TALES FROM THE SCRIPT: THE BEHIND-THE-CAMERA ADVENTURES OF A TV COMEDY WRITER by Gene Perret Read Free Book Online Page A

sent me a check. Eventually, she called and said,
“Look, i’m getting tired marking these jokes. About how much do i
buy from you?”
i said, “it has averaged about $150 a week.”
She said, “i’ll send you a check for that amount each week and
you just keep on writing jokes. OK?”
Of course, it was OK.
Each Friday, i took Phyllis’ check to the bank and deposit it along
with my salary. i gloried in the celebrity that check afforded. i pushed
the checks toward the teller very casually, as if it was no big deal for
me to be getting money from a nationally-known celebrity. i reveled
in the double-take when the teller noticed the name on the check.
One time, the teller looked at the name and opened her eyes
wide. She took that check to the teller at the next window, showed
her the famous name, and they both chuckled.
When she came back to me, she said, “Phyllis Diller, huh?”
i said with all the false humility i could muster under the circumstances, “Yeah.”
She said, “is she anything like the real Phyllis Diller?”
Offended, i said, “That is the real Phyllis Diller.”
The teller held the check up, examining it more closely, and said,
“no, it’s not.”
Then she gave me my receipt and i left.
Chapter Five
The Break
    Every successful career has a turning point, the “break.” it’s simply
another link in the chain that’s probably no more important than the
hard work that preceded it, but it does mark a change of direction or
intensity. Phyllis Diller provided my break when she starred in her
own variety show on nBC in the 1968 television season. it was called The Beautiful Phyllis Diller Show .
    Phyllis persuaded the producers of the show, Bernie Orenstein
and Saul Turtletaub, that i should write her opening monologs. They
had their agent, Bernie Weintraub, call me to arrange a deal. They
were not prepared to hire me full-time, but they did want me to write
material that Phyllis could use on the show.
    Bernie Weintraub still laughs and tells the story of our first financial
negotiations. He said, “How much do you make on your regular job?”
i asked, “With or without overtime?”
That got him chuckling on the phone. There was no overtime in
Hollywood. Writers agreed to a price and worked as long as was necessary to get the job done. Bernie had never dealt with anyone who
punched a time clock before.
i told him, “i make $12,000 a year, with overtime, $15,000.”
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    He said, “We’ll pay you $250 a week to work with Phyllis on the show.”
i said, “Fine.” it was fine because it more than doubled my income.
After we agreed to terms, though, i began to feel paranoid. i pictured
    those Hollywood producers grumbling about Phyllis Diller insisting on
having some “non-pro” write her material. in my mind, they were cursing me for intruding into their producing arena. They were waiting, i
thought, to get my first batch of jokes so they could take them to their star
and say, “We’re dumping this guy because he’s incompetent, a mountebank, and an embarrassment to the comedy writing community.”
    instead, they called the next day and congratulated me on my
contract, welcomed me to the show’s writing staff, and invited me to
fly out and work with them for a week so i’d feel more comfortable
about the show. “Would i be willing to do that?” they asked.
    i told them, “First, i have to apologize to both of you.”
“For what?” they asked.
“For all the terrible names i called you yesterday.”
They sent me a first-class ticket—that’s right, a first-class ticket—
    and $500 to cover incidental expenses along the way.
So much for my paranoia.
Of course, i was still a working man, so i had to arrange to visit
    Hollywood during my vacation. My wife and four children went to
the seashore, where we usually spent our summer vacation, and i flew
off to Tinseltown.
    The producers welcomed me like a visiting dignitary. They introduced me to the staff writers