Free Maybe We'll Have You Back: The Life of a Perennial TV Guest Star by Fred Stoller, Ray Romano Page A

You’ll be great. Call me and let me know how it goes.”
    I felt a little something like the battered spouse who comes back to the abusive ex. I rationalized that I had done dozens of auditions and gotten Lenny on my own, so what’s the big deal if I needed this little boost?
    She took me back in and didn’t openly chide me for leaving her, though I did notice a slight smirk on her face. But her coaching on my Amen scene assured me that I’d never break my vow again. She was way, way off. They’d cast me because I was a wimp, and she misread the part as if I were supposed to be a thug. Claudette had instructed me to act with menacing, powerful authority. “Show them who you are!”
    The table read seemed to go okay, and the writers seemed to be in a good mood as they headed off to their offices to make minor adjustments based on the reading. It didn’t appear they’d have to spend many hours tweaking the script into better shape. Amen was a show that just had to stay above the radar and last long enough to produce the hundred or so episodes needed to reach syndication. But as I made my way to the food table, Don Gibb, the actor portraying Cashmere, my crazy biker brother, pulled me aside. Gibb, a big, bushy-haired guy with a lazy eye who looked like a WWF villain, is best known for his role as the bully in the Revenge of the Nerds movies. He looked at me intently with that one eye of his.
    “What did you do, man? What were you doing there?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’ve seen your act. You should just be yourself. You’re so funny. You were being too big for the part. Drop it down a notch, man. Do what you do at the clubs.”
    I couldn’t believe it. This guy, whose signature piece was pounding his chest as he snarled and convulsed while screaming, “Nerds! I hate Nerds!” was telling me I was playing something too big. But he was right, and I felt like a fool telling him why I took it in that over-the-top direction. I suppose if Claudette had told me that it was as simple as Don Gibb told me it was, she wouldn’t be getting my checks.
    “Be yourself. The acting comes out in the lines. Just say them. It’s not science. You’re funny. You shouldn’t have to push it ever.”
    I almost wanted to take out my wallet and give him all the cash I had on me for finally curing me of Claudette.
    At rehearsals, the producers echoed his thoughts in a very calm, reassuring way. They were not panicked at all. They also told me to be myself, to be deadpan like my act. It felt great throwing out my sides that were covered with all of her over-the-top instructions.
    As the week progressed, I started to enjoy myself, after all, I was playing a version of my stand-up persona.
    “You better listen to me,” I told Helmsley, “because I drank milk that expired yesterday! And I went to a deli and ate an apple right there without washing it first!” After that scene, Sherman Hemsley would point his finger at me, laugh heartily, and say, “You’re funny. You are a funny man!”
    At the time, I wasn’t aware of how rare it was to be actually saying some of my own words on a sitcom. Usually, the material you’re handed each day is pretty set in stone. The actors, especially the guest actors, aren’t encouraged to stray from what’s on the page. Script supervisors read the text at the taping and rehearsals to make sure every word is being said exactly the way it’s supposed to be said in the script. They’ll run up to you after a take is over and show you their script if you are a little bit off. Some shows are so strict, the script supervisor will point out if you missed an “um” or if you said “okay” instead of “all right.”
    Lunchtime came after our first day of rehearsal and I headed toward the door. Roz Ryan, who played the loquacious member of the church board, was on line with several of her other fellow cast members. “Where you going, motorcycle man?” she asked.
    “To the commissary