A red carpet trail leads past faux Greek fountains into a cavernous lobby festooned with gold, then continues past the check-in counter down a wide, curving staircase into the darkest underworld of the entertainment industry. Below ground, the hallway appears like a showbiz war memorial casualty list, trailing off into oblivion, or at least up to the nearest reaches of the game room. The walls are mirrored on either side, reflecting endlessly the hundreds of publicity photos, framed and autographed, that hang lifelessly with just a hint of dust. The effect from the mirrors is infinite, but the feeling the head shots evoke is one of mortality, fleeting success, and dashed hopes.

A few big names stand out, and their pictures are larger than the rest. Bill Cosby, young thin face, puffing on a long fat cigar, resplendent in a ’70’s leisure suit; Bob Hope striding down a circular staircase, his evening-gowned wife the picture of post-war inaugural Republican ruling class; Billy Crystal, chubby cheeks, benign puppy eyes, just passing through on the way to bigger things. A few big names, but the wall is a monument to the great, gaping all-consuming maw of showbiz. Larry Storch, Soupy Sales, George Kirby, Glen Campbell, Frank Gorshin, the Smothers Brothers, Joe Piscopo, Bobby Sherman, Alan King, Nipsey Russell, Shecky Greene. Entertainers who tasted life at the top, might’ve grabbed the brass ring in Hollywood for a time. Then back to the grind, waiting for another break.

One-nighters, life in a suitcase: Catskills, Mt. Airy Lodge, Ocean City. Work your way down to Florida for the cruise ship gigs, then back to the Interstates, more driving, always acting. Trying not to think about those moments in the middle of nowhere when the darkness creeps in, and the sky turns toxic orange over the power lines and the smokestacks, and the highway looks like every other highway, endless and empty of meaning. And you can’t quite distinguish what it is you’re feeling, some strange mixture of numbness and grief edged slightly with panic -- always seems to hit in this part’a Pennsylvania, must be somethin’ funny about those mountains. But then maybe I been just doin’ this crap for too long, far too long. But what else is there? Got two or three wives to pay off. Agent set up one ballbuster of a schedule though. Step on the gas, gonna be late for the gig. And reach for the pills. Wash ’em down with coffee dregs, and stop thinkin’ about how even the sky looks like it’s closing in.

It ain’t easy to be funny, bud, gotta keep the face up. Can’t let ’em see you look nervous. . . EVER. Always fightin’ not to get ripped off by some greaseball. All these years in the business and a contract still only means so much. And the hecklers, drunks on a weekend furlough from domestic purgatory, they build themselves up by tearing down the comedian: You look familiar, pal, wasn’t you on Johnny Carson? "Loveboat"? "Hollywood Squares"? Ain’t seen you on the TV in a long time. What’sa matter, heh, heh. . .

Husbands and fathers away from home for a weekend convention. Hardware store owners, real estate brokers, market researchers zeroing in on mall trends, undertakers, restaurant suppliers, underground sprinkler contractors, carpet salesmen bandying about the lingo: square yardage and plush broadloom and shag sales-stats. Enduring interminable talks in the convention rooms all afternoon, their midlife crises aching to be exorcized. Then hit the bar at first call, chubby fingers gripping the narrow glass column of their first martini glass of the day. Holding on for dear life as they sense the longing stares of hungry-eyed big-haired women who haunt the bar all afternoon in a haze of cigarette smoke. Husband’s long gone, kids at camp; one night away, don’t stand in their way, there’s not much time, not much time. Can still look pretty hot to a drunken heckler. . .

Meantime, look who’s warming up for the show. Frank D’Amico, Lou Cary, Gordon MacRae, Jerry Van Dyke, Dick Lord (leisure-suited and coiffed in his publicity shot like a forty-something high school graduate, class of ’76 yearbook), Janice Harper, Clint Holmes, Don Sebastian, Jim Bailey, Norm Crosby, Buddy Greco, Al Fisher and Lou Marks, Charlie Callas, Fred Travelena, Vicky Carr.