B00C4I7LJE EBOK (26 page)

“I think you’d better stick with Alexandra. Phyllis likes classy names. I think that’s partly why she hired me, because I have a hyphenated name.”

She nodded and said, “When I interviewed with Phyllis in L.A., she told me that if I went by the name of Sandy Beach, every time she introduced me to someone they’d do a ten-minute riff on my name. She told me that Alexandra would be much better.”

“When did you interview?” I’d known nothing about this.

“Three weeks ago. I met Phyllis, and Warde, too, at their house.”

Why do I feel blindsided? This is what I want, isn’t it?

I filled her in as best I could on our twenty-minute ride to the hotel. Sandy’s room was next to mine, and as soon as we checked in I took her directly there so she could catch her breath before we went down to the dressing room. It was still about an hour before showtime, but Phyllis had gone down early.

Sandy opened her suitcase and hung up her clothes. “When am I going to see Miss Diller?” she asked as she finished putting things in drawers.

I called Phyllis in her dressing room. “Bring Alexandra down,” she said.

 “I’ll show you the back way,” I said as I opened an unobtrusive door in the side of the casino. We climbed down some metal stairs and emerged backstage, just steps from the dressing room. Phyllis advanced on us with tissues hanging from her nose. I felt myself get slightly sick.
What if Sandy decides this woman is crazy and catches the next plane back to L.A.?
I wondered how many more weeks it would be before another replacement could be found.

“Hello, Alexandra,” Phyllis lisped as she stuck out her hand. “Welcome to Reno.”

Because of her deviated septum, Phyllis sometimes stuffed tissues up her nostrils. In addition, she now wore a retainer—the final stage of having her teeth straightened—which she removed only when she went onstage. When she spoke, it made her lisp and she sounded slightly drunk.

“You remember my husband,” Phyllis added. Sandy shook hands with Phyllis, then Warde.

He leered at her. “I’m pleased to see you again.” I could feel Sandy tense up. “Did you have a nice flight?” he continued

“Yes. Thank you.” She extracted her hand from his grip.

Phyllis intervened. “I’m glad you’re here and hope you’re going to enjoy the job. Now, why don’t you two girls go get something to eat, and then I’ll see you back here before the show.”

“I’m looking forward to working for you, Miss Diller,” Sandy said.

As we stepped into the hall, she said, “My God, what a couple!”

She’d been nervous, but she’d stood her ground, and Phyllis apparently liked her.

“So how did you hear about the job?” I asked as we headed for the coffee shop.

“It was sort of through the grapevine,” she said. “I moved here from Chicago two years ago and have been working at a literary agency in L.A. You know, it was one of those things where somebody told somebody who told somebody else. I don’t even know who found out about it in the first place. I don’t know why she chose me.”

Probably because you were the only one willing to work for such a pitiful paycheck.
I hadn’t thought I’d said it out loud, so was startled when Sandy said, “I took a cut in pay. I was really hesitant about that. Warde told me there was ten dollars per diem when we traveled, though.”

“And that was the deciding factor?”

“Oh, yeah. That and a smile might buy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at the Fairmont.” Well, obviously Sandy had done some traveling. I relaxed a bit.

As we settled into a booth in the coffee shop, she asked, “So, what’s Miss Diller like?”

“Don’t keep calling her Miss Diller. Her name is Phyllis. If you start out calling her Miss Diller, she’s going to get used to it. You can call Warde Mr. Donovan, though.”

We chatted as we devoured our meal.

Sandy glanced at her watch. “About time to go back, do you think?”

I quickly realized that Sandy was organized and decisive.
She’ll be perfect.
I smiled to myself. I had promised Phyllis to stay on for Sandy’s first two weeks, and I could see daylight ahead—daylight and freedom!

Between shows that evening, John Rowles poked his head into the dressing room. Before long, he and Sandy were laughing together; she was starting to relax. Everything was going to work out. I could tell.

The rest of the week went by quickly, and soon we were on the private jet once again, heading for Los Angeles. We had two days at home before we took off for Houston, where Phyllis would perform with the Houston Symphony.

I was especially excited about Houston because my brother, John, lived there and we’d have a chance to visit. He joined me for breakfast early in the morning and came to the concert that night. I brought him backstage afterward to meet Phyllis and Warde. What a nice bonus for me on my last trip to get to see my brother!

This was the first introduction, too, that Sandy would have to regular air travel with Phyllis and the hassle of the carry-on bags, arrangements with limousines, the anxiety of convincing Warde to get moving on time, and all the other intricacies of traveling with Phyllis. Sandy quickly learned all that occurred with an orchestra rehearsal, and the actual performance.

On the last day, when we flew home to L.A., I kept in the background. I watched Sandy as she and Phyllis did the final packing. Sandy called down for the bellman and the limo and then did a final, quick sweep for anything left behind. As the door to the suite closed behind us, I automatically reached for the typewriter and briefcase, but Sandy picked them up and walked on ahead with Phyllis and Warde.

At the airport, the passenger service representative took Phyllis and Warde to the plane on a little golf cart. I stood quietly as Sandy talked to the skycap, took the baggage tags, and tipped him.

The flight home was uneventful. The limo was there to meet Phyllis and Warde, and they were gone before Sandy and I got out to the curb with the bags. We rode in the “baggage wagon” and chatted about inconsequential things. She seemed happy with how well everything had gone and felt that she and Phyllis had established a rapport. She even liked Warde, and he kidded with her. I tried to ignore the slight pang of—what?—
could it be envy?

At the house, the driver carried the bags inside while I took my suitcase to my car. When I went back inside, no one was around. I heard laughter from the back of the house. I stood for a moment looking for someone to say good-bye to and felt a little awkward, even a little shy, as if maybe I didn’t belong there. Then I realized, no, I didn’t belong there anymore. Life had already moved on. Suddenly tears welled in my eyes as I looked around, inhaling one more time that peculiar scent of the house with its bit of sea air, Phyllis’s perfume, and, gee, even a hint of dust from those same silk roses.

After another minute, I quietly opened the door and slipped out. At the end of the driveway, I turned one more time, taking it all in. Nothing seemed to have changed since the first time I saw it nearly two years before.

“Good-bye, Phyllis,” I whispered. “Thank you. It was a blast.”

EPILOGUE

W
orking for Phyllis Diller had a profound effect on my life. Mainly, because I married that Riviera stage manager, Bob Smith. No, really, that was his name. I moved to Las Vegas and even though the marriage didn’t last, my love affair with Las Vegas has continued, and several decades later, I’m still here. Phyllis was delighted to hear that she had been the catalyst for our romance.

When going through my Phyllis memorabilia—and discovering to my dismay that I have very little—I came across a recipe with a note from Sandy, which was dated only a couple of weeks after I’d left. The note reads: “Dear Robin, Miss Diller asked me to send the enclosed recipes to you. She’s decided that, as long as you are now a lady of leisure, you can be our official test kitchen. Let us know how they come out.” Attached were two recipes for eggplant. I have no recollection of having made these or reporting my results back to Phyllis, and Sandy doesn’t remember either. Eggplant has never been a favorite of mine—no matter what you do with the darn stuff, it is a lot of work for very little return.

However, the letter made me laugh. Phyllis and I kept in touch over the years. Whenever she was mentioned in the Las Vegas paper, I would send her the article. She’d reply with sweet little notes. We always exchanged Christmas cards.

 In 2002, Alexandra (Sandy to the rest of us) threw a party to celebrate Phyllis’s 85th birthday. She invited me, Ingrid, Karen, and Carole Eschler, and, of course, Phyllis.

Phyllis was in the midst of a traumatic year. Her daughter, Stephanie, had died suddenly, and Phyllis retired from show business that same month. I don’t think the two were related; Phyllis had planned her retirement well in advance. Phyllis said she wanted to go out on top—you’ve heard the show-business admonition, “Leave them laughing.” That’s what she wanted to do, and exactly what she did.

So on that summer day in July, we all wondered if Phyllis would come to Sandy’s party, but she did indeed. Phyllis was always one to “accentuate the positive.”

Somebody else was there, too. Gregg Barson, a friend of Phyllis’s, was making a documentary of Phyllis’s life called
Good Night, We Love You
. Sandy had agreed he could stop by and film some of the party. Gregg and his photographer completely took over, silencing some of us in order to catch the reminiscences of others, or banishing someone else to another room so she wouldn’t ruin the shot.

   They stayed two hours as we sat chatting primly and laughing politely. As soon as they left, Sandy mixed up margaritas and brought out the martinis, and the stories spilled out. Phyllis absolutely howled at some of the things she heard, learning for the first time of many of our misadventures. We told of limousine mix-ups, horny stagehands, and suitcases gone astray. Warde came in for his share of bashing, but by then he was fair game. Phyllis had divorced him, finally, in 1975.

At Sandy’s party I reconnected with Ingrid and Karen. Ingrid and I had remained roommates for a while until I moved to a place of my own. She and I had kept in touch, and I’m happy to say that Karen and I did as well, but I hadn’t seen them for years. I met Carol Eschler, Sandy’s replacement, for the first time that day at Sandy’s party.

I learned some almost incredible things—Karen had not known how to drive a car when she came to work for Phyllis. A friend taught her to drive a Volkswagen. Well, no wonder she hated driving the Rolls! Carol had flown to Washington, D.C., on a presidential jet.

“Air Force One?” I asked.

“No, the president wasn’t with us, so I guess not. But Sammy Davis was on it and a bunch of other celebrities. They were all entertaining at the White House.”

It was fun to learn of everyone’s adventures. Ingrid had gone on cruises, Sandy had gone to Australia, but I . . . I . . . had gone to London!

We had so much fun that Phyllis decided to make it an annual tradition until—literally—the day she died. Our last reunion was scheduled for Sunday, August 19, 2012. Perry sent an e-mail a few days before saying the reunion had been canceled. No explanation, but we all knew. Phyllis died the next morning, August 20. She was 95 years old.

But in the meantime, every year for those nine years following the birthday party, Phyllis invited us to her home. It felt odd to be a guest. A butler and maid greeted us, brought us champagne, and served us lunch in the big, formal dining room. In addition to the Dustbiters, as she had dubbed us, Phyllis included magician Mercer Helms, her friend and opening act for the last twenty years of her stand-up career. We were never sure if a dove would appear on the dining room table or a glass would suddenly start floating across the room. Phyllis invited other of her former secretaries to join in so that at the last reunion there were ten of us at the table.

Phyllis’s very first “Dustbiter reunion” included not only Sandy, Ingrid, Karen, Carol, Mercer, and me, but someone I had not expected to see.

When I walked into the house, Ingrid came dashing up just as the maid was taking the flowers I’d brought for Phyllis. “You’ll never believe who’s here!”

I hesitated, feeling a tingle of fear.

“Corrine!”

Oh, lovely, Corrine the Perfect!
I winced.

“Here she is,” Ingrid continued, holding out a hand to each of us, and Corrine joined us.

I didn’t know if Ingrid was introducing me to Corrine or the other way around. Either way, I was prepared to loathe her on sight.

Corrine smiled and held out her hand. “Oh, what a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you!”

Really?

“I am so looking forward to hearing about your time with Phyllis,” she said and smiled like she meant it. “Let’s talk later.” The butler offered me a glass of champagne.

Aw, gee, how could I be mad at this charming lady?

After lunch, we had a chance to sit and chat. The Corrine that I’d loved to hate faded away.

But years before that, before the reunions started, I had moved to Las Vegas and married Bob. He was a romantic devil and always full of surprises. They say “opposites attract” and that surely was the case. He was a night person, and I was a day person. He loved sunsets and starry skies. I preferred sunrises and bright days. He was a spur-of-the-moment, “Let’s do it!” guy, and I wanted to deliberate and consider. He loved to take the Jeep off-roading and delighted in getting covered in mud. I wanted to dress up and go to the ballet. We did have one thing in common—golf. I took lessons—the ones I’d never taken back at the Playboy Club-Hotel in Lake Geneva—and we played together a lot. However, we finally, sadly, realized that it was not enough to maintain a marriage. After the divorce, I got a job, bought a house, and put down my own roots.

Whenever Phyllis came to town, she invited me to her show. When she did
Hollywood Squares
at the Riviera, I took the day off to be there. (Bob had retired by then.) Oddly, Ingrid, the one who declared at the outset that working for Phyllis was only a temporary job until she got her big break into show business, was still working for Phyllis twenty years later. Eventually Ingrid married and moved to Palmdale, where she started her own public relations firm, Chapman Communications, Inc., which became wildly successful.