I returned to New York from LA feeling good about the State of the Union: Undressed with Dennis Miller: the ratings were great, the critics were kind, and Dennis Miller’s career was not derailed by peeing on TV in front of millions of people (audio only). And so far, my career hadn’t been derailed, either. Before I left for LA, Bob had suggested we enjoy the “quiet” and settle back into work assuming the worst had passed and I would be keeping my job.
But I soon realized I couldn’t recover my equilibrium without knowing for sure. Michael wasn’t one to traffic in idle threats. He’d been unhappy with one of the programmers several months earlier, and that programmer was swiftly dispatched. Had I been spared or just given a temporary reprieve?
The mood at Comedy Central seemed to be darkening. Something ominous was afoot. Nothing anyone could put a finger on. Maybe it was the increase in hushed hallway conversations and closed doors. Or the exchange of glances around the table at staff meetings when Bob seemed more agitated than usual. It was starting to drive me crazy.
I decided to ask Steve Mark what he thought. I had to talk to him about a contract anyway, so I walked down the hall to his office.
He was on the phone but signaled for me to wait. When he hung up, I started badgering him about a contract I needed. It was good-natured badgering, because I loved Steve. Not only was he a good lawyer, he was always willing to back me up whenever I wanted to push the boundaries of contracts or good taste. And he and I talked a lot about almost everything: his life, my life, his kids, my kids, his hopes and dreams, my hopes and dreams.
Steve traveled by wheelchair, but that didn’t slow him down in any arena. He drove his car through midtown Manhattan with the ease and skill of a veteran cab driver. His driving scared the shit out of me and he knew it, but he always told me to relax.
While Steve’s demeanor was usually calm, he often looked physically uncomfortable. He would shift constantly in his wheelchair, alternately sitting up straight and slouching, raising himself up with his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and moving his hips back and forth, then repositioning himself. He never complained.
I started to ask Steve if he’d noticed the same darkening mood at the channel as I had, but then he shifted again, and this time I noticed him grimace. “Hey Steve, how’d you end up in a wheelchair? You mind my asking?”
He smiled at me and shrugged. “I was a football star in college. Colgate. Star quarterback.”
“My wife went to Colgate,” I said.
“I’m older than she is. It was way before her time.” He stopped and eyed me looking at him. “I know, hard to believe that this body once played football. I was over six feet tall and fast as hell. Anyway, usual story. I took the snap, dropped back, and got creamed. When I came to, I was in a hospital.”
I nodded because I didn’t know how else to acknowledge what he was telling me. No embellishment. No emotion. No wistfulness or regret. He looked down at his legs.
“I was in my hospital bed and didn’t really know what was going on. Nobody was talking to me. Nurses, doctors, everyone just kept asking me how I felt, but they didn’t say anything else. Finally, a doctor came in and sat down in the chair next to my bed. He said, ‘Son, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. We’ve done everything we can, but your spinal cord is a mess. You’ll never be able to walk again.’ I said to the doctor, ‘Really? You mean I’m not going to die?’ I was so relieved I started crying.”
I don’t know why I asked him on that day. I’d intended to ask him if he thought something was going on at Comedy Central, if he felt the mood in the office. I never did ask him that. Steve switched the subject, started talking about another project we were working on. I left his office a few minutes later, trying to imagine him crying tears of joy at the moment of his most profound tragedy. But I couldn’t.
That night my brother Brian called. Brian was younger than me, but because I went to grad school while he jumped right into work, I felt he knew his way around the business world better than I did. He worked at Lotus Software and had risen through the ranks, mostly because he was smart and hardworking, but also because he had a keen understanding of how business, and the people in business, operated. His call seemed a good opportunity to ask his opinion. For twenty minutes I talked nonstop, explaining every nuance and every detail about my situation—Bob, the phone call, the spectacular project, the “Contract with America,” the board meeting, and how nothing seemed resolved, just suspended over an abyss, hanging by a thread.
Brian said, “Here’s what you do: strap on your biggest balls and go see Michael.”
“Go see Michael. Just like that, just walk right in and…and what, confront him? Say, ‘Hey Michael, what the fuck’s going on?’ Or, no, I got it, I go, ‘Michael, who do you think you are saying you don’t like my stuff? The fuck you know about it?’ Or, check this out, ‘Hey Michael, anybody ever tell you—’ ”
Brian stopped me. “I take your point. But no, not like that. You go in and say, ‘I understand that you’re dissatisfied with my work at Comedy Central.’ Be very humble. Deferential.”
“Hold on, I’m writing this down…Okay, then what?”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. You say that and wait to hear what he says. Sounds like Michael’s not the shy, retiring type. He’ll jump right in, tell you what he’s concerned about. Or maybe not. But even if he gets pissed and starts yelling—which he probably won’t—at least you’ll know. If it looks bleak, you start looking for another job.”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, you asked, that’s what I think you should do.”
“He may not even see me.”
“Art, if he won’t meet with you, then you’ve got your answer.” I thought about that for a few seconds. It seemed to make sense.
“Thanks for the advice,” I said. “Let me think about it. I’ll let you know what happens.”
I walked into the family room. Carrie was curled up on the couch, reading a magazine. I asked her what she thought of Brian’s advice.
“I like it,” she said. “Call his office tomorrow and see if you can get in soon. Not knowing is driving you crazy.”
When I got to the office the next morning, I was tired. I’d tossed and turned all night trying to decide what to do. If I decided to go ahead with Brian’s advice, there were some looming questions. First, would Michael even agree to see me? Second, I only had one set of balls, not a larger pair stored somewhere for the tougher moments in life as Brian suggested; were my balls big enough to do this? And finally, should I tell Bob that I intended to meet with Michael so he wouldn’t hear about it from someone else and think I was an insubordinate asshole?
I stared at the phone. When I picked it up and started to dial Michael’s number, it occurred to me that telling Bob in advance was, if nothing else, an excellent way to procrastinate. And, maybe even better, Bob could say he’d prefer I not meet with Michael, a reasonable enough response, given Michael’s position as chairman of the board. I put down the phone and headed for Bob’s office.
Bob’s assistant hadn’t arrived yet, but Bob’s office door was open. I knocked on the doorframe, and Bob looked up from his newspaper and invited me in.
“Bob, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to meet with Michael and ask him why he wanted me out, you know, right before Christmas.”
Bob shrugged. “I can see that. Good luck getting an appointment with him.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’d still like to give it a shot.”
“Fine by me. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks, Bob.” Bob went back to his paper. I was surprised by his casual response, but that wasn’t unusual. Some days he was calm, rational, supportive. Other days he changed, for no apparent reason. I had trouble reading his moods and anticipating his reactions, which made my life that much crazier.
When I got back to my office, I picked up the phone and dialed Michael’s number.
After just one ring, Merav picked up.
“Hi, Merav, it’s Art Bell.”
“Hello, Art. How are things at Comedy Central?”
“Hilarious as usual.” Merav laughed, but I guessed she sensed the irony. It occurred to me she knew more about what was going on at Comedy Central than I did. She probably knew why Michael wanted to fire me. Rather than continue the pleasantries, I asked Merav as confidently as I could (so as not to betray my trepidation) for a meeting with Michael. Without the slightest hesitation, she said he could see me the next day at two o’clock.
I put the phone down and sat back in my seat. Bob had just told me minutes ago that getting a meeting with Michael would be difficult. I thought I’d have to wait days if not weeks. I looked at my watch and calculated that I’d be in Michael’s office in less than twenty-two hours. This was coming down faster than I’d expected.
I noticed I hadn’t taken off my jacket, so I got up and grabbed the hanger on the back of my door, hung it up, and sat down again. That’s when I realized that I was wearing my best suit and my favorite tie.
Oh, shit. What would I wear tomorrow?
That night when I arrived home from work, I walked in, dropped my briefcase on the floor, and said, “Guess what? I’m meeting with Michael tomorrow.”
Carrie was at the stove stirring something. “That’s great. Right? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I nodded. “I’m going up to change. How ’bout some wine with dinner?”
“White or red?”
“Both.”