The Morning I Met Chris Farley
Fall came fast in 1997. Chris Farley, one of the funniest people on the planet, was riding high after dominating Saturday Night Live, starring in movies, and returning to SNL to host in late October. I was young, brash, ate everything, drank even more. Like Farley, I was also overweight. I’d get winded walking from the couch to the bathroom. No worries, though. When you’re young, you think you’re indestructible. While in Boston, I’d done four years of stand-up comedy, an indie film and a national commercial. I was ready for Hollywood to hand me a sitcom. Fame and fortune would be arriving at my doorstep any day soon!
I rubbed my tired eyes one dreary Friday morning, doing the same thing thousands of other LA comics were doing — filling up the bar dishwasher with detergent. I brandished my battle gear: a black polyester vest over a heavily starched white shirt, shiny gold star on my chest like a sheriff and dark jeans holding onto the stench from last night’s shift. Just another day at Houston’s steakhouse in Century City. But I wasn’t complaining. I’d recently been promoted to the glitzy main bar from service bar (the fiery bowels of hell). The main bar at Houston’s was heaven, attracting big tips and a constant deluge of stars. It also brought in lawyers, agents and regulars who, if treated right, paid your rent. And perks. When you control booze, you get stuff. Hook up the Lakers’ travel guy? Boom! Courtside seats to the Celtics game at Staples (Kobe hit a buzzer beater that night, refs waived it off, what a game). One time I popped into a Westside liquor store to buy a bottle of Ketel One. The clerk said, “Go ahead. Take it.” Confused at first, I quickly realized he was a semi-regular who recognized my face. Let’s just say whenever he came into the bar after that, he was treated kindly. I wasn’t rich and famous yet, but I was having a blast.
We were always slammed at the restaurant, so I made sure I was in “game shape.” The night before, I had a cheeseburger, four beers but no ketchup on the fries, and not even one shot of tequila. I called that “cutting back.” I toiled for five years at that shopping center restaurant across from the Steven Spielberg-owned joint shaped like a submarine. I probably should’ve saved some of the money I earned, but I wouldn’t trade those nights at the clubs for the world — seeing Hugh Hefner roll in surrounded by playmates, Clooney at a corner table, or bumping into Andy Dick everywhere. I loved seeing celebrities. At Houston’s, I’d see them almost every shift. I wanted to be one. Bobby Brown, first brusque when I dropped off his iced tea, gave me an enormous bear hug when I told him I was from his hometown. Shaq used to toss around $100 tips like they were candy. Halle Berry flashed a smile at table 44, a big piece of spinach stuck in her teeth. The sightings were so frequent and fleeting, you’d get numb to them. However, every once in a while, one would stick inside your heart forever.
On Fridays at 11:30am, the dining room would fill quickly, diners sucking down refill lemonades, devouring burgers and thin crust pizza, chewing pork ribs that melted off the bone. Once those seats were taken, next option was the first-come, first-seated, main bar, and a stressful game of musical chairs. Before the doors officially opened, a stampede of Pamplona bulls could rush into the place and I wouldn’t even look up. I was focused on my bar opening routine, on my knee, pressing the buttons to prep the dishwasher with cleaner and rinse aid. Hadn’t even filled the ice bins yet. Lemons and limes uncut. Then the front doors whooshed open. Two people shuffled in. “Ugh. People.” A year before, I was crushing a stand-up set in front of a crowd of 500 at Nick’s Comedy Stop. Now I had to deal with two jerks wanting veggie burgers. I heard their butts plop down at the bar in front of me. Before I even looked up, I smelled booze oozing out of their skin. I knew immediately, these people were not there for veggie burgers. I finally tilt my head up, when I see a face, round and red. It was Chris Farley, inches away. It was like looking into the sun. My first instinct was to burst out laughing. I distinctly remember a rush of happiness. Saturday Night Live was the reason I was kneeling on that bar floor in Los Angeles on that Friday morning. It was why a run-of-the-mill comic from Boston drove cross country to pursue an impossible dream. Eddie Murphy made me want to be a comedian. I’ve loved every cast since. Farley was extra special. In a comedy universe filled with sparkling stars, he was the sun. The moment of ecstasy faded in a heartbeat, as Chris pulled out a cigarette, and I snapped out of my daze. I gathered myself to take him in. His hair was disheveled. Suit rumpled. The woman, likewise. They obviously hadn’t slept the night before. Chris was truly one of my heroes. I wanted to tell him how bad he looked. That he needed to take care of himself. To grab him by the shoulders and say, “I love you, man.” But all I could muster was a feeble, “There’s no smoking here.” He politely put the cigarette away, replied, “What about Jack Daniels?” The woman looked hopeful, her mascara smeared around her sockets. I murmured, “I don’t have ice.” Disappointed, they stumbled out into the brightness of day. My stomach sank. The three line exchange, lasting probably only a minute or two, has remained seared into my memory ever since.
Few months later, I was cruising along Little Santa Monica Boulevard, not too far from Houston’s, when I heard the announcement on the radio. Chris had died. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Dumbstruck. It almost seemed inevitable, but that didn’t matter. It shook me to the core. He shined bright, and then he was gone. I drank less after that. Ate healthier. Eventually, I started jogging. Dropped forty pounds. Ran my first marathon in 2001. Quit Houston’s in ’02 to focus on my career. It’s doubtful I’ll ever become rich or famous, and honestly, I couldn’t care less about that now. There are far more important things in life. I’ve seen and worked with many celebrities since. Some leave strong impressions and some don’t, but I will never forget the morning I met Chris Farley.
