Richard Pryor In His Own Words

His last film, Another You, was eventually made at the end of 1990 and released in July 1991. Playing a con man to Gene Wilder's chronic liar, Pryor gives a performance marked by sad, debilitating physical decline. He delivers his lines in a hesitant, anemic manner, forcing you to wonder if he'll make it to the end of each scene.

Another You was a real experience for me. Not only was I struggling with this MS demon, I got personally and professionally f---ed on that film. They fired the director [Peter Bogdanovich] and hired another ego [Maurice Phillips]. I was told I wasn't going to have to reshoot scenes, but the new ego had me do it anyway. And that's when I discovered things were not going well for me professionally. I was paid millions for the film, but usually if you have to reshoot scenes you're paid more on top of your salary. Well, in my case, my great agent did a little renegotiating on my behalf, and he got me more, all right: I got a f---in' big-screen TV! Brando, Nicholson, Pacino, and Hoffman, they get millions for reshoots — I got a f---in' big-screen TV! I know what kind of shape I'm in here, but come on, not a big-screen TV. Ain't that a bitch.

After the film I went into my MS denial period. I took a long hard look at what was happening to me, and I said to myself, ''God, is this how I'm going to end up?'' I realized this is what God has dealt me, and I should be thankful considering all that's happened to me in my life, but MS caused the movies to stop — stop dead — and I miss it.

So after Another You I ran off to my very own piece of paradise, my home in Hana [on Maui]. I was lonely so I took an ex-wife [Deboragh McGuire]. I know she went for the money, but I didn't care. I just didn't want to be alone. Hawaii is the best form of comfort for me. When I die, I want to be cremated, and I want half my ashes spread in the Pacific around the island, the rest on the property. Maybe one day flowers will grow there and bees will come around and f--- on my nose.

I think about dying. I've come to realize we all die alone in one way or another. You can have a roomful of people when it's your time to walk into the light, but you can bet your ass not one person will offer to go with ya. Sure, I have friends, plenty of friends, and they all come around wantin' to borrow money. I've always been generous with my friends and family, with money, but selfish with the important stuff like love. I don't know nothin' about that — do any of us?

I think about being married again, having a home and a wife. No one can ever be married too many times, and maybe if I keep trying I'll get it right one day. But it's kinda difficult to meet someone when you're always layin' around in bed — not many pretty girls gonna walk through the door and say, ''Hey, anyone in there who's lonely?'' Yes, damn it, I'm lonely! And now that the money is running low, so are the friends. As a matter of fact, the only ladies who visit me are, ya know, the kind I gotta pay. And I'm sure they leave happy, because I've been accused of treating whores better than I treat my family, friends, and employees. I may pay a whore, for an hour of her time, more than my personal assistant's entire monthly salary — that's a problem I have I need to work on. So now you all know, sometimes Richard Pryor's f---in' lonely as hell. I hate it! But it's okay, no need to throw a benefit just yet — I've had a good life.

Whatever denial Pryor was feeling about his health after Another You, he was knocked back into reality on May 29, 1991, when he suffered a massive heart attack and underwent a quadruple bypass.

I had to go over to UCLA the day before for a routine checkup. My doctor comes in, does a few things here and a few things there, then hooks me up to this monitor. I'm thinking, ''Come on, Doc, I wanna get outta here.'' Then suddenly I start to feel this little pain in my chest, and the doctor says, ''I'd like you to stay here in the hospital tonight.'' No way do I want to spend the night in the f---in' hospital, but these doctors all have a way of convincing you to do things their way.

For me, it was the right way, because at 4 o'clock in the morning I had this pain, not a little pain, but a pain that woke my ass from a sound sleep. It was different than the pain I felt when I burnt myself up. It was more of a controlled pain, like someone had a grip on my heart and when they felt like it they would squeeze. And after a few seconds — and I say a few seconds because when that kinda pain hits your ass, a few seconds is all a person can take — I thought, "Aw s---, here I come. I hope you're ready for me. Aw s---, I hope you know what you're gettin' yourself into.''

People started moving very fast around me. I was looking out the hospital window and I suddenly realized, ''I can't f---in' see! I'm gonna be dead and I can't see anything pretty before I die.'' They start to wheel me real fast around the place as the doctor's telling me I need to have a bypass. They took me into the operating room and I remember this nurse telling me they were going to stick this needle into my heart and another in my arm, and from that point I started to hallucinate terribly. I was dreamin' that Sammy Davis Jr. was in the room and Frank Sinatra was singing to Jan Murray in the hallway. I said, ''Sammy, go get Frank, 'cause I would like to say hi to him.'' Sammy said, ''Okay, Bub.'' He went out into the hallway, I heard them talking, but they never came back in. I also remember an unusual amount of priests in the room, like a convention, all headed by an Irish priest named Father Johnnie. After it was over, I started to come out of it only to find this male nurse standin' over me. ''Who's gonna win the game tonight?'' he asked me. I said, ''What the f--- are you talking about?'' He said the Lakers and the Bulls were playing, so we made a $30 bet — that was the first thing I remember doing after the surgery.

And that was the last time I saw that nurse. The Lakers ended up kicking the s--- out of the Bulls and the nurse disappeared. I kept yelling, ''Give me my f---in' $30!'' I never saw that motherf---er again.

Although his accountant tells him he'll go broke within the year, a few pending deals might save him from that fate. In the meantime, Pryor is turning again to live comedy, hoping to line up some small gigs that won't overtax his energy.

I'm going back out on the road. I love it, but I do need the money. It's a very safe high for me. I'm scared again. I know that if I wasn't scared, something's wrong, because the thrill is what's scary.

It really hit last October. I was going down this freeway in San Francisco on my way to the gig at the Circle Star Center, my first gig in six years. I looked up and what did I see — this flashing monster of a f---ing sign. It read, ''Richard Pryor SOLD OUT!'' I'm thinking, ''Great, now I'm scared to death.'' A sold-out house my first night back. Do you have any idea what kinda pressure that is? I could have been at home in my warm bed, playing Nintendo. I said to myself, ''I could have the driver take me to the plane and I'd be back in Los Angeles before the opening act gets off the stage.'' Wait! S---, I can do this. I've done it before, many times — I'm Richard Pryor.

When I got on stage that night my nerves had me jumping, but I was ready and I thought I kicked ass. I felt good about the reviews from that show, and all but one paper [the Oakland Tribune] had nice things to say. ''He wasn't very funny — at all,'' the guy wrote. And, ''Pryor rambled and meandered without focus.'' And the kicker, ''a shell of a man we once knew.''

Damn, now if that doesn't beat all. A shell of a man we once knew? This motherf---er doesn't know me, never did, and certainly won't now. I guess he's entitled to his opinion, but doesn't he realize he's not taking a shot at Richard Pryor the ''performer''? He's taking a shot at a guy who's busting his ass to survive, to feel alive again. Maybe he'll kick my cane out from under my ass for an encore.

I'm going through a humbling experience these days. There was a time in my life when I thought I had everything — millions of dollars, mansions, cars, nice clothes, beautiful women, and every other materialistic thing you can imagine. Now I struggle for peace. I hope I have enough money to live out the rest of my life, but according to my accountant I'll be broke real soon if I continue to spend the way I do. Stand-up has always brought me a good time in the past, but these days it brings me something else.

A life.