skateboarding kid and had been in the audience a week before and seen me
Shit was about to get real.
I flew home and told my mom. She had moved back to Scottsdale after the L.A. job wrapped up. She was happy for me, but scared about things like where I was going to live, what I was going to eat, you know, important issues that didn’t cross my mind. But the window was open for me and I had to go for it. And in a stupid move, I sold my car for the money that I would need to get started in L.A. In a stupider move, I sold it to my brother Bryan, who said he would send me the cash but never did. And in the stupidest move, I was now in L.A. without money or a car. All I have is two twenty-minute spots at the Improv for thirty-five dollars a pop. Jim Vallely told me I could stay on his couch again, and thank God. He also had an old girlfriend who rented me a car for eighty dollars a week. (I was already ten dollars over my budget.) The car was an old light blue Dodge Dart with three on the tree, which means it was a stick shift but the stick shift was on the steering column, so it was hard to drive. It had a crack in the windshield, the works. But I loved it. I ran out of money pretty much a week in. Jim told me I could have the change he kept in a jar so I took it down to Ralph’s for a rotisserie chicken. I went home and doused it in A-1 steak sauce. Yummy. The Improv would let you eat there on nights when you had gigs, but you had to sign for your meals, which meant that when check day came around I’d be looking at a grand total of five dollars. It was lean stuff, survival mode. But I was getting spots onstage, which was all that really mattered.
After I had spent another weekend on his couch, Jim had had enough of me, and told me that he had a friend going to England who would sublet me a studio down on Stanley and Santa Monica Boulevard. This, I found out later—and I was officially the last one to find out—was a very gay neighborhood. Being from Arizona, I would parade around down to 7-Eleven and back with no shirt and Quiksilver shorts. All day, every day . . . like a little Joe Dirt in training. There were a lot of wolf whistles that I certainly never picked up on. But my most memorable night in that studio was spent lying on the futon on the floor (no frills in this place) and listening to a woman scream bloody murder next door. I didn’t know if they were having sex or he was killing her. (I’ve never heard girls get loud during sex; whenever I look down at them they just say “Continue.”) I lay there missing Arizona, and all my friends hanging at my mom’s house. All I could think was, What if something happens to me? I don’t even know where a hospital is! I don’t know anybody and I don’t have health insurance. (I know, what a pussy.) The screaming escalated and I was terrified. I picked up the phone to call 911 . . . but I couldn’t do it because I thought they would know it was me and would come kill me. So I got a huge knife from the kitchen and I sat on the bed, facing the door and holding the knife. I was ready to kill whoever came in. I was also scared shitless. The sun came up around 7:30 A . M . the next day and woke me up. I had fallen asleep on my side with my face on the knife. All that drama and I could have died by stabbing myself in the fucking face while I was sleeping.
One day, after a few sets at the Improv, they got a call from a casting director from Police Academy 4. They were looking for a wisecracking skateboarding kid and had been in the audience a week before and seen me
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