by Howie Mandel
Because she had an elaborate stage setup with a full orchestra and backup singers, I worked in front of the curtain on a three-foot lip of stage. They had a stand-up microphone, which I couldn’t move. It literally felt as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff.
I was really nervous the first night. I felt so far out of my league. I kept thinking that I didn’t deserve to be there, and I probably didn’t. Whose idea was this, anyway? Right, the fire-breathing lead singer of Kiss.
The lights went down. The audience roared in anticipation. And then an ominous, baritone voice came over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, Caesars Palace is proud to present an evening with Diana Ross!” The crowd exploded. If you listened really closely—and there’s no reason why anyone but me would—you could also hear, “… andspecial-guesthowiemandel.”
The crowd was under the impression that they were going to be presented with Diana Ross, but instead this little Jew wandered out from stage left. I stood there frozen in place. People were looking at me like, “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” It was as if I came out of the restroom and took a wrong turn. This wasn’t a welcoming crowd.
I bade everyone good evening, and then I went into my act. I told the first joke, which I had done on Merv Griffin … silence. I tried a few more … silence. I remember one particular bit when I said, “Now I will do my impression of groceries.” I took out a shopping bag and proceeded to stand in it … silence for an inordinate amount of time. Get it? Neither did they.
This brings back a particular childhood memory. Every Sunday throughout my childhood, I went to visit my grandparents on my mother’s side for dinner. They were my zaidi and my bubbie. Zaidi was a dry cleaner and tailor and a perfectionist. I can’t tell you how many times I showed up wearing a pair of pants he felt needed an upgrade. He’d scream at me to take them off. “They must be fixed now!” I would have to stand there in front of everyone at the dinner table and remove my pants. There I sat, eating my chicken in silence, wearing my tighty-whities while he repaired the flaw. It was always a painfully awkward and uncomfortable silence—not unlike the silence from the Caesars audience.
Their silence began to turn to anger. The feeling was “Enough of this. We paid to see Diana Ross. Why the hell is this guy wasting our time?”
The audience was right there at my feet. In fact, one lady in the first row took her fist, banged on my toe, and said, “Get the fuck off the stage.”
I didn’t answer her. This obviously wasn’t my audience. I just ignored it and let my toes go numb. I started to feel at home. When I say “at home,” I mean at my performance opening up for Earth, Wind & Fire, or at least as if I was eating chicken in my underpants.
I continued going through whatever I had planned—all of which was met by silence. No matter what I said, there was no response. I began to sweat through my sports coat. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and a half, came the best sound I have ever heard in my life—a stomp, stomp from behind the curtain. I thought, This is my savior. I took out the glove, put it on my head, and inflated it. There was not a sound from the audience. As much as it felt bad to say something and not get a response, the commitment of taking out a latex glove, pulling it over your head, and inflating it to silence was torture.
Inside the glove, I was trying to be the consummate optimist. I thought, This is probably double-thick latex, and maybe they’re roaring. For the dramatic closing, I let the glove pop off my head. My hands were outstretched. The glove fluttered and landed at my feet … silence.
Then I said: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy Miss Diana Ross!” The crowd went nuts. I turned around and looked for the opening in the curtain, but I couldn’t find it. I began feeling desperately along the curtain to find the crack so I could make my escape. But somebody on the other side was holding it closed.
The crowd was still going nuts anticipating Diana Ross, but the room grew quieter and quieter as I was pleading with someone to let me through the curtain. From the other side, I heard a man’s voice saying, “No, no.” I’m thinking, What do you mean, no? I’m literally three feet from the audience. The lady who was hitting my foot could hear him.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“You have nine more minutes,” he said.
I have nine more minutes! “What are you talking about?”
“You have nine more minutes,” he repeated.
I turned around and faced the audience. The room was dead silent. I didn’t have nine more minutes. I didn’t have the first twenty-one minutes. My ending, the rubber glove, which was usually a big hit, had bombed. I stood up there and treaded for my life for the next nine minutes. I could hear myself swallow. I could hear myself breathe. I could hear my heart banging against my chest. I think I actually heard myself sweating. But there were no other sounds. And then finally I said, “Good night.” I swear I heard the audience in unison say, “It’s about fucking time.” The curtain parted, and I escaped.
What I ended up finding out later was that the band was setting up and I had heard somebody walking by. I’d thought it was the signal. That’s how quiet the audience was: I could hear regular footsteps behind me.
A week of hatred passed. I did two shows a night for seven nights. In my book, that’s hatred times fourteen. My wife made friends with all the people in the band. She would go on day trips with them to Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. I felt so humiliated, I didn’t want to show my face in public. I stayed in my room. I was crazily depressed. The only comfort I could find was in washing my hands and taking countless hot showers.
One particular night, I was told they were renting out the theater to Sony Japan. The entire room was full of Japanese people. They knew Diana Ross and the Supremes. But before they could hear her, I had to go out and do my act in front of Japanese people who didn’t speak English. I’ll tell you something, it wasn’t any worse.
Midway through the first week, I received a note from Diana Ross that read, “I wish I could come out and see you.” I was thinking, I wish she wouldn’t. At the end of the week, her people sent word that she wanted to see me in her dressing room before the show. Ah, I’ve seen this trick before. They aren’t going to be there, and they are just going to lock me in. Or if she is there, I’m fired. Thank God it’s over.
I walked to her dressing room and knocked on the door. I heard her voice say, “Come on in.” She was sitting on the couch in her pre-show outfit. She truly looked like, and was, a superstar. This was my first personal encounter with an entertainment icon. Considering the week I had endured, all I really wanted her to say was “Stop, in the name of love!”
But these were not her words. To this day, I have no idea where she was or what she saw during my shows. But she told me that I was doing very well, she really liked my work, and she had decided to hold me over for another two weeks. Twenty-eight more shows. Twenty-eight more public humiliations. Twenty-eight more half hours of silence.
By the time it was over, I had done a total of three weeks in Las Vegas. The response never got better. It was horrible. Occasionally, I would hear laughter coming from the horn section of the band behind the curtain, but that was it. The audience projected pure hatred. When it was over, I wanted to burn my red pants and sparkly tie.
I had never experienced anything like this before. From the first moment I walked onstage at Yuk Yuk’s, I had been accepted by the audience and by Mark Breslin. I had been accepted by the Comedy Store and by George Foster, who booked me on Make Me Laugh. Even the Earth, Wind & Fire audience enjoyed what they were able to hear. My every appearance, including Merv Griffin, was met with laughter and positive acceptance. Now it felt as if each and every night I was publicly kicked in the nuts and discarded as a useless waste of time.
This was my professional low point. This experience was so painful that I could not see how it would lead to anything positive. I felt so disappointed and depressed that I was sure I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home. I wanted t
o sell lights with my father. Terry, on the other hand, thought that would be an incredible waste. She believed comedy was my destiny. She encouraged me to go on, though I had no idea what “on” meant.
Obviously, the red pants and sparkly tie weren’t working for me. I decided I needed a new uniform. I went out and bought white scrubs—a foreshadowing of things to come. Onstage, the combination of this uniform and my maniacal, kinetic energy gave the audience the impression they were watching a mental patient. Little did they know, they were.
After one Thursday night spot, I was approached by Brenda Carlin, wife of the legendary comic George Carlin. Brenda was a casting director for HBO’s Young Comedians. I had no idea what HBO was, but I was thrilled to accept the job. The show was taped at the famed Roxy Theatre on the Sunset Strip, hosted by the legendary Smothers Brothers. The special was to present four young, up-and-coming comics. On the bill with me were Richard Lewis, Harry Anderson, and Jerry Seinfeld. You can still see that performance today on YouTube, white scrubs and all. And no, I’m not on cocaine.
This appearance seemed to go fabulously well. It erased the mental stench left by Vegas. I called my agent to ask him what was next. He explained the natural progression for comics at this time was a sitcom. Billy Crystal was on Soap. Robin Williams starred in Mork & Mindy. Freddie Prinze had Chico and the Man. Jimmie Walker was on Good Times, and Gabe Kaplan was Kotter. So why not Howie Mandel?
A meeting was set up for me at MTM, which stands for Mary Tyler Moore. After starring in one of the most successful sitcoms ever, Moore and her husband, the highly regarded television programmer Grant Tinker, had formed a company to produce shows. MTM had immediate success with several sitcoms, notably The Bob Newhart Show, Rhoda, and WKRP in Cincinnati. They also were responsible for the drama Hill Street Blues.
I met with Molly Lopata, who did casting for MTM. She asked me if I could act. I told her I thought I could. She asked me to read some pages. I was to read the part of Fiscus. Most of it was highly technical medical terminology and wasn’t making a lot of sense to me. Here’s an example of what it might have looked like:
NURSE
What do we need, Fiscus?
FISCUS
D-5 Lactated Ringer’s, O-negative blood, an intubation tray with two number 16 central intravenous catheters, an open thoracotomy tray, and a MAST suit stat.
Before I could finish, Molly told me I was very good and then brought me into the offices of Bruce Paltrow—who is now best known as Gwyneth’s dad but at that time was the headliner in the family. Mark Tinker, who worked with Bruce at MTM, was also there, as were John Falsey and Joshua Brand, whom I learned created the show I was reading for.
I read for them. Halfway through this medical jargon, Bruce stopped me and told me I was very good. He thanked me for coming. There was an awkward silence. I stood up and left.
I went home and told Terry it didn’t go very well, but in my own defense, the material didn’t seem that funny. Before I could finish that sentence, I got a call from my agent, who told me to go to NBC in Burbank, where they wanted me to read the exact same pages for Brandon Tartikoff, the president of NBC, who was generally regarded as the emperor of television.
I drove to his office, where Bruce and all the producers were now gathered. After I read, Brandon asked me to wait outside. Minutes later, they all walked out of the office. Thomas Carter, the director, told me he would see me on Monday.
I went home thinking I would have to read this nonsensical medical terminology one more time on Monday. When I arrived home, I was greeted with a congratulatory phone call from my agent, who told me I got the job. I asked, “What is the job?”
He told me it was St. Elsewhere. It turns out that St. Elsewhere wasn’t a sitcom. The show was a one-hour ensemble medical drama, which ended up airing for six years on NBC to great critical acclaim. I worked alongside the likes of William Daniels, who had played Dustin Hoffman’s father in The Graduate, Norman Lloyd, who was the star of Alfred Hitchcock’s Spellbound, and a young actor named Denzel Washington. Our guest stars included Helen Hunt, Tim Rob-bins, and Kathy Bates.
Again, my life took a turn I had not expected. Four years earlier, I would have never guessed I would be doing stand-up comedy. Four days earlier, I would have never guessed I would be cast as a serious actor on a medical drama. Though my parents never said it, I was always concerned that they thought I was something of a loser. Now I could tell them that their son was becoming a doctor.
Speaking of medical dramas, I have to stop and tell you about the real-life medical drama that I am dealing with right now, which is making it very hard for me to concentrate on this book.
I don’t know if this is an actual chapter or if it will survive the scissors of my editor, Philip Rappaport. And if it does, it’s not for you, the reader. This chapter is for me. As cathartic as writing this book is, I’m right now in the midst of suffering a personal trauma. I have missed therapy for a while, so I would like to consider you, the reader, as my group. Let me just take you back a few months to give you some context.
It was January 2009, and I was in Toronto shooting Howie Do It, my hidden camera show that airs on NBC. I had a health scare. You may have read about it somewhere. There was a little thing going on with my heart. Until then, a health scare for me was accidentally touching the handrail on an escalator.
It started one day when I didn’t even feel ill. That’s unusual for me because I’m a hypochondriac, I’m obsessive compulsive, and I’m always focused on something going wrong.
I was going through my production routine, meeting with the other producers and planning the pranks. Because I am the host of the show, I needed to have a physical for insurance purposes. Typically, this consists of a doctor coming to the office, asking a couple of questions, listening to your heart, and saying goodbye. On this particular day, the doctor showed up, asked me the questions, and, instead of saying goodbye, with the stethoscope still on my chest, said, “Uh-oh.”
I’m not a doctor, but as you just read, I played one on TV. So I’m aware that when there is a stethoscope on your chest, “uh-oh” is not good.
“Why did you say ‘Uh-oh’?” I asked.
“Are you aware of anything going on with your heart?” he asked.
“I know I’m inhaling and I’m exhaling, so I would imagine there is a lot going on with my heart,” I said.
He sat back and folded his arms. “I’m being serious.”
“I can’t be serious, or I am going to scream and cry like a little girl. What do you hear?”
“I don’t like the way your heartbeat sounds,” he said. “I am going to recommend that you go to a cardiologist immediately.”
Within fifteen minutes, I was in a cardiologist’s office. He walked into the room, had me open my shirt, put his stethoscope to my chest, and lo and behold, he said, “Uh-oh.” Two uh-oh’s in one day was a little too much for me.
Apparently, my heart’s rhythm was off. I was told the condition I had was atrial fibrillation, which is incredibly common. As much as he was telling me that to put me at ease, two uh-oh’s in one day was mentally paralyzing.
“There are many things that can be done, but let’s start with the least invasive,” he said.
“I don’t like the word invasive, but I’ll play. What is the least invasive?”
“I’m going to cardiovert you.”
I thought to myself, Fantastic. He’s going to cardiovert me rather than doing something invasive. I asked him what this procedure entailed. Number one, he was going to give me drugs and anesthetize me. Why would I need drugs and anesthesia for a noninvasive procedure? They were then going to take a scope and jam it down my throat into my heart to make sure I didn’t have existing clots that could cause a stroke during the actual cardioversion. If it’s clear, they will make sure I am completely out cold, take a defibrillator—those two electric paddles you see in movies—press them against my chest, scream, “Clear!” and electrocute my heart back into
normal rhythm. If this was considered noninvasive, I didn’t even want to ask what the invasive procedure was.
The cardiologist explained to me that this was an easy procedure. I explained to him, “No, flossing is an easy procedure, and you don’t have to yell, ‘Clear!’”
I left the—I don’t even know where it was I left, I’m drawing a blank—but I left wherever I was in a haze, numb with fear. I thought that the best thing to do was to call Terry and other family members, not to tell them that I was having this procedure, but to say how much I loved them. They had no idea that I was actually calling to say goodbye. I made small talk to check that nobody was angry at anything. I told them all that I would talk to them tomorrow, but I didn’t believe I would hear their voices ever again.
The next day was a gloomy and overcast Wednesday in Toronto. I checked myself into the hospital. I lay down on the gurney, and they put an IV drip in my arm.
The next thing I remember was waking up and the doctor saying: “It’s done. You’re back in rhythm.” He told me to come back Monday for a follow-up.
I got up off the gurney to put on my clothes. I discovered that they had shaved random patches of my chest. I also saw what I believed to be burn marks from the defibrillator. They may have been only red marks, but ever since the sand flies were burned out of me, in my mind when I see a red mark, I’ve been horribly burned.
I thought I was fine, so I got on a plane Thursday and flew to New York. On Friday, I went on Live with Regis and Kelly and the Today show to promote Howie Do It. I flew back to Toronto on Saturday, and then Monday I returned to the cardiologist for the follow-up.
