B00C4I7LJE EBOK by Robin Skone-Palmer Read Free Book Online

thrills from threatening celebrities.
    We went from the cab to the elevator and into the apartment without seeing anyone. Phyllis went straight to the kitchen.
    “I’m cooking dinner for you,” she announced. “Do you like garlic?”
    Phyllis got out her knives and started chopping cloves and immediately the room filled with the pungent scent of garlic. I realized that it didn’t matter whether I liked garlic or not. That’s what we were having.
    Warde came in while she was filling a huge pan with water. “How’d it go?” he asked, picking up a lime and cutting it in half.
    “Fine, Warde.”
    He added ice cubes to a glass and reached for the gin. “Did you remember to plug the Holiday House?”
    Phyllis didn’t respond, and I picked up the three-day-old newspaper from the table.
    The door opened and Karen walked in. “Perry called,” she told Phyllis.
    “Fine. I’ll call him later. I’m making spaghetti,” Phyllis said and tossed the chopped garlic—lots of it—into a small sauté pan and added a cube of butter.
    “Hand me that spaghetti,” she said to Warde.
    “Wouldn’t you rather have a drink?” he asked and attempted to hand her the gin on the rocks instead.
    “Not before the show!”
    I continued to study the newspaper.
    “The spaghetti, Warde.”
    Warde set down his drink, tore open the package and handed it to Phyllis. She dumped the entire contents into the boiling water. Warde picked up his drink and went back to wherever he’d come from.
    When the pasta was done, Phyllis tossed everything together, added a bit of salt and pepper, and divided it among four plates.
    “Warde, dinner,” Phyllis called. He appeared promptly, sans drink, and we sat down to the table. We were all quiet as we slurped up the garlic spaghetti. We didn’t leave a scrap.
    The chopping of the garlic must’ve been therapeutic because by the time we got to the theater, Phyllis had returned to normal.
    Nothing untoward happened for the rest of the run. Warde performed his act according to plan, the audiences continued to love Phyllis, and I spent afternoons at the apartment taking dictation.
    Two days before Phyllis’s show closed at the Holiday House, Phyllis told me to put together a tip list. “You need to get the names and the correct spelling; that’s very important. I want to acknowledge everyone I worked with.”
    Karen coached me on who should receive a tip from Phyllis and it was indeed everyone. I wrote down the names of the limo driver, the stage manager, the spotlight operator, the sound man, the doorman, and everyone else who’d done anything for Phyllis while we were there.
    “Do you have the books?” she asked.
    Ah! That’s why Maria had put two dozen copies of Housekeeping Hints in the office bag.
    Phyllis autographed them individually and usually added a cute comment. Some people, like the stage manager, got cash. She told me who and how much, and I put it in an envelope along with the note from her.
    When it came time to leave, I almost panicked over the preparations. I checked and double-checked on the limousines on both ends, and confirmed that a passenger service rep would be in Pittsburgh and L.A. At the airport the porter argued about how many bags we were allowed, but when he found out the luggage belonged to Phyllis Diller, he just smiled and wrote out the baggage tags. A large tip didn’t hurt, either. Phyllis’s policy was to tip double the going rate. Many other celebrities weren’t so generous. I appreciated her largess. It certainly made life easier for me. I just wished she had the same attitude toward her own staff.
    By the time my dad picked me up at Phyllis’s house in Brentwood at 5:00, we’d worked more than a twelve-hour day. We drove Karen home and on the way filled my dad in on the details of the trip. He raised his eyebrows at Warde’s behavior and let me know that he wasn’t at all sure this was the best of all possible situations for his daughter.
    “Are we