I'm Dying Up Here: Heartbreak and High Times in Stand-Up Comedy's Golden Era by William Knoedelseder by William Knoedelseder

Author:William Knoedelseder [Knoedelseder, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

After much discussion, members of the executive committee decided to give Mitzi a few more days to think things over, and then, if she didn’t agree to begin paying for all performances in all her showrooms, they would throw up a picket line at the Sunset Store on Tuesday evening, March 27.

They didn’t announce the date, but it was no secret that the members had voted to back a strike, and when a lot of headliners and regulars failed to call in on Monday with their availability for the coming week, it was clear to everyone that something was about to happen.

The potluck auditions at Sunset went on without incident on Monday night, and on Tuesday morning, the Hollywood Reporter ran an unattributed, two-sentence item saying the strike would begin at 6:00 p.m. that day. Early Tuesday afternoon, comics began gather-1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 191

I’m Dying Up Here

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ing at Dreesen’s house, eventually numbering between twenty-five and thirty, the committed, working core of the CFC. They went down the checklist: Pickets were scheduled in round-the-clock shifts; the signs were ready to be handed out; arrangements had been made for feeding and watering the line; megaphones and um-brellas had been donated. Everything was set. The foot soldiers were just waiting for the word.

They all crowded into Dreesen’s den as he picked up the phone and called Shore to give her one last shot at avoiding the strike.

“Mitzi, it’s Tom Dreesen, and I’m here in a meeting with the CFC membership.”

She said nothing, just listened.

“They’ve voted to call a strike starting this evening if you don’t agree to pay in all the rooms.”

There was a brief silence, and then she said flatly, coldly, “Not

. . . one . . . red . . . fucking . . . cent.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that, a statement so sure to inflame.

“Mitzi,” he said, “they are all here with me, and I have to tell them what you say. Do you really want me to repeat that to them?”

She said it again, in the same cadence and tone: “Not . . . one

. . . red . . . fucking . . . cent.”

He sighed, shrugged, and addressed the group. “She says, and I quote, ‘Not one red fucking cent.’” He watched as it registered on their faces—surprise at first, then anger—and held the phone out so that she could hear as they started to chant, “Strike . . . strike . . .

strike!”

“I’m sorry, Mitzi,” he said into the receiver. “We never wanted it to come to this.” He couldn’t tell if she was still on the line because the chanting was louder now and accompanied by foot stomping and pounding on tabletops and seat cushions.

“Strike . . . strike . . . strike!”

When the frenzy died down, the realization hit them like a bucket of cold water in the face: This was really going to happen.

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They were

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