From The New Yorker: “Larry David’s Notes For His Biographer”

Not sure how much time should be given to my standup years, but I’ve thought of a few stories that might be worth mentioning. There was one night at the Improv when I made a woman sitting in the front row laugh so hard that she went into convulsions and eventually lost consciousness. An ambulance had to be called, and she was taken to Roosevelt Hospital. It was touch and go there for a while, but thankfully she pulled through. I visited her the next day with the best bouquet of flowers that New York had to offer and humbly stood by while she told the nurse how “damn funny” I was. Pretty embarrassing, but what choice did I have?

From that point on, everyone started calling me Killer. People came to the club in droves, asking if Killer was going on. It wasn’t bad for my social life, either. No sooner would I finish a set than there would be half a dozen women at the bar, trying to talk to me. “Kill me! Kill me!” they would pant. I would choose two and off we’d go. One particular night, the husbands showed up. (I had no idea they were married—swear to God!) Fortunately, my father taught me how to box when I was a kid, and there’s no doubt I could’ve turned professional if comedy hadn’t called me. In any case, I was not to be trifled with. I calmly explained this to both husbands, but they were not impressed. Two minutes later, they were lying flat out on the sidewalk, whereupon their wives and I hopped into a cab and I did another set across town. When it was over, I bought a round of drinks for everyone, even though I didn’t have a penny to my name. (Interesting stuff, right? Hope it’s useful. Either way, I’m good—your call.)

There wasn’t much money to be made in standup back then, so I supported my fledgling comedy career by working as a tour guide at the Central Park Zoo during the day. I’ve always had a deep connection with animals and I thought that would be the perfect job for me.

And it was, until some kid was admiring the polar bear and decided to jump the railing to get a closer look. I was in the middle of giving a tour when I heard screams coming from the kid’s parents and raced over there. The boy was on the ground in a state of shock, as the polar bear hovered over him, about to attack. As luck would have it, a few months prior I’d attended a lecture at the New School by one of the world’s foremost Ursus authorities, Dr. Meyer Dusenberry, who explained that if we were ever face to face with a bear we should create a cacophony. Without a second to lose, I grabbed the lid of a hot-dog pot from a nearby Sabrett’s cart, leaped over the fence, and frantically rattled the lid against the bars until the bear retreated. Then I slung the kid over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry (learned from my years as a volunteer with the F.D.N.Y.) and returned the youngster to his grateful parents. They offered me a huge reward, but I declined, saying that my reward was seeing their happy faces. No amount of money in the world could top that!

I kept in touch with the boy throughout his youth, and, after his parents lost all their money in a Ponzi scheme, I put him through college and medical school. Today, he’s on the verge of a monumental cancer-research breakthrough and is slated to appear on an upcoming cover of Time. I told him I preferred to remain anonymous in the article. (You don’t have to include this in the book, but, if you want to, I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.)

People always ask me what I would’ve done had I not become a comedian. Besides the aforementioned stints at prizefighting and animal husbandry, I was also a child prodigy at the piano. By the time I was eight, I was playing Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata No. 29 in B-Flat Major flawlessly. There’s no telling how far I could’ve gone, but my budding career as a virtuoso ended when my “friend” Frenchie dropped a bowling ball on my foot. It broke my third and fifth metatarsal bones. I lost all proficiency with the pedals, and my tone was never the same. As I look back on that incident, what’s most galling to me is that I was only two strikes away from a perfect game when the “accident” occurred. Many years later, I ran into Frenchie at Yankee Stadium and accidentally dropped a fist in his face.

But the universe works in mysterious ways, because the day after my bowling-lane encounter with Frenchie I attended a podiatry convention (by then I’d become obsessed with the intricate bone structure of the human foot), where I met a doctor who told me that the simple act of running might be the best thing for my injury. Soon I was pounding the pavement nearly thirty miles a week, and, before long, not only was I playing the piano again but I had signed up for the New York City Marathon. It was my first race, but clearly I had a gift for distance running, because, after eighteen miles, I found myself in fifth place, only an eighth of a mile behind the leader.

We were approaching the Queensboro Bridge when, for some reason, I turned to my right and, behind the crowd, I noticed a holdup of a jewelry store in progress. Even though I was in striking distance of the leader, I couldn’t ignore what was taking place. I made a sharp detour to my right and slithered through the crowd. When I arrived at the store, the robber was brandishing a gun at the terrified jeweller while emptying the contents of the case into a cloth sack. I proceeded to sneak up behind the thief, karate-chop his arm, and render him unconscious with a sleeper hold that I picked up from watching Chief Jay Strongbow in a wrestling match on TV. Then I handed the gun to the jeweller, told him to call the police, and added that, if the robber were to wake up, he should shoot him if he made a move. Mission accomplished, I made my way back to the race and still managed to finish twentieth. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that, had I not foiled the robbery, I would’ve easily placed in the top five, or maybe even won. (Life’s funny. Bought a new watch today and was reminded of that story for the first time in years. Can’t think of any reason that you wouldn’t use it, unless you don’t want people to know the truth. News flash! There’s more to me than just jokes!)

I entered the marathon again the following year and thought for sure that this time I’d sweep the chips, but two days before the race I was contacted by an adoption agency. There was a child available in Romania, and she was mine if I could get there in twenty-four hours. As badly as I wanted to win the marathon, I couldn’t pass up this amazing opportunity. For years, I’d longed to adopt a child. I had so much to give, so much knowledge to impart. That night, I was off to Romania. When I returned home, it was with a beautiful, sightless little girl named Natasha, whom I renamed Jill. She was six years old and didn’t speak a word of English, but, given my proficiency with languages, I was fluent in Romanian within five weeks. Tragically, after a few months, Jill’s birth mother showed up and begged to take her child back. How could I deprive a mother of her little girl? And so, as difficult as it was, I gave Jill up. I still write to her every day in Braille and make the trek to Bucharest annually. She’s the love of my life.

So these are just a few memories—yours to use as you see fit. Just know that there’s certainly a lot more where they came from!

Larry David is a co-creator of “Seinfeld.” The tenth season of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” which he created and stars in, will première on HBO in January, 2020.