By Pam Stone

Last Sunday I threw myself an enormous pity party: table for one, face down on the bed, enough Radiohead filtering through the speakers to convince anyone to taste steel, shoved coldly against their back molars.

 

It wasn’t because I’d been motivated to visit the loo 12 times during the night by Mr. Norovirus, or realizing that in my gratitude to Paul for doing barn duty, I knew I was going to have to drag myself out there to see if he had cleaned the water buckets properly, but knowing I was missing an event I had looked forward to for weeks…

 

The Punchline Comedy Club in Sandy Springs, Ga. was closing its legendary doors after 33 years in business, to re-open in a new location and a private bash was being held for all former staff (of which I was one) and comics (of which I was one) in order to pay homage to this building which had been described by one comic as ‘sacred ground’ and another as ‘Hotel California.’

 

In his documentary on the club, ‘If These Walls Could Talk,’ filmmaker Steve Mitchell interviewed those of us who were regulars including British comic and television host, John Oliver, who referred to the dingy, plywood paneled, graffiti- laced landmark as, “My Narnia.”

 

And I will heartily agree with comic Jimmy Shubert who remarked, “If these walls could talk? They’d better not talk.”

 

Because a lot of us, frankly, would still be trying to post bail.

 

Along with the rest of the wait and bar staff, I was in my early 20s when I began my four hour-a-shift night in those early days, winding through a packed house, delivering drinks and nachos (or whatever was flung out of the sweat box also known as ‘the kitchen’ by Alan). And it wasn’t worth putting your life on the line by popping your head around the corner to inquire when the Philly steak sandwich you ordered 20 minutes ago might be ready as the customers are getting impatient?

 

“Get the hell out of here!” was the general reply.

 

Everyone fed and watered, I could lean against the bar and take in a few minutes of the best comics working in America: Seinfeld, Leno, Paul Reiser, Elayne Boosler…the list went on and on as The Punchline had the reputation for hiring only household names and was a very tough nut to crack for comedians that had not yet landed ‘The Tonight Show’ or a sit-com. I distinctly remember driving back to the ‘comedy condo,’ a very dejected, up and coming Dennis Miller, who wondered aloud why on earth he had to remain the middle act, instead of being the headliner, when he headlined every other club in the country.

 

“You will one day,” I said, like a patronizing mother.

 

Robin Williams dropped by when he was in town. So did Pryor. And Eddie Murphy. The photos documenting those memories still hang in the office.

 

When the show was over, the audience sent home and the house lights turned up, then it was our turn to sit at the bar (I have no recollection in all my years of both working and performing there having ever paid for a single drink) safe and comfortable from the amateur partiers that roamed the Buckhead area in those days, and not uncommonly, blinking at the rising sun as we finally opened the back door to depart, realizing that once again, we’d stayed up all night.

 

So many friendships made, such fun to watch a young comic grow and develop then make his or her ‘Tonight Show’ debut from the nicotine stained ‘green room.’ Hugs when they returned to work the stage a few months later…

 

“Can I ask you a question?” a very young Jeff Foxworthy approached me after a show. “I know you just started doing stand-up and I’m thinking about trying it because everyone in my office says I should, but I work at IBM and I worry about giving up that job.”

 

In three years he was headlining that stage and the rest is history.

 

Smiling wistfully at the photos promptly posted both during and after the party I was missing, I consoled myself by picking out familiar faces: Paula, Stephanie, Marcey,  (“How much time ya gonna do?”) Dale, Alan, Terry, Ron…I hadn’t seen most of them since I last worked the club New Year’s Eve, 2000.

 

“It looks like an AARP convention!” someone commented online. That made me laugh out loud because it was true. In the blink of an eye, all those lanky kids that used to sprawl back in those bar stools are now grandmas and pee-paws and a couple are eligible for Social Security.

 

The good news is that some of those folks live close enough by for a visit and a chinwag.

 

But the bad news is that the doors of that scruffy old building within that scruffy old strip mall, poised for redevelopment, are closed.

 

Gone.

 

And with it, a lot of magic, memories and probably, my pancreas.