Opening for Tracy Morgan in Detroit

When you’re a big name comedian—a star with a following—the announcer doesn’t mispronounce your name. So when I was backstage waiting to be introduced and make my big entrance in front of a standing-room-only crowd at the Magic Bag Theater in Ferndale, I was not at all surprised when he did just that. He mangled it. Regardless of the fact that he got it right for the first show three hours earlier. Regardless of the numerous times I clearly pronounced it for him. But I’m not a big star. And the show must begin. And as the opening comedian for headliner Tracy Morgan, my name is mostly irrelevant.

What is relevant is a house packed with paying customers—many standing in the side aisle, shoulder-to-shoulder, front-to-back because the chairs and tables were claimed long before they walked in. This multi-racial crowd of urban thirtysomethings happily parted with $25 each after waiting in line in sub-arctic temperatures. They were eager to see the man who made his fame playing—among others—the effeminate, self-absorbed buffoon Brian Fellows on Saturday Night Live. But first, they had to watch me. I was the opener.

As the opener, you take the bullet. That’s your job. People don’t really care about you. So you better get their attention. More importantly, you better be funny. And without ever hearing my set, Tracy Morgan decided I had the right stuff to take his bullet. The night before, while I was basking in his fame, disguised as his drinking buddy at a hipster lounge, he leaned back, looked me in the eye and said, “You a cool muh-fuh. Why don’t you do a guest set for me tomorrow?”

Perhaps it was his comedic instinct. Perhaps it was the numerous vodkas and cranberry he drank as star-struck patrons awkwardly blurted out that they thought he was awesome. Whatever it was, I recognized the rarity of both the moment and the invitation and said, “Absolutely! Really? I mean, yeah!” I had just met him hours earlier. I was visiting my friend, comedian J. Chris Newberg, backstage before their first show. Newberg is close-to-famous in his own rite. That Friday night, he was the opening act for Tracy Morgan.

Between sets, in a graffiti-covered green room, we listened to Tracy Morgan lecture on what it takes to be a star comedian. He’s a natural-born preacher. And a preacher expects you to sit and listen. “I’m Tracy Morgan! Are you Tracy Morgan? No! That’s my name! Tracy Morgan!” And then listen some more. “You think I got it easy? You think this was all just handed to me? Hell no! But I believed in myself! My daddy used to beat my ass! Humor’s just a way to cope!” Maybe that’s why later in the bar he felt comfortable enough to ask me to be part of his show. I’d listened to him.

On Saturday, I had doubts as to whether I should follow through with it. Even though the owner of the theater witnessed the personal invitation, I wondered if the offer would be valid when everyone was sober. On the phone, Newberg ripped at my flip-flopping. “Aaaaww! Does Baby wanna suck his baba and watch TV tonight? Is Baby sweepy? Or are you a man? How often does a famous comedian extend that kind of an invitation, you moron?”

When I arrived back at the theater, the door staff was waiting for me. They introduced me the sound man who would later butcher my last name. All I had to do was wait for show time. The first one came and went as a blur. The lights onstage were the brightest I’d ever experienced—I found that disorienting, as was the nagging fear that I’d left my fly down. The crowd of 250 responded well and I had a decent set. But Tracy Morgan arrived after I finished and never saw a single minute of it. Between the early and late show, he again dominated the conversations of everyone around him—my wife Kristi, the assistant manager, the staff. After ordering a gin and tonic he barked to the bartender, “I’m Tracy Morgan! Say my name! Say it!” The bartender cleared his throat and timidly obliged. “Trrracy Morgan?” “Dat’s right!”

Finally, they opened the doors for the second show. It was sold out. A seemingly endless flow of people filed in to crowd every last inch of space that had a view of the stage. Ten minutes before show time I said good bye to Kristi and left her at the bar.

Alone and backstage, I paced. That’s what I do before every show. The sound man poked his head in and yelped, “Five minutes, Paul!” My set was a jumble in my head. Words and phrases popped up and disappeared. A brief moment of panic, followed by a controlled flow of adrenaline and I was ready. I knew exactly what to say and how to say it. Tracy Morgan’s take-no-prisoners, hip-hop bravado had seeped into my attitude and I was going show him and the audience an in-your-face style of comedy that grabs them by the throat and doesn’t let go.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our special guest, Paul Pearshons…sen…jen…ski!” You’ve got be kidding. I wanted to choke him. Instead, I walked out and unleashed a blistering fifteen minute set. It felt good and tight, yet loose and smooth. Five-hundred people laughing hard at a joke you tell on stage is like slipping on Superman’s cape. I was right where I wanted to be, knowing somewhere in the shadows, toward the back of the room, my wife was watching.

I finished my set and introduced Newberg to more applause. Backstage, I spent twenty minutes more with Tracy Morgan, knowing I’d probably never talk to him again. And for a brief moment, he stopped preaching. We sat side by side on the couch, listening and laughing at Newberg’s material. He was killing them out there. I had done my job well. The bullets were few and the crowd was great. I felt fantastic. Then, in a rare moment of self doubt, Tracy Morgan turned his head, looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you think they think I’m funny?” I almost gasped. I couldn’t believe after all his bluster and hype he wanted my opinion—on anything, let alone on if the crowd thinks he’s funny. I answered as sincerely as possible, “Yeah, man. They think you’re funny. No question.” He just looked at the floor, “You really think so?” “Yep. They love you.” I reassured. “Ahhite,” he allowed.

As Tracy Morgan took the stage to raucous applause, I pushed my way through the crowd to the bar and found Kristi. The best part of my job is when I get accolades from her. She’s my biggest fan—my inside-the-audience feedback gauge—and knows my act as well as I do. She can tell when I replace a word with another and lets me know if it worked or not. Since this was a guest set, I wasn’t paid any money. Getting her opinion was my paycheck.

I found her. “Well, what did you think? Pretty good, huh?” There was no denying I had a great night. But her face didn’t have that glow. She crossed her arms, leaned back a little and replied, “I wouldn’t know. While you were onstage, Tracy Morgan stood right here and preached to me non-stop about what it means to be a comedian’s wife! I missed the whole thing!”