An excerpt from Tom Scharplings memoir,It Never Ends.
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With my radio show now a distant memory, I channeled my energies into launching my career.
I wanted to write but I also needed to save money to get married and buy a house.
Now when I say I was working at a music store, Im not talking about a record store.
This wasnt me living out some sort ofHighFidelityfantasy, recommending obscure records to people desperately chasing indie cred.
No, I was working at a sheet music store ahugedifference.
The store was called World of Music in Summit, New Jersey.
Summit was flush with money, so providing an artistic foundation for these young Richie Riches was a given.
I know its hard to believe, but there was literally nothing cool about this job.
The parents were in the same boat.
We would rent instruments in September, with the contract coming due nine months later.
Just like a little talent baby!
I would get back a confused Flute?
We dont oh, thats right!
I think its still in the trunk of the car.
Aside from witnessing the never-ending death of unborn dreams, the job was pretty great.
He ran the store with a philosophy more along the lines ofThe customer isnt always right.
The customer is actually wrong most of the time.
The customer is a mutant.
I remember Jim getting pushed to the brink of sanity by a particularly cheap guitar teacher.
This guy would float around the store for hours staring at songbooks but never spending any money.
(This was right before the internet completely demolished everything.
The guy was clearly burning an empty afternoon and his constant presence was driving Jim crazy.
This went on forever.
After a few minutes he fished two picks from the display and set them on the counter.
Jim looked down at the picks, then looked up at the guitar teacher.
This is all youre gonna buy today?
The teacher snidely said, Yup.
Working retail is hard.
I come from generations of counter jockeys.
The boulder sometimes asks you if they can just take the sheet music to the library and photocopy it.
These two measly guitar picks were the straws that broke Jims back.
Youre a cheapskate, Jim said, staring him directly in the face.
The teacher was taken aback but quickly matched Jims tone.
This is all I need today.
Something wrong with that?
Jim just looked at him.
You come in here for hours andthisis all you buy?
Just take the fucking picks and get out.
Jim said, Youve got short arms and deep pockets!
Jim gathered himself and yelled, NOW GET!
to the teachers back as he left, never to return.
I just didnt know what to do with the burden of my massive talent.
At this point in my life I was working round the clock.
The only thing that matters are the things you finish, so just pick one thing and finish it.
He revealed the difference between the talkers and the doers.
(How do I know all this brain stuff to be true?
I studied brain stuff at the community college!)
You cant talk about the thing you gotta do the thing.
The other piece of wisdom Jim imparted to me took place a day before Christmas.
We had been working together a handful of years by this point and would exchange presents on Christmas Eve.
December 24 was always a magical day at the store, because every single customerhadto buy something.
The last-minute shoppers were hours away from Christmas morning, which meant they had zero leverage.
I asked him what he wanted for Christmas.
I figured he would ask for a nice bottle of booze or something along those lines.
I wasnt sure if he was serious.
Yeah, its what I want, so get me that.
After we locked up for the day I would drop a grocery bag in front of him.
He would tear it open and flip through his Christmas bounty with a smile.
It was a look of innocence, not unlike a child unwrapping a bicycle-shaped present underneath the tree.
However much I enjoyed working for Jim, managing at a music store just wasnt the career I wanted.
I wanted to write for a living.
The final shove I needed came one night at an NYC comedy show.
By this point I was hanging out with creative friends who had burgeoning writing and directing careers.
A pre-WTFMarc Maron was the de facto weekly anchor of the show.
But he was always exciting.
Look at that coat, he said derisively.
Stupid me, wearing a coat in February!
One Monday night I was sitting in the audience with my friend and occasional writing partner Joe Ventura.
He saw his ideas actually get filmed, which sounded thrilling.
I was very happy for him, but I was also very unhappy for myself.
Maron was onstage recounting a story that happened to him earlier that day.
I just shrunk into my seat like the loser I was.
The sting of the joke was a blessing in disguise, because now I had something to prove.
I was determined to become a writer.
But like so many other things, you have to take the leap.
I couldnt have a safety net.
I told Jim I was going to quit World of Music to become a full-time writer.
Youre one of the all time greats, Jim!
And with that I was officially a writer!
I was also officially without a weekly paycheck, so it was time to bust some ass.
I took literally any writing job I could get my mitts on.
I wrote their editor an impassioned letter begging them to let me write for them.
It didnt matter to me that McIlvaine was a stiff.
I had my shot and I wasnt going to blow it.
I dont think I ever worked on something as hard as I worked on that McIlvaine article.
I toiled for ages, making sure each of the 150 words was perfectly arranged.
Swiss watchmakers dont craft their watches as delicately as I crafted this article.
I handed it in and waited.
How about giving us two hundred fifty words on Vitaly Potapenko?
Before long they were tossing all sorts of assignments my way and I took them all.
Anna paid me a compliment that I never forgot.
you could write, but youre the most low-maintenance person weve got on staff.
Seriously, what did he have against staying warm?!
My body clock had nothing in common with those of normal people.
I got up a hair before 10:00 a.m.
Within five minutes I was in my car driving to the movie theater.
I parked and sleepily wandered through the lobby.
I stepped up to the counter and said these five fateful words:
One forThe Animal, just.
But what could I have learned fromThe Animal?
Dont include a scene in your screenplay that features Rob Schneider throwing his own feces?
(Im assuming that happened, either in the movie or just on the set between takes.)
Did I buy something from the concession stand at 10:00 a.m.?
The probability is high; most likely a Diet Coke and a bag of Peanut M&Ms.
I entered the theater and sat down to watch the 10:15 showing ofThe Animal.
I told you it was a low point!
I was wondering if youd be interested in writing about
TOM: Yes.
EDITOR: I didnt say what I was
TOM: Fine, Ill take less money.
EDITOR: Im not sure you understand what
TOM: You need it written by tonight?
Yeah, I can make that happen.
But not a penny more.
[Beat] Okay, one fifty is the highest I can go!
Perhaps youve thrilled to the MTV Movie Awards campaign featuring Jimmy Fallon and Kirsten Dunst hosting a sleepover?
That was ALL ME.
Wait, you dont remember that?!
And I took everything they would shovel my way.
or pressing Ice Cube to answer questions like Did you grow up a basketball fan?
It was pretty dumb but also very fun, no complaints from me.
I was supposed to ask them questions like Do you like reading books?
and What book are you reading right now?
(I made an executive decision not to ask them Did you grow up a basketball fan?)
The job was completely harmless stuff, a piece of cake waiting to be eaten.
I arrived at the arena where the Celtics were participating in a midmorning practice session.
I could hear their coach Rick Pitino screaming at the team through a very heavy steel door.
I couldnt make out what he was saying but it was loud and extremely angry.
Not exactly the kind of thing that sets a good mood for a fun interview.
Pierce and Walker eventually climbed into a limousine with me and an NBA publicity person.
The two players ignored me completely, instead zeroing in on the NBA flack.
They cheerfully read fromThe Sneetchesand the kids had a great time.
Antoine Walker even put one of those insanely tallCat in theHathats on his head.
And to his credit, a stillCat in the Hatted Antoine Walker thanked me for writing the article.
So hes all right in my book.
I take back the slumlord thing, Antoine!
Paul Pierce and I never got square, so hes still on my shit list.
Barn burners like We hope we can win it all this year or Ultimately its a team game.
The event was clogged with beat reporters from all the New York sports pages.
They would surround any player who stepped off the court, throwing out question after question.
The player would generally field a handful of queries before escaping to the locker room.
Leaning against the back wall was Spike Lee.
Not talking on the phone, not even reading a newspaper.
He was literally just leaning on the wall and watching the players get interviewed.
Spike is a true legend.
He is Americas Jean-Luc Godard, a towering and versatile figure whose work remains underappreciated.
I was a huge fan.
I steeled myself and started walking toward him.
The practice facility was composed of two basketball courts laid out next to each other.
I cannot overstate how far away he was from me.
And it was just me and Spike.
Nobody else was around.
And he watched me the entire time, never moving a muscle.
Finally I stepped up to him, five feet away as I opened my mouth.
Excuse me
Spike cut me off.
Im not working today, man.
And with that he turned and looked away from me.
I walked away, unsure of what had just happened.
A battery of questions sprouted in my mind: He wasnt working today?
Yeah, I had figured he wasnt working since he wasnt directing a movie.
And I know he was laughing to himself as soon as I started walking away.
He had to have known what he did to me.
So if Spike Lee ever reads this, I tip my hat to you, sir.
I legitimately admire what you did to me that day.
These details matter, Spike!
But first things first: kudos on the top-notch burn.
One of the best parts of writing for basketball magazines was the thrill of going to games.
I gave serious consideration to pursuing a career in sportswriting.
He was taking a leak at a urinal.
I was the only other person in the bathroom.
He turned to me and said, Overtime, can you believe this shit?
I loved basketball too much to risk becoming a younger version of him.
(I saved all my illogical resentment and petty scorekeeping for television writing.)
I interrupted coach Jack Ramsays dinner by calling too early for an interview.
All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.
And that is precisely what I did.
Yes, I would like to write about Papa Roach playing basketball, I replied.
I would like that very much.
For anyone who doesnt remember, Papa Roach was a wildly popular nu metalish band circa 2001.
Not exactly my cup of tea but its not bad if youre into that kinda thing.
Now I know what youre asking yourself: Tom, you said the contest winner could bring three friends.
So how could they play a proper game of five-on-five basketball with only four players per side?!
The promotions people at Jim Beam are waaaaay ahead of you, friend.
Because they remedied the situation by adding a member of the Harlem Globetrotters to each team.
No spectators, no gawkers.
But I returned vague answers and dopey nods her way as I slid the laminate over my head.
The game was the shitshow it was always destined to be.
Both teams were abysmal and nobody could make a basket.
This went on forever, the slow creep of futility spreading over the event like a blanket.
At some point, the game ended.
I was led into a catering tent.
There was food everywhere.
I recall a surprising amount of shrimp.
There is no better combination than sweat and shrimp, and Papa Roach was living proof.
I asked them some more of my trademark dumb questions and quickly realized they had zero interest in basketball.
I asked Jacoby why they decided to participate in this event.
He looked at me and said, Jim Beam, dude!
I had everything I needed for my article.
But the day was far from over.
One bright spot took place at the end of the day.
I missed it badly because I also suck at basketball.
I jacked up another shot and missed again.
But I would not be denied.
After about five shots, one finally ripped the net.
I had shot a three-pointer on the court where some of my favorite players had also played!
But there were no cheers.
I looked around, but the stands were empty.
A magical moment just for myself.
You are now a part of the legend of Madison Square Garden.
Thank you, Madison Square Garden.
you’ve got the option to call me MSG.
Oh, and remember when you saw the Scorpions here?
Yeah, that was a good show.
I forgot about that!
That was right before they blew up.
Hey, that was the first time you ever saw anyone do coke, right?
A couple of dudes one row in front of me.
They just poured it out on a tour program.
Why did you bring that up, MSG?
Because you are standing right where you stood that night.
Fifteen years ago you watched some metal dummies doing sloppy lines at a Scorpions show.
Wow, thats right.
I never made the connection until now.
You were a spectator then but now youre draining three pointers in the same spot.
Who knows what will bring you back onto this floor fifteen years from now?
Life is funny that way, MSG.
It sure is, Tom.
Now get out of here before you barf your shrimp-filled stomach on me.
Excerpted fromIt Never Endsby Tom Scharpling Copyright 2021 Abrams Press.
Reprinted by permission by Abrams Press.
