I’m staring into a sea of a thousand nameless faces. I’m as locked into a moment as I’ve ever been, but even still, none of their features stand out. One blob dissolves into another, row after row, section after section. Less than an hour has gone by since I learned that this show was happening. And now, here I was, standing on the stage of Symphony Hall. On my left side is Steve Martin. On my right is Martin Short.
How the fuck did I get here?
2019 was a huge year for me as a stand-up comedian. For the first time in my career, I was headlining comedy clubs all over the country. Riding the success of Roast Battle and America’s Got Talent, I finally had the credits to tour in the way that I had always dreamed. Some were quick weekends where I’d fly in on Friday and be out on Sunday. Easy as a drunk divorcee in Vegas.
This stretch of dates, however, was not so easy. My tour was 11 days total, completely on my own. Starting in LA, I’d fly to Massachusetts, then make my way down to Florida on planes, trains, shuttles, buses, car services. At one point I think a St. Bernard pulled me in a rickshaw from one gig to the next. Every day was: travel, check into a hotel, perform, sleep, repeat.
Was it fun? Of course. I love an adventure filled with unknowns.
It’s Wednesday night, the night before my tour officially starts. I’m in LA about to catch a redeye to the East Coast when I receive an email from the comedy club I’m playing first.
“Hey, Alex. We have to cancel tomorrow night’s show. There’s a huge event in town and ticket sales are low. We’ll still pay you, but you have the night off.”
To any normal person, this seems like a huge win. But I’m a comedian. I want the show as much as I want the money, maybe even more so. I love my work and the reason I’m on tour is so that I can rip up stages, feed off laughter, build a fan base, and continue to hone my chops. I’m not going to Springfield, MA for pleasure, and if you’re the type of person who is, please consult a therapist.
To say I’m bummed is an understatement. Here I am, about to start the most complicated tour I’ve ever put together, and my first night has already been canceled. Not exactly the magical omen I was hoping for. Now I’m not only nervous, I’m scared.
My fiance (girlfriend at the time, yay life!) helps me calm down. She assures me that I’ve done the work and everything else is the reward. Whatever happens, take it in and enjoy yourself. At this point, I have no other options. Beam me up, United. Captain’s ready, prepare to fly.
9 hours later I arrived in Hartford, CT. I’ve been told someone will be picking me up. As I grab my bag and head down the escalator toward the waiting area, I hear someone shout my name.
“Mr. Hooper!” Delightfully staring at me is a husky gentleman with soft eyes and a face as smooth as Frank Sinatra’s sultry voice. He’s holding an iPad with my name and photo. I’m exhausted, a little disoriented, but holy shit! This is rockstar status. He takes my luggage and leads me outside to a brand new Escalade, where I tumble into the backseat and immediately stretch my legs.
It was a 45-minute ride to the MGM casino that would be my home for the next three days. The driver had only been in the US for two years, relocating his entire family after the devastating earthquake in Puerto Rico. When he arrived in Springfield, he only spoke Spanish. Yet here we were, having a perfectly fluid conversation as if he had popped out of the womb with a hot dog in one hand and an American flag in the other. He told me about his daughters, his wife, and how he knew it would be difficult starting over in his 40’s but that didn’t matter. He wanted his family to have limitless opportunities. It was 7 AM and already I had met one of the most impressive humans I’d ever spoken to.
As we arrived at the hotel, a chipper young man was waiting to open the door and take me to reception. “Mr. Hooper! Welcome. You are an honored guest and everything you need this weekend is on us. Let’s take you to your suite.”
I’ve stayed in some gnarly situations while on the road. I’ve slept in my car in the middle of the woods. I’ve shared a couch with a dog that was covered in fleas. I’ve crashed in a child’s bedroom right after the wife took the kid in a divorce. Countless nights on filthy floors, using my hoodie as a pillow and trying my best to not roll around in whatever the hell is sticking to this tile.
The bellhop opened the door to my top-level room. As I walked in, I almost shit myself. Years of squalor, carnivorous insects, and newly fucked-on couches had all led to this. Exquisitely modern, effortlessly spacious, a rain-faucet shower, and no less than 10 pillows on a bed the size of the whole state. I had arrived.
My sorrows of my premier show being canceled weren’t destroyed completely, but thanks to my luxurious digs they had dwindled to a point of overt acceptance. Nothing I can do but enjoy myself. I’ll catch a movie and then eat dinner at the fancy Italian restaurant on the casino floor. This weekend was on the house, after all.
A huge part of touring as a comedian is learning to be comfortable on your own. Often a headliner will bring an opener, or friends will tour together, and I’ve been lucky enough to do both. But when you’re a newer comic, the money you’re offered isn’t enough to support bringing a buddy along. Hence, you’re often traveling by your lonesome. “Table for One” becomes a mantra that you repeat as often as “I’m going to the bathroom. Please don’t steal my shit.”
As I’m sucking down homemade gnocchi with a side of wallet-free lobster tail, I’m interrupted by four men that either just finished a round of golf or were looking to cheat on their wives. One of them says, “Hey, you’re the comedian! We have tickets to see you!”
I’m flattered to be recognized but quickly correct him.
“Not tonight you don't. It’s canceled.”
“No, Saturday. Tonight we are seeing Steve Martin and Martin Short.’
I practically choke on bolognese.
“What? Where?”
“Symphony Hall. Right up the street. Starts in fifteen minutes.”
I’m tired from travel. My belly is full of thick, creamy, thousand pound noodles. But when life throws you the ball, you have to shoot.
I inhaled the remainder of my rations and sprinted in the direction of the show. Most of the audience was already in but a few late stragglers were still pouring through the doors. I found one man, selling a single ticket.
“$125. Face Value.”
“Here’s 80. The show is starting in two minutes. No one else is buying that ticket.”
And just like that, a mere 20 minutes after I had learned about this show, I was now sitting in the audience waiting for it to begin. Kismet.
If you’ve never seen this show (you can watch it on Netflix), it’s essentially two of the greatest comedy minds of all time, who happen to be best friends, jovially ripping each other to pieces for an hour and a half. They sing songs, show old photos, do hilarious physical comedy, and roast one another in a way that only the greatest of mates could. The more you love, the harder you can go.
About thirty minutes into the show, they bring up the Three Amigos, the first film they starred in together. They ask for three volunteers to come on stage and perform the famous dance from the movie. Now having my stage taken away from me that night, my entire body is vibrating with this opportunity. Luckily their stagehand is looking toward my side of the theatre, and sure enough, I’m the first person he calls.
I encroach the stage, turning my enthusiastic skipping into walking so I wouldn't appear too excited. I’m cool. I got this. Out of the three they chose, I’m the first to arrive. Martin Short takes one look at me.
“Oh look, everyone, It’s Carrot Top’s sister! What’s your name?”
The audience loses it, as do I. I’ve heard variations of this before, but off the dome from Jiminy Glick, it has a whole new meaning.
“I’m Alex!” I announce way too loudly, trying to settle my nerves.
He responds sarcastically. “A little louder maybe, Alex. I don’t think they heard you in the back.”
I sing it this time, operatically. “I’m Aleeeeeeeeeeex.”
This gets a bizarrely huge, unexpected laugh from the crowd. Martin seems pleased that I’m playing along. He notices my attire, which couldn’t be more drab. A plain t-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers. I had not intended to leave the casino.
“Tell me, Alex, if this is what you wear to the theatre, what’s your bowling uniform?”
The crowd is eating it up. They know this is off the cuff, a special moment just for them. Steve Martin gives me a sombrero and they move on to ask the other volunteers a couple of questions. A few moments later, we are all on stage, in a perfect line, doing the Three Amigos dance. I kept staring out into the crowd as they cheered along, but mostly I just kept looking at the two icons on either side of me. This is absolutely maniacal. How the fuck did I get here???
As the song ended I went back to my seat, but I didn’t sit. I hovered above it, floating through an endless dream. I’m not sure if I ever sat down or if I spent the next hour suspended in mid-air, unable to touch the ground. My smile extended past my ears and into the other rows surrounding me. This was truly one of the most phenomenal moments of my life.
Later that night, I glided through the casino floor. Countless people stopped me to tell me how much they enjoyed my performance. It was bizarre, as though my show had never been canceled, only replaced by something so much more meaningful. Going to bed, it was almost impossible to tell if any of this was real. I do a lot of drugs, but I was stone-cold sober. This was indeed reality.
The next morning I was up at 5 AM. I had three radio interviews to bang out all over the city, so they sent a driver to chauffeur me around. The story made for incredible fodder with the hosts and it was one I was stoked to tell. At 8:30 I was finished, charged up on a ton of coffee, and full of energy from the night before. I decided to go for a run along the Connecticut River. I went six miles, further than usual, but with my previous night still giving me gas, I felt unstoppable.
After that, I headed down to the pool. Only one other couple was there, early thirties, gorgeous, with a one-year-old baby. I took one corner and started splashing around when the woman called out to me.
“Are you a burner?”
For the uninitiated, this means ‘have you been to Burning Man?” I figured my appearance had triggered this thought. My friend Jason Van Glass once touted in a roast battle, “You look like you went to Burning Man and never came back.” So I know this isn’t far-fetched. But also, this is Massachusetts. Far from the unforgiving playa of the greatest festival in the world.
“Your sticker on your water bottle says Black Rock City. We used to go, but you know, life.” She pointed to her baby. I instantly felt a kinship with these people. Burners are a huge, yet tight-knit community. When you meet others, it’s impossible to not feel a connection, especially when you are far from home. I was relieved and our chatter quickly turned from rhetorical banter to the dialogue of close friends.
They shared a weed vape as we all got stoned and spouted tales of how we all ended up in Springfield.
It's 11 AM and I've already lived a whole day. I’ve done radio, I’ve run, I’ve eaten, I’ve swum, I’ve made friends, I’m high. Time to go back to my room.
I get off the elevator on the sixth and final floor. As I’m stepping off, still beaming with delight, only one man is waiting to get on.
STEVE MARTIN, as dapper as you can imagine, adorned in a royal blue suit and a beige fedora. We lock eyes.
“Steve!”
“Hey, it’s you! Great job last night!”
“Thank you. I promise I’m not a creep but I’m getting back on this elevator with you.”
“OK” whimpers out of his mouth but I can tell there’s a slight concern in his voice.
I have 6 floors to make this count, so I begin.
“Steve, I have to tell you how I ended up at your show last night. I’m a comedian and I’m playing the comedy club in the casino all weekend. However last night, the first night of my tour, the show was canceled due to lack of sales.”
Steve chimed in, “I remember those days.”
I continue., “So I found out you guys were playing, scalped the only ticket that I could find, and ran over as fast as I could. Then in a miracle moment, I was called on stage with you and Martin. What started as a horrible evening turned into a bucket list night that I never even dreamt about.”
“Wow. That’s great. And whatever it means from me, I thought you were very funny and I hope the rest of your tour goes well.”
I stared into his eyes. On the outside, I kept my cool. On the inside, pure chaos. My heart had ceased beating. Every synapse in my brain was firing on all cylinders. Lightning was shooting out of every pore. I wasn’t sure if I was melting or exploding into a million pieces.
‘Steve, it means everything from you. Thank you.”
We had only one floor left to go. I reached for my phone to ask for a picture. But something inside me hesitated. In a flash of certainty, I knew I didn’t want to be that person. This moment was perfect. I would remember this as a pivotal night not just in my comedy career, but my life. I had been on stage with legends and this interaction proved that it was real. Steve Martin just told me I was funny. That was more important to me than any number of Instagram likes that picture would have warranted. I don’t need the photo. I have the memory, and that’s more than enough.
We said our goodbyes and he stepped off the elevator. I was too astonished (and way too high) to move. I stood there, replaying our conversation again and again. Had I paused time? Was the elevator stuck? Two minutes later someone else got on and I realized I had completely forgotten to push the button to go back to my floor.
One question I’ve been asked repeatedly when I tell this story is, “Why didn’t you roast them back?”
Trust me, I thought about it. Up close Martin Short looks like a candle who has been melted far beyond the wick. A mannequin who has been frozen in the middle of a botox injection. But I knew this wasn’t MY show. It was my job as a volunteer to make them look good, not to show them my comedic chops. If I had even tried to get in a zinger, the audience could have detested me. In this story, I’m not a comedian. I’m a lifelong fan who has the honor and privilege of being on stage with two of the best to ever do it.
And that, my friends, is a happy ending for me.