Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, May 2, 1995 TAG: 9505020086
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KATHLEEN WILSON
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
``Are you going to host the Academy Awards next year?'' Dave is asked during a 45-second visit with the studio audience before the show's taping.
``No,'' he says, sighing and leaning on a piece of stage equipment. The question seems to haunt him. ``I think I was so bad that next year, they're just going to forgo the show entirely and notify the winners by mail.''
Everyone laughs.
Everyone except Dave.
10:07 a.m.
``Open the shutter, man,'' suggests the Mujibur half of Sirajul-and-Mujibur, America's favorite Bangladesh imports, to someone named Mark from Austin, Texas.
How many times a day does Mujibur get his picture taken?
``About 200 times,'' he estimates.
How many times does he have to remind the photographer to open the shutter?
``About 200 times.''
Stationed behind a counter in tiny K & L's Rock America on Broadway - two doors from the Ed Sullivan Theater - Mujibur spends his day selling Late Show T-shirts. Worldwide Pants T-shirts.
Made famous by Letterman, who never tires of sending his cameras into Broadway businesses and turning their proprietors into performers, Mujibur never stops smiling.
``Dave is a great, great man, a good-hearted man,'' he says, posing with Rose from Greenville, Mich. ``He has changed my entire life. Every day I always say `God bless him.'''
From behind his counter he faces Rock America's Statue of Liberty collection. Statue of Liberty spoons. Statue of Liberty statues. Statue of Liberty salt and pepper shakers.
``Remember us?'' one woman asks. ``We met you when you were in Sioux City!'' She's referring to the tour of the United States Dave sent Sirajul and Mujibar on last year. Her husband buys one of the official tour shirts. Mujibur autographs it.
``Only in America,'' he says, shaking his head.
The door to the shop opens.
``Hey, man! America loves you!'' hollers a guy from the sidewalk.
``God bless America!'' Mujibur hollers back, beaming as 23 students from McAllen High School in Texas line up with their cameras.
The words, ``Call me 975-8494,'' are posted on the Times Square JumboTron, a huge television screen overlooking the famous intersection. Dave's plan? To invite someone who calls to come to the theater to watch the show, which is in progress. But a problem develops.
The phone on his "Late Show" desk rings.
``So,, where do you work?'' Dave asks.
``Uh, I'm an editor for CBS news, Dave.''
Pam is one of many CBS employees who have access to monitors and can watch whatever is being taped.
After making Pam apologize to the American public, Dave hangs up.
11:14 a.m.
When Dave moved his show to the theater around the corner from the Hello Deli, Rupert Jee figured it would help his lunch business some. Dave's staff might stop by.
But he was totally unprepared to become a fixture of the "Late Show." Or to be sent to vacation in Puerto Rico - on the sole condition that he file nightly reports on his trip.
``This is so crazy,'' acknowledges Rupert with wide eyes. ``I have always been shy. The last place I ever thought I would wind up was on television.''
Rupert was so shy in high school, he'll admit, that he regularly skipped speech class.
These days, he finds himself running into the Ed Sullivan Theater delivering the soup of the day or slicing canned ham for the studio audience at Dave's whim.
``He's quite an individual, Dave is,'' says Rupert.
Anyone with a ticket to the show is told to go to the Hello Deli for a tasty beverage.
Courtesy of Dave. And good for the Hello Deli.
During the first commercial break, Dave takes off his suit jacket. Staff members surround his desk. Paul Shaffer and the CBS Orchestra blast out Lenny Kravitz's ``Are You Going To Go My Way.'' But Dave's brow is furrowed. He's shaking his head. The Top 10 list bombed. The phone bit isn't working. The crew around him seems to be reassuring him. But Dave doesn't seem to be listening.
11:39 a.m.
Amy Siler of Greensboro, N.C., has been up since 4 a.m. She caught a flight that morning and has a return flight that night.
When she won a free round-trip airline ticket from a local radio station, Amy immediately wrote for ``Late Show'' tickets.
Somewhere along the way, Amy has hooked up with Debra Rey of Huntington, W.Va., Kathy Fraser of Ashland, Ky., and Victoria Rosner of New York, N.Y.
Although the letter that comes with the tickets explicitly states you are not to arrive at the theater before 4:15 p.m., these women have learned the inside scoop: At 2, a page comes out and marks tickets with the holder's place in line.
``I'm not taking any chances,'' declares Amy. ``I'm here now and I'm not moving. I want to be the very first person in that door.''
The phone on Dave's desk rings again. He answers it. ``What do you do for a living?'' he asks the guy on the other end.
``I'm a stagehand for CBS.''
Dave hangs up.
``If I can just find one normal, honest person,'' he pleads.
There's Amy, right under his nose.
But on this night he chooses to play with the phone.
Not with the audience.
1:43 p.m.
``OK, this is how it's going to work,'' yells a smart aleck wearing a ``Late Show'' cap over long hair and holding a pen and a clicker. ``I am going to mark your ticket with a number. This guarantees your place in line. I do not want to see any of you back here before 4:05. This number has nothing to do with what seat you will get inside the theater. And if you show up drunk, we'll kick your ass out of line. You hear me?''
``I flew here from Greensboro, N.C., this morning and I'm flying back tonight," Amy says in a soft, hopeful voice. "I really hoped I could get a front-row seat. I've been here all day.''
``Doesn't matter where you sit all the seats are good. NEXT!'' he yells after marking Amy's ticket with the number one.
Some 10 minutes later:
``We flew here all the way from Wyoming just to see Dave,'' says a sixtysomething woman holding her husband's arm.
``So, I guess I'll have talk reeeaaal slooooowww. NEXT'' he cracks, dismissing them after marking the ticket.
``This is the longest night of my life,'' says Dave after yet another unsuccessful phone call.
``This is like a bad situation comedy,'' he tells us. ``No, it's like a bad talk show, actually.''
Station break.
He whips off his jacket again and flings it into the guest chair.
Then he takes the telephone receiver and dumps it into his coffee cup.
4 p.m.
Amy just about explodes with excitement. Her ticket, marked number one, puts her at the front of the line to get into the show.
``I can't believe this. I just can't believe this,'' she squeals.
We're all excited.
As a CBS page gives us the rundown, we're all waiting for one important piece of information. By now, the top thing on our minds wasn't where we're going to sit.
``If you've gotta go to the bathroom, go now!'' says the page.
Every woman stampedes for the facilities.
``You look lovely,'' says Dave to Angelica Huston.
``So do you,'' she says. ``And that tie ...''
We cringe. We agree that his yellow necktie with red and green diagonal stripes is gawdawful. Mentally, we're pleading with Angelica not to talk about the tie.
``It's worthy of the O.J. Simpson trial,'' she says.
``You mean my tie ought to be on trial?''
``No ... It's just so bright. And lively.''
5:13 p.m.
``I can't believe this,'' Amy beams as she takes her seat in the front row. Directly in front of Dave's desk. ``We're going to be on television!''
We are in the front row. Seated directly in front of Dave's desk.
Kathy and Debra pull their white, crisply starched nursing caps from the plastic cases they carry them in and put them on. For this occasion, they have stripped ``DAVE'' across the caps with little paper letters.
A page comes over and confiscates them. They are never returned.
The phone is ringing again. We know he can't possibly want to answer it, but what else can he do?
``I'm just looking for one decent and normal man or woman to connect with,'' he tells us.
He answers the phone.
``So, Bob, what do you do for a living?''
Bob works in news. For CBS, of course.
In a sense, Dave has been killed by friendly fire. His comedy bit has been shot down by fellow CBS staffers.
During the next station break, Dave stands alone. Wearing his jacket. His back to the audience. Slowly throwing pencil after pencil into that Manhattan set behind the desk.
There is no sound effect of glass breaking.
Just pencil after pencil being hurled into mock Manhattan.
6:30 p.m.
The house lights go up.
Silently and slowly, we head for the 53rd Street doors to leave the theater.
``Well, what did you think?'' I finally ask Amy, Kathy, Debra and Victoria.
``That was really bad,'' says Kathy, speaking the words that we're all afraid to say.
On a scale of one to 10, how would you rate this show?
``A four,'' says Debra. Kathy nods her head. Amy says nothing.
Thinking as only a New Yorker could, Victoria comments on how little security there really is. No one went through our bags. From our seats, where our feet could almost touch the shiny red floor of the stage, someone could have attacked Dave.
``We had opportunity,'' Victoria points out. ``And now that we've seen the show, we have motive.''
Dave flings off his jacket and begins to head off-stage.
He pauses. He heads for the front and picks up the microphone.
``I'm really sorry, folks,'' he says, genuinely upset. ``But I guess that was about the best we could do for a Monday night.''
11:45 p.m.
We are sitting on Victoria's bed watching the show.
``Look! He actually appears to have rapport with the audience,'' she commented.
Amy, Kathy, Debra, Victoria and I all swore we had spent big bucks, flown great distances and endured great hardships - such as the smart aleck - because we wanted to see Dave. Truth was, what we really wanted was to be on television.
We wanted to be one of those people he makes fun of. We wanted our 15 minutes of fame.
Still, we feel a little guilty.
Here's this man who has been thoroughly entertaining us for 13 years, and we trash him for not putting our mugs on the screen.
Poor Dave.
We'll enjoy him even more now as we watch him every night.
Because we know the secret that you can only know if you've been in the studio audience:
Virtual Dave is far better than real Dave.
The saddest thing of all is that Dave has to know that, too.
by CNB