Call Me Russell

by Russell Peters

  When Dad was upset, the whole car would go quiet. We’d try to take his mind off things by playing music he liked—music we all liked, actually. We’d play anything from ’60s lounge music—Andy Williams, Burt Bacharach, Glen Campbell, Tom Jones—to Dad’s perennial favourites, the Platters and the Ink Spots. Mom would be there, too, trying to keep things lighthearted and jolly, as is her way. She actually enjoyed the road trips. They reminded her of our family trips in the ’70s to Myrtle Beach, New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. We were all doing our best.

  When we’d finally see the sign for Philadelphia, everyone would finally relax. We would arrive at the Holiday Inn Express on Walnut Street and go to this little corner store to pick up a six-pack of beer for dad. Dad would unwind with a beer in the hotel room, then we’d go out as a family for some Indian food at a buffet across the street. Dad would have another drink there, and slowly, he’d start to settle in.

  The next morning, bright and early, he would start his treatment in the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. This was a beautiful hospital—it even had a valet—but Dad hated being there. We’d sign Dad out in the evenings, go out for drinks and then have a nice meal. It was a good way to keep everyone’s spirits up as best we could. One of the things that really bothered him was that the chemo and all the other treatments made him lose his sense of taste. He was a man who loved food—it was one of his great passions—but the more treatment he received, the less he could enjoy it.

  On the drive back home to Toronto after Dad’s treatment, he’d have to wear large, black sunglasses and we’d have to put towels over the windows of the car to protect him from the sun. Post-treatment, his skin became more sensitive to light. In the darkened car, we’d make our way home quietly, but as we crossed upstate New York, Dad’s frustration would rise again. We’d say, “Pop, don’t worry. There’s nothing you can do. It’s not like you asked for this to happen.” On one of the trips, we stopped at a Starbucks for coffee. My brother had ordered a Frappuccino and Dad asked for a sip.

  All in all, those drives weren’t that terrible. Brother was taking Mondays and Fridays off from work to do the trips, and I wasn’t taking weekend gigs. We bonded as a family and had a lot of time to say everything we needed to say to each other—and for that, I’m grateful.

  That’s really the only upside to our father’s death and how he died: we had two full years to say all the things we wanted to say to him and do all the things we wanted to do with him. We got to tell Dad that we loved him. We got to tell him that he had done all the right things for us and that he should have no regrets. There were quiet times when it would be only the two of us. We’d watch boxing together on TV, and just sit there holding hands. Dad got to see us as grown men, as men who had learned respect, had never broken the law or gone to jail and who held family as sacred. “You’ve got to look out for each other, no matter what,” he told Brother and me. He also told us how proud he was of us. That’s something you can never forget.

  He also told us how proud he was of us. That’s something you can never forget.

  My brother and I have often noted that my dad was tough to like as a younger man, but easy to love as an old man. In pictures when he was young, Dad looked like a bit of a dick. If we’d known him then, I don’t think we would have liked him. And of course, he was tough on us growing up; he was a disciplinarian and he kept us in line. But as an old man, he was fantastic. He fell into that role wonderfully.

  We’ve had a couple of other family members pass away suddenly, including my cousin Andrew, who was murdered in the Dominican Republic in 1995, as well as several aunts and uncles, and what you immediately realize once you hear the news is that you’ll never have a chance to say goodbye. It wasn’t like that with Dad.

  My dad was always a scotch drinker, and he loved Johnnie Walker Red, so when Dad was sick, Brother and I decided we’d treat him to the best (and most expensive) scotch whisky we could: Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Dad loved it. When we presented the bottle to him, his eyes lit up. He gave us a look as if to say “You shouldn’t have,” but you could tell he was completely ecstatic about having that bottle in his hands. As a man who had always put his family first, it was unimaginable that he would have shelled out over two hundred dollars for a bottle of booze. He set out to drink it right away. He made his first toast “To my sons,” raising a glass to us. Then he said, “No one but me is going to touch this bottle, and I’m only going to drink it on special occasions.” And so, over the span of about a year, Dad would pour himself a glass of Blue Label at Christmas, Easter or on one of our birthdays.

  He made it quite ceremonial, and he’d always toast to our health. Looking back, I’m not sure who enjoyed that bottle more—Dad, who loved the scotch, or the rest of us, who loved to watch him drink it. When he got sicker, Dad decided, “I’m not leaving this bottle for anybody else. I’m finishing it off before I go.” And he did.

  My dad died on March 15, 2004, after one hell of a fight.

  My dad died on March 15, 2004, after one hell of a fight. About a year after Dad’s passing, everything changed for my brother and me. Brother’s workplace had become even more toxic. It got to the point where a few of his not-so-pleasant colleagues even accused him of taking kickbacks. If you knew my brother personally, you’d realize just how ridiculous the accusation was.

  He’d come home and tell me about these things, and I’d be pissed. Things had changed radically for me; not only was I beginning to taste success, I was making my first excursions into the States. My brother and I had a habit of talking to each other at least once a day by phone. Our household schedule was completely reversed; he’d leave in the morning and then come home in evening at around seven or eight, by which time I’d already be out for a gig or to hang out with my friends. However, at the same time as the changes taking place in my career, he was also becoming more of a confidant I’d seek out to discuss everything that was happening. He was tracking the new trajectory of where things were going for me, sometimes staying at work until 9 P.M. to work on my calendar and review all my travel arrangements. This was all new to both of us, but there he was, not only excited about the new opportunities but concerned about my safety and security on these new U.S. shows with unknown promoters.

  We were still grieving the loss of our father and were coming out of hard financial times. We drew on each other for support. The few times we couldn’t manage to connect via phone, it always felt weird.

  In the months that followed, every time we’d meet at the house or at Mom’s place for dinner, there was a lot to catch up on. Things were changing quickly and dramatically for me, and I kept my brother up to date about how much money I was making and the new gigs I was taking on. At one point, I came home after a weekend of shows in Mississauga, and I dropped twenty thousand dollars in cash on his dresser.

  I asked him, “Would you hang on to this for me?”

  He looked at the stacks of cash and asked, “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  I told him to just hang on to it. He kept staring at this pile of money on his bedroom dresser. “Just use it,” I told him. That was my way of trying to pay him back for all the years he’d carried the mortgage and all the money he’d spent to help Mom and Dad. I was happy to be able to give something back.

  It had been a year since Dad passed and just over a year since my Comedy Now! special had aired. YouTube had launched in February of that same year and someone—I don’t even know who—uploaded my special onto it. I didn’t upload it—I didn’t even know how. I had gone viral and wish I could take credit for it.

  At first, I was pissed that it had been put on the Web. In my mind, I was going, Holy shit, my whole act is out there! This is crazy. I don’t have a new act to take on the road. Little did I know that the upload of the Comedy Now! special was my tipping point, my shot heard round the world. I had taped that special in August of 2003 at the Masonic Temple on Yonge Street at Davenport, the same building where I first saw Run-D
.M.C. and met them backstage, as well as the first place that I’d seen Public Enemy. This was the special where I’m wearing a white shirt, with the orangey background, the special where I first used my “Somebody Gonna Get a-Hurt Real Bad” and “Be a Man” routines.

  Here’s the backstory on the BE A MAN bit. It was never actually part of my original act. I just had no ending to that joke with the Chinese guy in the store, and I ended up throwing that line in. The really ironic part about that special was that “Be a Man” then became a catchphrase that people quoted all over the place. Now we sell T-shirts with “Be a Man” on them. Who knew?

  After I finished taping that show, I went downstairs and all my friends were there: Jean Paul, my brother, Gavin Stephens and a bunch of other guys. They were all going “That was incredible!” and “That was a Gemini performance!” I was like,” “Really?” I didn’t know it was good. I thought it was okay.

  After the special hit YouTube, I started getting more and more gigs and making more and more money—more than I could have ever imagined. I was also starting to get interest from the U.S., and I began making forays into different American universities, like Georgetown and Harvard and Rutgers. My brother was watching from the sidelines and guiding me. He decided he wanted a closer look at what was going on, so he came to Washington with me to see how things were being run by my then agent, Ed Smeall. Ed was a good guy who had broken away from Yuk Yuk’s. He worked from home and knew the business very well, and accepted every gig.

  Since I was new to this circuit, I didn’t know there was any other way. Of course, as soon as my brother came down there with me and surveyed the scene, his business mind got to work. He has always had the ability to see beyond the present into the potential for the future, and when he saw how my gigs were run, he noticed some problems. One thing I remember he really didn’t like was that I’d do a gig for one promoter in an area, and then my agent would accept a similar gig in the region with another promoter. My brother kept saying, “Hang on a sec. You just did a show with that promoter who came through for you. Now you’re going to throw your loyalty to him out the window?” He also didn’t like the fact that I never saw my contracts. There were other issues with those early gigs, too. There was no security at the venues, and people in the audience kept trying to record the shows. I’d be part of a whole night of entertainment that was often unstructured. Sometimes these universities would stage variety shows, with me and bhangra dancers and local kids who thought they were comedians and would promptly get booed off stage. It was all a bit of a mess.

  And here I was, an unknown Indian kid from Canada, coming to Harlem to do my set in front of what is traditionally an all-black audience.

  These were the kinds of problems I’d hoped my manager would deal with so that I could concentrate on being funny on stage. As I talked with my brother, we realized a strategy was required, with rules and guidelines the various promoters would have to follow if I were to take on a gig. I was past the point of the amateur free-for-alls, and I knew that we could do better shows.

  I had a chance to prove it soon afterward when I was booked for my first gig at the Apollo Theater in Harlem in April 2005. This was a pretty exciting opportunity. I’d never played a venue this prestigious before. In fact, no South Asian had ever headlined that venue. I’d heard so much over the years about the black audiences there who’d boo you off in seconds if they didn’t like your act. And here I was, an unknown Indian kid from Canada, coming to Harlem to do my set in front of what is traditionally an all-black audience. Who was going to know who the hell I was? Every performer that’s worth anything has performed there—Al Green, James Brown, Michael Jackson. I was going to perform on the same stage as them? And who was going to show up in that room? Still, the gig was too cool to refuse, so I took it.

  My brother and I stayed at the Waldorf-Astoria, and when it came time to leave for the theatre, our car didn’t show. My brother, not yet my manager, got on the phone with the girl we thought was the promoter and screamed at her about me not having a car. (It turned out that she was a front for a promoter and fledgling comedian who was too scared to tell us that he was the promoter in case the show was a flop. This guy had no balls.) I still managed to get there early so that I could absorb the atmosphere of the building, so it wouldn’t intimidate me. Everything fell into place that night. The audience was great; they were right there with me. I had a great set—I was freestyling like crazy. I could have just kept on going that night. It felt great. The people who work in that building were fantastic to me. They had never seen an Indian comic and they had never seen that crowd come in there. The audience was mostly South Asian and Asian, with a few black people here and there and a few white faces too. I even ended up making friends with some of the guys who worked there.

  June 22, 2005.

  I was on a real high after that show, and my brother and I now got serious about the possibility of him working for me. Basically, he said, “Listen, I hate my job, and I’m going to be quitting one way or another. Even if I make forty grand a year working with you, I’m going to be happier than doing what I’m doing.”

  I said, “Yeah. We should do that. Why don’t you be my assistant?” That didn’t go over so well. There was no way in hell my brother was going to be my assistant. He offered a counterproposal: he would be my manager.

  In April 2005, he got his bonus cheque on a Friday and resigned the following Monday. He went out in style, and it gave both of us great pleasure to see him out of that nine-to-five corporate grind. Next, my brother put all his energy into building a strategy for my future, and over the course of the next year, under his stewardship and Dad’s invisible-guardian hand, things exploded.

  In June of 2005, we found ourselves in Los Angeles, setting up shows at both Royce Hall on the UCLA campus and at the world-famous Laugh Factory on Sunset Boulevard. Working with my brother, we had put together a strategy that would allow my performances at those two venues to be seen by as many industry VIPs and agents as possible. Both shows were completely sold out. It was really something. All of these kids who had only seen me on the Web were coming out in full force and showing me love.

  Things were looking good. It was during that time that we also set up agency meetings. I needed representation in Los Angeles, and many of the big agencies had come out to see the shows. I didn’t think too much at that time about getting the meetings. I now know how difficult it is to get the meetings that we got.

  Interestingly, when we were taking meetings, there was one group that was never really on my radar: Creative Artists Agency. When they called to set up a meeting with me, my Canadian agent, Dani De Lio, who was down there with us, actually told them we didn’t have any more openings in the schedule and that I wasn’t really thinking of them. They were pretty stunned and refused to take no for an answer. They insisted, “You gotta come in and see us. We’re CAA!” I mean, what could I say to that? So in I went.

  The funny thing about agency meetings is that every office boardroom looks just like the next one. And the people in those boardrooms tend to look the same, too. There are all these guys wearing suits, waving their hands around and talking about what a great “brand” you could be, or how they’ll have great “synergy” with you. All of this talk was going in one ear and out the other. Some of these meetings were pretty wacky. I got a sense that maybe some of those people were feeling a little too excited about me. In some instances, I sat there with all these talking heads, and I actually didn’t get to say a single word. I was spoken at the whole time. It was all very, very surreal, and I wasn’t used to being treated like “the next big thing.”

  When I went to CAA, I had already pretty much decided to sign on with The Gersh Agency. A couple of guys from Gersh had come to my shows and I liked them, as well as Bob Gersh, who actually hosted a meeting with me at his home in Beverly Hills. Bob was a good guy. After the group presentation at CAA—which was the usual “We’ll get you on Oprah,” “We’ll get you
on Letterman, no problem,” “And you should be meeting with so and so”—we were met by Rob Light. Rob is one of the partners at CAA, so this was kind of a big deal. All the agents in the conference room were wearing suits and ties, but Rob was wearing jeans and sneakers. He took me around to his office and was telling me about all the other clients the firm represents—Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, George Clooney. You name the A-list star, and chances are they’re with CAA. Still, none of that meant anything to me. But as I sat in Rob’s office, I noticed KISS posters on his walls. It turns out that CAA represents KISS.

  All of a sudden, I was a twelve-year-old boy again, and I had the opportunity to be represented by the same agents who represented my boyhood heroes. To take things even further, Rob proceeded to get lead singer Paul Stanley on speakerphone. I was over the moon. I was talking with KISS! That was it: this was where I was going to sign. I was going to be represented by the same agency that represents KISS! Maybe this was not the best strategy for choosing an agent, but there are certain things that stick with you from when you’re a kid that you just can’t shake. It’s now been five years since I signed with CAA, and I have to say that there are some really good people there who have done some fantastic things for me. They know who they are, and so do I.

  Gene smiled and said, “Can I get you something to drink as well?”

  Right after I joined the CAA roster, Rob saw to it that Gene Simmons himself came out to my show at the Laugh Factory. He brought a fellow Canadian, actress Shannon Tweed, with him—I knew her, of course, from Falcon Crest … and from Playboy. Both Gene and Shannon are insanely nice, extremely tall and larger than life. I was pretty blown away when I looked out into the audience and saw one of my heroes looking back at me and laughing at my jokes. I got to meet Gene after the show and talk to him for a while. Fans were coming up to me and wanting to take pictures. One of them turned around and handed her camera to Gene and said, “Hey man, can you snap a picture of Russell and me?” So Gene obliges, then the girl says, “Can you turn the camera sideways and take another one?” Gene smiled and said, “Can I get you something to drink as well?” So there I am, having my picture taken with a fan … and Gene Simmons is the one taking the picture! Really, it was like the world had turned upside down. At some point during all the madness, Gene looked at me and said, “You know what? If you were a girl, I’d fuck you.” That was probably the first—and the last—time in my life when I was glad to have a dude say something like that to me.