Free Almost Interesting by David Spade Page A

shouldn’t have been looking at. I needed a basic, reliable, gas-efficient, and boring car—not some tricked-out muscle car. So, going against my urge to buy a sweet pussy wagon like Greased Lightnin’, I decided on a boring, dark gray, two-door Honda Accord hatchback. It had good gas mileage and that’s about it. I did spring for the sunroof to make it a bit more of a pimp sled. And it was exactly $6,000 bucks. I called some woman and met her down at the Factor’s Deli on Pico Boulevard. I walked around the car, tire-kicked it a bit like I knew what I was doing . . . had her pop the hood . . . engine was there, check. We were on the right track. I then busted out an envelope with sixty crisp hundred-dollar bills, forked it over, and shook hands.
    I was now a proud Honda owner. I headed off to the Improv high as a kite, with a new car that I had just bought with money from a movie I had just made. Now I had a spot at the world-famous Improv. I had the L.A. thing down cold. After my set, I invited Tim Rose, who had also been on that night, to come out and check out my badass car, like he would be so amazed to see an ’83 Accord. As we were walking down the street, Tim started getting antsy, because we’d already been strolling for four or five minutes and no car. Then it dawned on me that my car was gone. It had been towed. Crap. I did the walk of shame back to the Improv and got on the pay phone. (Yes, folks, a pay phone. I know they are gross. In fact I think that’s how I got crabs five times in high school.) The tow yard then informed me that my car was not there.
    Holy fuck. It must have been stolen.
    I turned white.
    I’d had this goddamn car for just over an hour, and now it was gone. I had no insurance. I never even got to put it in reverse! I just sat there, staring into space, thinking, I just shot a movie for ten weeks and I’m exactly where I was the day before I left. I have no money. I have no car. I was embarrassed. And pissed off.
    I slinked off into the night, walking all the way back to my shitty futon in my shitty sublet studio apartment in the gay neighborhood that I didn’t know was gay. A few tears might have squirted out along the way. I know you all think of me as a hard-ass, a tough guy, and an amazing athlete in movies and on television, but this one got to me, folks. As if this town weren’t hard enough, it took my car just to bitch-slap me for having a few minutes when I felt things were going the right way. I’ve never gotten so much nothing for $6,000 dollars. I would have been better off running on the 405 freeway at noon, naked, and throwing all sixty hundred-dollar bills in the air. At least I would have gotten some press out of it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    LOSING MY HEAT
    S o what next? I was still broke. Running low on Top Ramen. With my pride empty, I went to see Bobcat Goldthwait. He was always nice to me and now I was there to abuse the friendship. I couldn’t ask the Funny Boys for more; they had already done enough. It was Bob’s turn to take on the burden of Spade. (Side note: There was this guy, Tim Rose, who I knew growing up in Arizona. He has a rich older brother, and right when I started doing stand-up in Arizona I made Tim’s brother this offer, even though I didn’t know him well . . . I told him that if he would cover a tiny apartment in L.A. and buy me a crappy car, he could have 15 percent of whatever I made for my whole career. I said I’d sign whatever he wanted. He didn’t take me up on this unbelievable deal. But he did call about five years ago and said he’d thought it over and he’d roll the dice with me now, and then asked what kind of shitty car I wanted.) By the way, most of you already know this but it’s very, very, very embarrassing to ask friends for money, even if it’s legit, and I’ve done it a lot. That’s why when people do it to me now I try to make it easier for them because I know how horrifying it is. Dana Carvey once told me he gets