Harpo Speaks! Read online

  The second kid from the end was me. He got me—with a jetstream of tobacco juice, smack down the front of my white duck jacket.

  “Watch this!” said the drunk. “I’ll get him again!” Before he could get me again I backed up two paces and marched to the lee side of Groucho, without losing a beat or diverting my eyes from the audience. The audience howled. They’d never seen anything funny in the olio before, and probably never did again. But it wasn’t funny to me—or to Minnie, who spent most of the night scrubbing the tobacco-juice stain out of my costume.

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Working out of Chicago now, on one-night stands, I would have loved to get a laugh any way I could. Anything to break the boring routine of being a squeaky, white duck Nightingale. Groucho had the only authorized comedy in the act, when he came out as a butcher’s delivery boy, carrying a basket with a string of frankfurters hanging out. This, which was supposed to be hilarious, led to our closing number—a song called “Peasie Weasie.” “Peasie Weasie” had endless verses, enough for all the curtain calls we’d ever get. It should have been endless. It cost Minnie fifty dollars, which was in those days an infinite amount of money.

  Like any other litter of undisciplined, high-spirited kids, we were apt to bust loose at any time with horseplay, in a kind of spontaneous combustion. But where other kids expended their energy in pillow fights, Kick the Can, or King of the Mountain, to the consternation of their parents, we often did it by knocking to pieces an act we were being paid to perform, to the consternation of our parents and the manager who hired us and the public who had paid to watch us.

  This night in Alabama we were so bored that we stopped singing in the middle of “Mandy Lane,” when we spotted a large bug walking across the stage. The four of us got down on hands and knees and began to follow the bug, making bets whether it was a beetle, a cockroach, or a bedbug.

  This kind of nonsense, on company time, was of course a valid excuse for the manager to bring the curtain down and cut us off without a cent. Frenchie, who was sitting in the middle of the house, working as our Laugh Starter (after having spent the whole day selling yard goods and lappas from door to door) was helpless to do anything about us. But Minnie wasn’t. She was in the wings, watching our every move, craning her neck like a suspicious mother goose.

  When we started crawling after the bug, Minnie got us back in line before we went far enough to get ourselves canned. She hissed to get our attention. Then she uttered, in a stage whisper, an all-powerful, magic word:

  “Greenbaum!”

  Greenbaum, you will recall, was the banker who held the mortgage on our house back in Chicago. Missing a monthly payment to Mr. Greenbaum could mean the loss of our new home and our membership in the aristocracy of property owners. Worse than that, it could mean the loss of a basement big enough for a pool table.

  A single utterance of the magic word rarely failed. When it did, Minnie didn’t care what the audience might think. She’d belt it out loud and clear: “Greenbaum, you crazy kids!”

  Hammond, Louisiana. Our white duck suits were weather-beaten, threadbare and woebegone. The Nightingales’ class was fading, fast. We couldn’t afford new costumes, so Minnie dressed up the act by buying (for a block of free tickets and two dollars cash) two used mandolins for Gummo and myself to play during the finish, and she renamed our act “The Six Mascots.”

  Groucho already had a guitar, and all the spoken lines in the act. Gummo and I had nothing to do but sing in the quartet and strum our mandolins between verses of “Peasie Weasie.” Gummo didn’t care, but I did. I wanted a specialty of my own. I practiced the piano every chance I got.

  Somewhere in Mississippi. I made my debut as a piano soloist, playing “The Holy City” in the seven variations I had taught myself, from waltz to ragtime. It was not a very well attended debut. I had to compete with a lynching on the other side of town, and the theatre was only a quarter filled. Still and all it was a success. Minnie said I could keep my specialty in the act.

  Somewhere in Arkansas. I found out that comedy work was not all laughs. After the show, while we sat around swatting flies and counting to see if we had enough dough to sleep in beds that night, a native character rode up to the stage door on horseback. “Which one of you’s the comical feller that carries the basket of sausage meat?” he wanted to know.

  Groucho, thinking he had a new admirer, stepped forth and identified himself. The native looked down from his saddle with glinty, hostile eyes. “That’s mah sister who plays the pi-anna in this yere the-ayter,” he said. “Ah don’t want to hear you makin’ that kind of talk to her agin, or I’ll blow your Yankee brains out. You hear?”

  Groucho heard. He thought he’d added a subtle touch earlier that night by winking at the pianist in the pit when he entered as the butcher boy, and saying, “I love my wife, but oh, you kid!”

  Somewhere in Texas. We lost Jenny, our girl singer. Jenny had a beautiful soprano voice, except that she always sang off key. She was good-looking, too, except that her left eye was cockeyed and used to wander all over the place, and Minnie had to make up a special peekaboo wig for her that covered it. Otherwise Jenny was a grand gal, except that she was a nymphomaniac.

  She prowled hotly after everything in long pants—theatre managers, hotel clerks, local idiots and local dignitaries alike. Fortunately, we were still a boys’ act and wore knee pants and she didn’t consider us fair game. Finally, Jenny became too much of a problem. By mutual agreement of the Marxes and whatever town we were in, she was asked to leave—leave the state of Texas altogether, preferably.

  Still we felt sad when the sheriff escorted Jenny down to the station and the northbound train pulled in, sad and a little guilty too. But when the train pulled out we didn’t feel so bad. Jenny waved us a cheerful farewell—from the cab of the engine, where she was sitting on the engineer’s lap.

  There were no girl-singer replacements to be found in those parts, so Minnie wired Aunt Hannah, in New York, to borrow the fare from Uncle A1 and hurry down to join us. Aunt Hannah could only sing three notes, but she wasn’t the problem the grand gal she replaced had been, either. She had her own wig.

  Denison, Texas. This was a time and a place I shall never forget. The year was 1913, or maybe 1915. Come to think of it, the place might have been Bonham or Sherman instead of Denison. But it was Texas. That is a fact. A far more important fact is that, in this town, the Marx Brothers were reborn, professionally. We became a comedy act.

  The audience loved the Six Mascots in Denison. So much so that the local manager asked us to play a second night, but on one condition: that we didn’t repeat the same show. If we did something new, he could get the same audience to come back again. Minnie, without a second thought, agreed. We hadn’t had a chance to make this kind of loot since our first weeks in the virgin territory of Chicago.

  Then Minnie had a second thought. We didn’t have anything new to do. We had one show, period. After the bass solo, Groucho’s solo and butcher-boy routine, my “Holy City,” the mandolin trio, the sextet medley, and “Peasie Weasie,” our repertoire was exhausted. The only other thing we knew how to do was take bows, and if we felt the audience wasn’t paying enough attention, lead a group-sing of “Dixie.”

  Minnie called a family conference, around the boardinghouse dinner table. What could we possibly put on tomorrow night? New scenery might help disguise our old act. But there was no new scenery to be had. In fact, there was no scenery at all, since we performed not in a theatre but in a school assembly room. Groucho, the veteran trouper of the family, had an inspiration.

  “Why not put on School Days?” he said. “I had to follow the act clear across Montana and I know it by heart.”

  School Days we had all seen, at least once. It was an old Gus Edwards routine, a tried-and-true chestnut. Minnie took mental stock of our costumes and props. We had everything we needed. As for the stage set—the school assembly room was perfect.

  Groucho gave us the rundown on the scene, an
d Minnie did the casting. Herr Teacher—Groucho. Hebrew Boy—Gummo. Patsy Brannigan, the Teacher’s Despair—Harpo. Mama’s Boy (always “the Nance,” in the trade)—the Bass. Bright Little Girl—Aunt Hannah. Not-So-Bright Little Girl—Minnie.

  My Patsy Brannigan costume was a delight. Minnie got out the wig she’d made up for Jenny, our ex-girl singer, cut off the piece that used to cover Jenny’s cockeye, and dyed the wig red for me. She sewed bright patches onto my traveling pants, which were pretty well shot anyway, and I used a piece of rope for a suspender. The rest of the costume was my beloved turtle-neck sweater and a decrepit beaver hat that Minnie scrounged out of the boardinghouse attic.

  For a final touch before going onstage, I reddened my ears, painted on some freckles and blacked out three of my front teeth. I couldn’t wait to get on. I hadn’t felt so eager about playing a part since the time I dressed up like a two-bit whore and scared the bustles off the Baltzer sisters.

  Waiting for my entrance, I sat by the mirror admiring my new get-up. I threw myself a big, fat beauty of a Gookie, and just then Minnie came by. She didn’t think I was being very funny. She rapped her fist on my shoulder. “Greenbaum,” she said quietly, shaking her head. I got her message. No hokum. No horseplay. Stick to School Days.

  We stuck to the scene and we were a great success. The audience liked us better the second night, as comedians, than they had the first night, as singers and mandolin-pickers. My big scene in the new act was the alphabet bit, with Groucho. It went something like this:

  TEACHER (whacking his slapstick—a pair of barrel staves): Patsy Brannigan, no more shenanigans! You will stand up and give the alphabet.

  PATSY (scratching his head, thinking hard): The alphabet—the alphabet—Gimme a start, teacher.

  TEACHER (glares at Patsy, nose-to-nose): All right, dumkopf, I’ll give you a start. “Ah-ah-ah-”

  PATSY: Ah!

  TEACHER: Not “Ah”-“A!”

  PATSY (heading for his seat): That’s the alphabet—“A.”

  TEACHER: That’s not the alphabet. Come back here.

  PATSY: There’s more?

  TEACHER: There’s more. Please continue.

  PATSY: Gimme another start.

  TEACHER: “Buh-buh-buh-”

  PATSY: “Buh?”

  TEACHER: “Buh.”

  PATSY: “Buh?”

  TEACHER: “Buh.”

  PATSY: “Buh?”

  (During this exchange they have sunk, nose-to-nose, nearly to the floor)

  TEACHER: Not “Buh,” dumkopf!

  PATSY: Give me a hint.

  TEACHER: What is it buzzes around the flowers? Bzzzzz?

  PATSY: (starts waving and slapping at invisible bug).

  TEACHER: “Bee!”

  PATSY: “Bee!” That’s the alphabet—“A, B.” (heads for his seat)

  TEACHER: Come back here, young man. That’s not the alphabet.

  PATSY: There’s more? Gimme a hint what comes after B.

  TEACHER: I’ll give you a hint. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning? Ssssssssss—

  PATSY: (gives teacher a shocked, pop-eyed look).

  TEACHER: “C,” dumkopf! The first thing you do in the morning when you wake up is “see.”

  PATSY: That’s not the first thing I do in the morning.

  TEACHER: (ends the hopeless lesson with a crack of the slapstick).

  Say what you will, it was a hell of a lot better than being a Nightingale or a Mascot in a white duck suit and singing “Mandy Lane.” The audience thought so too. They loved it in Denison (or Bonham or Sherman) in 1913 (or 1915).

  CHAPTER 8 The Silencing of Patsy Brannigan

  THE MARX BROTHERS in School Days was the featured part of our show now. It went over great all through the South and Southwest, and we spent more than half our nights in hotels. In big towns (big for small-time vaudeville) like Alexandria, Louisiana, or Lubbock, Texas, we were held over two and even three nights. Frenchie went back to Chicago with the overdue mortgage money, and with vague ideas of going into business for himself, opening the Midwest’s first Alsatian restaurant. In Commerce, Oklahoma, Minnie hired an Indian girl as prima donna, not so much because of her voice but because she wore her hair in long braids. The Bright Little Girl in School Days had to have pigtails, and Aunt Hannah, increasingly prone to heartburn and gall-bladder attacks from a steady diet of cold hot tamales, spaghetti and fried beans, had fled home to New York, taking her pigtail wig back with her.

  Minnie notwithstanding, we began to work some variations and bits of new business into the school scene. We got a big laugh one night when the Teacher made me take my hat off and an orange fell out. I gave the orange to the Teacher, and he told me to put my hat back on because he’d like another one for later. We got a bigger laugh later on when Teacher said, “Can’t you get noddings through your thick head?” and Gummo stuck a stiletto through my hat and I answered Herr Teacher with an enthusiastic nod.

  Ada, Oklahoma. We were still straining at the bit to tear loose and rough it up onstage, but Minnie was too vigilant for us. Then, this night in Ada, we got a golden opportunity to pull out all the stops. In the middle of School Days, while Teacher was giving the Hebrew Boy a “lesson in der Englisher langvidge,” the audience suddenly got up and ran out of the theatre.

  Minnie got up from her school desk, left the stage, and ran after them to see what had happened. With the audience gone, and Minnie too, we went to town. The Bass and the Prima Donna backed off in panic, while Groucho, Gummo and I grappled, swung, ducked, tripped, tumbled, tore our costumes to shreds and knocked the scenery to pieces, mugging like three demented apes. When Minnie came back we were still at it.

  “Stop!” she said. “They’re coming back! It was a runaway mule and they caught him.”

  The audience came back but we didn’t stop. We’d gotten up too much steam. Minnie was hopping and hissing and Greenbauming all over the joint, but she had no effect. This time we knew we were doing the right thing. The audience hooted and hollered right along with us. How else would you follow a runaway mule, except with horseplay?

  The manager agreed that it was a good, lively show. He also agreed to make fair and square deductions from our percentage for the cost of broken sets and fixtures. It was a long time before we took liberties with the act again. With the deductions, our net profit was minus seven dollars, which we were requested to pay before we left town. We were stranded, and summer was coming on like a blast furnace. Minnie had to swallow her pride and wire Uncle Al for getaway money.

  Springfield, Missouri. En route home we took a chance on a stopover, and played a one-night stand. When we finished our act, the manager asked if one of us would like to make a little extra dough. His illustrated-song singer hadn’t shown up, and he’d be happy to pay five dollars to whoever would volunteer to take his place. I’ll never know why, but I volunteered to sing. My voice was still undecided whether to change to a man’s register or give up and stay falsetto. Maybe I felt guilty for being the ringleader in the Oklahoma horseplay.

  So I sang for the song slides. A worse performance was never given the hook on amateur night. When I came off the manager was furious. Instead of paying me five dollars, he said he was going to fine me five dollars. I was furious, too. “Yeah?” I said. “Try and collect your lousy fine.” Groucho, Gummo and the bass singer loyally closed ranks beside me.

  He did try to collect, with the help of a stagehand. They came after the four of us with blackjacks. We surprised them. We produced our own blackjacks. (This surprised Minnie, too, who didn’t know how well prepared we were.) There was a bit of a scuffle, but we made it to the train with only minor cuts and bruises. It was a moral victory. I did not pay the five-dollar fine. But neither were the Marx Brothers paid for their night’s work.

  And so, back to Chicago. Home again after six months on the road, we licked our wounds, scrubbed the alkali dust out of our pores and the lice out of our hair, and had a Roman orgy on Frenchie
’s cooking.

  I went forth into the city to see what had happened in the world of pool, pinochle and poker during our absence. Groucho got a stack of books from the Public Library and curled up to read his way through the summer. Gummo went to hang out with Zeppo in a neighborhood garage, tinkering and learning the mysteries of the motor car. Chico was back in New York, working as a single.

  Our holiday didn’t last very long, however. We soon scraped the bottom of the savings Minnie had been squirreling away, and Mr. Greenbaum showed no signs of becoming suddenly friendly and forgiving toward the Marx family.

  There was only one thing to do: back to work. We couldn’t wait for the new season to begin. Minnie, fortified with programs and clippings from our triumphal tour with School Days, went downtown to make the rounds of booking agents. We spent the rest of the summer in and out of the city, making short hops to outlying precincts on one- and two-night stands.

  Frenchie, having given up his idea of opening a restaurant, pitched right in. He became our Business Manager and Advance Man, as well as Laugh Starter. As Business Manager he arranged for our train trips, and for boardinghouse accommodations, if we should have to stay over where we played. The standard price was, in those days, $1.60 over the coach fare for a Pullman upper berth. Frenchie would dicker with the ticket seller as he would with a customer over a ravelly lappa. He would hold out for a price of one dollar for an upper. The ticket man would not give in. By company rules, he couldn’t shave the price. “So all right,” Frenchie would announce, “everybody into the coach!”

  We would march dutifully on board the coach. We knew that Frenchie could never win a haggle with the Pullman ticket office, but we always gave him the respect of letting him try. Once we got under way, Groucho would scout through the train. If he found an empty upper berth, he’d offer the conductor a dollar for it. The conductor would be glad to pick up an easy buck on the side, and he would turn his back when all four of us climbed in, whooping and hollering. If the porter saw us and made a stink, Groucho would give him a quarter. The most we had to spend would be $1.25—a saving of thirty-five cents over the full price. Thirty-five cents was not to be sneezed at. It was worth a movie show and a game of pool for the four of us.