Delta 1701, LAX to ATL, 9:06 a.m.
When I spotted XXXL comedian Bruce Bruce at the gate in Los Angeles, I did what I almost always do when I see a celebrity. I think, Oh, there’s that person I recognize. I’m not going to do anything about it. I really hate bothering people, and unless I see an opening that will aggravate minimally, I don’t say shit to anyone. I should mention that my wife and I were both on this flight, but only I was upgraded to first class. I could have done a few things here: tell the airline I don’t want my upgrade as I’d rather sit in coach next to my wife (nope!) or give my upgrade to my wife. What I did do was offer the upgrade to her, but she insisted that I enjoy it (later, she would give me shit about not coming back enough to check on her, but that’s another story!).
When I got to my seat and noticed Bruce Bruce was seated directly across the aisle from me, I took it as a sign that I should say something. Bruce Bruce is a killer. In the world of stand-up comedy, that’s a good thing. You want people to refer to you as one, and I was certain I was sitting next to one. I’d been familiar with him for years from his time on BET and numerous other TV appearances. He was a staple at all the big-time comedy clubs, always selling out shows and getting rave reviews. You can look him up online or, better yet, go to a show. The guy murders. I introduced myself and told him that I was also a comic. As terrible as some comics are when it comes to personality and character, 99 percent have an opening in their hearts, however brief, for kindness, decency, perhaps just a moment of graciousness when someone else mentions that they too are a comic. It’s a fraternity. No matter what you’re doing, if a stranger approaches and says, “I’m a comic,” you stop, say hello, and perhaps buy them a drink or more. When I said I was a comic to Bruce Bruce, I saw the switch flip. He lit up. Immediately we started sharing stories of shows, our favorite cities, comics, and places to eat. It was everything I could have wanted in that moment.
“We are going to be delayed while mechanics address a light displayed during routine preflight checks. You can get off the plane if you’d like; just bring your boarding pass with you,” the flight attendant announced on a five-times-louder-than-necessary PA system. Normally, that’s the worst thing you can hear, but I was lost in conversation with the great Bruce Times Two. I suppose I could have used this time to tell Bruce I needed to go back and check on my wife and see if she wanted to get off the plane, but this was way more fun than doing that.
As our chat continued, people began taking the flight attendant’s offer and leaving the plane. One passenger who was making her way up the aisle to deboard stopped right in between Bruce and me and asked with what appeared to be a familiar tone, “Is there anything you want or need?”
Bruce thought for a beat. “Candy.”
“Candy?” She seemed to be looking for some direction.
“Twix, Skittles, shit like that.”
She nodded and walked off. “Who is that?” I assumed it was his assistant, but he shook his head. “I don’t know.” This was a level of fame I was yet unfamiliar with. “Are strangers buying you candy?” My voice raised higher than normal because I was genuinely impressed. He smiled and nodded proudly. Unreal.
Bruce next talked about a comic who he felt disrespected him on a show. It was something every comedian is familiar with: a guy ignoring the light and just staying up there as long as he pleased. It’s a major faux pas in stand-up. It’s selfish. Like ordering a sharing plate at a restaurant and eating everything on it while your friends stare. Yes, I’ve done that before.
Bruce and I were talking shop and I loved it. We started listing our favorite comics ever, and it was like a history class. Lenny Bruce, Dick Gregory, Carlin, Pryor, and so on. When the list rounded up, Bruce Bruce threw this at me: “Do you know who the funniest cat of all time is?” It’s the type of question that gives you pause. Did we skip someone? was my first thought. Then it hit me. It was a setup. He was asking so I’d say, “Who?” and then he could say that he was the funniest cat of all time. I have to admit—I loved it. Loved that he was going to boast and I was going to eat it up. So I smiled and said, “Who?”
“Andy Griffith,” Bruce said with a dead-ass serious look on his face.
“Huh?”
Bruce nodded this time as if to affirm what he already knew to be true. “Andy. Griffith.” I was so confused, I couldn’t tell if this was a bit, so I started to whistle in an attempt to clarify, at least to me, that we were talking about the same guy. Bruce, once again, nodded.
“You ever been to the Andy Griffith museum before?” he asked as if that wasn’t the single craziest question I’d ever heard.
“No. Is that real?”
“Real?! You can sit in the car he used to sit in and you can touch shit that he used to touch.” There it was. You make assumptions about people all the time, only to be surprised by who they are. Clearly, Bruce Bruce, the notable, accomplished, three-hundred-plus-pound Black comedian, is a die-hard Andy Griffith fan.
“You ever see episode two fifteen of the Andy Griffith Show?” I swear to you I looked around the cabin hoping another passenger was hearing this absurd question. He asked as if I not only was familiar with the show, but would be able to recall episodes by their air date codes from memory. “No, I think I missed that one.” He barreled forward. “That’s my favorite episode. It originally aired March 13, 1967.” How could this be real? It was.
“‘Opie’s Piano Lesson.’” He knew the name of the episode. Bananas.
The woman who had spoken to him earlier returned with both Twix and Skittles, and Bruce offered her a “Thank you, darling.” He turned to me again and smiled as he raised his sugar treats as if to toast, “All right, man,” and he got to snacking. That was it. Conversation over. We had four hours of flying time for me to contemplate the comedic mastery of Andy Griffith.
Twix. Skittles. Shit like that.