September 25, 1982

Brad Hall bounds off the stage, ripping off his big John Hinckley glasses but keeping that same crazy smile well plastered on his face as he looks my way. I jump up and down and punch at the air, but I'm careful not to make a sound. I don't want the national audience to hear me scream with joy, and ruin this chance of a lifetime on my very first night.

"You were great!" I mouth.

"Thanks, kid," he whispers back, giving me a playful little slap on the hip. "You're on next after the commercial there."

I nod, still feeling nervous. He doesn't have to tell me, I've got the program memorized. I've made comedy my career, and cold Chicago improv is a hell of a lot more of a chore than what I'm doing tonight, but I'm still feeling like I could just explode at any moment.

I just can't believe I'm a part of Saturday Night Live. It's surreal. It's a dream come true. It's magical.

"You're up, Julia!" the cue guy calls.

I fly into position, pat my hair absently to make sure no stray dark curls have rebelled against the bun they've been pulled into. Chevy Chase wasn't able to get out of L.A. in time for tonight's episode, so I'll be reacting to a TV image of his Land Shark. This will be interesting, of course- but the sketch I'm most excited for is the one after the half point, our "People Talking Christ" sketch. Then all eyes will be on me, and I'll find out whether they think I'm good enough to keep. Luckily, that's a little skit Brad, Gary, Paul, and me brought with us from Chicago- so we know exactly what to do.

"Go big or go home," I whisper to myself. "Go big or go home."

And as soon as John Zacherley finishes his intro, the lights go up, and I go for it. I don't have much to do, but I do it, and the audience laughs. Whether at me or the television showing Chevy Chase's Land Shark I can't tell for sure, but I didn't blow it. I'm off to a good start.

All I know from the program I've been studying is that the musical guest comes on next after me, but I don't remember there being a name saying who it is. When Brad congratulates me as I'm heading back to the wings, I ask him out of curiosity.

"Queen," he replies. "Spoke to their guitar player as he was coming out of their dressing room, the name's Brian, I think. Nice guy."

As he speaks, the band itself starts filing quickly out onto their small stage. The silhouette of the drummer spins his sticks around his hands, and a guy with curlier, even wilder hair than I have bends over his guitar. I can see the techies turning the cameras toward them, preparing to broadcast the music they make all across the nation as soon as the red light turns on- and Danny DeVito stops talking.

Queen, huh, I think to myself. I've heard some of their songs on the radio and at clubs. Those are the "Another One Bites the Dust" guys. And the singer has a mustache. And they're British. That's all I know about them.

When it's time, the lights flood the set. There's the dark man with the mustache- Freddie is his name, if I'm not mistaken- and he starts banging away on his guitar, and the rest of his guys join in on "Crazy Little Thing Called Love."

I stand and watch for a little while, but I have to get dressed for my next sketch. At least, that's my excuse if anyone asks. Really I go because the music's kinda grating on my ears. I'm sure he's usually terrific and everything, but to be honest, the singer Freddie doesn't sound all that great tonight, almost like he's been sick or something. Poor guy.

He looks good, though, red tank and all- and that's all that matters, right?

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I blot off the extra shine on my forehead, then make a few silly faces in the mirror. The more obnoxious I am in this sketch, the better.

"I just ROLL on over the Devil!" I scream at my reflection, making sure my fake Southern Baptist accent sounds so overdone it hurts. Then I smile, satisfied. It works every time.

So I fluff the frills of my dress, grab a tube of lipstick for later, and head out of the dressing room. I've got a few minutes, and I'm dying for a cigarette.

Quietly I creep past the room where our musical guests have set up housekeeping. A few minutes ago there had been quite an angry uproar behind their door. Who was causing it, I don't know, though I have a hunch it was the singer. I could tell because of how hoarse the voice happened to be- but then again, it could have been the drummer, he doesn't exactly sound like Robert Goulet either. Could have been both. Who knows.

Queen's door is open. Things sound peaceful, so to be friendly I stick my head inside and wave. The guitarist with the mop of curly hair waves back.

"You guys are killing it out there!" I tell him.

"Thank you, love," he replies. "You're a delight to watch yourself."

That must be Brian, the guy Brad was talking about. The bass player doesn't really say anything, he just sits there drinking his drink, but the drummer at least smiles back and gives me a thumbs up before dragging on a cigarette.

Which reminds me...

It's warm outside, so that's where I take my smokes. I walk out the ajar studio door, lighting the cigarette as I walk. Oh, that's nice. Just one, though, I don't want to screw up my voice before our sketch.

I turn my head to the right, and much to my surprise I find I'm not alone. Freddie's out here too, smoking away, leaning back against the wall and staring at his sneakers. After a moment, he lifts the cigarette back to his mouth and looks my way too, but it's a look that asks me what business it is of mine, to be out here smoking at the same time as he is. I guess he just wanted to be alone. All the same, he doesn't move, and for a minute we just stand there staring at each other, cigarettes turning to ash between our fingers.

Finally I clear my throat. "Hi," I say. "You guys are great."

He sighs, then takes another drag. "Thanks," is all he says. Wow, he sounds hoarse. How is he even able to sing with laryngitis that bad?

"You, uh," I venture carefully, "you okay?"

"I'm fine," he answers with a little cough. "I just- I'm getting over a sort of cold, is all."

"Oh," I nod. "Sorry."

"It's alright."

SSSS.

Puff.

SSSS.

"You doing any more songs tonight?" I ask.

He nods. "Just one. 'Under Pressure.'"

"Oh, is that the thing with David Bowie?"

"Yes, the, um- thing with David Bowie." He pronounces "Bowie" as "Bauwie." I can't help smiling, because it is kind of cute, the way he talks.

"Can't wait," I reply.

"Well, I can," he mutters. "Good Lord, I sound so crap."

I don't answer, because I'm interrupted. Brad bursts through the door and grabs my shoulder.

"There you are, April May June! Put that thing out, we're on in three," he says before disappearing again. "Come on!"

"Yes, suh, praaaaaise the Lawd!" I laughingly croon in my character's accent. I throw my cigarette down on the ground and stamp it out with my glittery heel.

As I freshen my lipstick, Freddie speaks once more. "What did he say your name was, dear?"

"Huh?"

"April May June?"

"Wha- Oh!" I laugh. What a silly, proper, hoarse Englishman. "Oh, no, that's just my character's name- the sketch coming up, that's her name. My real name is Julia."

And he just blinks at me. "Julia," he repeats.

"Mm-hm." I pop my lips and close the lipstick tube. "Julia Louis-Dreyfus. That's my name."

"Julia Louis-Dreyfus," he says again very slowly. Odd, how tight his voice seems now. "Ah, yes- these are the days it never rains but it pours."

I tell him goodbye, and to "break a leg" when he goes on later, but I don't stick around to hear him wish me the same. He doesn't sound happy at all.

Of course, our sketch goes over as probably the funniest thing to show all night- I can tell by the level of applause- and Miss April May June slays them in the aisles, if I do say so myself. But as for Mr. Freddie, while his new outfit with the leather jacket and white arrow tank makes him appear even more interesting, it seems that whatever it was about my name that bothered him so much, is still bothering him- and as far as the cold is concerned, it sounds like the cigarette didn't help one bit. His hoarseness has gotten worse, and that's very clear the next time he and his band take center stage. I can hear it over the speakers even as I get myself dressed for the "good night" segment.

When I'm out of my costume, and "Under Pressure" (finally) ends, I can see he looks embarrassed and endlessly disappointed in himself.

I don't see the band leaving at the very end, but I can't help but notice how he seems to have sort of gone off on his own; at least, it's just the other three that are still around after the show ends. He apparently left right after the cameras turned off.

Wonder where he went- and I hope he feels all right.

Poor guy. Wonder what's eating him.