Tracy Morgan

2001/2: I had just finished an eight-minute spot at Boston Comedy Club and was standing outside so that people could see me. I was enjoying a Newport Light, as was my tradition after anything good or bad, with the young lady I was dating at the time and a friend or two of hers. My old neighbor from across the street may have been there too.

The set was good. I tried out some new material about middle-aged women dancing at formal affairs - or about terrorists always wearing button-downs. Whatever it was, it was still a little wordy, but the room liked it. Two females who performed were also good, I remember. Both talked about dating and the defective men in NY and the Internet and how life would be easier for them as lesbians. One was cute and the other was less so: short, pasty, tired eyes, narrow face, big breasts. We each thought we were the best that night. I liked her whole deal.

I was on the phone outside after the show when Tracy Morgan and his white t-shirt and Yankees hat asked for a cigarette. My conjecture was (and is) that the two cute Asian gals and their tight jeans and their Marlboro Lights, just a few feet from me, didn't quite appeal to him as my menthols did. He needed a smoke and the shortest line from A to B was me.

I lit his cigarette, kind of annoyed that my call was interrupted, but his readiness for conversation was disarming. He asked what I was doing.

"I just did a set." 

"In there?"

"Yeah."

"You leaving now?"

"I think so." I looked past him at my company. They were smoking and on their phones and watching us.

"If you do comedy, you stay at the clubs."

"You going on?"

"Next show. Stick around. Yeah. "

I walked over to my girlfriend: "I think I'm going to stay here - with Tracy Morgan. I guess I'll call you tomorrow."

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His set was weird that night. He wasn't even telling jokes. He just said things, part observation, part suggestion, part sermon. Comedy, the entertainment business, his drink, racial consciousness, gender stuff, oppression: it was all part of the same shit fricassee he was cooking up. Some people didn't know what to make of it. Others laughed so they could tell their friends, last night, when I went to see my buddy from work, Tracy Morgan showed up and did his routine. His act. Whatever they say.

He was more than a little drunk, which most likely explains his on-stage non sequitur and his insistence that I hang out with him. 

After his set we stepped out for more smoking. I'm pretty sure we were drinking outside too. He was proud of his newest tattoo: a microphone on the inside of his right forearm, accompanied by One Mic in cursive. "That's all I need," he averred.  I nodded with superficial appreciation.

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The Jack and Gingers hit - really hit - when I was riding in Tracy's blue-green Jag. He played "I Like It," by DeBarge, and was impressed that I knew the words. He laughed his crazy laugh. "How you know this song? I'm gonna call you KC, from KC and the Sunshine Band, cuz everyone thought that n---- was a n----."  

This was the only time he smiled all night. 

"Ok." 

I don't know exactly where we stopped that night, but at the snappy lounge place with blue lighting and butcher block and lots of corrugated steel; the crowded Downtown dive bar with Cyril from Oz standing out front; another comedy club I think; and the hotel bar, Tracy and I were by far the most under-dressed and the least sober.  

The hotel bar is where Tracy sat us down with a friend of his who was with the short girl with the breasts from the club. I waved at her from across the table. She sipped her drink through the straw, confused. She didn't look happy.

He introduced me around as his friend, a comedian. This must have been how Tom Buchanan felt when Gatsby introduced him as "the polo player."

We were piss drunk, not saying much to one another, but he kept checking that I was still there. It was weird.

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The Jaguar sparkled along Seventh Avenue, windows down, sunroof open, R&B proud, to Penn Station.

"Thanks for the drinks." I don't know if he paid for them, but I know I didn't.

"Whatchu doing tomorrow? Any clubs?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure." No.

"Hit me up then."

"Cool. Thanks."

He drove off. 

I never got his number and he never got my name. We never asked.