Me: 2+2= four
White girl: fou’re**
As much of Manhattan settled in for another bitter cold evening Jan. 30, Meyers returned to the writers room. He was prepared to formally sign off that Saturday, and at 10 p.m., he swung by looking for a fellow writer. On the other side of the door were about 70 past and present colleagues there to see him off. Impressively, the tight-knit staff, with whom he’d pulled one last all-nighter earlier that week, had kept it a surprise. Pictures of Meyers lined the walls, drinks flowed freely until well past midnight, and familiar faces filled the suddenly cramped space: Rachel Dratch. Hader. Armisen. Samberg. Fey.
Meyers’ eyes welled up as the spirited group began chanting, “Speech!” But he didn’t make it far before cutting himself off, explaining how he’d rather hang out with his old friends than hold court before them. “That’s Seth — he’s very understated in his way,” says Samberg later. Adds Shoemaker, “Seth took care of all of these people, and so they all, especially when they leave, feel this debt to him.”