“ ‘I don’t remember,’ said the guy.
“ ‘Yes, you did,’ said Al. ‘You said, “Nice feather.” ’
“ ‘Maybe I did,’ said the guy. ‘So what?’
“ ‘Here’s what,’ said Al.
“That’s when I held my breath.
“ ‘Here’s my hat,’ said Al. ‘Take it. If you like it so much, it’s yours. And all your drinks are on me.’
“Al came back to our table and said, ‘Jay, no matter what you’ve done in your life, you’re going to heaven because of what you did for me today. I was about to whack that bum for nothing. You showed me why, next to a dog, a smart lawyer is man’s best friend.’ ”
That was Uncle Jay, the guy you want on your side.
Meanwhile, for those two days when he was trying to work out my mob problem my stomach was in knots. Finally the phone rang.
“Sorry,” said Uncle Jay, “it’s going to take a little more time.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Long Island is fighting Brooklyn. Long Island is claiming you.”
“How can Long Island be claiming me?”
“They said you were with them before you were with Brooklyn.”
“Uncle Jay, I wasn’t with anybody—ever. You gotta believe me.”
“Of course I believe you, Andrew. But they have their own way of thinking.”
“Get ’em to think different.”
“That’s difficult. It’s better to think the way they do. Long Island likes you. Long Island wants to protect you. Harry from Long Island will be coming to you.”
“Who’s Harry?”
“A man who likes you.”
Harry from Long Island came to see me. He was bigger than Wheels. Haven’t any of these guys heard of Weight Watchers?
Harry said, “You want to carry something?”
“No, I don’t want to carry anything. I’m not a killer, I’m a comic.”
“Because if you carry, Dice, and they cross your property line, you can unload on them.”
“Who’s crossing my property line? Isn’t it your job to keep them from crossing my property line?”
“We’ll do our best, but you never know.”
That “never know” line had me half-crazy.
I called Uncle Jay and said, “If Brooklyn gets past Long Island’s protection, what are they gonna do to me?”
“They may hurt you, but they won’t kill you.”
“Uncle Jay,” I said, “ ‘hurt me’ is no good.”
“I understand, but I have confidence in Long Island. Stay strong, Andrew.”
For the next four years I stayed strong. But every time I got a haircut I worried. In fact, I stopped going to barbershops, ’cause I remembered how much the boys with itchy fingers liked barbershops. I didn’t really stop worrying until Uncle Jay called me with the news I’d been waiting for.
“Brooklyn is no longer a problem,” he said.
“How can you be sure?”
“The man from Bay Ridge is gone.”
“What do you mean by ‘gone’?”
“Real gone. Permanently gone.”
So gone they never found the body.
And that was the end of me and the wiseguys.
SLIM SHADY
BY 1995 THE road had broken me down. I felt physically and emotionally destroyed. I had done over three hundred arena shows alone, performing in front of an average of ninety thousand people a week. It was exhilarating, and it was killing me. I ate all the wrong foods and started to balloon up. When I got to Vegas, I hit the tables hard, losing more than I won. And whenever the press had an opportunity to slam me, they fucking killed me. After Bless This House ended, another HBO comedy special came along called Assume the Position, which, frankly, blew. When that nightmare ended, all I wanted to do was celebrate. Then in 1997, I landed a role in a sitcom called Hitz about the record business. Hitz was a flop.
But the upside of my so-called sitcom career was that I got to spend more time at home with the family. And even during those dark days, we had plenty of good times.
• • •
One night I’ll never forget was the night that Eminem came over.
When his Slim Shady LP came out in 1999, he was the hottest thing in music. I loved his shit. He was a brilliant storyteller inventing all sorts of whacked-out characters and describing them in rhymes that set the world on fire. Max, who was turning ten, also loved him. Turned out that Eminem loved the Diceman, ’cause one day I got this call from his manager saying he wanted to meet me and give me a multiple-record deal on his label. Even more exciting, Em personally wanted to produce. He was flying in from Detroit to meet me. I suggested he first catch me at the Comedy Store and then come to the house afterward. Trini would throw some steaks on the grill. The manager said cool.
In the articles I read about Em, it was like they were replacing my name with his. They were calling him homophobic and misogynistic just like they called me. Every chance I got, I defended him—and this was even before I learned that he was a fan of mine—because I recognized that he was just creating characters. Rap’s a little like stand-up: because the creation is coming out of your own mouth, everyone presumes you’re that guy. Well, you are and you aren’t. You understand him, or you couldn’t create him. And part of you has to identify, or you couldn’t make him real. But another part of you has nothing to do with him. In the end, that character—whether Eminem or the Diceman—is something you’ve invented.
Em showed up at the Store with his bodyguards—each one the size of a barn door—and laughed his ass off at my act. Then he and I rolled back to my crib. My kids were huge Eminem fans, and Max was waiting for him at the door. Dillon had fallen asleep in the master bedroom, but I got Em to sit on the bed while I tried to wake him up.
“Open your eyes, honey,” I said, “and see who I brought home to meet you.”
Dillon wouldn’t stir. The kid could sleep through a tornado blowing through his room. After a few more not-so-gentle shakes, I gave up, bringing personal meaning to the expression “You snooze, you lose.”
A half hour later, at three A.M., Eminem and Max were outside playing hoops and I was videotaping the whole thing. Eminem took the game seriously, playing like he was getting paid. It was a good lesson for Max: no matter what you do, do it all the way. After the game, he gave Max a huge hug, and Max couldn’t stop grinning. The kid wore that smile for a week.
Up at Club 33, we made plans. Eminem was dead set on producing a series of albums with me. I also suggested that the two of us go into a big venue, like Giants Stadium, under the banner of Comedy, Rap, and Roll. He dug the idea. When the evening was over, we hugged. This is one great guy, a real artist and a true mensch.
Ultimately, though, our plans went awry. I thought it was because he went off and did the movie 8 Mile. But I learned later that the money men behind his record label didn’t like the idea of his producing Dice and killed the deal. I was disappointed, but it never killed my respect for Eminem and my gratitude for the respect that he showed me and my kids.
THE RETURN
OCTOBER 26, 2000
AFTER THE DEAL with Eminem fell apart, I felt empty. I needed to do something else, something special. What motivated me were my kids. Every time I looked at their faces I felt a rush of so many things—unconditional love and undying devotion, of course, but also this feeling of overwhelming responsibility and this absolute drive to accomplish something for them, just for them. Even though they were young, they knew I was different. Hey, when your father’s name is Dice and not Steve or Bill or Eddie, and he wears leather motorcycle jackets to work, you know he’s not just some guy.
At this point, I’d started appearing regularly on this FM radio show out of New York, an afternoon drive time, with these two wild guys, Opie and Anthony. They were outrageous and funny, and they were starting to make some noise. I’d call in from L.A. and we’d riff, but it was even better when I was in New York and I’d go into the s
tudio. Anthony started doing an impression of me, and I had to say, he was kind of brilliant. He’d get into my character and in my voice say, ‘Yeah, this weekend I’m gonna be at the Garden . . . the Olive Garden. Ohhh!’ Club Soda Kenny heard that and got pissed, but I thought it was funny. Opie and Anthony grew in popularity, and the three of us got tight, both on and off the air.
One night, Max, who was about ten, and I were watching ’N Sync doing a show from Madison Square Garden. My son knew I’d been the first comedian to sell out the Garden, and he just said, innocently, “Hey, Dad, why don’t you play the Garden again?”
The question tore into me. I took a few seconds before I answered. Then, in the best way I could, I tried to explain that I had a different career now and that I didn’t play places like the Garden anymore.
“But you could if you wanted to, right, Dad?”
I looked at my son and bit my lip. “Yeah, Max. Sure I could.”
After he went to bed, I started pacing through the family room like a caged animal. It got dark outside, but I didn’t want to turn the lights on. I stopped pacing, looked into the night, and stood in the shadows of the room. I paced again, and then I put the lights on dim and started looking at all the framed photographs spread around the family room—pictures of Trini and me; shots of my mom and dad and Natalie; photos of the biggest moments of my career, including me at the Garden. And then I sat down at the big redwood and oak bar and chain-smoked. I don’t know how long I sat there, but I finally forced myself to my feet and wandered into Club 33. I stared at the tiger carpeting, the puffed-out velvet walls in different vivid colors, the spa I’d put in that was equal to the ones in any health club in the city, the sound system as primo as in any recording studio, and I thought, What the hell good is all this? This stuff don’t matter. None of it. There were only two things that mattered.
I went back into the family room and picked up a picture of Max and Dillon, ten and six, and I looked at them, and I started to lose it. I shook my head to fight off tears and I spoke directly to their little faces in the photograph: “You want to see me at Madison Square Garden? Is that what you want? Okay. Then I’m gonna get it done.”
I went after it, but I went after it smart. I bided my time. I waited until my new album came out, Face Down Ass Up, which I recorded at the Roxy and would promote like a maniac on Opie and Anthony. I did new material about how the digital age was driving everyone bat-shit. I also had a lot of stuff about how because the guys are all getting to work at home, they’re missing the office, where they used to dream of getting the receptionist with the big fat tits up against the copying machine and banging her wet pussy while she was screaming, “More dick! More dick!” The record also included a killer collaboration with Snoop Dogg, who, along with a whole gang of other rappers, happened to be a Dice fan. We called the song “Club 33.”
Back in New York, the day the album broke, Dennis called me in my hotel room. “Sales are strong,” he said.
“That’s good, real good.”
“So, Diceman, what do you think the move is?”
“Book the Garden,” I said.
Silence.
“I’m serious, man,” I said.
“Diceman, the album is selling, but it’s been out exactly one day. I love your passion, you know that, but—”
“The Garden. It’s time to go back.”
He sighed through the phone. “How about we book the Beacon first? See how we do.”
“We’ll sell that out in twenty minutes.”
I was wrong.
It took thirty-five minutes.
But it was fast enough to convince Dennis to go after the Garden. He didn’t think we’d sell out, though. He was right. The Garden holds eighteen thousand. We sold ten thousand tickets. Not bad considering that the night of my Garden show the Mets were playing the Yankees in their first-ever subway World Series.
But ten thousand fans? Yeah. Not bad.
Well, ten thousand and two, counting Max and Dillon.
I swore I’d give them a night to remember.
• • •
Like always, I trained. I hired George Pipasik, Sly’s guy, who beat the shit out of me. We focused on my lower body, building up my legs—three sets of twenty reps each on three different machines. Fucking ridiculous. Fucking torture.
At night I ran, either into the Hollywood Hills or sprints around the track at Fairfax High. I wanted my mind to be clear and positive. As I ran I listened to tapes I’d made for Trini, songs she loved, music that reminded me of our happiest times. I’d picture her dancing to Janet Jackson, Trini’s face a full-on smile of joy and abandon and love. And then sometimes I would get sad in the middle of my workout, thinking of how difficult things had gotten between us now. I would break out of it by thinking of Max and Dillon. They were my heart. I could never—would never—fail them. I would push through the pain and the sadness and confusion and focus everything in my entire being on them. And on the Garden.
I kept pumping up my upcoming Garden party on Opie and Anthony. Their ratings soared. The hype built. I marked the occasion by having special jewelry custom-made. I created a big medallion to put around my neck with MTD spelled out in diamonds—for Max, Trini, and Dillon. The T was in the middle and stood over the M and D the way a mother should look over her kids. Then I made dog tags for Mom, Dad, Natalie, and the boys. They had the same MTD with little red sapphires underneath spelling out “Daddy Dice.”
By the middle of October, I was ready mentally and physically. I’d trimmed down and felt stronger than ever. I flew my dad up from Florida. My mom had to forgo the trip. Her health was starting to fail, and she couldn’t fly. I made sure that Trini, Max, and Dillon were backstage when Opie and Anthony introduced me and then arranged to have Happy Face and Club Soda escort the kids out once I got into the raunchy stuff in my act.
The night of my return to the Garden, I went into a little room backstage, closed the door, and, as I always did before every concert, prayed. First, I said a prayer for my mom’s health. Then I thanked God for everything I’d achieved and for allowing me to find the strength to never give up and to fight back. I’d been knocked down to my knees, and I thanked Him for giving me the power to stand back up. Finally, I thanked God for allowing me to appear once again front and center in the greatest arena of them all, in the greatest city on earth. And then I went backstage to find my family.
I saw my father first, that sweet, wonderful man, my rock, who always had my back, and then I swallowed the emotion rising up when I realized that next to him was an empty space where my mom would always be. I felt the space filled with my mom’s energy and power, even though she was thousands of miles away. Then I hugged Natalie, my loving sister, my most passionate fan, who had encouraged me every minute of every day from childhood. I hugged Trini, my wife, the mother of my children, the woman who gave me the two greatest gifts I could ever receive. And then I gathered up my sons, the only fuel I would ever need to keep me going, my reasons to live.
The crowd started chanting, “Dice, Dice, Dice!” but all I could see were those two precious faces, my sons, Max and Dillon, looking at me with pure love and adulation.
“Told you I’d get back here,” I said. “I’ll never let you down.” I squeezed my sons with every ounce of love I felt, and then I stepped away. I hiked up the collar of my leather jacket and, with the crowd growing into a fever, roaring, “Dice, Dice, Dice!” I started toward the stage. I stopped before I hit the spotlight, turned back, and pointed at both my sons.
“Boys,” I said, “this one’s for you.”
EPILOGUE
THERE TO HERE
TRINI AND I kept trying to work on our marriage. We spent time alone. We went into counseling. Nothing helped. The truth is we were trying to fix something that was beyond repair. But every time I faced calling it quits for good, I fell apart. Finally, painfully, we made the decision to split in 2002. We officially divorced in 2005.
I hoped that for th
e sake of the boys there would be a minimum of bloodletting. Sadly, working out the financial settlement took years and turned into a brutal war. The whole thing ripped a hole in my heart. At least Trini agreed to allow the kids to live with me full time. I was a mess through those years, but without my boys around me, I would’ve been worse.
• • •
And of course my life would have been much worse had I never met Rodney Dangerfield. He changed everything. I loved the guy. I remember being in Rodney’s hospital room right before he died and telling his wife, Joan, that this man gave me the shot of a lifetime. And it would never be forgotten, ever.
Rodney Dangerfield will go down as a giant and the godfather of stand-up comedy. I’ll always be grateful to him.
• • •
There’s someone else I’ll always be grateful to—a great lady named Eleanor Kerrigan.
I’ve known Eleanor since 1993, when she started working at the Comedy Store as a waitress. Eventually she worked her way up to become Mitzi Shore’s assistant. Everybody loves Eleanor. She calls herself a “hood rat from South Philly.” She’s one of ten kids brought up by a single mom. Eleanor is tough as nails but sweet as sugar. She’s also super-hip. There wasn’t a comic who passed through the Comedy Store who didn’t adore her, and she adored them right back. Once she said to me, “The thing about you comics is that you have beautiful spirits.”
Eleanor had great relationships with so many comics because she was smart enough not to sleep with any of them. She wanted to be their friend and not fuck up things by fucking them. I had to respect that, but I didn’t like it. I was attracted to Eleanor and wanted her in the worst way, but she kept putting me off. She knew I was getting divorced, but that wasn’t good enough for her. She’d have nothing to do with me romantically until I moved out of the house and filed papers.
That didn’t stop me from hitting on her. Yet the more persistent I was, the more resistant Eleanor became. She’d be my friend. She’d go out with me and my boys. She and the boys were crazy about each other. But as far as my goal of getting her into bed—no Dice.
Filthy Truth (9781476734750) Page 25
