Still Foolin' 'Em by Billy Crystal Read Free Book Online

into an argument with himself, constantly turning his head. It was truly funny, but after a few hits, it was hilarious. Ever try to keep a straight face in front of someone who hasn’t laughed since the Great Depression? The waiter simply stared at David. Ratner’s waiters were mostly older Jewish men, weary messengers of matzoh-ball soup who had seen everything—everything but the straggly group of tripping, incense-smelling, “peace now” folks, many of them bearing a disturbing resemblance to Jesus Christ. Their table-side encounters sounded like this:
    “VATZ IT GONNA BE?” asked the waiter; I’ll call him Murray.
    “Man, I’ll have the LIZARDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF YOUR EARS!” screeched the lost soul whose LSD-glazed eyes looked like slices of blood oranges.
    Never losing his cool, Murray answered, “Oh, the special.”
    I had two great friends, Al Finelli and David Hawthorne, from Nassau Community College. They were funny and talented actors, and we had a great chemistry together and were always improvising sketches. We talked about forming a three-man comedy group someday, but it didn’t seem possible because of the uncertain future we were all facing.
    As my graduation from NYU approached, I was terrified. On December 1, 1969, the first draft lottery was televised. It was the ultimate reality game show: 366 Ping-Pong balls with the days of the year printed on them rolling around in a device usually used for Bingo night at the senior center.
    One by one the balls were pulled (as mine were as I watched) and the fate of thousands of young men was decided. We’d been told that guys with the first 195 birth dates chosen were definitely going to be drafted and more than likely would soon be on their way to Nam. I was in a night class at NYU, and we all watched the dates numbered 100 to 199 on television. I wasn’t in that group, but I didn’t know about the first ninety-nine. I ran home and called my mother. “Mom, are you watching the lottery?”
    “No, dear, there’s a two-hour Bonanza on. Hoss got bit by a snake…”
    Great. Finally, on TV, I saw that I wasn’t in the first ninety-nine, so I lit a joint. Then I wasn’t in the 200-to-249 group, so I lit another; then 250 to 299, another; 300 to 349, and I was giggling. Finally March 14 came up, number 354! I went to Ratner’s and had a big piece of cake, and a side order of the lizards that were coming out of the waiter’s ears.
    *   *   *
    I called Janice first, of course. It seemed we were free and clear of the army and that scary war. Before the draft, I had been interviewing at some Long Island high schools for possible teaching jobs, which would mean a deferment, but in my heart I knew teaching wasn’t what I really wanted to do. Now, with the draft out of the way, I called Dave and Al and we formed a comedy group first known as We the People and then 3’s Company and started to work on the Coffee House Circuit. These were nightclubs on college campuses, mostly on the East Coast. We traveled all over New England and New York and Pennsylvania, spending three nights or sometimes a week performing at a school, meanwhile living in a dorm. We made $350 tops, which was split three ways for a week’s engagement. So I’m talking big money: $117 a man divided by three days is $39 a day, but in 2013 money, that’s at least $40. At the same time, I was substitute teaching at Long Beach Junior High, which I had attended. It was strange to have lunch in the faculty dining room with teachers who had taught me. I could never call them by their first names.
    In June 1970, Janice and I were married. After a large, beautiful wedding, we left for a five-day honeymoon disaster in Puerto Rico. By “disaster” I mean that Janice got terribly sunburned (“Don’t touch me, it hurts”) and I caught on fire in a restaurant. The waiter was showing me the flaming lobster dish I’d ordered, and without my knowledge, the flaming sauce dribbled onto my