The Man Who Was Almost on Carson

Marty Blevins has spent thirty-eight years in comedy, or thirty-six, depending on whether you count the insurance years he claims were spent “developing material.” He calls himself a veteran of the late-night circuit, a pioneer of observational humor, and a performer whose career was once personally affected by the Amazing Kreskin. The Pompous Post dispatched field correspondent Gerald P. Whitcomb to interview Marty ahead of his set at the Chuckle Bucket, a comedy club sandwiched between a tire store and a building that used to be a tire store.

Gerald found Marty in a booth near the stage, sporting a jacket with sleeves pushed to his elbows. “Vintage,” Marty said. “From what year?” asked Gerald. “1988. Big year for me.” Marty pulled out a Polaroid of himself next to a vending machine. “NBC Studios. 1988,” he explained. “Were you on television?” Gerald asked. “I was in the building,” Marty said, then elaborated: He was booked for The Tonight Show, but his segment was bumped. “Kreskin,” he said. “The Amazing Kreskin ran long. My segment got bumped.” Gerald inquired if Marty had met Johnny Carson. “Not personally. But Ed McMahon walked right past me in the hallway. Said, ‘Excuse me.’” On the back of the Polaroid, an arrow pointed to the hallway where Ed had walked by. “Did Kreskin know he’d bumped you?” Gerald asked. Marty shrugged. “Well, if he was really that amazing, he should’ve seen it coming.” Gerald laughed, and Marty beamed. “See? That’s what I do. I find the humor in things.”

Marty insisted Gerald come to lunch. “You’ve got to find the funny in everyday life.” At the coffee counter, the barista asked for his name. “Marty. With a Y. Because my parents couldn’t afford the I.” As the barista wrote MARTY on his cup, Marty turned to Gerald: “Write that down. That’s going in the act.” At their table, Gerald asked how Marty got started in comedy. “I was working in accounting, but I got tired of people telling me I wasn’t funny.” “Is that a joke?” “No. That’s why I quit accounting.” “Oh.” “My accountant thinks it’s hilarious.” Gerald wrote: CAREER CHANGE - MOTIVATION UNCLEAR... Marty picked up his sandwich. “Here’s one. Why don’t sandwiches ever get promoted? Because they’re always loafing around!” Marty laughed. Gerald replied, “That’s more of a bread joke, isn’t it?” “Exactly! See, you’re getting it.” Marty then explained the joke for another forty-five seconds, during which Gerald briefly considered returning to the newsroom and reporting that Marty had been abducted.

Instead, Gerald pressed on: “Have you appeared on other TV programs?” “Letterman’s people were aware of me.” “How aware?” “I mailed them a tape.” “Did they respond?” “Not directly.” Gerald made another note: LETTERMAN - POSSIBLY UNAWARE.

Back at the Chuckle Bucket, Marty prepared for soundcheck. He tapped the mic. “Testing. One, two. One, two. Boy, I wish my marriage had lasted that long!” The sound technician ignored him. Marty tried again: “Hey, you know what they call a sound guy who doesn’t laugh?” The tech unplugged the mic. “Unemployed!” Marty shouted as the technician walked away. Gerald checked his watch. Four hours until showtime.

Marty rehearsed, stopping often to ask Gerald about joke delivery, accents, and what he called “the Blevins pause” - a silent stare at the audience after a punchline. “Gives them time to catch up,” Marty said. Gerald suspected it gave them time to reconsider their evening plans.

At six, Marty showed Gerald his publicity headshot... from 1988. Marty had enormous hair, a pale blue sport coat, and the look of a man who’d just been told he was next on The Tonight Show. “Have you considered a newer photo?” Gerald asked. “Why? You sell the dream.” Gerald studied the photo. The dream looked like it had been photographed during the Reagan administration.

By eight, the club was nearly full. Gerald took his seat, ready to observe Marty in his habitat. The lights dimmed. Marty stepped out to polite applause. “Good evening, everybody! Great to be here. I just flew in from Cleveland, and boy, are my arms tired!” A man coughed... Marty waited. The audience waited. Gerald recognized the Blevins pause. “Anyway, you ever notice your refrigerator has a light, but your freezer doesn’t? What’s that about? Are frozen peas afraid of the dark?” A woman sipped her drink slowly. Marty looked at Gerald. Gerald pretended to write.

Then Marty launched into the NBC story. “I was supposed to be on The Tonight Show in 1988, but the Amazing Kreskin ran long.” A few nodded. “Now, I don’t hold a grudge. But you’d think a guy who can predict the future would’ve known he was going to run overtime! Am I right!?” The room erupted. Marty grinned... he had them. Then, startled by laughter, he tried to improve the line, explaining the joke, using a British accent, and finally spinning it into a callback about his wife. Silence. “That’s a callback, folks.” Gerald wrote: CALLBACK UNSUCCESSFUL. REQUEST IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.

After the show, Marty removed his jacket backstage. “Well? What did you think?” “You had some good moments.” “Which ones?” “The Kreskin joke was terrific.” Marty waved it off. “Old material. I’ve told that story for years.” Gerald hesitated. “Have you considered just telling the story the way you told it to me? You were funny when you were just being yourself.” Marty pondered. “So I need to work on my delivery? Maybe a different accent.” Gerald closed his notebook. “Good night, Marty.” “Hey, Gerald! I’ve got a new one about windshield wipers! They really know how to wipe the smile off your face!” As Gerald reached his car, Marty called after him: “GET IT? WIPE THE SMILE ...”

The next morning, Gerald presented his findings to his editor. “Is he funny?” “Yes, sir.” “Then what’s the problem?” “He doesn’t know when.” The editor sorted through Gerald’s notes. “Almost on Carson? Bumped by Kreskin. Did he even meet Carson?” “No, sir.” “McMahon?” “Walked right past him in the hallway.” “Did McMahon speak?” “He said, ‘Excuse me.’” The editor removed his glasses. “And he’s been telling people this since 1988?” “Yes, sir.” The editor leaned back. “Good Lord. Thirty-eight years of being asked to move out of somebody’s way.” Gerald nodded. “It’s the cornerstone of his career.” The editor examined the Polaroid. “Why is he beside a vending machine?” “That’s where Ed walked by.” They stared at each other, then both burst out laughing. Finally, the editor wrote the headline: THE MAN WHO WAS ALMOST ON CARSON. Gerald smiled. “Perfect, sir.” The editor handed him the Polaroid. “Get this back to Marty. I wouldn’t want him to lose his only evidence.” “Right away, sir.” “And Gerald? Call the Chuckle Bucket. Tell them we’d like to send a photographer to Marty’s next show.” “For a publicity shot?” “No. I want a picture of him standing next to the vending machine...”