B00C4I7LJE EBOK (4 page)

The sets were merely “flats,” a wall with a door or a window in it, propped up in back. Two or three of these made up a room, which was open on the fourth side for the camera. Overhead, the lights and microphones dangled out of the camera’s view. I found a place to sit out of everybody’s way and watched as the mayhem gradually resolved itself into order. Taping Phyllis’s segment took most of the day. At lunch there was a huge buffet of cold cuts and fruit. Karen and I sat at a table with Louis Jordan and George Maharis, whom I’d had a crush on since the first time I saw him on
Route 66
. We had a pleasant and casual chat as if we were really friends.

Wow,
I thought,
this is the big time!

It was nearly five o’clock by the time we left the studio, and I was glad that Phyllis required only one day of shooting. Between trying to figure out what was going on and staying out of everybody’s way, I was exhausted, although I hadn’t done a lick of work. I did have several more pages filled with “Phyllis Diller,” though. Phyllis glanced at them and told me I was ready to start signing things.

The next day, Maria and I packed for the trip to Pittsburgh. “Here’s the briefcase. I put in a new shorthand notebook, pens, the contract for the club, Phyllis’s address book, autographed pictures, and Phyllis Diller postcards.” It seemed excessive to me, but what did I know?

“On this side,” Maria continued, “is the expanded schedule. It lists all the interviews, contact numbers, rehearsal and show times. Now let me show you the office bag.” I couldn’t imagine we’d need anything more, but apparently we did.

Maria had packed the office bag with staplers and staple removers, Scotch tape, boxes of paper clips, dozens of pens in different colors, scratch pads, pencils, a pencil sharpener, an extra ribbon for my typewriter (“just in case,” she said), several large, yellow legal pads, and anything else necessary to set up an instant office any place on the planet. It also had two dozen of Phyllis’s new book,
Housekeeping Hints
.

“The office bag you can check,” Maria told me.

Well, thank heaven for that.
In addition to the briefcase and my purse, I would also have to carry my electric portable typewriter. I felt like a porter.
Is this the glamour Mr. B talked about?

Maria handed me the petty-cash purse. Just then Karen came up from the wardrobe room. “Well, we got the costumes done,” she said.

“What were you doing with the costumes?”

“Accessorizing.”

“Like how?”

“You know, picking out the gloves, the boots, the headdress that goes with each dress.”

I hadn’t thought about it, but of course there would be different gloves and shoes for every costume. Finding and choosing just the right pair of gloves or headdress would take time. No wonder Karen was so fussy about everything being in its proper place.

Eyeing the petty-cash purse she said, “We need to go to the bank and get some money. Two hundred should do it. Here, write a check.”

“Why do we need two hundred dollars?” I asked.

“Money for tips, taxis, and if Phyllis wants us to buy something.”

I wrote a check for $200, signed Phyllis’s name, and Karen took me to the local bank where Phyllis had her account. Karen introduced me to the tellers and the vice president. No one questioned the signature on the check.

Back at the house I made last-minute calls to the limousine service in Los Angeles confirming the limo and “baggage wagon” for 7:45 A.M. Phyllis’s travel agent called to confirm the limo at the airport in Pittsburgh. He also said a passenger service representative from the airline would be at the airports in L.A. and Pittsburgh, and assured me he’d made hotel reservations for Karen and me. Phyllis and Warde were staying in an apartment that Phyllis owned.

The next morning my dad drove me to the house so I wouldn’t have to leave my car parked in Phyllis’s driveway while we were away. Until I had a steady job and income, I did not want to start looking for my own place. My parents and I had a good relationship, and after seeing me only once in those nearly five years I’d been overseas, they were delighted to have me at home. We all knew it was temporary, but for the time being it was pretty comfortable. I sure didn’t expect my father to drive me to Phyllis’s every time we went out of town, but he liked to know where I would be working. Even though I was twenty-eight years old, I was still his “little girl.”

When we arrived, Karen was stacking luggage on the front porch. “Are you early, or am I late?” I asked as I jumped out of the car.

“Early. Good thing, too. Omar just left—they’ve been playing cards and yakking all night. I had to finish the packing.”

Normally, Phyllis did her own packing.

The “baggage wagon,” which turned out to be a second limousine, arrived shortly and I realized the necessity of having a separate vehicle for the luggage. Karen and I formed sort of a bucket brigade; she handed me the bags off the porch and I passed them on to the driver, who stashed them in the trunk.

“Hey, this one’s empty!” I said.

“No, it’s the feathers.”

So there was a bag with feather boas and headdresses, two wig boxes for the fright wigs Phyllis wore onstage, two suitcases with costumes, Phyllis’s two regular suitcases, a bag with things for Warde, who was meeting us there, my office bag, and a “kitchen bag.” The kitchen bag was heavy and when I saw what was inside, I understood. There was a hot plate, pans, utensils, cutlery, assorted herbs and spices, cans of soup and some crackers. Added to that were Karen’s suitcase, which matched Phyllis’s, and mine, which didn’t.

I’d learned more about Phyllis Diller since the day I said “yes” to the lady at the employment agency. The traveling kitchen, I realized, probably reflected an uncertain childhood during the Depression. Phyllis had been an only child of older parents and evidently learned to be self-reliant at an early age. Also, times were tough during her first marriage to a husband who couldn’t or wouldn’t hold a job. There were days when she didn’t know where they’d get money to buy food for the growing family. Although she was no Scarlett O’Hara, I’d guessed that she had promised herself she and her family would never go hungry again.

Warde was another dish of fish entirely. Karen told me he came from a wealthy, prestigious family. His brother was Chairman of the Board at Disney Studios. Perhaps my first impression of him had been wrong, I told myself as we continued to hand suitcases down to the limo driver.

Phyllis, somewhat bleary-eyed, came outside to see how we were doing. When she saw my suitcase, she turned back into the house and in just a moment was back with one of hers. “Use this,” she said. “With all the traveling we do, you’ll wear yours out in no time. Besides, it’s easier to pick them out when they all match.” There wasn’t time to repack my suitcase right there on the front porch, so I sent her huge, red-plaid suitcase home with my dad, but used it on all the trips after that.

I’d asked my dad to wait until we were on our way. I don’t know quite why, but I just wanted to make sure everything was going to happen the way I thought it would. When Phyllis saw me handing the suitcase to him, she waved us both over.

“Phyllis, may I present my father?” I asked.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Diller,” my father said as she held out her hand. My father was a proper English gentleman and even at this early hour on a Saturday morning, he was wearing a suit and tie. Phyllis was properly impressed. She liked him even better when I told her that we had a Chickering grand piano and he played classical music.

Score one for our side, Dad.

I had an odd introduction to traveling with Phyllis Diller. The usual arrangement had Phyllis and Warde in first class, while Karen and I went coach. However, Warde had gone directly to Philadelphia from New York, where he’d been since Phyllis got back from England. Phyllis never sat alone, so I got to enjoy first class while Karen sat in coach. I had never flown first class before. The crew recognized Phyllis and catered to her outrageously, filling her glass with champagne whenever it was less than half full.

What is this? Some kind of game?
We hadn’t been in the air more than forty minutes and she’d consumed the better part of a bottle. I became uneasy when after the third refill Phyllis decided to show me the contents of her purse. Like the Queen of England, there was no need for her to carry her own handbag, but she preferred it that way.

“Do you want to see my jewelry?” she asked with the solemn air of a kindergartner holding a pet frog for inspection. She didn’t wait for an answer but opened her large tapestry bag and pulled out a smaller one.

“Here,” she said, unzipping what looked like a cosmetic bag and fishing out a ring. “It’s a cabochon ruby. Thirty-five carats.” She dropped it into my hand. It felt heavy and inappropriately large for her small hand. The ruby was set in gold and ringed with diamonds.

“Look at this,” she commanded, pulling the next item from her bag. “It’s my diamond.” It sure was—it was actually half a dozen large diamonds of different cuts and sizes that looked as though they had haphazardly fallen into a delicate setting of gold. “Each stone has a story,” she said. “This one is from my mother’s wedding ring, and this one was given to me by Omar. It was from her engagement ring.” Phyllis continued pointing out each stone and its significance, then dropped it into my lap beside the ruby. (Both rings were stolen a year later when Phyllis left them in the restroom of an airplane.)

On she went pulling rings, brooches, and bracelets from her bag and holding them up for me to see, then dropping them in my hands. I’d spread a napkin across my lap and placed each one in it as Phyllis delved back into her bag for more. I was getting nervous. I didn’t think we were going to be robbed at gunpoint in an airplane, but what happened if we hit an air pocket and all those magnificent baubles went flying? When she reached the end, she scooped them all up and stuffed them back in her bag. At least I knew why she insisted on carrying her own purse. And why it was so heavy.

7

W
e arrived in Pittsburgh midafternoon. Rehearsal was at 6:00 P.M., the first of two shows at 8:00 P.M. Rather than a limo, a Chrysler Town Car was waiting at the airport. Because all of our luggage wouldn’t fit in the trunk, Karen and I sat in the front seat, each holding a wig box. Phyllis was in the back with three large suitcases. I sighed with relief when the driver dropped me at the Hilton. Karen and Phyllis went on to the nearby apartment where Warde was waiting.

“We’ll be back for you in a few minutes,” Phyllis called as the car pulled away. I dashed inside to check in.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your rooms aren’t quite ready,” the desk clerk said. He didn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

“I’m in a hurry. I have to leave again in a few minutes.”

“Hmm.” He flipped through some pages. “Did you specifically want the tower?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. Anything.”

“Two rooms, right?

“Yes. Two.”

“You want them close?”

“I don’t care. Just two rooms!” I felt sweat running down my back.

After flipping through a few more pages and placing a call, he handed me a couple of keys.

“They’re not together,” he said.

 “Fine.” The porter had returned to the bell desk and was summoned. He took our bags up and I directed the disposition of each—my white suitcase and the office bag in one room, Karen’s big plaid suitcase in the room down the hall. I barely had time to use the bathroom and run a comb through my hair. I rushed downstairs.

The doorman greeted me with a big smile.

“Are you Miss Diller’s secretary?” he asked.

I nodded.

“They just left,” he said.

“They what?”

“They were here and said they couldn’t wait. They went on to the club but said you didn’t have to bother to come out.”

“They left me here?”

“Guess you have the night off.”

“Really? You’re not joking?” I had a horrible sinking feeling. What had she meant by “don’t bother to come out”? Was I fired? Was that the equivalent of “take the next plane home”? Besides the anxiety, I was terribly disappointed. I’d been looking forward to the excitement of the theater and seeing Phyllis onstage.

I had learned a lot about the famous Phyllis Diller in the past couple of weeks. Each friend I told about my new job immediately began telling me about Phyllis Diller. From each one, I heard something different: her movies with Bob Hope; her appearances on the
Ed Sullivan Show
; that she had started show business at the age of forty; that she was the first, best, and funniest stand-up comedienne ever! Everyone told me how incredibly funny she was and how incredibly lucky I was to be working for her. However, at that moment I didn’t feel lucky at all. I wondered if I would be one of her short-lived secretaries, sent home in disgrace on the next plane.

“Is there a bus that goes out to the Holiday House?” I asked.

“Bless you, now,” he laughed. “That’s nearly thirty miles away. Even if there were, it would take you a long time. No, there’s no way to get there except by car or taxi.”

“Well, please call me a taxi,” I said and for a fleeting moment thought he was going to say, “All right, you’re a taxi,” but he didn’t. I wondered if I would have enough money for the fare, then remembered the $200 petty cash. I would pay it back later.

It was a long drive and I worried the whole way. Perhaps I should have stayed at the hotel and had dinner, written a few letters, practiced writing “Phyllis Diller” a few hundred times more. I realized, once I had a few minutes to catch my breath, I could have had the bellman stash the suitcases and checked into our rooms later. (Afterward I was glad I hadn’t done that because we didn’t get home until midnight.) I also realized I could have phoned out to the club and seen what the message meant. Feeling miserable, I huddled in the taxi and hoped I still had a job.

   The Holiday House was a large motor inn with a showroom. At the front desk a clerk directed me to suite 223. With more trepidation than I had felt since I’d learned I was going to a job interview with Phyllis Diller, I knocked on the door. When the door opened, I had an almost overwhelming urge to turn and run. There stood Warde wearing nothing but skimpy briefs. We stared at each other for several seconds. I wondered if he remembered me. He did.