Fred Stoller - My Seinfeld Year

MY SEINFELD YEAR

The life of a perennial TV guest

2012 Fred Stoller . All Rights Reserved.

2 nd edition edited and formatted by larks & katydids.

Neither this book nor any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Showbiz Sitcom Purgatory

Im to the side of the set of the hit Disney teen show The Wizards of Waverly Place. Im playing a doorman at the apartment building where Selena Gomezs character lived. My character is supposed to break up a noisy party of zombies, wizards, vampires, and an ogre. My line is, No loud parties, and not only that, you didnt invite me and I happen to be the life of the party! And then I do a demented little dance showing how wild I am.

Selena is teaching me how to do the Dougie, a dance her boyfriend (pop superstar Justin Bieber) helped make famous. I cup my hand under my chin, and then sway and contort my lanky middle-aged body to the side as I say, Lean and brush. Lean and brush. I feel like a Gumby with the wires removed. Selena laughs. Of course, I wasnt supposed to be good. I was just supposed to do a moronic version of it.

I head to the craft service table to munch on some cookies and other crap, when David Henrie, the nineteen-year-old hunk who plays Selenas brother Justin, comes over. David had been stressed that week. He was rehearsing and going to auditions hoping to land the lead in The Hunger Games, a three-part studio movie based on the popular book series. I give him some advice about over-preparing or something, that at his level they wont judge him syllable for syllable at the reading. I also tell him that paying an acting coach isnt necessary. Youre either the guy or not. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Wow, here I am, the 52-year-old guest star wearing a red Pee Wee Herman bellhop uniform and a monkey cap with a strap under my chin, giving you career advice.

Youre 52? David says. Im not sure if he thinks its sad that at my age Im still playing the moronic sight gag, or that I dont look that old. Maybe its just my own negative perception of his words.

But hes very respectful. He thanks me for my helpful advice and heads off. I look behind me and see one of the writers has been watching that little exchange.

Um, Fred let me ask, he says, as if getting the nerve to ask me something uncomfortable. Didnt you once write on Seinfeld? He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders. Holds his hands out as if to say, Um, but what happened?

Ive gotten that look, that question, many times before. And this is a writer. That Seinfeld credit was supposed to change your life, your career, they thought. It was the ultimate validation. Youre supposed to get deals, big agentsor at least opportunitiesafter that. He wouldve killed for that writing credit.

Yeah, I did, but didnt go that route I suppose. Started getting these acting roles, went that way.

He nods his head, saying he understands. But I know he doesnt.

With some writers, I get the feeling theyre relieved I became the weird quirky delivery guy, the clerk, the nebbish. It means one less aggressive writer for them to compete with.

*

In sitcoms, Im usually the jerky guy that delivers the package, or the guy at the deli that makes the sandwich the wrong way, or the guard at the sporting event who takes his job too seriously and doesnt let the star athlete in without their proper ID.

Or Im the sad sack. Ive been the mopey relative the family is trying to help get a job, or the hypochondriac hanging out at a doctors office, or the guy who is too nervous to ask out a womanor even speak for that matter.

When people stop me at the mall and demand to know where they know me from, usually its as Elaines annoying date on Seinfeld, Rays mopey cousin on Everybody Loves Raymond, or the jerky waiter on Friends.

Im not bragging when I say how naturally these off-kilter parts have come to me. On several auditions, directors have said to me, Dont be so pathetic, when I had no idea I was being that.

To outsiders, not to mention most fellow comedians and actors, it looks like Ive got it made. My credits are several pages long, and every so often I get diminishing checks in the mail when my episodes are rerun. Im thrilled to be working, in a union where only 2% of the members work, but after 15 years of being the bridesmaid, I long for a stable situation, a home.

I have had some years where I have only worked once or twice. I am lucky (mostly in the last fifteen years) to have stayed afloat with unemployment, but am still looking for that one situation that sticks, that one good working environment that will shelter me from the humiliation and rejection of auditioning, or from the despair of not having any auditions at all. Im trapped in a weird kind of showbiz sitcom purgatory: I get enough work not to quit, but never enough to feel that I can take a deep breath and stop struggling.

Being a perennial guest star is like being a foster kid being passed around some really great foster homes. I would love for one of them to keep me, but its a hell of a lot better than being abandoned.

*

I head over to the set, where the prop master fits me for a heavy set of black wings I have to wear on my back. Turns out my jerky character morphs into the angle of darkness. The wings are heavy, and I almost tip over trying to walk with them strapped to my back. The writer who spoke to me earlier and one of his co-workers see me stumble as they pass with a few sandwiches they have loaded up at the craft service table. I laugh to myself. Not everyone gets it. Many times I dont. But sometimes I step back and realize that just the fact Im on a TV show, wearing wings and saying words with a small dumb hat strapped to my head, is a miracle considering my past.

The Making of a Guest Star Guy

Its not hard to figure out how I ended up with a career as the low-self-esteem schnook. Its a role I was born to play. Most kids grow up idolizing decisive, macho heroes like Clint Eastwood or Harrison Ford; I identified with the outcasts and misfits. On long car rides Id sit in the backseat with my head pressed against the window, pretending I was Ratso Rizzo, from Midnight Cowboy, on his doomed bus ride to Florida.

And Id spend hours pretending to be Billy, the retarded deaf mute from The Last Picture Show. Billy spent his time constantly pushing a broom while wearing his baseball cap backwards. At the end of the film, we see poor Billy lying in the street dead, after being hit by a truck. So Id wear my hat backwards and walk around pretending to sweep. Then Id lie on the floor like I was hit by that same truck.

Another, less disturbing hero was Donald Sutherland as the goofy character amongst all the other macho stars in The Dirty Dozen. I also connected with guys like Herb Edelman and Ron Liebman, and any other quirky character actor, who made me sit up in my seat like a lone dog when it sees another of its own species.

I loved TV and movies, but the world of show business was galaxies away from mine. I thought to be on TV you had to start real young, like the kids from The Brady Bunch. I envied these actors. Id see the cast of Happy Days or The Partridge Family having fun and kidding around with each other on talk shows and Challenge Of The Network Stars. They seemed like they were a part of something together.

I grew up in Brooklyn, New York, in a neighborhood that consisted of rows and rows of identical two-family houses. In my home there werent a lot of expectations for life, or for me excelling in it. My mother tried her best, but was saddled with many fears that she passed on to me, with the highest anxiety. Im pretty sure Im the only nine-year-old who set up a lemonade stand whose mother reacted by panicking. What if it goes under? Dont do it, Freddie. And my mother also panicked about my imminent rejection when, as a teenager, I wanted to work at Burger King to earn my own spending money. Yeah, right! Theyre waiting for you! she brutally informed me.