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Marlo: What about women in the comedy business? Did you ever date funny girls?

Jerry: When I was young, I was very interested in funny girls because it seemed like the ultimate thing: someone of the opposite sex who was also funny. To me, that seemed to be everything you could want.

Marlo: It would seem to be . . .

Jerry: But, you know, girls in the comedy business, there’s something about it that’s a little . . . homoerotic. I eventually decided I didn’t want to be in a relationship with someone who thinks being funny is as important as I do. That’s not so good.

Marlo: Is your wife the laugher in your relationship, or does she make you laugh?

Jerry: Both—she’s funny and she laughs. But, you know, it’s not like one of us says something funny, and then we look at each other and say, “Are you going to use that? Because I could use that.”

Marlo: When I told my father I wanted to be an actress, he said to me, “If you wanted to be a performer, I’d really encourage you, but being an actress you need too many people.” He said, “Me, I don’t need anybody. I go out there and all I need is the mike. I don’t wear funny hats. I don’t bring things on the stage. And because I don’t need anybody, I can always do what I love.” As a solo performer, do you feel the same way?

Jerry: Yes. I remember when I started doing some acting in college—which was the only acting that I had ever done—a director saying to me, “You’re making this part too funny. It’s not really supposed to be funny.” And I remember thinking to myself, You know, I think if I could get a little less help I might be able to get somewhere in this business.

Marlo: Exactly.

Jerry: And it’s still the same. I don’t know what it is with comedians, but there’s this conflicted thing of misanthropy and philanthropy: You hate people, but you’ll do anything to please them.

Marlo: Given how tough the comedy business is, would you want your kids to be a part of it?

Jerry: I don’t think I have a choice. My daughter, who’s eight years old—and who I don’t think really knows what I do—walks around the house with this joke book that’s two inches thick. It’s called Joke-a-pedia.

Marlo: Really?

Jerry: Yeah, she just carries it around. So maybe there’s something genetic there.

Marlo: Ya think?

Jerry: Probably, yeah. A couple of years ago, she said to me, “Dad, I really like making people laugh.”

Marlo: Oh, how great. And what did you say?

Jerry: I said, “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Chapter 5

The Wives

My mother, Rosie, was a band singer. So was Dolores Hope, Bob’s wife. Like their husbands, a lot of the comedians’ wives had worked in nightclubs.

The curvaceous Margie Durante had been a cigarette girl at the Copa in New York. Moving among the patrons in her glorious décolletage, she caught Jimmy’s eye.

Toni Murray, married to Jan, worked on stage as a “Copa Girl.” You could see why—she was a gorgeous redhead.

I once asked Toni if she sang, too.

“I couldn’t even dance,” she said in her usual deadpan delivery.

Toni was what they called in nightclub lingo a “show horse.” Those were the tall girls who just walked across the stage looking luscious, wearing feathered, three-foot headdresses—and not a whole lot else. The dancers were smaller and called “ponies.” I always wanted to be a pony. They looked like they had the most fun. As a kid, I used to love hanging backstage with them in their big dressing room when they were getting into their spangly outfits. They were young, loud and full of life. It was like being in a sorority dorm. With sequins.

But none of the boys’ wives worked after they got married. They all had kids, ran big houses and took care of their husbands. And the latter was a full-time job. For all their brash hilarity and guts on stage, the boys needed a great deal of care. If your emotional equilibrium is so dependent every night on pleasing a group of strangers, you need a lot of salve on your ragged ego when you close the door at the end of the night.

There was a well-known adage that described the two