If You Never Leave, You May As Well Make Yourself at Home

● Anne Beatts, writer: It was customary to spend Tuesday nights at 30 Rock. My office was a window-width one on the 17th floor with a two-cushion green vinyl couch. I’d wake up drooling, with green stains on my mouth, so when I negotiated my second-year contract, I asked for a hospital bed. The office wasn’t big enough for both it and a desk, so I had a tray table for my typewriter and a phone on the wall. To keep it fresh, I’d bring in flowers, clean sheets, and a different outfit to change into every week. Inspired by me, Danny Aykroyd and John Belushi got bunk beds for their office, which always had a dank, frat-boy smell.

On Wednesdays, I’d leave a note for the receptionist to wake me up at nine, then I’d wake up my writing partner, Rosie Shuster. If we had time, we’d eat breakfast downstairs; during tough weeks,

we’d order in and tip the delivery guy, Raymond, in joints. We’d frantically type up scripts and write them out longhand on yellow pads, tape them together, and push them out under the door for the PAs to pick up before the three o’clock read-through.

Once, I was writing a thing for Gilda Radner, and we were on the phone at midnight. She was down in the Village in her apartment and said she’d come to the office to work on it. She showed up wearing her pajamas, which might have been footie pajamas, and admitted she’d changed into them just for the joke. She’d do anything to get a laugh. That was my life for five years. During the off weeks, we’d try to catch up on sleep, laundry, and returning calls, but there was never enough time. I’d have nightmares like “Lorne wants you in his office!” and “You’re running late!” I still have those dreams 40 years later. [Beatts died a week after giving this interview, at age 74.]