The pictures of the certain dead pasted onto the signs made for an eerie audience. Most of the photos were of a smiling face frozen in time staring straight ahead at me. Alongside them was the audience of loved ones, hurt and exhausted, each with the same expression: wounded, angry, confused, and scared. Usually audiences are happy to see me; this time I felt that they needed me. I like to make eye contact with the audience as I arrive onstage. I check them out and assess what kind of crowd they are. It’s always interesting to gauge a reaction as they see me for the first time: sometimes smiling, sometimes giddy with anticipation, sometimes respectfully warm. There’s usually one or two joyless souls, but this mass of humanity had just lived through a nightmare.
They had to know in their hearts that there was no chance that their special person had survived and was wandering the streets or lying nameless in a hospital, unable to communicate.
In the weeks following the attacks, lethal amounts of anthrax powder had been mailed to various notables, including Senator Tom Daschle, whom I was to introduce following my opening monologue. It was hard not to cry as I received the crowd’s warm welcome. I tried to be funny—“I’ve never seen musicians run away from white powder before”—and I tried to be comforting and inspirational as I explained that this evening was for them and to show the world that we aren’t afraid: we’re New Yorkers, and we will move on. People were on their feet as I introduced Senator Daschle. I left the stage that night but really haven’t in some ways. The looks on those faces still make their way into my dreams, and every time I visit Ground Zero, I don’t look down into the cascading memorials; I look up, and for a brief moment, the towers stand again.
* * *
As Ground Zero continued to smolder and the rescue part of the mission ceased, the nation slowly moved on, and David Letterman proved to be an unlikely catalyst. David gave an impassioned speech when his show returned to the airwaves. I’d known him for a long time, our relationship at the time solely that between a guest and a host. There is no one I enjoy making laugh more than David. I think he is to many younger comedians what Johnny was to me. That off-the-cuff speech was very healing for millions. He wasn’t just cranky, funny Dave. He was Dave, our friend who had a heart and a soul we hadn’t realized existed. “There is only one requirement for any of us, and that is to be courageous, because courage, as you might know, defines all other human behavior,” he said. At that point, every little bit of help, no matter in what form, was desperately needed, and David delivered beautifully the feelings and thoughts we were all experiencing, and in fact made it okay to move forward.
Baseball returned as well, reminding us of the powerful speech James Earl Jones gave in Field of Dreams. Through two world wars there was always baseball, he told us, and in 2001, once again the New York Yankees rose to the occasion and went to the World Series, this time versus the Arizona Diamondbacks. Awkward. A few years earlier, Janice and I had become minority owners (I don’t mean Jewish) of the D-backs. I had always wanted to be involved with Major League Baseball, and owning a tiny share of the new Arizona franchise, only an hour by air from Los Angeles, seemed ideal. I had no idea that a few short years later the expansion team would be in the World Series, against my New York Yankees. But the heart is the heart, after all, so I was rooting for the Yankees. We went to the first two games in Phoenix. My dear friends Joe Torre and Commissioner Bud Selig got us great seats behind the Yankee dugout, from which we could see our business partners on the Arizona side. When a shot of me sitting in Yankee land appeared on the big video screen, the crowd booed me loudly. They were so hostile … but dry. Arizona destroyed the Yankees in the first two games, and Janice said to me, “Honey, we’re beating us.”
We flew to New York and passed over lower Manhattan with a blackened hellhole where the towers had been. Game 3 presented a chaotic, scary scene. President Bush would be throwing out the first pitch, yet no one really wanted him there. It wasn’t personal; we were already terrified, and the additional security just made everything seem scarier. Streets were sealed off, metal detectors were everywhere, and armed police officers guarded the perimeter with German shepherds, the canine symbol of fear. Standing outside the stadium, we watched the president’s helicopter entourage approach. There were five or six. One was a hospital chopper, which was so encouraging (what were they expecting?), and the others acted out a sort of three-card monte: they circled one another over and over, trying to confuse a would-be assassin. Which one had the president in it? This one? That one? Guess again?
Finally we were in the ballpark, the atmosphere alive but different. The Yankees were down two games to none and struggling, but they were back home. On everybody’s minds was one terrible question: Would there be some kind of attack tonight? We’d never thought like that before, but this was our world now. Janice and I were guests of the Steinbrenners’ that night, sitting in a row with Donald Trump, Regis Philbin, and Henry Kissinger, not exactly bleacher creatures. From our vantage point, we could see gunmen with high-powered rifles on the roof of the stadium inching into position as Bob Sheppard, the voice of the Yankees, introduced President Bush. The president walked out there like John Wayne, stood on the mound, and held up the baseball in defiance of the terrorists, as chants of “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” echoed throughout the Bronx and the rest of the free world. When he threw a perfect strike, it was an electric moment.
Minutes later, the president walked into Steinbrenner’s suite, where I was now at the bar, ordering something that might calm me down. “Billy C!” he hollered, sounding as if he were in a musical. “How about my fastball?” I’m thinking, How about finding bin Laden? He boasted that he’d thrown the strike while wearing a bulletproof vest—we were chatting like two fraternity brothers and not the president of the United States, who was about to lead the country into war, and a citizen who thought that was a bad idea. He settled in a few rows behind me and my new pals Donnie, Reeg, and Hank.
In the fourth inning, a video of me appeared on the stadium’s big screen. It felt kind of out-of-body to be sitting there watching my image as I talked about what great fans New Yorkers were and I looked down to where my dad and my brothers and I had sat so many years ago, at our first game. This misty reverie was interrupted by “Billy C’s on the big scoreboard!” It was W again. At that moment, he seemed more like the president of the Dukes of Hazzard.
He then rose and told us he had to get to a “meetin’” and that there was a lot of work to do. I asked Kissinger if Nixon had had any “meetin’s” and he said, “No, only martinis, and then he’d call me something anti-Semitic.” Moments after the president left, a crew of men with large electric drills came down the aisles and removed the front wall of the box we were sitting in. It was a sheet of three-quarter-inch bulletproof steel that none of us had realized was there. The men carried it out, following the president and his staff. Trump shook his head, Kissinger kind of smiled, but Regis stood up and screamed, “Where the hell are you going with that? What about us?”
The Yankees won, and the crucial Game 4 was the next day, which was also Halloween. As Janice and I were on our way to the stadium, my brother Joel called and told me that our mom had had a stroke and was in Long Beach Medical Center’s emergency room. We turned around and drove out there immediately. The sight of kids wearing their Halloween masks, strolling the neighborhoods, seemed ironic now, as the mask I wore was one of fear and concern.
We spent much of the night there as she labored to make sense of what had happened to her. The next morning, I was told not to spend too much time with her as it was too draining and she needed to rest.
The Yankees had won the game that night in a miracle finish, and now the series was tied. For the only time I can remember, the country was pulling for the Yankees to win. I am not a very religious man, though I love my religion. I am not one who prays in a synagogue when things get overwhelming. After the daytime visit with my mother at the hospital, I found myself needing a place to go, and the only one
I could think of was Yankee Stadium. I went to the ballpark late that afternoon and just sat there, alone in the empty stadium. Dad, I thought, if you’re anywhere near me, I really need you now. Help her get through this. Give me the strength I need to help her. That night the Yankees won another miracle game, and as we filed out, George Steinbrenner confronted me. “What’s wrong? I can tell something’s not right,” he said.
I told him about my mom and he said, “Wait here.” A few moments later he returned with an autographed ball from the team saying, “Tell her we need her support.” When I saw Joe Torre after the game, he also signed a ball to her: “Helen, you are our inspiration. We can’t win this without you.” The next day I put the balls in her weakened hand, and she couldn’t believe it. They were great medicine.
It was so hard to watch her struggle to make sense of things; sometimes she was there and sometimes she wasn’t. The worst of those episodes was a Sunday afternoon. The postponed Emmys would air that day, and it was also Game 7 of the World Series. Plus, 61* was up for ten Emmys. We had already won two technical awards—one for Mali Finn for best casting, the other for sound mixing—but these were the big ones, best picture, actor for Barry Pepper, and director among them. I spent the morning with my mom, and she didn’t know me as her son. “Billy Crystal, what are you doing here?” she asked me. Heartbroken and dispirited, I went back to my apartment, unable to concentrate on the game or the Emmys; nothing really mattered anymore. During the red carpet coverage, one announcer noted my absence and quipped, “Billy’s not here, and we know where he must be: at Game 7 in Phoenix.” No, putz, I was in my apartment mourning the loss of my mother’s memory and feeling terrified of the days to come. This is the definition of a bad day: we lost all ten nominations, the Yankees lost the World Series, and my mother didn’t know me as her son.
She did rally, however, and begin to improve. My brother Rip flew in from Los Angeles to cover for me when I left her for a few days to perform in Seattle at a charity function for children of firemen lost on 9/11. It was sold out, and I couldn’t have canceled if I’d wanted to. With the exceptions of the Oscars and Comic Relief, I had not been onstage as a comedian in over sixteen years, and beforehand, I’d been unsure what to do. I didn’t have an act anymore. My manager, David Steinberg, had suggested having the comedian David Steinberg interview me. It would be like Inside the Actors Studio, which I had just done and really enjoyed. David and I met, and we laid out a plan. We’d talk about my life, my career; we’d show some funny clips from my films and the Oscars and maybe take some questions. It would be entertaining and loose, and I wouldn’t have to go out there alone. I hoped we could do an hour or so. Onstage, we settled into our armchairs, and for three thousand people we did well over two hours and never got to the Q & A. I had fun, and the experience got me out of my doldrums and reaffirmed my abilities onstage.
Before returning to Mom’s bedside, I flew to Los Angeles for two days, and while there, I bumped into Des McAnuff. He’d directed Tommy on Broadway years before, and I’d been so impressed with the show that I’d asked to meet him, at which point we’d talked about me doing a one-man show someday. He brought that up to me in L.A., and I told him what I had just done in Seattle and he said to bring David and do it at his theater, the La Jolla Playhouse.
I was relieved that Mom was doing better and energized by the Seattle performance and Des’s offer that afternoon, but then Janice and Rip called me from the hospital to say that Mom seemed more tired than usual and that he was flying back to Los Angeles that afternoon. I called her room, but there was no answer. I figured that either they were taking her for a walk down the hallway or she was in physical therapy. Joel then called to say that Mom had just been hit with another stroke and it looked bad. They were working to save her life as we spoke. I kept picturing the phone ringing and ringing with my call as she struggled. Less than an hour went by before Janice called to tell me she was gone.
Rip’s plane had just landed when I reached him. I chartered a plane, and together the two of us flew back that night to help make the arrangements for her funeral. Rip and I had shared a room throughout our childhood, and now, just like we had done for all those years, we slept alongside each other, this time on our way to bury our mother.
At the funeral, her grandchildren spoke, and Berns read an except from a letter my father had written to him during World War II about how much he loved Helen. Joel spoke, and then I told the packed audience how she was my hero. How after my dad died, my mother had kept us together. She’d made sure that all three of us graduated from college, which had been a dream of both my parents’. We never wanted for anything, except for my father to be with us. She was tough and funny and strong. In a way, my mom was a lot like Muhammad Ali, whom she and I had both admired so much. When she got knocked down, she got right up and continued to fight. I told them about her speech to the draft board and how I’ll never forget the tears in her eyes as she read the letter from the draft board with Joel’s permanent deferment. Recently I had asked her what would have happened if she had lost. With a twinkle in her eye, she’d said, “I guess you’d be a Toronto Blue Jays fan.” Through the dark times, she held up the light so we could see where we were going. She was my champion.
Rip went last. He has a beautiful voice, and Mom had always loved it when he sang. Together with Marc Shaiman on piano, he sang a tune called “You’re Nearer,” with Joel and me alongside him, just the way we used to perform for her and the family in our living room. We put her to rest next to my father’s grave, the two of them together again.
You spend your whole life with someone, and suddenly they’re gone. The abruptness of that was very hard to deal with. They say in Judaism that the soul takes thirty days to get to heaven. I believed it. I could feel her around me. Sometimes I’d be sitting alone and I would say out loud, “You’re here, aren’t you?”
I would be driving in my car and I’d swear she was next to me, wanting to tell me to slow down. A few weeks after the funeral, Rip and I went to play golf. Mom had always encouraged him to play, but he’d say it wasn’t for him. One day, he came just to keep me company, and as we walked a fairway together on a cloudless day in Palm Springs, a small rainbow appeared. There was nothing in the blue sky except this rainbow. We both saw it and looked at each other, and when we looked back, it was gone. I didn’t feel her presence anymore after that.
One week after my mother died, my godmother, Laurel Shedler, passed away. She was a very funny woman whom I’d been extremely close to. After all, my folks had picked Laurel to take care of me if anything had ever happened to them. She had called me after my mom’s funeral and I’d told her, “It’s your turn now.” Without missing a beat, she’d asked, “What do you like for breakfast?” Two days later, she died.
The final hurt came on December 21, when, after months of being in a coma, Dick Schaap died. Okay, I got it, God: I must have done something to piss you off. My mom, my uncle, my godmother, 9/11, and now one of my best friends?
For a while there were no smiles, no laughs, no jokes. It seemed all I did was give eulogies or lead memorial services for someone I loved. I was reeling from the pain, weighed down in grief.
That February, my niece Faithe had a baby. We happened to be in New York, and everyone gathered at the hospital. The day of Mom’s passing, Faithe had visited her in the hospital while seven months pregnant. Mom’s left arm had been weakened by the stroke, but when Faithe had walked in she’d freely extended it and touched Faithe’s belly. “It’s a girl, you know,” Mom said. “What makes you so sure?” Faithe asked. Mom then simply said, “God told me last night.” A few hours later, Mom would be with God.
Baby girl Holly (named after my mom, Helen) arrived safe and sound. On our way home from the hospital to celebrate at a local Long Beach restaurant, we slowed down as we drove by our beloved house, now sitting sadly empty and alone. At the moment we were all looking at it, the light in the living room went on. It was the timer, of co
urse. Yet it could have gone off at any other moment, even seconds before or after, but no, it was when we all looked at the same time. It was as if Mom was saying she would always be watching out for us.
A year later, my first grandchild, Ella, was born. She couldn’t have come at a better time. The joy of watching Jenny pregnant and then, with her husband, Mike, start their family helped lift me from the abyss I had an apartment in.
I did two movies, America’s Sweethearts with Julia Roberts, and the sequel to Analyze This, but my heart was leading me down another path. David Steinberg and I did two performances for Des at the La Jolla Playhouse. We did another charity event in Atlanta, and I was loving being onstage again. I needed it. After that, Des and I had a meeting. He liked what we were doing, he said, then hesitated and added, “I think you should go deeper, and I think you should do it alone.” I’d hoped he would say that. I pulled out the four pages of notes I had written in 1998, for something called 700 Sundays. I had been making more notes on the idea and feeling more confident every time David and I did the show together. I found I was talking to him less and performing more, and I thought I could create a play that would take my life, with its joyous moments and its sad ones, and celebrate them all. At times, the play would be a humorous and poignant look at my grief. Des read intently as I sat across from him, and when he was finished, he raised his head and said, “This is the show. Let’s do this.” I immediately asked him to direct it. We set aside six weeks to put the show together, heading toward a two-week run and workshop at the famed La Jolla Playhouse.
I asked my friend Alan Zweibel, an exceptional comedy writer, to work with us. We’d started in the clubs together, and there was no one I felt closer to for this project. We rented a small rehearsal space at Pepperdine University, and along with Lurie Horns Pfeffer, our stage manager, we got to work. I brought some jazz recordings and classical pieces to inspire improvisation, and I just started talking, telling Des and Alan the stories of my life—everything from my birth and circumcision (“They cut off the top six to eight inches”) to vivid descriptions of what happened the night my father died. We realized as we worked that my story was everyone’s story and that this would become part of the show’s strength. I just needed to trust that.
Still Foolin’ ’Em Page 20
