Originally published at www.SheckyMagazine.com

WORKING THE DOOR
by Rusty Ward

Of all the things I've done to make headway onto the overcrowded stage of comedy few have proved more memorable than working the door of a comedy club. For those not familiar with the concept, this is where a comedian offers their services in regards to a myriad of club running functions, the most basic of these being collecting money at the door. At a full time club however, these responsibilities are greatly broadened. Often working the door melts into other club running roles, such as waiter, busboy, light and sound technician, janitor, telephone operator, personal secretary, gopher, good cop, bad cop, hostage negotiator and eventually reluctant bouncer. In order to justify this cornucopia of activity I was granted the title of manager. I found the title to be some form of ironic joke because the only thing I seemed to manage was to keep from stabbing someone in the neck with a comment card pencil. The experiences, however frustrating they may have been, were rarely boring.

There are a number of different club employees that can be best divided into two halves, the public face and the office employees. Those most readily seen are the general manager, assistant manager, bartender, waitresses, host, and a number of others that run between the bar and the showroom performing various tasks. Those behind the scene are in the office, assisting the owner, manning the phones, working to book the shows every night and at the same time fill the room with audience members for those shows. At the bottom of the comedy club food chain is the comic/employee. Whether his title is manager, assistant, office employee or club jerk-off, it all comes down to the fact that the unestablished comic is neutered the moment he steps through the front door.

This is because the two roles of comic and club employee are diametrically opposed to each other. The comedian is there to make a good impression in the hope of obtaining stage time and a regular spot on the club roster. While performing there at the club the comic hopes to be seen by some industry or other fellow comics that might help further his career. As an employee the main priority is to see that the show runs smoothly and the club remains relatively undisrupted so that the audience can relax, laugh and most importantly spend money on over-priced alcoholic beverages. As an employee the very people that have to be shut up and calmed down are the very same people, that as a comic, you're looking to make a good impression upon. When the bottom feeder manager tries to pretend he owns the place by obnoxiously holding court right outside the showroom or the egomaniac comic is bitching about their spot in the line-up by reminding you at the top of their lungs that they had a sitcom seven years ago that lasted three episodes it's the comic/employee that has to tell them to shut up. This creates a conflict of interest because no matter how low on the totem pole that manager or comic might be he's still someone that a starting comic doesn't want to piss off.

So why would a comic put up with that much hassle and take that kind of risk? Because the pay is unbelievable. The checks are always five digits long and the cash just keeps pouring in. I was swimming in a pool of money with a thousand dollar hooker on each arm. Then I woke up to the hazy reality that there are far too many desperate comics willing to work for nothing. The commodity is stage time. That's what most starting comics are looking for more than anything. There are plenty of stages in NY, but getting up on the ones that have a crowd in front of them takes hustling, a lot of hustling. Most comics don't want to put that effort forth. Many of them don't have the talent to convince show producers to rebook them. Some find it easier to man the phones at a club a few hours a week, or sacrifice one of their nights in exchange for one or two spots at the club. Whenever a comic/employee was asked to do something he considers beneath him, whenever he is asked to compromise his already weakened sense of morality, the bartering tool was always stage time.

I was already getting plenty of stage time. I accepted the position because I was looking for exposure. I wanted more than Hell's Kitchen dive bars and Village open mikes. I was looking to be discovered and thought this was the place it could happen. I was ready for the packed crowds and prime-time spots so I could stand with the best of them and show them what I had, but the big crowds and packed houses were still slightly out of my reach. The prime-time slots weren't for the door man. I was the pre-show all-star. The late night regular. It was an incredibly esteemed position. It's difficult not to swell with pride when you step to the stage during the tail end of a three hour show and an audience member yells, "Hey, that's our waiter!"

As I hung around, the club did do right by me. They gave me more spots, better spots and even a handful of showcase spots. But the stage time a club offers can be a double-edged sword. While I was getting so much stage time there I had lost touch with some of the other people and connections I had made elsewhere in the city. The most significant change I noticed was the volume of new material I was writing, which was slim to none, and after a few more weeks slim had packed his bags and left town. Every night I performed at the club I was forever aware of the video camera transmitting my set into the office or that shadow that just stepped into the showroom that may or may not be someone important. I was never comfortable performing new material and if I wasn't performing any new material eventually I wasn't writing any new material.

After four months I felt it was time for me to leave. I had a firm sense of the advantages and disadvantages of working for the club as a comic/employee and felt the stress and hassle of being a manager there outweighed the benefits. The stress was an inherent part of the job which stemmed from the fact that there was only one stage and there were far too many people fighting for the spotlight. Like piranha devouring a leg of lamb, the comics often sunk their teeth into one another in an attempt to skin the last piece of meat from the bone. The problem is that the concept of the comic/employee is a faulty one. The stage should be earned through quality of performance, not because someone mans a phone or busses a table. The reason it's done is obvious. It's a plentiful source of free labor. At some point though, a club becomes grid-locked. There was a time in comedy when a comic would come to a club, audition, and if they were funny, come back and perform again. Today clubs are filled with pre-shows made up of doormen and office employees followed by primetime bringer shows put together by amateur producers. The rosters are packed so tight that when someone funny does come along, there's no room, unless of course you’re willing to man a phone or bus a table. Then they can always find a way to squeeze you in.

I had made my mark and let people know that I was funny. There was very little else I could do there. Something I learned very quickly was that you could only stay a comic/employee for so long before you were just considered an employee. The longer you stayed and the harder you worked the less respect you were shown. The politics of comedy is just like the politics of anything else. You can only be a loyal servant for so long before your face begins to read sucker. I gave notice and went back to performing at both my old haunts and some new haunts, knowing that the club wasn't going anywhere. In time I'd be able to return, not as a comic/employee, but as just a comic.