They All Have to Come Down Sometime

In December of 2000, I get tickets to Late Night. I have ordered Conan’s 1996 Rolling Stone from eBay. I’m going to wait after the show and I’m going to do it. I’m going to meet Conan. Gena can’t go, so I go with another New York Conan girl - Mia. She’s bonkers. The whole day leading up to the taping, I am a mess. I cant eat, my stomach is in knots. I’m going to meet Conan. Conan.

The taping is at 5:30pm and there’s a blizzard forecasted for New York and the surrounding area. The snow is supposed to start at 6am. Mom says we can stay but have to get up at 4:30 to catch the first train back to the car in New Jersey.

The line, the pre show, everything is a blur. Caroline Rhea is a guest. She’s a really fun Conan guest, maybe my favorite at that time. The show ends and my stomach is still in knots. I have eaten only bites of food for 24 hours. The show ends and we make our way to the lobby. We position ourselves between the two elevator bays that lead up to the NBC floors of 30 Rock. And we wait.

Caroline Rhea comes down and sees us. We are obviously waiting for Conan. She stops to talk to us and take pictures. She’s very kind. The band starts to trickle down. So do the writers. I’m having fun but am starting to panic. What if he doesn’t show up? Then I remember Gena’s words: they all have to come down sometime.

An hour or so pass. Mia has brought a gift for Conan - a huge, heavy book about the Civil War. I’ve brought nothing but myself, full of love for this man. Just when I feel like giving up and calling my mom to come meet me, Mia grabs my arm. There he is.

He’s walking towards us, carrying a paper bag in one hand and holds his cell phone up to his face with the other. He sees us. My heart sinks: he’s not going to stop to talk to two teenage girls, one of whom is bouncing up and down like a crazy person (not me) and the other who looks like she may puke at any minute.

He does a little wave with his phone hand as he gets closer to us. To my shock and amazement, he wraps up his phone call and snaps the flip phone closed. He puts the paper bag down on the floor and gives us his undivided attention. He asks us how we are, if we had fun at the show. Mia rattles off some fun things that happened. I thank him profusely for stopping. “Thank you for stopping, Mr. O’Brien.” He says “please, call me Conan.” I make a wisecrack like “because Mr. O’Brien is your father,” and he says “actually, my father is Dr. O’Brien.” Of course he is. I knew that. He crouches down to a kneel on the floor, his long legs folding to make him my height. He takes the magazine and black sharpie from my hands without me asking if he will sign it. He asks my name and I tell him. I have a terrible flashback to Jerry Seinfeld autographing a show script to “Melanie” and my heart jumps. Seinfeld threw that script away and for me a fresh one. If Conan misheard me, I only have one Rolling Stone.

While he signs, I notice some sweater or towel fuzz in his glorious trademark hair. “You have some fuzz,” I say and instinctively reach out and pinch it out of his pompadour, my fingers brushing through his hair. He thanks me. His hair is soft and strong. It just stands up that way somehow by itself - no gel, no spray. He smells sweet, like soap and maybe old spice.

To my horror, Mia leans over and kisses him on the cheek. She blabbers something about how handsome he is. I am mortified but he just says “oh that’s so sweet” and smiles. We pose for a picture and he puts his hand on my shoulder. He has to lean towards me so we can be in the frame of the photo together. I barely come up to his shoulder.

He thanks us for coming to the show and thanks Mia for the book as he zips up his blue coat. He’s ready for the blizzard. He picks up his paper bag and heads towards the revolving door to the street. “Conan?” I say not really sure if it came out or not. “Melody?” He says. “Thank you for stopping. Thank you for your time.” “It was my pleasure,” he says. Then he’s gone.

My legs are jello. My hands are jello. My face is a thousand degrees. Suddenly I am aware that I am VERY HUNGRY. I call my mom, and my excitement for what just happens makes my words come out in shrieks.

Mom comes to meet me and we go meet my brother for dinner. I am finally able to eat, but still not able to talk. Or stop smiling. My face hurts. It keeps hurting until I finally fall asleep, after the show airs in our Manhattan hotel room. It’s almost 2am and I fall asleep blissfully happy.

4:30 comes so, so early. Mom is panicked. It’s already snowing and starting to stick. We are dressed and out the door in a matter of minutes. I’m groggy. We can’t get a cab. We decide to start walking down 8th avenue and eventually make it to Penn Station and onto the train. We emerge from the train tunnel in New Jersey. The sun is just starting to come up and there is already about an inch of snow. We make it back to the car and there are two. The turnpike isn’t plowed yet. Cars are spinning out all over the place. Mom is freaking out. I can’t drive - it’s too dangerous and I’m exhausted. I start to nod off and she screams, the car in front of us spins out into the guard rail. We can’t stop, it’s only going to get worse. We drive through the storm and I am wide awake now, trying to keep mom alert with whatever method I can.

The snow starts to dissipate around exit 5. By Philadelphia, the roads are just wet. We make it home. I am beyond grateful for this amazing woman.

I’m a fully-formed human when I start my senior year of high school. I am the emcee of the band camp talent show and am dabbling in stand up. I’m also a regular at the DC Improv, where I regularly drag Vanessa to see up and coming comics and really big names alike. We befriend the club manager, John X. He lets us sit in the back for free and skip the two-drink minimum. He’s the actual best. He calls us his comedy girls. I beg him for a job but he says I’m still too young. I’m 16. For now I’m fine with watching - drinking in as much comedy as possible.

I start thinking about colleges. Which ones have what I want and are close enough to New York for UCB classes and Conan? I start saving 20 dollars a week from my cashier job for UCB 101 in an envelope on the shelf above my computer. I save enough money but keep adding to the envelope anyway.

Gena goes to Hofstra, which is a doable train ride into Manhattan. I request brochures from there and five other schools: Emerson College, The New School, The University of the Arts, Pratt, and The University of Tennessee, just in case I really do want to be a band director after all. My mom went there. I’ve been several times and I like it, but it’s so far from everything I want. My grades suck, so NYU is a pipe dream I don't even explore. I’m getting an education, but it’s one of my own design.

I am signed up to take 2 honors classes: AP Journalism and AP music theory. Journalism is awesome. I love it and I’m good at it. I get all A’s and B’s in the class. Music theory is terrible. I hate it. Like REALLY hate it. I beg my band director to let me drop the class and take bagpipes instead. He argues that if I want to go to music school and teach, I need to take this class. I turn into a puddle of crying goo as I confess to him, my other hero, that I don’t want to teach band. I want to make people laugh. I feel horrible, like I’ve disappointed him, but he knows me. He gets me. He is supportive and kind, and with his blessing, I swap out AP Music Theory for bagpipes, a tradition at my Scottish high school. I learn to play and am eventually pretty good.

I use the short story I wrote about the Vietnam draft to submit a requested writing sample to the dean of the Writing for Film and TV department at UArts. He loves it and calls me on the phone to talk about it. We talk for an hour.

I start applying to colleges using my grandma’s typewriter to fill in the applications. I type really fast now - another benefit of talking over instant messenger all night about Conan. I discover there is a message board for the UCB and New York improv community. The Improv Resource Center. The IRC. There are Conan writers on there regularly. I want to join, but not with my AOL screen name of Cobrien143. That will out me as a Conan fan girl.

September 11, 2001 happens and the whole world changes. Comedy people in New York use the IRC to check in with each other because phones are down citywide. I join the message board and make a handle out of my own name - Meljo. I just want to tell everyone I hope they’re safe. These people have brought me so much joy, and they’re sad and terrified. I am, too. I check in with Gena and some other New York folks. They can see black smoke billowing out over the water from lower Manhattan.

The next day, we are off of school. My friends and I make a plan to go play tennis at school on the courts, but end up seated in a circle talking about what happened. Will we still go to school? Will we be ok? Someone asks me: what is Conan going to do? I don't know. There’s wall to wall news on every station, so I imagine nothing for a while.

When comedy returns, we are guided by David Letterman. He says it’s ok to laugh, laughter is medicine. When Late Night returns, the twin towers have not been removed from the backdrop of the set, but a somber, sheer black curtain hangs over the entire cityscape. The fires at the site of the World Trade Centers are out. They stop looking for survivors in the rubble. I put an American flag sticker on the back of my car. Is it really ok to laugh? It doesn’t feel ok. Nothing feels ok.

In November, some friends of mine say they want to go to New York and I should come to do comedy things. I think there is no way in hell my mom will let me go to New York for thanksgiving weekend with two boys to stay with a stranger, but ask her anyway. She says yes. I’m astonished. She says she’s not worried, because New York is the kindest place on the planet right now and so safe and full of love. She’s absolutely right.

Brian, Matt and I ride the train to New York all the way from DC. We stay with Brian’s uncle at his beautiful brownstone. We go to the World Trade Center site and parts of the buildings are still standing. It is a site to see, and it is history. We pay our respects.

We visit the UCB Theater and see my favorite Friday night show - The Swarm. I have been comedy crushing on Andy Daly. After the show, Matt embarrasses me. “Andy, this is your biggest fan!” Matt didn’t know I had written Andy a letter telling him how much I want to do comedy and how I want to do what he does. In purple ink. Andy says “Melody! I got your letter! Thank you for writing it.” He is incredibly kind.

Another member of the Swarm stands out to me a little more this time. Andy Secunda. He is also a bit player on Late Night, but has gone a little further. He’s a writer there now.

I leave the city with my friends and am a little more grown up. But this is still just the beginning. There’s more.