Maybe We'll Have You Back: The Life of a Perennial TV Guest Star (14 page)

He said, “When I wrote for
Saturday Night Live
, my desk was right by the elevator, and I’d see all the other writers going for lunch and not including me. I remember that.”

I felt good getting that nice dose of empathy. “I know I’m hard to reach,” he said. “But you’ve got to get aggressive, track me down on the set. Look for a moment and run what you have by me.” I took this in. His little pep talk gave me the confidence to not censor myself, to bravely throw out any germ of an idea because I had him right there.

There was a new character on the show that year, Mr. Pitt. He was Elaine’s new boss and was a very staunch, meticulous man. And Jerry Stiller played Frank Costanza, George’s argumentative father.

“Know what hit me?” I said to Larry one day, taking his advice to get aggressive. “What if Mr. Pitt and George’s father had it out? I think they should butt heads because they’re both so bull-headed. There might be something funny there.”

All of a sudden, his face turned red with rage, as if just suggesting that idea had ruined his show.

“What!? That’s not an idea! That’s stupid!” he said. Then, he turned around and stormed out of my office.

I felt stupid, excitedly opening up like that and being slammed down. Before I could think of something to say to save face, Larry relented a little. He stopped, turned around, and said, “Okay, I did tell you to try anything out on me. I did say that. Sorry.”

Eventually, I did get my Kramer and Elaine stories approved. Both came from personal experiences. A nutty friend of mine back in New York was an extreme minimalist. One summer, he traveled around with all of his possessions, an extra T-shirt, underwear, and his keys in a tennis ball can. He also had his refrigerator removed from his little studio apartment to give himself more space. Whatever foods he brought home he kept outside on his window ledge to keep cold. Throwing out the refrigerator would pass as something Kramer would do. My horrendous experience with the woman I flew in from London became my Elaine story.

A writers’ assistant patiently showed me how to use the computer software to write my first episode. Before the actual writing, I had to get Larry and Jerry into my office to show them how I was mapping out the whole story. They’d point to my chalkboard and suggest where plot points should occur. “Have the annoying comedian bring over the suit right away. That’s too many scenes later,” Larry said. After that, it took about two weeks to write
it up.

After Larry read my draft, he told me to start pitching for the next script. There was no clue how much he liked it. I was just glad he was going to do it and I didn’t want to push the matter.

On tape nights, there was not much for the writers to do except watch. Since
Seinfeld
was more situational and less joke-oriented, there was never much need for punch-ups or rewrites on the floor. Unlike most shows I’d known, after Larry and Jerry had gone over a script, it hardly ever changed during the production week.

Basically, about twelve writers and a few producers stood together in a packed group on the floor watching each scene. After a scene was over, the assistant director would yell out, “Moving on to Jerry’s apartment!” or “Moving on to Monk’s Diner!” We looked like a bunch of cows herded together slowly making our way to the next set. I felt like a security guard at a big-time sporting event where nothing ever really needs to be protected. All you have to do is watch and pick up your check. But to be on that floor witnessing the creation of some classic television was an experience I’ll never forget. The writing was brilliant, but I also learned a lot watching what some of the actors did to get extra laughs where there wasn’t even a joke in the script.

I saw Julia Louis-Dreyfus come up with her famous move when she was amazed by something, she would shove Jerry and yell, “Get! Out!” And Michael Richards was one of the best physical comedians I’d ever seen. All of those quirky entrances were meticulously rehearsed. Over and over he would practice different funny ways to open Jerry’s door and spill into the room. He also had facial reactions and takes impossible to write. He had a way of stealing scenes. For instance, if he wasn’t directly involved in a dialogue, he might make noises or gestures that would call attention to him, and sometimes Larry would have to tone him down. Jason Alexander could sell every line given to him. He had not a vague moment in him. Jason was Larry’s alter ego in the show and as a result got some of the best speeches.

But it was also frustrating being on that floor. I wished I could be on a show with a great juicy regular role like Kramer or George. I even saw guest star parts I would have loved to play. There was a part of a pesky clerk, working at an expensive stationary store played by character actor Jerry Levine, who extorts a few dates from Elaine before he agrees to order the top-of-the-line pen her boss had demanded. During the taping, Sam Kass, the writer I came the closest to bonding with because we were both loners, looked at the guy playing the part and then at me.

“You should play that part. I totally see you as that guy.”

I just shrugged my shoulders. I knew enough not to pester Larry about appearing on the show. I wanted to prove that I was concentrating on what I was hired to do, to come up with ideas and write them out, but I did long again to be on that curtain call at the end of the show. I did miss that aspect of my former career.

My only contact with the cast members other than Jerry came when I initiated my own small talk. Michael Richards lived just a few miles away from the studio and rode his bike to work each day. One day after a run-through, everyone was surprised to see it was actually raining in Southern California. Richards called after me as I was getting into my car, asking for a ride home. He carried a bowl of soup he had taken from craft services. I drove slowly so he could enjoy the soup he was carefully balancing on his lap. We weren’t in the car for more than five seconds when he asked me to turn off my radio. “I don’t want to get any subliminal messages,” he explained. I didn’t have much of a reaction to his request. It made sense to him and that’s what seemed to matter.

I enjoyed our brief conversation before we arrived at his house. He told me that he had always done well. Even before
Seinfeld
, he had a run of several short-lived NBC series, but still was able to afford a nice home. I was pretty dismayed realizing how his pre-Kramer career alone was something I hadn’t even come anywhere near.

He asked how I was coming along with my script, and I told him I was excited that I had a lot of fun stuff for him to do in it. He nodded approvingly as he said, “Looking forward to it.” So was I. But this conversation would come back to haunt me.

It was very exciting to see my show finally produced. It was called “The Soup.” Three of the four story lines stayed fairly well intact. The one about George trying to decide which woman to ask out was changed to him blowing it with this woman when he says how much he likes the word “manure.” I was okay with that story being changed—by then, I knew that’s how TV worked—but my “Vietnam” mentor, Perry, made it look like I was miserable about it. In front of everyone else he kept saying, “It’s okay that they did that to you, bro. But you got to stop being so pissed. Man, you’re hurtin’ over this. Want to go out and talk?” He then looked at the others and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Can you believe this guy’s moping around like a sad sack here? What a downer.”

I didn’t want Larry to think that’s how I really felt so I took him aside and said, “Look, don’t listen to him. I’m really not upset that you re-did one of my story lines. You’re Larry David. Who am I to argue with you?” Larry looked at me suspiciously. Perry had put me in a bind and I was upset. I was upset at having to explain that I wasn’t upset. I could tell that I wasn’t very convincing, so I decided to drop it before I dug myself any
deeper.

After years of treacherous auditions, I actually got to be on the other side when they cast my episode. I learned a few things being an observer. Jerry and Larry were two of the best people to audition for that I had ever seen. They laughed heartily after hearing the same material over and over and gave a big thanks to each person when they left. Many actors had their agents call up, positive that their clients got booked because they heard their reaction was so strong. No one nailed any particular beat or line that aced it for them. With most, it was an essence, just a general feeling that Jerry and Larry went for. And I discovered that everyone has trouble leaving the room when it’s over. They all do that awkward walk out, practically backwards, as they coyly wave and thank everyone again for seeing them. It’s as if they’re walking out hoping to get what hardly anyone gets after an audition, a definite “yes” right there on the spot. I vowed to not do that again myself, but it’s so hard still to not want to know you got it right there and then.

Five actors came in and auditioned for the role of Kenny Bania, the annoying comedian who argues that soup should count as a meal. They all did well, but Steve Hytner, a former stand-up comic I happened to know from New York brought just the right over-the-top in-your-face element to it.

For the table read of my episode, I got to sit at the end of the table with Larry. I was relieved to see Larry laughing heartily throughout the reading. The other writers and executives also seemed to be enjoying my script. But I was fixated on Michael Richards. After it was over, the ’Nam guy patted me on the back and said, “Awesome reading. Killer, bro!” I headed right to Richards and did something so stupid, I can’t believe it.

In my draft, I had Kramer doing lots of physical shticks when he picked up his refrigerator and removed it from his apartment. That didn’t make the final version of Jerry and Larry’s rewrite. Maybe it was the neurotic part of me that wants to be a hero and have everyone like me. Or maybe it was that crazy irrational part of me that feels bad for people when there’s no reason to feel bad for them. Kramer’s part was very light in my script. I was nervous that he was pouting. He didn’t look happy. I actually felt sorry for this millionaire with two Emmys, who had told me that he’s always done well.

I wondered, “Was he mad at me?” I had told him when I drove him home that I had written a great part for him in my episode, but it turned out that that was not the case. I hoped he knew that my version of the script had drastically changed.

When I got to Richards, I explained myself. “Hey, you know in the version I wrote I had you doing lots of physical comedy. I had you stumbling with the refrigerator on your back as you took it down the stairs. I wanted you to have a big part.”

I should have had the sense to see what I was doing. I didn’t mean any harm. All I was doing was trying to tell him to not be mad at me. But I opened up a can of worms.

“I love doing the physical comedy,” he said. Now I felt like I was teasing him, telling him about the great fun physical shtick he could have been doing.

“Could you please ask Larry to put it back? Could you please say something for me? I want to do the physical comedy.”

Like a fool, I gave him my word that I would say something. I approached Larry as he headed back to the offices.

“Larry, I was talking to Michael, and he sort of asked me if there was any way we could put physical comedy in the script. I had mentioned that originally there was some stuff with the refrigerator and…”

“What?! What did you do? You don’t talk to the actors! Don’t you talk to the actors!”

He walked ahead of me, and I shook my head. Any goodwill I might have earned from Larry because of the strong table read had just evaporated.

Back at the office, another writer informed me that Perry had taken him aside and said, “That was the worst table read I have ever heard.” He said the script was “awful.” I felt disgusted. Even though at that point in the season I knew my nervous mentor wasn’t above being so two-faced, I still felt kicked in the stomach. I considered telling him how phony and pathetic he was, but the other writer talked me out of it.

“Look who you’re dealing with,” he said. “What’s the point?”

He was right. My nervous mentor was agonizing over his script, laboring over every line and wasn’t close to finishing it. He simply needed to bring me down with him in his fear and
misery.

For tape night, my friend Joel flew in from Brooklyn to support me. He was in heaven, no longer having to live vicariously through my long distance descriptions of free meals. He was on the ultimate celebrity cruise buffet. He sat next to Julia Louis-Dreyfus with his second plate of chicken Tuscany and stated, “This is the best meal I’ve had in months!” To the executives and writers around us, this was not top-of-the-line restaurant food. It was merely adequate. Joel, on the other hand, had been raised on Sizzler and educated by his father about how to get the most from the meal. Joel was also so excited when he visited the set. He approached Larry David, showing him a piece in
TV Guide
about the show. Something about the piece didn’t sit right with David who flung the magazine across the room, terrifying my nervous friend.

I was elated that they did my episode. Seeing a
Seinfeld
with “Written by Fred Stoller” in the opening credits has to be the one thing that I’ve done that has impressed my mother the most. Using one of her favorite malapropos, she told me it was “mind bottling.”

At the taping, Hytner scored big as the annoying comedian. When he gives Jerry the suit and says, “And I don’t even want anything for it,” the crowd erupted. They knew what was to come and couldn’t wait. He then shrugs his shoulders and says that if Jerry wants, he could take him out for a meal. The crowd ate it up when, moments later, Hytner calls up Jerry and asks if he could have his meal that same night.

After the taping, some of the other writers congratulated me, and I heard Larry tell Hytner that they had to get him back. (He did return four more times.) As a writer, I was very pleased that a character I had created had made such big impression, but the actor in me was envious. I tried hard to enjoy my day and forget that I was failing miserably, trying to get stories approved for my next script. When the taping was done, I knew the party was over. It was back to swinging and missing again and again. It wasn’t that different from acting auditions, but there was one big difference: I was getting a weekly paycheck.