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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.
    “They’re in the other room,” he said finally and waved casually toward a door. I slipped past him as quickly as possible. I was not used to seeing strange men walking about nearly nude. (When I told Karen, she couldn’t resist saying, “They don’t come any stranger than Warde.”)
    The scene in the next room wasn’t a great deal better. Phyllis sat at the dressing table putting on her stage makeup, wearing nothing but panty hose and bra. Thank heaven Karen was fully clothed. Phyllis and Karen looked surprised to see me.
    “Didn’t you get my message?” Phyllis asked.
    “Yes, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
    “Well, there’s nothing for you to do right now. Why don’t you go wait in the other room.” Her tone was not unfriendly, just practical.
    At that moment, Warde came in and pulled a short robe out of the closet. He slipped into it and checked himself out in the mirror. The thing barely covered his butt, but it was certainly an improvement over the skimpy briefs.
    Warde turned to go back into the living room and I followed. He settled into a chair and started watching TV. He made no attempt at conversation, thank God. I sat stiffly on the couch and grabbed the only thing to read—a hotel guide for the eastern half of the United States—and studied it as if I were getting ready for a final exam.
    Finally, the door to the adjoining room opened. “Honey, don’t you think you’d better get ready?” Phyllis asked. It turned out that Warde was a singer and her opening act.
    Warde got up and I averted my eyes as he passed in front of me on his way to the dressing room. A few minutes later, the adjoining door opened again. Karen poked her head out and said to me, “C’mon in.”
    Warde was just leaving, heading downstairs. He