Her dad began to say, “We never suggested—”
“Save it, Dad,” Dee said, then rubbed my arm.
Her parents eventually came to their senses, and after just a few solid months of dating, during the beginning of June 1992, I concocted my proposal plan: I’d pick the most awesome day of the summer—the Fourth of July—and make plans with Dee and all of our friends to go to Jones Beach in Long Island. After the sun went down, and as fireworks were exploding in the sky, I’d turn to Dee and ask her to marry me.
“I hate it when guys are lazy,” Dee said a couple of weeks later while we were eating lunch with my sister Dorene, “and propose on a date they can’t forget, like your birthday, or Valentine’s Day, or the Fourth of July.”
“Ugh,” Dorene agreed. “That’s so cheesy.”
That sank my proposal idea. I still wanted it to happen soon, though. So, my brilliant solution was to move the date by one day: I’d ask Dee on July fifth at the beach. It was perfect, because nobody ever proposed the day
after
a major holiday. Dee wouldn’t suspect a thing. In fact, it was one of the more depressing days on the calendar. For most people, it meant the holiday was over and it was time to go back to work. It was the kind of contrarian thing that Dee wouldn’t expect, but would love.
When we got to the beach, Dee got out of the car, then I opened my door, stuck my hand in my pocket for the ring, grabbed it, and promptly dropped it into a pile of old leaves, shiny pebbles, and broken glass next to the car. It was gone. Poof. Panic instantly introduced itself to me. I believe I even started to hyperventilate. I jumped out and started rummaging through the leaves and underneath the car. I couldn’t find it! The more I tried to look for it and the deeper into the leaves I dug, the further into Gonesville that ring went.
Dee was walking away and then she stopped and looked back in my direction. “What’s going on? ” she asked. “Are you on the
ground
?”
“I dropped some change when I got out.”
“It’s change—forget about it,” she said, shrugging. “Let’s get to the beach and we’ll look for it when we come back.”
“Nice going, Breuer,” I thought instantly. “What are you going to do now?”
“They’re some rare coins my dad gave to me,” I improvised. “He had them during the war. It’s a good luck charm.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding concerned now. “In that case, I’ll help you look for them!” She began walking back toward the car.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I found them!” I ran to catch up with Dee and send her back in the other direction. I still had major anxiety-induced swamp ass going on. I had to get that ring. In a last-ditch attempt, I slapped at all my pockets and said, “Oh, my God, I left my wallet in the car.”
“You don’t need—”
I cut her off and started running back to the car to take one last look for the ring. I opened the driver’s-side door and pretended to dig around for the wallet, while also looking on the ground for the ring. As I kicked the leaves around, I finally decided it was no use. I was giving up.
“What’s going on?” Dee shouted impatiently.
I figured that this could only happen to me. How does an engagement ring evaporate? Defeated, I closed the car door slowly, looked down, and there was the ring. Sitting perfectly atop a pile of leaves, lying right there at my feet. I snatched it up. I was so relieved, but my legs were so rubbery, I had a hard time wobbling back to Dee.
As Dee and I strolled on the beach, my heart was pounding. I had planned to look on the sand and say, “Hey, look what I found!” and when she came to check it out, I’d be down on one knee, then I’d produce the ring and pop the question. But after nearly losing the ring once already I was riddled with anxiety.
“I’d like to live on the beach someday,” Dee said.
“Me, too,” I agreed, shuffling through all the rubbish in my pants pocket—when I picked up the ring, I grabbed some pebbles and leaves, too—to make sure I had the ring in hand for when I was brave enough to make my move.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’m fine.”
Then Dee began to pick up pebbles and shells. We had the entire beach to ourselves. She looked beautiful with her smiling eyes, picking up her little treasures, showing me what she’d found.
To this day, I still can’t believe what happened next. Dee bent down to scoop up more of the shiny pebbles. They glistened sharply underneath the sun.
“Wouldn’t it be great to find a diamond ring out here?” she asked. I couldn’t believe what she just said. Had she seen the ring?
“What did you say?” I asked her.
“I said, imagine if we found a diamond ring out here. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
I reached out, grabbed her hand softly, and pulled her close. I took the ring from my pocket. “Yes, that would be amazing,” I said. “But I already found one just for you.” I slipped it on her finger and asked her to marry me.
After the engagement, Eddie was the first person I called. He was excited and couldn’t wait to meet Dee. He’d recently seen me do a show in Connecticut and he couldn’t believe how much I had improved since that depressing night he saw me at Dangerfield’s. He was still trying to figure out a way to apply his business expertise to my comedy career—by teaming up to create a funny magazine or something—but I knew I still didn’t have him convinced 100 percent of my talent.
A little while later, I flew to Florida to tell my parents about the engagement in person. My dad, for the first time that I can remember, jumped up off of the couch, shook my hand, and showed real pride in me. “Congratulations, son,” he said. “I’m very happy for you. You’re a man now.” It was a simple gesture, but I’d never seen him do that before.
By the way, readers, know this: Engagements are moments that last literally that long . . . moments. Then everyone else gets involved. Pop the question, and before too long, a full-blown tsunami of distractions from concerned parties will come flying your way: “What’s the actual date?” “You need a date!” “Where’s the engagement party?” “Flowers!” “Dresses!” “Bridesmaids!” “Groomsmen!” “Who’s the best man?” “Don’t invite so-and-so!” “Who’s paying for it?” “Don’t think I’m paying for it!” “How are you going to pay for it if you don’t have a real career?” “So, how are you going to survive?” “Where are you going to live?” “Are you thinking of having children?” “Got any names picked out?” Ad infinitum. My advice to anyone getting engaged: Don’t tell anyone for a month.
By this point, the Rat had started drifting back into my life. While he’d claimed he was too busy to manage me, he had been booking shows for me. But I’d been booking a lot myself, too. I was working a lot of gigs all over New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, sharing the stage with great comedians like Adam Ferrara, Kevin James, Bobby Collins, Bob Nelson, and Ray Romano.
The Rat informed me that he was done booking shows for me unless I signed a deal with him. He said that he had cleared his schedule up and now had time to manage me. To continue getting shows from him, I had to sign a contract. A commitment of three years, and if he landed me a TV deal, I’d be stuck with him for another three years.
As far as I was concerned, his ship had sailed. He could send me a postcard. I met with the Rat at his office and told him I was getting married.
“Ugh,” he said. “It’s going to ruin your entire career. Get rid of her!”
I knew that he had a calculator going in his head, and he was figuring that maybe I wouldn’t be willing to go the extra mile if I were married. And that could cost him money. My gut told me, as it had before, that I should just move on and not get tangled up with him again. But he held that carrot of TV out in front of me, and I couldn’t resist grabbing for it. I’ve noticed that many times, just when you feel great about your soul and your life, that’s when evil wants to get in and ruin it at all costs. Sometimes, in fact, we invite it.
I hadn’t left his office for more than a few hours when I got a phone call from him.
“I got a TV audition for you, Jimbo.”
“Finally,” I said. I was only half joking. “Where is it?”
“In Harlem,” he said. “That’s about all I know. They’re looking for a funny white guy. If you’re interested, I’ll be happy to give you a ride.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s check it out.”
During the car ride to Harlem, he produced a management contract. “I want you to have a look at this and think it over,” he said. “I really think we should make it official.” This contract stipulated that the Rat would now receive 20 percent of all of my comedy gigs, along with whatever else he could land for me, for three years with a three-year extension, if a TV gig materialized.
After looking it over, I said, “I’m not feeling this.” Six years was an insanely long commitment. “No can do.”
“Okay, but I’m just not going to be able to book gigs for you anymore if you don’t sign,” he said flatly.
“Let’s say this TV thing works out,” I said, countering. “Why don’t you just take twenty percent of that and leave the bookings alone?”
“You’ll become a star, in high demand, and I won’t have any of your comedy bookings, movies, none of it,” he whined. “I’ll just have twenty percent of the thing that first made your career and enabled the rest of it.”
“Relax,” I said. “Let’s just see how this audition goes.”
The audition was for an unnamed show that would later become
Uptown Comedy Club.
I improvised with their cast and hit it off with Kevin and André Brown, the show’s producers. It went as well as I could have expected. On the drive back downtown, the Rat again produced the contract.
“Why don’t I take it home for a couple of days?” I asked.
“What?” he said dismissively. “Why?”
“I’d like to show it to my sister,” I said meekly.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “She’s not going to know how to read it, but go ahead, show her anyway.”
The contract, even to a naïve meathead like me, seemed like a really bad deal. Dollar signs and screaming fans called out to me, while my gut told me this whole situation was shady. Two days later, I had a callback audition for the show in Harlem. I nailed this one, too, and I could tell by the enthusiastic response of the producers that I had the gig. I clicked with the rest of the cast and I wanted it. But the Rat clammed up on me. I’d call him every day, asking, “What did you hear? Do they want me to go back up there? Why is the decision taking so long?”
Every time he’d respond with some variation of “I haven’t heard anything,” followed up by, “Are you ready to sign the contract?”
A week went by. I hadn’t worked much in TV or done many auditions, but I knew I should have heard something one way or the other by then, especially with the vibe I’d gotten from the producers. I suspected that the Rat was holding the gig hostage until I signed the contract with him. I called Eddie for advice and he told me not to sign.
I’d stayed friendly with a girl named Carrie who’d booked me for some gigs in Florida, and she now lived in New York and worked for this manager guy I’ll call Leon, who repped Jay Mohr and Dave Chappelle. So Dee and I went to visit Leon one afternoon, and he struck me as a totally different breed of manager from what I was used to. He wore jeans and had long hair and seemed like someone I could relate to. I explained what had been going on with the audition and the other manager.
“I see you on TV in less than a year,” he said enthusiastically. Calmer and cooler than the other guy, he walked around the room, then took a seat on a windowsill that looked out onto the city.
“So what should I do?” I asked.
“Don’t sign anything,” he said. “I’m going to be gone for about a week. Sit tight and let me snoop around when I get back. There’s got to be a simple explanation.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just promise me you won’t sign that contract,” he repeated as I left his office.
Now nearly two weeks had gone by and the Rat was still tight-lipped about whether or not he had heard anything from the Harlem audition. All he knew for certain was that I should sign his lame contract, and he made sure to tell me every time I reached out to him. Both Eddie and Dorene suggested I go back to him and tell him I’d like to take the contract to a lawyer. I didn’t know what else to do. Not coincidentally, he contacted me at the same time.
“I’m tying up a lot of my resources,” he started to explain in his smarmy tone. “I can’t keep waiting for you. Sign the contract today, or else we’ll have to part ways. It’s up to you.”
“What about the show?” I asked.
“I still haven’t heard,” he said impatiently. “But regardless, you and I need to have a deal in place.”
So I reluctantly went to his basement office in Queens. He met me at the door with a pen and the contract. There were some seriously bad vibes in the air.
“I’d like to take this to a lawyer first,” I told him. “If he’s cool with it, I’ll gladly sign it for you.”
“What?” he asked exasperatedly, walking back to his desk and sitting down. “Lawyers don’t know anything about comedians. All they do is take your money while they waste your time. They’re going to make a bunch of little changes that will cost thousands of dollars. Do you have thousands of dollars?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “And not only that, but it will take months for them to make those changes.
“Do you want me to go on?” he asked, now standing up again and starting to pace. “If a really good last-minute gig comes in for you, vetting it through them will kill it. Lawyers just don’t move fast enough. You’ll miss out.”
I was feeling seriously pressured. Everything inside of me was screaming that this was not worth it. Success shouldn’t feel this crappy. But I also felt so close to that TV show that I didn’t want to walk away now. Nobody would ever make a deal with a devil unless the terms were very tempting.
I began to wilt. Some of what he was saying seemed like it was making sense. We started bartering about the length of the contract itself. And against my better judgment, we struck a compromise. Two years, with a two-year extension. I couldn’t believe it, but I was on the verge of signing. Before I did, though, I gave him a moment to be honest. “I’ll sign right now,” I said, “if you will look at me and tell me the truth. Have you heard anything about me and the Harlem TV audition?”