by Moe Howard
In our first talks I learned that his family spent the summer in the exclusive Wawanda Cottages near the beach, which meant that they were well enough endowed with worldly goods. I told him my name was Moe Horwitz, and he told me to call him Lee Nash. I was Jewish, he Scotch-Irish.
Along with a glib tongue and a lively personality, Lee Nash had strong ambitions toward being a successful businessman in his native Texas. The days of the entertainment world and an international career under the name of Ted Healy seemed far away. We became inseparable friends and, later, joined forces for one of the most enduring acts in show business history. At the end of the summer, I went back to Bensonhurst and Lee to his folks’ Riverside Drive apartment in Manhattan.
In the summer of 1912, Ted’s ideas of entering the business world faded for the moment, and he, Rusty, Donald, and I became part of the Annette Kellerman Diving Girls; yes, girls. There were six girls and we four boys. We did a thirty-foot dive into a tank seven feet long, seven feet wide, and seven feet deep. We wore long bathing suits, the one-piece variety, with balls of crumpled newspaper stuffed in the breast area. After each dive, these paper falsies would drop down around our middles and we had to stay down in the water until we could push them back up where they belonged. Our careers with Annette Kellerman lasted only one season; we quit after one of the divers, a pretty young lady named Gladys Kelly, misjudged the tank and landed on the artificial waves made of papier-mâché and two-by-fours that decorated the side of the tank. She had broken her neck and was killed instantly.
Ted and I loved to play tennis at the Wawanda Cottages. He was tall and rangy and had a tremendous serve with which he continually beat the pants off me. The one sport in which I excelled was the hundred-yard dash. As tall as Ted was and as long as his legs were, there wasn’t a time that I didn’t beat him by at least a yard or more. He never got over this. He couldn’t understand how a guy that was so short could run so fast.
By now you must realize I thought of Ted Healy as a brother. We had such terrific times together—sheer joy. It makes me sad now remembering how he turned on me in later years. I want to believe it was the liquor and that he didn’t realize what he was doing.
One balmy summer’s night in 1913, Shemp, Bob Woodman, Willie O’Connor, and I walked out of the theater with our dates near the beach in Bensonhurst.
We strolled along the sandy beach trying to talk our dates into skinny-dipping. We had almost persuaded them when Shemp whispered, “Fellows, I have a terrible cramp, and if you don’t mind I’ll have to go under the boardwalk and relieve myself.” To get under the boardwalk you had to stoop down and keep your head low. Shemp ducked under, and that was the last we saw of him for forty-five minutes.
Only hours later did we learn what had happened. He had worked his way pretty far under the boardwalk searching for a place to drop his pants. Finally he saw what looked like a log and decided that this would be a perfect spot. After relieving himself, he looked about for a scrap of paper, and seeing a white object in the sand next to him, he reached for it. Pulling on it, he noticed that it was a handkerchief, and on the second pull, found that a hand was holding on to the other end. He became so rattled that he pulled up his pants and started to run. Forgetting to duck, he hit his head against one of the planks under the boardwalk and was knocked cold. And that is how we found him, lying on his stomach, his behind covered with sand and dung, and a lump on his head as big as a tennis ball.
Moe (second from left in top row) and the Brooklyn P.S. 128 baseball team in 1913.
We dragged Shemp out and into the water to clean him up. He later explained that what he thought was a log was really a pair of young lovers lying in the sand. Although the situation was very funny, it ruined our night with the girls.
At age sixteen, between playing vaudeville and playing hooky, I had the opportunity to buy my first car, an old auto of uncertain vintage. The price: ninety dollars. I had only fifty to my name.
This monstrous hulk of a car had a right-hand drive with four progressive speeds mounted on the outside within reach of the driver, a long-handled brake alongside the gearshift, headlights powered by an acetylene tank, a convertible top for a sporty look, and a large bulb horn—the last word in accessories. It was the longest car I had ever seen and everything was in perfect working order … well, almost everything. The brakes left a lot to be desired.
This car of my dreams was called a Pope-Hartford. The company made one other model: the Pope-Toledo. My only problem was how to buy a ninety-dollar car with just fifty dollars. I found the solution when I showed the car to Shemp.
“If you put up forty dollars, Shemp,” I said, “you can buy a half ownership in it and I’ll teach you how to drive.”
Thirty minutes later, Shemp and I were the proud co-owners of a Pope-Hartford with no linings on the brake drums. This problem was soon solved, too. If I wanted to stop the car I would apply the brake pedal about four hundred feet from my destination.
The car had what they called a cutout, which made a terrible racket, and the folks in the neighborhood asked us not to drive past their homes or the church on Sunday before 10:30 AM.
It was a Sunday morning—after 10:30—when Shemp asked me when he would get his first driving lesson. I said, “Right now.” I came to a stop, no easy task, and let Shemp slide into the driver’s seat. I showed him how to put the car in gear, feed it some spark and gas, and pull away from the curb. We then proceeded to motor along uneventfully, until we came to a quiet little business street. Suddenly Shemp spotted a little girl on roller skates about a block away and screamed, “Moe, what do I do?”
I told him I would let him know when to apply the brakes and when to blow the horn. Shemp kept yelling, “Now, Moe, now?”
I said, “Okay, put on the brakes.” He jammed down on them and slowed up some. Then I instructed, “Shemp, blow the horn.” With that he let go of the wheel to squeeze the bulb horn with both hands. Before a sound came from the horn, the car went through the front window of a barber shop and stopped when it hit the barber chair. Shemp almost passed out. Fortunately the shop was closed on Sunday. The car was hauled out of the shop and deposited in our backyard, and our family was out thirty-two dollars for the window, four dollars for repairing the bootblack stand we ran over, and six dollars for the tow. It took us about three years to pay our dad back. Shemp never drove a car from that day until the day he died in 1955. In many of our films when Shemp was supposed to be driving a car, it actually was being pulled along by one of the prop men.
At Coney Island in 1914, Moe behind the wheel, Jack behind him, Shemp on the right.
For two months, our car sat in the backyard. We finally found someone who seemed interested in purchasing it for eighty dollars, and we told him to bring the money and take the car. The next day, he inspected his purchase: he lifted the hood, looked in, and said, “Just a minute, there’s something missing—like the spark plugs, the carburetor, the generator …”
Shemp yelled, “Somebody picked it clean!” So we sold it to him—as is—for twenty dollars. When he left, I said to Shemp, “This deal cost us seventy dollars plus another forty-two for the accident. We’ll give Dad the twenty, right?”
“Right, Moe! But the next time you call me into a business deal, I’m letting you know now—nothing doing!”
3
THE SHOWBOAT SUNFLOWER
When I was a teenager everyone interested in fairs, circuses, Broadway theater, vaudeville, and the stock companies read Billboard magazine. It was my own favorite trade paper; I read everything about show business, but I was especially interested in the stock companies, and I’d follow every detail about them: where the companies were playing, the names of the plays, their casts. It was fascinating reading about the plays I had watched from the galleries of the Grand Opera House, the Crescent Theater, and the Montauk Theater (all in Brooklyn). What really intrigued me in Billboard were the want ads for the stock companies: Wanted, leading man, medium height—5’8”�
��5’11”; middle-aged man to play character parts; young soubrette to play both young and old. All the ads specified that the actors supply their own wardrobe—even army costumes. Another might ask for female leads who could also sing and dance. Every week I would pore through the news and ads. The names of the plays always intrigued me: Ten Nights in a Barroom, The Two Orphans, The Misleading Lady, Nellie the Sewing Machine Girl, Seven Keys to Baldpate, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
There was also the Circle Stock Company, which consisted of six independent stock companies in six different cities. A company would start in Akron, Ohio, and then go to Youngstown while a second would open in Akron. Then the first company would go on to Dayton, Columbus, Angola, Indiana, and Terre Haute and then start over again with a new play.
Late in May 1914 I bought a Billboard. In it was an ad that altered my life and put me into the kind of show business I loved most:
WANTED! Young man—average height—to play juvenile parts and do general business parts. Must have own wardrobe. Send photo. If necessary can send fare. Capt. Billy Bryant, The Showboat, Sunflower—Dock side 8, Jackson, Mississippi.
I read the ad again and again. How could I apply? Would I have a chance of getting the job? I wasn’t quite eighteen, I was rather short (5’4”) and weighed 120 soaking wet. I had no wardrobe. How could I overcome so many handicaps? It puzzled me for days. The best I could do for a wardrobe was a long suit from my brother Jack, but the photograph had me really stumped. If I could only present myself in person to Captain Bryant, he’d see my potential. Where would I get the money, though, for the railroad fare to Jackson, Mississippi? Then I happened to glance up at a tinted photograph on the wall above my bed. It was a picture of Arthur Bramdon, a neighbor. He was good-looking, medium height, with dark brown hair. He was a photographic model for the stereopticon slides that were between films in movie theaters.
As I stared at Arthur’s photograph, an idea came to me: I’d mail Arthur’s picture to Captain Bryant!
The next day I made the mistake of telling Shemp about my idea. He said I was out of my mind. “You’ll wind up on a Mississippi chain gang for the rest of your life…. Mama will have a heart attack.” I listened but paid no attention. This was my great opportunity and I could think of nothing else. I had to hurry before someone else answered the ad. I wrote a short note, didn’t mention anything about my age, weight, or height, and enclosed the photo. I figured the handsome face of Arthur Bramdon would allay any doubts in Captain Bryant’s mind.
Shemp and I were becoming very chummy at this time, and he had started inviting me to parties with him. I was surprised to find that he was becoming a good comedy entertainer and was playing the ukulele like a pro. He told me of a fellow who would write a vaudeville act for us in which we would do blackface. I told him I would think it over. He seemed elated that I was even considering the offer, although I did not let on that I had answered Captain Bryant’s ad.
In the meantime, Shemp’s friend had finished writing the blackface routine for us. I just couldn’t get enthused over the material, though. Not long afterward, our mailbox was stuffed with a large envelope from Jackson, Mississippi—the thickest envelope I’d ever seen. It must have weighed over a pound. I ran up to my room and closed the door. Afraid of being disappointed, I put the package in my drawer under some clothes and went out for another breath of air. I was choking with excitement. I had to tell Shemp about it, although I knew he’d be upset that his vaudeville plans might go down the drain.
That night I asked Shemp to sit on my bed with me. I opened my drawer and showed him the still-unopened envelope. I told him what I thought might be in it and that I would probably have to put off doing an act with him until some later date, that he should get someone else to take my place. Shemp turned white, and my heart pounded like a hammer. I carefully opened the package. There it was! A railroad mileage book loaded with little perforated coupons. In those days, if you took a train for any distance, they didn’t issue single tickets to your destination but rather little mileage books. If you went to a point three hundred miles away the conductor would tear out coupons that totaled up to three hundred miles. This enabled one to get on and off the train in different cities.
Also enclosed was a note telling me I was expected in Jackson as soon as possible. There was a wish for a pleasant journey and a signature: Captain Billy Bryant.
“You’re mad!” cried Shemp. “Those tickets must cost at least seventy-five dollars. For Christ’s sake, I can see you breaking rocks on a chain gang in that malaria-ridden country. What will happen to Mama and Papa? What will happen to me and our vaudeville act? You’re insane and should be put away.” Then, crying, he put his arm around my shoulder. “I wish to God I had your nerve and I wish you luck. If you get into trouble, write me and I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll tell Mama and Papa that you got a job in Philadelphia and will write at the first opportunity.”
With a borrowed ten dollars, I left my Brooklyn home on March 12, 1914. The long, fourteen-hour train ride was transformed into a play in my mind in which I was acting the parts of all those magnificent performers that I loved as a boy. In no time, it seemed, the conductor was calling, “Jackson … Jackson, Mississippi.” I grabbed my little bag and raincoat and jumped off the train as it was beginning to pull out of the station. Then came my first taste of fear. Would Captain Bryant accept me or throw me in jail? Was it too late to run away from this terrible situation I had created? I decided that I had come so far that there was no turning back. Besides, what man would jail me for only trying to achieve a goal? True, I had lied and cheated, a little. But I was just trying to do the thing I loved—to be an actor. Who could hate me for that? Questions and answers raced through my head.
The next morning was St. Patrick’s Day, and that gave me a feeling of good luck and confidence as I boarded the showboat Sunflower. I pushed the button on Captain Bryant’s doorjamb. A loud voice bellowed, “Come in!” Beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead. “Come in!” the captain shouted. It sounded like the voice of doom; to me, it was the moment of truth. I had regained full control of myself by the time I opened the door and stood facing Captain Bryant. He stared at me long and hard. I was searching for some part of a smile but there was none. “What can I do for you?” he asked. Soon the twinkle in his eye faded as I mustered up my nerve to start my pitch: “Captain, did you receive the picture I sent you?” He looked down at his desk. My eyes followed as he looked at the photo of Arthur, then at me, and back to the picture.
Captain Billy Bryant’s showboat.
“No! My God, no! It can’t be. Oh, no! How could anyone pull a stunt like this?” Captain Bryant extended his forefinger, nearly touching my face. He growled, “Do you know what I can do to you for this? How could you believe you could get away with this?” After his initial explosion, I broke in pleadingly, “You wouldn’t gain a thing if you put me in jail. Putting me to work—even on a menial job—would benefit you in the long run, and you’d also know that you were instrumental in helping me toward my goal.”
I watched every expression, looking for a sign, listening for those words that would mean my future. The captain spoke hesitantly. “Boy, you’ve got yourself a job … doing something or other. You’ll get your room and board and twenty dollars a week, which will be deducted from your debt—for the railroad ticket and the ad I will have to put in Billboard to get the man I’ve been looking for. You’ll mop the auditorium and clean it up each day, and the dressing rooms twice a week at night. You’ll give out the programs and usher the people to their seats. When you’ve paid your debt there will be an additional thirty-two dollars for your fare home. But if I decide to keep you on for the rest of the summer, I will continue to pay you twenty dollars each week.” I thanked him profusely. “You know, Captain Bryant, I’m going to be an actor—a very good one!” He finally smiled. “With your ungodly nerve, I believe you can be anything.”
The season opened on April 8, 1914, with The Bells, starring
Thomas E. Shea. I had seen this play before at the Grand Opera House in Brooklyn but never cared for it; it was too melodramatic. The second week’s play, also one I knew, was Human Hearts. I asked Captain Bryant if he’d let me do the part of the half-wit boy. I felt it was made to order for me. I was surprised when he allowed me to read the role at rehearsal.
After my reading, the captain said, “Harry,* you’ve got the part of Sam. See what you can do with it. I’ll be watching you, and if you’re as good an actor as you are a liar, I’ll be satisfied.” This was my first professional stage appearance. The fact that I had followed the character of Sam all through the play when I saw it from the gallery of the Crescent Theater back in Brooklyn helped me immeasurably. Captain Bryant was delighted and offered me a role in the next play, Ten Nights in a Barroom—Young Slade, the son of the bartender who kills his father with a whiskey bottle while in a drunken stupor. Again I played the part to the hilt and convinced everyone with my performance as a drunk.
Over the next few months, Captain Bryant raised my salary to thirty dollars a week. “You’ve already paid your debt and are well on your way to becoming an excellent actor. I’d recommend you highly to anyone.” I told him I would like to stay on for at least two seasons. “Harry, you have a deal.”
