he arrived and I had explained we needed to have them packed for shipping, he scrutinized both objects, fixed me with a baleful stare, then looked once more at the picture.
“That is a beautiful picture of our Lord,” he intoned in an undertaker’s voice.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed, but knew he had, that Phyllis had “autographed” the picture for her publicist. In a bold, black scrawl she had written: “To Frank Lieberman, who made me what I am today.”
That happened two weeks later, though. That night all I cared about was getting the damned chair delivered and trying not to look as foolish as I felt trailing the surly bellman past all the elegantly gowned ladies and besuited gentlemen. And Phyllis had made it worse by giving me specific instructions to see to it personally that the chair was delivered to Totie Fields’ dressing room.
“Don’t just leave it with a bellman,” she told me. “I want you to make sure it gets where it’s going. If you leave it with someone, Totie might not get it for days.”
So not only did I have to parade through the Riviera, I had to repeat the process at the International. At least there the staff saw the humor in the situation and smiled as we wended our way the length of the entire casino to the stage door. I felt safe enough leaving the chair with the stage manager, and my faith was justified when photographs were delivered about an hour later showing Totie Fields, who turned out to be a very short woman, perched regally on the chair, her feet dangling several inches above the floor.
Phyllis was delighted with her prank; Totie was thrilled with the chair; and I was relieved that the episode was finished.
Las Vegas turned out to be a lot of fun, as Karen had predicted. She and I settled into a pleasant routine of getting up about 10:00 A.M. and meeting for breakfast in the coffee shop. After breakfast we would check the mail, then go lie out by the pool until about 2:00 P.M., when I returned to my room to check in with Phyllis. If she wasn’t in the mood to dictate or go through her mail, I spent the afternoon typing letters and making phone calls. At 7:30 P.M., Karen and I would meet Phyllis backstage, except on evenings when Warde wasn’t around, in which case we’d go up to the suite and escort Phyllis through the kitchen to the dressing room. Warde particularly enjoyed Las Vegas when his friends visited. They would go out, sometimes not returning until just before show time when he had to make the announcement.
I loved John Davidson’s act, and as soon as the orchestra began tuning up, I’d scamper downstairs to watch. Phyllis would have looked through the mail and as a rule she didn’t need me to hang around. Helping her dress, doing her wig and getting her ready to go onstage was Karen’s job.
John Davidson opened his act with “Joy to the World” (not the Christmas carol), and to this day every time I hear that song, I’m magically transported backstage to the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas, smelling that wonderful smell of musty curtain and perspiration and perfume and marveling again at how the stage lights blind you to anything past the second row of the audience. If they didn’t laugh or applaud, you wouldn’t know there was anyone out there.
Between shows, Karen and I had dinner in the coffee shop while Phyllis and Warde ordered room service, either backstage or in their suite. At the end of the first week, Phyllis invited Karen and me to dinner with the two of them at a nearby Italian restaurant. I was ill at ease since we had an undefined relationship in social situations. I mean, were we still supposed to be working, or was this purely personal? Afterward we would be going back to work, so I didn’t think we’d all be relaxed and happy. However, it turned out to be quite pleasant. Several people stopped by to greet Phyllis, but for the most part she was left in peace. We had a delicious dinner, and I enjoyed the change
“That is a beautiful picture of our Lord,” he intoned in an undertaker’s voice.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed, but knew he had, that Phyllis had “autographed” the picture for her publicist. In a bold, black scrawl she had written: “To Frank Lieberman, who made me what I am today.”
That happened two weeks later, though. That night all I cared about was getting the damned chair delivered and trying not to look as foolish as I felt trailing the surly bellman past all the elegantly gowned ladies and besuited gentlemen. And Phyllis had made it worse by giving me specific instructions to see to it personally that the chair was delivered to Totie Fields’ dressing room.
“Don’t just leave it with a bellman,” she told me. “I want you to make sure it gets where it’s going. If you leave it with someone, Totie might not get it for days.”
So not only did I have to parade through the Riviera, I had to repeat the process at the International. At least there the staff saw the humor in the situation and smiled as we wended our way the length of the entire casino to the stage door. I felt safe enough leaving the chair with the stage manager, and my faith was justified when photographs were delivered about an hour later showing Totie Fields, who turned out to be a very short woman, perched regally on the chair, her feet dangling several inches above the floor.
Phyllis was delighted with her prank; Totie was thrilled with the chair; and I was relieved that the episode was finished.
Las Vegas turned out to be a lot of fun, as Karen had predicted. She and I settled into a pleasant routine of getting up about 10:00 A.M. and meeting for breakfast in the coffee shop. After breakfast we would check the mail, then go lie out by the pool until about 2:00 P.M., when I returned to my room to check in with Phyllis. If she wasn’t in the mood to dictate or go through her mail, I spent the afternoon typing letters and making phone calls. At 7:30 P.M., Karen and I would meet Phyllis backstage, except on evenings when Warde wasn’t around, in which case we’d go up to the suite and escort Phyllis through the kitchen to the dressing room. Warde particularly enjoyed Las Vegas when his friends visited. They would go out, sometimes not returning until just before show time when he had to make the announcement.
I loved John Davidson’s act, and as soon as the orchestra began tuning up, I’d scamper downstairs to watch. Phyllis would have looked through the mail and as a rule she didn’t need me to hang around. Helping her dress, doing her wig and getting her ready to go onstage was Karen’s job.
John Davidson opened his act with “Joy to the World” (not the Christmas carol), and to this day every time I hear that song, I’m magically transported backstage to the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas, smelling that wonderful smell of musty curtain and perspiration and perfume and marveling again at how the stage lights blind you to anything past the second row of the audience. If they didn’t laugh or applaud, you wouldn’t know there was anyone out there.
Between shows, Karen and I had dinner in the coffee shop while Phyllis and Warde ordered room service, either backstage or in their suite. At the end of the first week, Phyllis invited Karen and me to dinner with the two of them at a nearby Italian restaurant. I was ill at ease since we had an undefined relationship in social situations. I mean, were we still supposed to be working, or was this purely personal? Afterward we would be going back to work, so I didn’t think we’d all be relaxed and happy. However, it turned out to be quite pleasant. Several people stopped by to greet Phyllis, but for the most part she was left in peace. We had a delicious dinner, and I enjoyed the change
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