During that glorious period of my life when I was mooching off my girlfriend, Maddie, there were inglorious bouts with something I've come to derisively call "employment."
One such lapse was my working as a chauffeur. The job was mostly nerve-wracking, as the general motoring public tends to go "Oh look! A limo!" and lurch toward the object of their focus. One might think I met a lot of celebrities, but for the most part I met frat boys who puked in the car and young newlyweds who forgot to tip.
There were two exceptions. I spent the longest day of my life with Miss Ohio, who, it turns out, is endlessly victimized by her own beauty. And then there was the gig for which I volunteered.
Maddie and I were huge stand-up comedy fans. We recorded Carson and Letterman every night, then watched them the next night over dinner. Among our favorite comics was one Jerry Seinfeld, who, low and behold, was playing Columbus that weekend. I asked for the job. No one contested. No one knew who he was.
And thus did I spend my weekend with Jerry Seinfeld, trying in vain to lug his luggage (he refused) and open his door (ditto). Instead, we talked. I broke the ice while hurtling down the interstate. I told him my girlfriend and I had caught his act for years. "She thinks you're really cute," I growled and hit the door locks. "Kinda ironic, don't you think?"
We talked about traveling, about relationships, about celebrity. Mostly, we talked about stand-up. I caught his act twice, and afterward he grilled me about what worked and what didn't. I was amazed by how seriously he analyzed the comedic craft, with a stranger no less. You'd expect there to have been more joy in it, that maybe he would tell me about the sister or girlfriend who inspired his "cotton balls" routine. But no. He was a pleasant, serious professional.
He told me about the pilot he was making for NBC, but he clearly didn't expect much to come from it. It would be called "The Seinfeld Chronicles," and it would answer the question he's asked most often: "where do you get the ideas for your jokes?" The show would, of course, go on to lose both this premise and two words from its title.
Afterward I bragged endlessly to Maddie, who wanted to throttle me, and to friends, who had no idea who this guy was. In 1996, when I reconnected with one such friend, I reminded her of the time she was unimpressed with my celebrity weekend. She remembered, rolling her eyes a bit.
"That was Jerry Seinfeld," I said.
She plotzed.
18 months later, my ex-boss, the owner of the limo company, called me.
"DID YOU SEE WHAT SEINFELD IS ABOUT THIS WEEK?" he said. No, I hadn't. "The entire episode takes place in a limo! I wonder if you'll be in it?"
I wasn't. But I'll tell you this much: that was among the the longest six days of my life. Miss Ohio had nothing on Seinfeld.