Black Is The New White Part 10

"You sure you want to do this, man?" I ask Richard.

"Don't worry," he says. "I can make it funny. They're going to hire me to play Black Bart. It's the lead!"

Richard throws his heart and soul into it. I've never seen him more focused. He goes off every day, on time, and works in Brooks's office. Mel's got two other writers, Norman Steinberg and Alan Uger, who did work on the TV show The Corner Bar. The Corner Bar.

But Richard is the king s.h.i.+t in that group. They change the t.i.tle of the movie to Black Bart, Black Bart, then to then to Blazing Saddles Blazing Saddles. Richard writes killer dialog.

Bart: Mornin', ma'am. And isn't it a lovely mornin'?

Old woman: Up yours, n.i.g.g.e.r.

He comes up with the scene where Black Bart takes himself hostage.

Bart [ [pointing his own gun to his head]: Hold it! Next man makes a move, the n.i.g.g.e.r gets it!Olson: Hold it, men. He's not bluffing.Doctor: Listen to him, men. He's just crazy enough to do it!Bart: Drop it! Or I swear I'll blow this n.i.g.g.e.r's head all over this town! [in a prissy Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind accent accent] Oh, lordy, lord, he's des'prit! Do what he say, do what he say!

And he writes the most memorable scene in the movie, where the cowboys sit around the fire, cutting farts.

This last one is too much for Warner Bros. It's the funniest scene in the movie, the one everyone remembers, and Warner Bros. insists that Brooks change it. Mel insists the scene stays as written.

He wins that battle, but loses the war. Warner Bros. won't let him hire Richard for the lead. This is a character the man created, and the studio refuses to let him play it.

The suits don't like Richard. He's got a reputation as unreliable, for being a doper and a drinker. But that's just their excuse. The real reason they don't like him is because he makes them uneasy.

Who do they hire instead? Cleavon Little. He's another actor from Cotton Comes to Harlem Cotton Comes to Harlem. Richard knows him. They work together on a Mod Squad Mod Squad episode, "The Connection." Cleavon is a good Negro, clean-cut and articulate. Above all, he's episode, "The Connection." Cleavon is a good Negro, clean-cut and articulate. Above all, he's safe safe.

I'll give you a dollar if you can name another Cleavon Little picture off the top of your head. His career goes nowhere after Blazing Saddles Blazing Saddles. He finishes up as a TV actor. He's fine, he's okay, but he's not a genius.

On the other hand, can you picture Blazing Saddles Blazing Saddles with Richard Pryor as the lead? Ridiculous, right? It'd be the bomb. It'd rank as the funniest comedy of all time. Richard could do something with Black Bart that Cleavon Little could never do. He could make the character dangerous as well as hilarious. with Richard Pryor as the lead? Ridiculous, right? It'd be the bomb. It'd rank as the funniest comedy of all time. Richard could do something with Black Bart that Cleavon Little could never do. He could make the character dangerous as well as hilarious.

Maybe that's the real reason why Warner Bros. denies Richard the part. The studio bra.s.s are threatened by him. White folks are always threatened by black men who don't bow and sc.r.a.pe in front of them. Once again, racism trumps capitalism. Warner Bros. misses out on millions of dollars in stockholder profits because the executives are ruled by their prejudices instead of their brains. Serves them right.

Losing the role cuts Richard off at the knees. I see him go through all the stages of grief. He denies the fact that he's not getting Black Bart, he rages, he bargains, he gets depressed. "f.u.c.k Hollywood" becomes his mantra. Richard chills his friends.h.i.+p with Cleavon Little and bad-mouths Mel Brooks for promising him the part to begin with. He's devastated and thoroughly disgusted. He wins a Writers Guild of America Award for the Blazing Saddles Blazing Saddles screenplay, but that's just like rubbing salt on his wound. It takes him a full two years to get over his disappointment. screenplay, but that's just like rubbing salt on his wound. It takes him a full two years to get over his disappointment.

Once again, stand-up saves him.

"You better get back onstage," I tell him.

"f.u.c.k Hollywood," he says. His automatic answer to everything.

"All right, you don't have to work in L.A. Go back to Berkeley again, do a show up there," I say. "Do something, man, don't just sit around and mope."

"f.u.c.k you, too," Richard says. He's stuffing his face with the gross national product of Bolivia. Cocaine is like the full moon for Richard. It brings out his werewolf.

And a werewolf always attacks those nearest to him first. When the dope and alcohol crank up, I know enough to leave. I see a pentagram glowing on Richard's forehead, and that's my cue to bolt.

But he takes my advice. We go up to San Francisco, and he records a show in front of one of Don Cornelius's Soul Train Soul Train audiences. He does a riff about a wino confronting Dracula: audiences. He does a riff about a wino confronting Dracula: Where you from, fool? Transylvania? I know where it is, n.i.g.g.e.r! You ain't the smartest motherf.u.c.ker in the world, you know. Even though you is the ugliest. Oh, yeah, you an ugly motherf.u.c.ker. Why don't you get your teeth fixed, n.i.g.g.e.r? That s.h.i.+t hanging all out of your mouth. Why don't you go to an orthodontist? That's a dentist, you know.

I know what this riff is all about. It's Richard talking back to Hollywood. The street-smart folk wisdom of the wino, confronting the white world, confronting film executives. The whole bloodsucking bunch of them. He's showing how much smarter he is than they are. He's showing that he's not afraid of them. Wino on Dracula, black on white, ghetto street on executive suite.

Richard decides to name the alb.u.m after a phrase we say all the time: "That n.i.g.g.e.r's crazy!" When some fool is kung fu dancing on the floor at Maverick's, we cackle to each other and say, "That n.i.g.g.e.r's crazy!" We say it about Redd Foxx, about Flip Wilson and Billy Dee Williams and Marlon Brando, about anybody we d.a.m.n well please.

Richard takes the phrase and applies it to himself. His alb.u.m That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy blows up huge. It's everywhere. In South Central, in Inglewood and Compton, we hear it coming out of house stereos as we drive by. People put it on tape and listen in their cars and boom boxes. And it ain't just black folks. It's a ma.s.sive crossover hit. blows up huge. It's everywhere. In South Central, in Inglewood and Compton, we hear it coming out of house stereos as we drive by. People put it on tape and listen in their cars and boom boxes. And it ain't just black folks. It's a ma.s.sive crossover hit.

Richard's record company, Stax, goes out of business just as That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy is released; people can't even buy it, and the alb.u.m still blows up huge. Richard just switches labels and brings it out on Reprise. He makes so much money that he can finally afford his c.o.ke habit. is released; people can't even buy it, and the alb.u.m still blows up huge. Richard just switches labels and brings it out on Reprise. He makes so much money that he can finally afford his c.o.ke habit.

He's a superstar. But he's not totally happy, because what he really wants is to make it as a movie star. He's broken out, though, and That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy wins him a Grammy for Best Comedy Alb.u.m. wins him a Grammy for Best Comedy Alb.u.m.

For all Richard's success, I never feel a shred of envy or anything like that. Something in my character doesn't allow me to be jealous of anybody else. It's Mama's gift again. I have too much fun being me. And I have fun stepping on the Celebrity Express with Richard.

It's wild. I have the best of both worlds. I get to go to clubs and concerts and parties with Richard, but I don't have to feel all the stresses and strains that make him Hoover up lines of c.o.ke and suck down fifths of Smirnoff every single waking second.

Plus we always crack each other up. No matter how strung out or high or f.u.c.ked up or sick Richard gets, he never loses his sense of humor. I have never encountered anyone like him. He can be raging, screaming at this or that woman, or this or that Hollywood executive, and if I drop a line that tickles him, he turns on a dime. That laugh redeems all.

I go with him to Las Vegas, and they give us a huge suite. It's like a castle. I go in, and as we head to our bedrooms, I say in a heavy German accent, "Good night, Dr. Frankenstein!" Richard cracks up. Our favorite riff.

Clubs and concerts and parties and casinos-and yachts. This is the period when we find ourselves on a yacht Richard rented, anch.o.r.ed out in Santa Monica Bay. Way off to the east are the lights of Los Angeles. The barking of the seals on the Channel Islands sounds across the water. And there's a clutch of pretty people on the boat.

One of the pretty people is a very pretty twenty-three-year-old girl who sits on Richard's lap. In her bikini, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s look like two puppies trying to crawl out from behind a pair of eighteen-cent postage stamps. Richard is the cat with nine lives. He was born lucky, with a horseshoe stuck up his a.s.s.

Earlier that evening, Richard opens the yacht's safe to show us the million dollars in cash that he keeps there. Just a little sailing-around money in his yacht safe.

We sit around on deck and listen to the seals. "What are you thinking, Mr. Mooney?" Richard asks me.

"What are you you thinking?" I say back to him. thinking?" I say back to him.

"I'm thinking this young girl here is going to f.u.c.k me to death," he says.

I say, "Well, I'm thinking about how I can get that million dollars that's in the safe, sink this boat with all you on it, and get away-and G.o.dd.a.m.n if I can swim."

Richard laughs so hard he dumps the puppy girl off his lap. We just look at each other and howl. We done stepped into some deep, deep s.h.i.+t.

Life is beautiful.

CHAPTER 20.

Lorne Michaels wants Richard Pryor. Needs him. Has to have him. Richard Pryor wants Paul Mooney. Without Paul Mooney, Lorne Michaels can't have Richard Pryor.

Lorne Michaels is the executive producer of Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live. NBC's late-night ensemble sketch show is in its first season, back when it's called just Sat.u.r.day Night, Sat.u.r.day Night, because sportscaster Howard Cosell already has a show named because sportscaster Howard Cosell already has a show named Sat.u.r.day Night Live. Sat.u.r.day Night Live.

Lorne's show hasn't broken out yet. No one's watching. n.o.body knows who the f.u.c.k John Belus.h.i.+ is, or Chevy Chase, Gilda Radner, Dan Aykroyd, or any of the other cast members.

Because he worked with Richard on the Lily Tomlin special, Lorne knows that the surest way to light a fire under his ratings is to get Richard to guest-host. Richard is hotter than a pistol. That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy is taking over the world. is taking over the world.

Richard plays hard to get. He doesn't much like Lorne Michaels. He lays down conditions: I want to bring in my own writers. I want to bring in Sh.e.l.ley, my ex-wife, to do a cameo. I want this. I want that. Lorne keeps saying "okay," but then he doesn't do anything. So Richard blows him off.

Richard's on tour, playing a jai alai arena in Miami, when Lorne and his NBC execs fly down to woo him. Richard tells them he wants black writers on the show.

"I don't want white people putting words into my mouth," he says. "I don't get Paul, you don't get me."

Lorne flies me out to meet with them all in Miami. I go into the green room at the jai alai arena and they are all sitting there, Lorne Michaels and his NBC suits. They cross-examine me.

How long have you been writing?

Since your mama aborted you, motherf.u.c.ker.

How long have you been doing comedy?

Since your daddy sold your mama's p.u.s.s.y on the street corner, b.i.t.c.h.

All right, so I don't say anything that b.a.l.l.s-out nasty. But I am p.i.s.sed. What is this? It is like I am in Mississippi, with a bright light s.h.i.+ning in my face, having to pa.s.s a literacy test to be able to vote. "f.u.c.k you and everybody who looks like you," I want to say.

The NBC execs are not used to dealing with black writ-ers-not black writers with power, black writers with leverage over them. They dither. They ask me more questions. They smile and smile. But I see the horns and forked tongues that Richard always sees.

I think about all my nights at the Store and Ye Little Club, I think about Maverick's Flat and Redd Foxx's, I think about the circus and Joe and Eddie and Dance Party Dance Party and and Sanford Sanford and Son and Son and all my other gigs stretching back to infinity. I've paid my dues. Have you, motherf.u.c.kers? and all my other gigs stretching back to infinity. I've paid my dues. Have you, motherf.u.c.kers?

But I am calm. I know that Lorne doesn't have any choice. He wants his show to succeed. He wants the hottest comic in the country to appear on Sat.u.r.day Night Sat.u.r.day Night. George Carlin didn't do it for him, or Paul Simon, Robert Klein, Lily Tomlin, or any of the other people he's had in to guest-host.

Lorne has to have Richard. I go into these ridiculous meetings knowing I'm going to get hired. We're in New York at the NBC Studios in Rockefeller Center a month later.

After all the posturing with the suits-like some cons facing off in the yard of San Quentin or something-Richard and I fit right in with the Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live crew. Richard immediately strikes up a friends.h.i.+p with John Belus.h.i.+. They bond as drug buddies. crew. Richard immediately strikes up a friends.h.i.+p with John Belus.h.i.+. They bond as drug buddies.

The set is nothing but a crackhouse. Weed and heroin and pills. Plus plenty of Richard's favorite, cocaine.

The other writers start off by calling Richard "d.i.c.k Pryor." I know Richard. "d.i.c.k" reminds him of the early days, when n.o.body respected him. I know that I can call him that (though I almost never do), maybe Jim Brown and a few other people can call him that, but out of anyone else's mouth it feels like they're talking down to him. He sets them straight. I guess this scares Michael O'Donoghue, the show's head writer. We don't see him again for the whole week.

Garrett Morris, the token Negro in the ensemble, isn't in any of the sketches we work on. I think, Why not? Is there a quota in place? Why not? Is there a quota in place? Richard and I both secretly regard Morris as a perfect Negro, specializing in clownish comedy. He doesn't seem to be a part of the ensemble, like he's some separate but equal cast member. Richard and I both secretly regard Morris as a perfect Negro, specializing in clownish comedy. He doesn't seem to be a part of the ensemble, like he's some separate but equal cast member.

When Richard hears NBC has put a seven-second delay in place for just this show, he blows up. None of the other hosts get this restriction, just Richard. It's c.r.a.p. It's demeaning. But it's in their nature. Anything the white man can do to control a black man, they will do.

During rehearsals-whenever he manages to show up at them and is not boycotting the show in a funk-Richard unleashes a string of "motherf.u.c.ker's" and "n.i.g.g.e.r's" in his act. Lorne freaks out. The other members of the cast are mostly too stoned to follow the battles being waged right underneath their c.o.ke-encrusted noses.

Except for Chevy Chase. He keeps sending emissaries to me, script a.s.sistants and staff writers. They ask meekly, "Could you please write something for Chevy and Richard?" He arranges for Lorne to sit down with me and plead his case. Toward the end of the week, as the Sat.u.r.day show time approaches, he starts following me around himself, like a lamb after Bo Peep.

"Richard hates me, doesn't he?" Chevy asks me.

"He doesn't hate you," I say, even though I know Richard does indeed despise Chevy.

Chevy's not convinced. He goes off muttering to himself. "Richard hates me, Richard hates me, Richard hates me." Like it's his mantra or something.

Soon enough he's back tugging on my sleeve. "Write something for us, will you?" he pleads. "I have to get some air time with Richard."

Finally, in the early afternoon on Thursday, I hand Lorne a sheet of paper.

"What's this?"

"You've all been asking me to put Chevy and Richard together," I say.

After all the bulls.h.i.+t I've been put through to get here, the f.u.c.king cross-examination Lorne subjects me to, I decide to do a job interview of my own.

Chevy's the boss, interviewing Richard for a janitor's job. The white personnel interviewer suggests they do some word a.s.sociation, so he can test if the black man's fit to employ. He kicks it off: Chevy Chase: White. White.

Richard: Black. Black.Chase: Bean. Bean.

Richard: Pod. Pod.Chase: Negro. Negro.

Richard: Whitey. Whitey.Chase: Tar baby. Tar baby.

Richard [miffed]: What did you say? [miffed]: What did you say?Chase: Tar baby. Tar baby.

Richard: Ofay. Ofay.Chase: Colored. Colored.

Richard [bringing it]: Redneck! [bringing it]: Redneck!Chase: Jungle bunny! Jungle bunny!

Richard: p.e.c.k.e.rwood! p.e.c.k.e.rwood!Chase: Burrhead! Burrhead!

Richard: Cracker. Cracker.Chase: Spearchucker. Spearchucker.

Richard: White tras.h.!.+ White tras.h.!.+Chase: Jungle bunny! Jungle bunny!

Richard: Honky! Honky!Chase: Spade! Spade!

Richard: Honky! Honky! Honky! Honky!Chase: n.i.g.g.e.r! n.i.g.g.e.r!

Richard: Dead honky! honky!

Easiest sketch I ever write. All I do is bring out what is going on beneath the surface of that interview with Lorne and the NBC execs in the jai alai green room.

Meanwhile, I am monitoring Richard's drug intake. He's getting more and more cranked the closer we get to show-time. The whole cast is. I know the werewolf is going to come out, and I don't want to be collateral damage, so I get the f.u.c.k out of there and head back to California.

That Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 1975, the bit kills when Richard and Chevy do it in front of the live studio audience. Even watching it on television, I can hear gasps and hollers in between the panicked laughter.

Richard's appearance puts Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live on the map. It's a huge event, a water-cooler kind of success. Gil Scott-Heron does a great rendition of his antiapartheid anthem, "Johannesburg." on the map. It's a huge event, a water-cooler kind of success. Gil Scott-Heron does a great rendition of his antiapartheid anthem, "Johannesburg."

There are other bits, other sketches. We open the show with a plant in the audience standing up and saying, "I know who killed Kennedy!" Then, BANG!-a gunshot rings out, he drops dead, and we segue into Chevy Chase: "Live from New York, it's Sat.u.r.day Night! Sat.u.r.day Night!" In another skit, Dan Aykroyd sees his whole family turn black on him.

For all the upheaval beforehand, the show actually appears smooth and tight. It's a miracle. NBC is stunned when they see that the rerun of the show the next spring actually scores a higher rating than the original. Word of mouth is that good.

But it's the job interview sketch that everyone talks about. It attains the status of comedy cla.s.sic. It's like an H-bomb that Richard and I toss into America's consciousness. All that s.h.i.+t going on behind closed doors is now out in the open. There's no putting the genie back in the bottle.

The N N-word as a weapon, turned back against those who use it, has been born on national TV. Together with That That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy and his concert tour, Richard's and his concert tour, Richard's Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live guest-hosting appearance lends his career a terrifying kind of energy. guest-hosting appearance lends his career a terrifying kind of energy.

The boulder is rolling now. Bouncing downhill, smas.h.i.+ng everything in its way. The Richard Pryor Celebrity Express picks up speed and momentum. I figure I have to make sure I do only two things. One, figure out some way to push it so that it gets going even faster. Two, avoid getting run over.