Here's the Deal Page 12

  Minutes passed, and the guy was back on the line. “It’s all set,” he said. “You’re on for fifteen minutes on Saturday night at his house in Benedict Canyon.”

  I began to worry. I was going to be paid twenty-five grand for fifteen minutes at somebody’s house. This sounded like a scam. “I have to have the cash before I show up,” I informed him, and once again hung up.

  The guy called back. “You can pick up the cash in an hour,” he said.

  I got in my car and drove to the Comedy Store. Waiting for me was a giant wad of cash. This was too easy. I didn’t have to pack a bag or get on a plane. All I had to do was drive my car to some guy’s house and spend fifteen minutes entertaining him. For this I would be paid $25,000. There had to be more to it.

  I asked my wife to join me. She declined, which turned out to be a wise decision on her part.

  On Saturday night, I drove up Benedict Canyon, a long, winding, dark road in the Hills of Beverly. The more I thought about this gig, the more concerned I became. I was having flashes of the Manson family luring me into a trap. I began to get scared. I had no idea what I was heading into.

  Near the top of Benedict, a young woman appeared out of the darkness and flagged me down. She looked into my window. “You’re Howie Mandel,” she said. “Leave your car right here. This is the party.”

  I pulled over and parked. I didn’t seem to be in front of any particular address. She walked me through a giant wall of hedges onto the grounds of an estate. I could hear what sounded like a party going on inside. She took me around the back past the pool into a small, dark space. She told me to wait in this room until I was introduced, because I was a surprise.

  As she closed the door, I realized I was in a powder room, sandwiched between a toilet and a pedestal sink. There was one door leading outside and one apparently leading into the house. There was barely enough room to vote, let alone take care of business. I could hear the party on the other side of the door.

  At this point in my career, my stand-up involved a large array of props, such as a handbag in the shape of a hand, lots of hats, and a plastic nose. I couldn’t bring myself to put any of these down on a bathroom floor. I jostled the props to get them in some kind of order so I would be ready to take the stage.

  In the middle of my preparation, the door from the house opened and a very intoxicated male partygoer entered. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of a guy wearing a crazy hat and a fake nose standing by the toilet. He closed the door behind him, lowered his fly, and began to urinate. His shoulder was touching my back. My face was pressed against the wall. He didn’t say anything. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was palpitating. I was now thinking this gig wasn’t worth $50,000. A strange man was pissing within inches of me. He finished and walked out—without washing his hands, I might add.

  My OCD had been triggered. I was panic-stricken. I un-spooled twenty-five feet of toilet paper, which I wrapped around my hand. This would be the tool I would use to pull the latch on the door and make my escape.

  I waited in there for what seemed a long time. I can’t tell you exactly how long. Finally I heard it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Howie Mandel.” I banged my protected hand on the latch, the door swung open, and with a wad of toilet paper and a dozen props in hand and on head I was onstage.

  What I saw was the most surreal vision I have had to date. First of all, I just want to say that this room was spectacular. It looked like one of those palatial rooms from Architectural Digest. From the looks of the décor, I had grossly underpriced myself at $25,000 for fifteen minutes.

  Here was the scene. There were maybe five guys, one of whom was the drunk guy who’d just pissed, and (as best as I could see) six women. For the most part, the women were not wearing anything. For that matter, neither were most of the guys. Some of the guys were in the midst of getting pleasured orally. Others were … well, let me just say that every possible orifice was in use. It looked like Fellini directing a film for Larry Flynt. Then, from the side of the room, a gentleman wearing no pants, leaning over in ecstasy with a woman attached to his member, said, “Please, oh, please, Howie, start your act.”

  My first thought was, Are you f––ing serious? But I had already taken the $25,000 and I didn’t want any trouble, so I began. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. How is everyone tonight?”

  I have to say, had this evening been recorded you might think I was doing well, but the screams and guttural cries of pleasure had nothing to do with my material. A few minutes into my act, a woman—who was under the couch with her ankles pulled up above her head, and with two men exploring her somewhat aggressively—had the presence of mind to ask me, “Could you do the Bobby voice?” Why not? I began to sing, “It’s my potty and I’ll cry if I want to.” Over to my right, one of the gentlemen was pleasuring one of the females orally. I grabbed a small dish of guacamole and tapped him on the shoulder. As he looked up, I asked if he would like some dip with that. Before I knew it, my fifteen minutes were up and I was off into the night.

  I came to realize—no pun intended—that the guy who’d asked me to begin happened to be the CEO of a hugely successful corporation that still exists today. It was his bachelor party.

  A week later, I was walking through the Galleria, a mall in the San Fernando Valley. A lady came up to me and said that she loved my comedy. She added that her husband was at a bachelor party a week ago and he had told her that I was the entertainment. Before I could answer, I noticed a man twenty feet behind her signaling frantically at me.

  Click. It dawned on me that this guy happened to be one of the partygoers. I realized that I had been hired as a decoy so all these guys could go home and honestly say to their wives, “You’re not going to believe it, but So-and-so hired Howie Mandel to do a private performance for us in his living room.” Up until now, I had been a comedian, actor, and recording artist whose sole purpose was to entertain. But now I had also become a decoy whose mission it was to save marriages. I learned one more lesson that night … well, not so much a lesson as two more positions.

  My new role of marriage decoy was important to me. I held the institution of marriage in very high esteem. As I didn’t yet have children, my marriage was the most important thing in my life, and Terry was the most important person in my life. God bless her with what she has had to put up with, not only with my personal mental craziness but also with the craziness in the world of show business. Therein lies a story.

  As much as I enjoy my notoriety, Terry, unlike me, has absolutely no desire for attention. She cherishes her anonymity so much that I had to convince her to be photographed for our wedding album. That being said, my recognition has really affected Terry’s life. This was never more apparent than during the birth of our first child, Jackie.

  The hours leading up to the actual birth were a potpourri of emotions—excitement, terror, exhaustion, and, most of all for Terry, humiliation. Jackie was to be born December 14, 1984, right in the middle of the St. Elsewhere run. Not unlike most other parents, we decided to give birth in a hospital. St. Elsewhere was a medical show that takes place in a hospital setting, so it obviously attracted a large following in medical circles. What Sex and the City later meant to women, St. Elsewhere meant to doctors.

  Word spread quickly that Dr. Fiscus—the name of my character—was in the house. As much as I appreciated the fact that people in the medical community admired the show, and as much as I personally craved the attention, my poor wife once again was about to become the victim. There had been times when an anxious fan physically shoved her out of the way to share a moment with me. There had been times when women publicly propositioned me right in front of her, as if she didn’t exist. She has faced her share of disrespect as a result of my notoriety. But this next transgression tops them all.

  Terry was in the midst of labor, contracting every eleven minutes. This did not seem to deter the doctors who all paraded in to share some face time. These doctors were aware of the per
sonal nature of the situation, so each decided to give his visit a veiled purpose to discount any possible discomfort.

  The door would open. A doctor would say hello, introduce himself, and ask how things were going—all the while pulling on a latex glove. He would then insert a finger into my wife and tell me which episode or scene from the show was his favorite. Once the conversation was finished, he would remove the finger and inform us that my wife had dilated to four centimeters.

  After about the fifth doctor, Terry put her foot down, which made it much harder for the doctors to insert their fingers into her vagina.

  When it comes to dilating, I think one doctor is enough. You don’t need a consensus, but apparently for those few hours, my wife’s vagina took over the title of decoy for the actual purpose of this party.

  Once again, I’m using this book to apologize to the love of my life, Terry. That particular story was not going to be in the book until Terry herself reminded me of it while laughing hysterically. In fact, she said, “I still have the fingerprints on my labia.” Terry can find the humor in everything. This is the key to the success of our marriage. But I won’t lie and tell you we don’t have bumps in the road. Humor always seems to rescue us from the precipice.

  There is one particular example when Terry told me: “That’s it, I’m out!” She ran to the door, turned to me very dramatically, and declared, “I will send for my things!”

  I waited a beat and then asked, “What did you just say?”

  She repeated, “I will send for my things.”

  First of all, I had never heard that statement outside of a movie. So I asked, “Who will you send and what specific things will you be sending them for?”

  After a long, dramatic, painstaking pause, a smile appeared on Terry’s face. And then slowly she began to laugh. So did I. There are very few women who would find the humor in this otherwise serious situation. As we both laughed together at the absurdity of her statement, we embraced. The fight was over.

  As I write this, we are still going strong after thirty-six years together. I cannot tell you how much I love and respect her and how lucky I am to have found this girl.

  So all of her things remain to this day. No one was ever sent to take them away. And life went on.

  Here’s where I was. I was a father, a headlining comedian, one of the stars of a network television show, a recording artist, and a decoy, yet I felt there was still something missing, the one goal I set for myself. Regardless of all these accomplishments, the one badge of honor one needed to be considered a successful comedian was an appearance on The Tonight Show, commonly referred to as the Johnny Carson show.

  I never really understood that thinking. When I told people I was a comedian, without hesitation they would inevitably ask, “Have you ever been on the Johnny Carson show?”—as if to say, without this credit, you’re not a comedian. Well, what am I?

  I remember being devastated the night that Jim McCawley, who was the show’s chief booker, came to see me do a set at the Comedy Store. It didn’t matter how well you did, it was all about delivering something they believed Johnny would like. Those doing the show were mostly monologists, like David Brenner and George Carlin, who would hold up mirrors to the minutiae of our lives. That’s so not what I did. In fact, I was the opposite of what was being booked. I used rubber gloves, props, and funny sounds. After my set, Jim told me: “Not only am I not going to book you on The Tonight Show, you will never be on The Tonight Show.”

  Mike Douglas loved me. Merv Griffin loved me—I did Merv fourteen times. I had performed on HBO. But it looked as if I would be forever telling people that I hadn’t done Carson.

  At that time, Joan Rivers was Johnny’s favorite guest host. Her ratings were through the roof. She was a superstar in comedy. I had heard that Joan was coming out to Los Angeles for a week to fill in for Johnny. I knew that she worked out her material at the Comedy Store.

  So when I called for spots, I had them book one immediately before Joan’s appearance. They always ran behind, so I figured that when she arrived for her set, she would inevitably see me.

  As luck would have it, I woke up the morning of my showcase aching all over. It turned out I had a temperature of 103. I had the flu. I thought I was going to die. I will clarify that by saying I don’t think there is a day when I don’t think I am going to die. But this time I had a really high fever and I was nauseated. This was one of the few times when my mind and my body were in sync.

  I don’t know how, but I pulled myself together. I knew this was my only chance to ever be on The Tonight Show. I got in my little yellow Honda with the black racing stripes and headed for the Comedy Store. I was so dizzy as I made my way through the snakelike Laurel Canyon that I was sure I was going to crash.

  I arrived a sweaty mess. I went backstage, guzzled water, and sat with my head in my hands. Just before I went on, Joan Rivers walked into the room. I thought, I have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I’m going to be seen by Joan Rivers. I’ve already been told by Jim McCawley that not only will I not be on The Tonight Show with Johnny, I will never be on. Now I feel that if Joan sees me in this condition, I’ll never be on any show she does. So I’m about to create a wider swath of places I’m not welcome.

  As I’m questioning myself, I hear the announcer say, “Our next guest is Howie Mandel.” I know that Joan Rivers is in the room. I take the stage sweating and dizzy, and for the life of me, I can’t tell you what I did. But what I said first got a big, hard laugh.

  That always happens to me. When I go out on the road and don’t feel well, whether I’m having heart palpitations or I’m just sick, as soon as I get that first laugh, it’s like a warm blanket covering me. Nothing else exists in the world except for that laughter. My physical issues fall by the wayside, my mind goes blank, and I’m in another world.

  That night, I was in that other world, and this warm blanket of laughter was splashing over me. It was one of the best sets I had done. I really enjoyed me. The audience enjoyed me, too. After seven minutes, I said good night, and the audience roared.

  As I walked toward the back of the room, Joan Rivers passed me on her way to the stage and said, “Very funny.”

  That was it? That’s all? What had I just accomplished? I rose from my sickbed to perform, but after the laughter died down, I felt sicker. It’s like having the flu and opening the door to get some fresh winter air. It might be relieving for a minute, but you end up with pneumonia. I thought, I’ll wait. Maybe she has more to say to me than “Very funny.”

  I walked down the stairs onto Sunset Boulevard and sat down. I could hear roars of laughter and excitement as Joan did her act. I was fading.

  After I heard Joan say “Good night” to an even louder roar from the audience, I thought, Okay, she’s going to leave and walk by me, and my career will be changed forever.

  But she didn’t come out. I guess she was staying and talking to other comedians and enjoying herself. Where did she have to run to? I had to go back to my sickbed, but she felt fine. So I waited and I waited and I waited. A half hour went by. Forty-five minutes. An hour. Maybe even two hours. I don’t know, but it was an eternity.

  The place was emptying out. It was very late at night. I was sitting like a crumpled little glob of death at the bottom of the stairs. Then I heard Joan’s voice. She was talking to somebody and walking down the stairs toward me. I forced myself to stand up, leaning against the wall so I wouldn’t fall over. When she reached me, I said, “You were so funny.”

  On the set of Little Monsters. Fred Savage and I with director Richard Greenberg. I spent the entire day in my rubber.

  As the host of Expo 86 in Vancouver, I got to meet Prince Charles and Lady Diana. Thank God I was still shaking hands. I don’t think the fist bump would’ve gone over.

  Look at all the crap I dropped all over the stage at Carnegie Hall. Just like my cousin Itzhak Perlman. (He really is my cousin.)

  My first appearance with Johnny. The li
tmus test was positive. I was now considered a comedian.

  Radio City. What a night.

  On the set of Walk Like a Man.

  With my Walk Like a Man cast mates.

  With one of my heroes, Richard Pryor, about a year before he died.

  With my alter ego Bobby from Bobby’s World.

  The Howie Mandel Show: first show, first guest Jennifer Aniston. We were allowed to talk about anything but Brad Pitt.

  I was also the voice of Gizmo in Gremlins. What a range—I used the exact same voice for Bobby.

  Hair today.

  Gone tomorrow.

  My fam, 2002. Me, Riley, Alex, Terry, and Jackie.

  Just another day of travel with Dad, the germaphobe, for Riley Mandel.

  Terry and I in the blue room of the White House having coffee with the Clintons, the Gores, and the Chrétiens—the prime minister of Canada and his wife. Who woulda thunk?

  I’m now a puppet on Sesame Street who plays Meal or No Meal.

  I ask you: deal or no deal?

  Everybody was playing Deal, even Oprah on her show May 4, 2007.

  I’ve arrived: a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, September 4, 2008.

  “You were really funny,” she replied.

  I mustered all my strength. “Thank you so much. Coming from you that means a lot.”

  “Have you ever been on The Tonight Show?” she asked.

  To which I responded, “No, but Wednesday is my birthday.”

  She smiled. “Have your agent call tomorrow.”

  I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven. This was the good kind of dying, not the dying I had been feeling up until that moment.