by David Spade
By the way, I should say here that Skippy is six foot two and about three hundred pounds. He was a very nice guy, laughed a lot, was funny and easy to be around. Once on the set of Tommy Boy, he had been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time and I felt bad for him. Chris and I were doing a scene where we had to wait outside a house before going in to see Rob Lowe and Bo Derek. Unbeknownst to me, Chris was pissed at me that morning. The night before when we landed in Toronto, Chris had said he was sick and going to bed. I called Rob and asked him if he wanted to get a beer. And I found out later Chris didn’t like that. Why? Because I was sort of his wife. I mean, we were so close that it was weird. He was jealous that I called Rob and didn’t tell him. Now, I’d seen this angry look from him before. He would kind of bite his lip and stare at me. And it sucked, because it meant storm’s a-brewin’. It was like looking at a grizzly. I could run or try to make myself bigger.
I should have known that something was up because while we were sitting next to each other in makeup, Chris kept mumbling, “Where’s Rob Lowe? Hmm? Where’s Rob Lowe?” I just said, “I think he’s on the set.” And he’d start again, like Travis Bickle or some shit. Everyone’s eyes are darting around thinking “Um what’s going on?” So a few minutes later we were, outside the scene and waiting for our cue to enter. It was freezing. I was sitting on the ground eating a tuna sandwich and he was staring at me. Grinding his jaw, biting his lip. And staring. Eventually I said, “Can I help you, sir?” (to be a smart-ass, if anyone can picture that) and he stepped on my hand and sandwich, which were both on the ground. I popped up (this is the making myself bigger part) and threw my Diet Coke on him (so Basketball Wives). Then he pushed me down five stairs. And this was the textbook beginning of a street fight. Not a UFC fight, or actually any fight in history, but we were about to go at it. And by go at it I mean I’m about to lose quickly to this Ronda Rousey mothafucka. “ANNNND ACTION, DAVID AND CHRIS!” we heard over the walkie-talkie. We stared at each other for a beat then casually walked into the scene. I had the first line. I just stared, silent because too much was going through my head. Pete the director yelled, “What’s David’s line!?” The script supervisor said it. I walked off set. Pete was like, “Ummm, okay, let’s take a five.”
So I went to my trailer and Chris went to his, like Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj. We were two divas arguing about God knows what. Fred Wolf went to Chris and said, “You can’t go after Spade like that. We have a movie to finish. I know you guys are tired. And he’s smaller than you. If you’re going to fight, you can’t go after a dude that weighs 130.” This pissed Chris off even more, because Fred was not taking his side (not that anyone even knew why we were fighting). Chris calmly got up and looked out the window of his trailer to see Skippy walking by. He bolted out of the trailer, ran over, and tackled Skippy hard for no reason other than that he was pissed at me. Then he kind of laughed, and walked away. Skippy was dumbfounded but you can’t talk back to number one on the call sheet so he sort of chuckled and limped away.
Skippy was my assistant for about three years. He did a fine job. We got along. He did some improv comedy on the side. It was all good. Having an assistant means that you now have someone who helps do all the kinds of shit work you used to do when you were struggling. When you have an assistant it’s such an odd thing because all my life I was doing these kind of jobs. Valet parker, dishwasher, busboy, clothing store assistant, etc. So now to have someone working for me was so weird. I still wanted to be the “cool” boss because I had had so many dicks in the past. (Let’s not take those last eight words out of context.) But eventually, some weird shit started to happen. All was normal for a long time. But then I saw some odd things, like NBC asked if I wanted Dodger tickets. I told Skippy to say no . . . mostly because if you take something from the network, then down the line they can come asking for a favor in return.
And sure enough, I got asked for a favor down the line. I said no. They say, “Hey, come on, we gave you all those Dodger tickets.” I went to ask Skippy. He said, “They told me I could use them if I wanted.” Okay, so I’m still thinking, Don’t be a dick about it. It’s an honest mistake. Next odd thing is when I heard from Rebecca Romijn and Kid Rock (name drop!) that my assistant had texted them. Just to say what’s up. Nothing business related. Hmmmm. But the one that really hit me wrong was when he asked for a part in Joe Dirt. (Applause. “Oh, a few of you remember that one? Thank you . . .”) I told him I would see what was possible but that I didn’t have final say. Skippy was big, funny, and likable so I figured that maybe he could do it. But when we were almost ready to film the movie, Adam Sandler called me to suggest Kevin Nealon for the part because Adam thought he’d be funny for it. I agreed. Kevin’s always solid and Adam’s my boss. Easy enough.
Now is where things got weird. I broke this news to Skippy and he was disappointed, but then that quickly turned to pissed. “Tell Adam it’s already taken, tell him no way.” I said, “Skippy, I get that it sucks but there’s no way I’m telling Adam no, on the one thing he asked for. He’s the reason this movie is getting made. He never asks for anything. He likes you and has no idea I held that part for you. I’ll keep my eye out for something else.” I should have paid more attention to this little exchange with Skippy, because that’s not how an employee should talk to their boss, even if their boss is a cool guy like me.
Cut to a few months later. I was sitting with Skip while editing Joe Dirt. He saw the scene with Nealon and said, “There’s the scene Adam fucked me on. I would have nailed it.” That attitude took me back. I told him Adam didn’t fuck him and to let it go. Then we ate dinner, and he went on his way like usual.
At about 5 A.M. that night, I had a gross feeling that someone was watching me while I slept. I looked up to see a shadowy figure standing in the doorway to my bedroom, wearing a baseball hat and with his arm behind his back. Needless to say, I was scared shitless.
It was Skippy.
I was out of it and weirded out. I mumbled, “What are you doing?” “Um, the alarm company called, it went off.” He then looked over in my bed to see if anyone was there. Then he said, “So there’s no one here, you’re all alone?” I started to stand up and said, “Yeah, sorry they called you. I don’t think I even turned it on . . .” and WHAM!!! He hit me in the face. I fell back. He punched me a few more times as I fell back on the bed. I then rolled across the bed quickly and popped to my feet on the other side. When I looked down I saw blood on the bed. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I said, “Skippy, what the fuck are you doing?” It hadn’t sunk in yet that I was in a brawl and my nose and back were bleeding. He just stared at me blankly, like a robot on a mission. He had a stun gun in the hand he’d been holding behind his back, and was hitting me with it along with his other fist.
I ran to the back door of my room, which opened to the yard, but I didn’t have enough time to unlock it, so he grabbed me and threw me to the ground. (Dude is big.) I stood up and my vintage Coneheads sleeveless T-shirt came off in his hands. (Funny movie, Coneheads . . . well, parts were funny.) For a sec, we just stared at each other in disbelief. I scrammed knowing I still had a chance to escape, running out the garage door, into the driveway and toward the front gate. Of course my high-class celebrity security means that my gate needs a code to open, even to get out, so I’m in the Hotel California—I can never leave. Plus, I had no idea where I would go even if I could have gotten the gate open. It was 5 A.M. Who was going to open their door to a crazy guy screaming? Plus Skippy was on my ass like a cheetah. So I jumped behind one of my old cars. Skip was on other side. I was starting to get tired, but also realizing that this shit was for real. Picture getting up to pee in the middle of the night and how out of it you are . . . this dreamy state was how out of it I was and then I’m getting the shit kicked out of me. It was not a dream. And it sucked.
I see him staring, crouched with his stun gun and ready to fight. I say fuck it. With the last bit of energy I have, I run right at him.
I hit him and we go to the ground. By some miracle, I get into a position where I can punch him, and I start whaling on his head with both fists. As I’m doing it I realize that it fucking hurts. (I suddenly felt bad for UFC guys. Hitting a head is like punching a rock.) And I was hitting my friend. One punch landed perfectly and he dropped the stun gun. I squirreled away and then hauled ass into the house, slamming the door and trying to flip the dead bolt. WHAM!! He hit the door. This fucker was unstoppable. I fell on my back and gave up. I accepted my death. BUT, thank God, the dead bolt had closed just enough to keep him out. I took my chance. I ran to my bedroom and slid under my bed, where I keep my loaded shotgun. The only other person who knew it was there was . . . you guessed it . . . Skippy! (The police later told me that his plan had been to incapacitate me with the stun gun, go get my shotgun from under the bed, and kill us both. Fun theory!) I went into the bathroom and locked the door. What the hell was I going to do? I looked in the mirror and there I was with my pajama bottoms on, no shirt, bloody face, scratched arms and back. (So I think, This would be a great Instagram picture. No, it was ten years too early, unfortch.) The pad of my big toe had caught on something and was flopping around, bleeding. I was feeling weak and could feel the adrenaline dissipating (good word).
I realized that I needed to go call the cops, because if I passed out in my bathroom at 5 A.M. no one would find me. Then it occurred to me that I was going to have to shoot my friend. (Great friend, right?) I was not happy about this idea. I screamed out, “HEY I’M COMING OUT AND SHOOTING YOUR LEG FIRST, THEN I’M SHOOTING YOU IN THE FACE. I’D GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.” I paused, then I kicked the door open. He was gone, thank God, because I would have hated to shoot someone. I peeped around the room . . . no Skip. I hobbled to the phone and called 911 and for some stupid reason, I didn’t rat him out. I told them that some six-two, three-hundred-pound guy came into my house and beat the shit out of me and came over here. And that I’d be waiting in the alley behind my house. I went into the alley with my shotgun, wandering around with blood on me. Eventually the cops show up and motion for me to lay the gun down. One says, “You’re okay now, we have guys inside searching your house.” I was coherent enough to say, “Well, you don’t have to look everywhere . . . he’s not in the drawers . . .” (I said this knowing I had some shit stashed around my house, heh heh.) Lo and behold, old Skip got away. The news vans were already pulling up to my house, in another nightmare plot twist.
I was glad to be alive. I didn’t want to blab to the media (though I probably should have and milked it). The cops pulled Marc, my manager, aside and asked him why I was covering for someone. It was clear to them that I knew my attacker, as they say in cop-speak. I think I covered for Skip because he had been a close friend, for a long time. I also knew that he would be toast if I ratted him out—it would be jail for years. But when the detectives told my manager they thought it was a gay sex thing gone wrong, I sang like a canary.
They found Skippy later that day parked on the street, very woozy and out of it. In his trunk they found rope and duct tape. That was unsettling at best. They said he had taken 125 Tylenol PMs. (Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill himself, but when I take a half of one of those, I’m out for ten hours.) Skippy went into the hospital, and I went into a hotel for a few days to chill the fuck out. The cops said I could press charges. I never did. I asked them to get him psychiatric help so I could find out what the fuck actually happened. In my mind drugs alone don’t make you turn on a buddy like that. I couldn’t make sense of it. This guy wasn’t a criminal mastermind. He just flipped out. Or just hated me, I’ll never know.
He also had a clean record and I was a bit worried he would get out of jail in six months and pull a Max Cady from Cape Fear and come finish me off. So I tapped out and moved on. But ultimately I did have to move to a new house, because even after the blood came off the doors and the carpet I was always scared to sleep in the old one. Even my therapist said I was being a pussy but I couldn’t help it. So I moved and got a new assistant. A girl. Who weighs 110 pounds. So I could for sure take her if shit went down. Well, 90 percent sure.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MY FIRST HOOKER
I was with a hooker once. It was a mistake. I mean it wasn’t a mistake to sleep with her; I don’t care about that. It’s that I just did not know she was a hooker. (I can feel you rolling your eyes. But it’s true.)
I was in Las Vegas (the first sign that something bad is about to happen) and I was walking past a day club where there was a line to get in. A very normal-looking cute girl asked me for a photo. (Side note: When someone asks me for a picture, I almost always say yes. Ninety-nine percent of the people who ask are very cool. The only drawbacks are nervous sweaty people, because shaking hands with them is like shaking hands with a ShamWow, and the people who are hot and put their arms around you. They press their stinking sizzling pit into my shoulder and it basically brands me. Especially at the pool in Vegas. Hot stinky pit branding on my bare shoulder is so gross. All I can think of is sssssssss Sizzzlerrrrrrr . . .) So I took a few pictures with this girl, and then she invited me into the club, which was actually inviting me to stand in line with her. That seemed like a drag. Maybe she wanted me to skip her to the front of the line. Either way, I let her off easy, telling her I had to get home. She hit me with the digits (new term for phone number—super new) and told me to give her a call the next time I was in Vegas.
Two weeks later I just so happened to be back in Las Vegas. At the time I had a deal with one of the hotels on the Strip to perform twelve weekends a year. I had done the Mirage for a few years, and then Planet Hollywood, and also the Venetian. I loved all of these spots and had great gigs there. I won’t say which hotel this incident occurred in, because if word leaked out that a hooker was seen in a hotel in Vegas, all hell would break loose. Vegas would shut down tomorrow. I don’t want that.
Being the gentleman I am, I texted the young lady whom I had met in the club line to see if she remembered me and wanted to meet for a drink or perhaps come for my shitty show. She quickly answered back, “What are you doing right now?” Hmmm. This seemed a bit unorthodox because most of my courting happens at night and this was the middle of the day. Daytime is odd. Stiff. I don’t day drink so there’s not much to say or do, especially in Vegas, unless she wanted to take a romantic stroll down to Glitter Gulch or Slots of Fun, but I didn’t even know her. I replied, “I’m golfing with some idiots.” In fairness, all of my friends are all idiots. I need new friends. Anyway, she answered back, “What about before the show?” Ummmm?? I said, “Well, I usually get ready in the room?” That was the most basic/uncreative answer possible. I had no clue where this odd exchange was going. “Maybe I’ll just come by the room,” she texted back.
Ooo, now I knew where things were going.
I was stoked! Clearly this chick was into me. Maybe she wanted a hot beef injection before the show. (Hi, Mom!) Could it be this easy? I mean I would usually take this more seriously but she’s setting the casual tone. She was slutty and I didn’t see a big future with her so I saw no problem. If she wanted to rally, I was all for it.
So I finished my golf game and headed back to the hotel.
Knock knock . . . and there she was at my door. Now I was nervous. I had zero booze in me. I was noticeably weirded out because I had no idea what to do next. Do I make a move right away? Maybe she just wanted to be buddies, or talk about Joe Dirt or have me leave a funny message on her friend’s voice mail (I get that one more than you might think). But no. She sauntered in and looked out the window.
“Nice view,” she said, not really caring.
“Oh, that old fifty-mile, gorgeous view?” I joked, weakly. She barely registered that I had spoken and she started to strip, folding her clothes into a neat little pile. Next she took off her rings. I thought, Oh shit, it’s about to go down! Places, everyone! When the rings come off, you know there will be some dick grabbing happening. Then, she dropped the bomb . . .
>
“So it’s eight hundred. Up front.”
Immediately, I freaked out that she was a cop. I didn’t know what to do, but I sort of wanted to go through with it anyway, because I didn’t want to look like a pussy, and I wanted to get laid. (Hi, Grandma!) You know what I mean, guys. Who’s with me??!
My mind is swirling. What if I hand her the money and she slaps the cuffs on me? What if it is a trick and she takes the dough and then goes and blabs to the tabs? Please don’t be a tab blabber! Listen, my dick doesn’t shoot up north in record time on a normal night, if you get my drift, so this confusion didn’t help. But finally we got down to action Jackson. We start to go at it and to be honest, girls don’t like it when I fuck them anyway but this girl really couldn’t stand it because it was all biz. And of course she makes me wear this rubber she gives me that’s made of Gore-Tex or something that hookers make in a hooker supply factory, so I had literally zero feeling in said dick. It’s not good when both parties say, “Is it in?” at the same time. “Jinx! Hahahahahahahaha!”
But seriously, I can tell she’s just going through the motions . . . “Oh babe, so hot.” Like a robot (hooker robot). Missionary, doggie, back to missionary. Then she says, “Cum for me, babe.” Which translates to “Let’s wrap this up, old man, I have to be at the Bellagio in twenty.”
Then, to top off this nightmare this call girl actually takes a call during boning, which is . . . I don’t know where that falls in the book of etiquette, but my boner left the building, so to speak. And that was that. Dear Abby would have a field day with her behavior.
So that’s my hooker story. She wasn’t a cop but now there’s another chick out there who thinks I don’t fuck good. Great.
