(5 of 9)
4:25 p.m. A call from an NBC attorney informs Jack that as a bonus for signing his new contract (which runs for two more years), he gets six weeks of vacation with pay. Now his salary comes to $2,750 a week, plus a percentage of the income from commercials, but he has no time for pleasure. "I don't know what in hell we're going to do tonight," he moans.
4:45 p.m. Still groaning about the "absolute lack of material" for the night's show, Jack suddenly cocks his head to the sound of a car horn and catcalls in front of his home. "The degenerates again," he says softly to a visitor. "See, Pal, I kid you not."
4:57 p.m. Talent Scout Tom O'Malley calls to announce that old Prizefighter-Clown Maxie Rosenbloom will be available for the night's show. "Tell Rosenbloom to be himself," Jack warns. "No prepared jokes." The warning is hardly necessary. Responsible for signing most of the guests on Paar's show, O'Malley is well aware of the rules of the game. Forbidden are "Lindy" comedians—the brash, Berle-type gagsters given to dialect jokes and continuous excitement. Says Paar: "I'm not interested in comedians named Joey or Jackie—no rock 'n' roll, no jazz."
5:10 p.m. After a brief dip in the pool ("I spend all my time keeping it clean and I'm seldom in it"), Jack settles down with a Jack Daniel's softened by water. "Do you know that right now, tonight, there is not one single written word, and now—WHAT TIME is IT? We're in panic NOW!"
5:27 p.m. Miriam Paar, Jack's pretty and patient wife, appears at poolside with a dinner tray—brook trout, corn on the cob, string beans, mixed green salad. Jack tops it off with a chocolate sundae garnished with whipped cream and peanuts.
7:10 p.m. Dressed in a blue suit, pink shirt and dark glasses, Jack is ready for the hired limousine that has come to take him to the show. He settles into the back seat with a groan, convinced that he is on a short ride toward disaster.
7:54 p.m. Jack hurries into the rear door of the Hudson Theater on West 44th Street and climbs upstairs to his dressing room. En route, he is cornered by Chris Carroll, an old Army buddy now serving as feature editor of the show (i.e., the procurer of oddball talent—pickpockets, performing chimpanzees, professional wrestlers). "You want Paul Anderson on the show?" Carroll aks hopefully. "Strongest man in the world. Hold you up over his head." Paar nods. Inside his dressing room, he sits down and studies a mimeographed "status report" of talent bookings; peremptorily he scrawls "O.K.," "No" or "Investigate" after each listing.
8:01 p.m. Paar studies the scripts for the commercials, reads a part planned for a visiting comic, says "Whew!" and shoves the papers aside in disgust.