I did something that was very sharp when I was young. My mind was just in show business. I was a cutter for ladies’ dresses. Now, in a very cheap house they made these cheap dresses that you wear around the house cooking, you know. So what they would do is they would take the goods and put one the right side up and one down—one up and one down, one up and one down, one up and one down, so that way you’d only have to cut half a dress. When you cut one sleeve, there’d be another sleeve there. You’d cut a half a front, there’d be the other half front. The goods had a match.
Well, stupid me, my mind was on “Tiger Girl” and I’m thinking of some other songs. And I laid all these goods right side down. Now, when I tell you 250 piles—that’s 250 pieces of goods on a table, maybe sixty or seventy feet long, a whole block—now, that’s thousands and thousands and thousands of dozens, and here I am cutting. And you can’t match these goods. You can match expensive material but not cheap material.
Well, the boss came over to me. I’m in the middle of the cutting and I’m singing “Tiger Girl” and he looks at the ruffles and stuff, and he notices it’s all right side down. He said, “You know, you laid this material right side down.” I said, “Oh, I didn’t know that.” He said, “Yeah. How long have you been working here?” I says, “About six weeks. My sister got me the job.” “Your sister works here too?” “Two sisters—my sister Mamie and my sister Sarah.” He said, “Go get your sisters and come up into my office.” We went up and he fired the whole family.
Another thing I did once was I’m working for M. D. Mersky and the guy’s stuck with all these middy blouses. You know what a middy blouse is? A white little thing with a navy blue collar with two stars in the corners.
GROUCHO
All it needs is a young girl.
GEORGE BURNS
Yeah, that’s right. Well, he’s got thousands of dozens of middy blouses. I go to Mersky and I said, “Mr. Mersky, I know how to get rid of those middy blouses.” He said, “How do you do that?” I said, “Send everybody thirteen dozen middy blouses, and say ENCLOSED FIND TWELVE DOZEN MIDDY BLOUSES. They’ll all get a dozen free.” I went on to say, “You might lose a dollar or something, but you’ll get rid of all your middy blouses.” He says, “You’re a very clever young man, and what d’ya make a week?” “Eleven dollars.” He says, “From now on, you get thirteen dollars.”
He sent everybody thirteen dozen middy blouses and said, “ENCLOSED FIND TWELVE DOZEN MIDDY BLOUSES.” Two weeks later he came over to me and he says, “That idea of yours was a good idea but everybody kept the dozen and sent back twelve. But I’m a man of my word, and I said I’d give you a two-dollar raise. You’re still making thirteen dollars a week, but you’re not working for me anymore.”
GROUCHO
We were playing a small town in Texas, a farming town. The farmers came in and tied their horses up beside the Pantages Theatre. We were doing a singing act, The Three Nightingales. None of us could sing. While we’re doing the act, a mule runs away, and the whole audience caught the mule, and they came back. By this time we were so angry, we started making sarcastic remarks. This is the first time we ever did comedy.
GEORGE BURNS
You were forced to talk. And the audience laughed at your sarcastic remarks.
GROUCHO
Yes.
GEORGE BURNS
From then on you stopped singing, and kept in the sarcastic remarks. So you owe your success to a mule!
GROUCHO
Donkey schön.
GEORGE BURNS
I’ll tell you a story about Chico and then I’ll have to go. He came to the club and he liked to gamble. I’m not a gambling man. I play bridge every day, but not for much. I met Chico at the club one morning at about nine o’clock in the morning, and nobody was in the club but me. And as I said, Chico loved to gamble. He didn’t care about winning or losing. The only thing that interested Chico was gambling—an inveterate gambler.
He said, “Let’s play a little gin. Five cents across gin.” That’s a big gambling game. I said, “Not me, Chico. I don’t play gin for money.” He said, “Two and a half cents.” I said, “I don’t play for two and a half cents. That’s too much money for me.” Then I said, “Chico, I don’t like gin.” He said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s play for a penny. Three games. We’ll put ten points on each one of your scores. You can’t be blitzed and I can. I’ll start you with ten points.” It’s a hundred points a game, and he wanted to give me fifty points finally. Anything to lose his money!
GROUCHO
Which he did.
GEORGE BURNS
Yeah. Oh, sure.
GROUCHO
He died broke.
GEORGE BURNS
A funny story about Harpo…Harpo and myself and Mack Gordon—the guy who wrote “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?” Mack Gordon and Georgie Raft were playing bridge at the bridge club. I’m Mack Gordon’s partner and I’ve got seven spades to a queen. That’s all I got as far as any points go in my hand. Queen, jack, ten, nine, eight, et cetera. But I got no king, I got no nothing. Just seven spades. And my partner opens the bid with a heart. I got no hearts. I said a spade.
Now, Mack Gordon was a…he thought he was a great bridge player. He was a good songwriter, but not a great bridge player. But neither am I, by the way. Anyway, so he says two hearts. I says two spades. Now he took his cards and he folded them and he laid them down on the table and folded his arms and looked at me for about ten or fifteen seconds, and without moving a muscle, just his mouth, he said, “THREE HEARTS.” So I took my cards, I folded them up and put them down, I folded my arms, I looked at him, and I waited fifteen seconds, and then I said, “THREE SPADES.” Now he looked out the window—we were sitting by a window—and he hollered out the window, “FOUR HEARTS.” I said, “I didn’t know we were playing with anybody across the street, but if we are I’d like for them to hear me, too, and I yelled, “FOUR SPADES.” Well, anyway, he said six hearts. He’s being silly, you see. And I said, “Look, Mack. I’ve got as much money as you have—seven no-trump.” Which is impossible.
Now by this time Harpo and Georgie Raft knew there was a game going on between us, and they weren’t even going to double, because they knew damn well we wouldn’t even play the hand. But Mack Gordon called me downstairs for a fight, and I’d never had a fight in my life. Just because I said seven no-trump. And he was a big eater—double order of baloney—he kept eating these squares of baloney about an inch thick. So I said, “Yeah, let’s go downstairs and fight, ’cause when I punch you in the stomach, I’ve gotta see that baloney again.” And on the way down—Harpo was going downstairs with Georgie Raft, Mack Gordon, and myself—I said to Harpo, “Harpo, the greatest song I ever sang in my life is, ‘Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?’” Then Mack Gordon says, “Let’s go and finish the game.” It was his song.
GROUCHO
Harry Ruby was great. Did you know Harry Ruby?
GEORGE BURNS
Of course! Who doesn’t know Harry Ruby? But he’s gone. Everybody’s gone—but what can you do about it? There’s nothing you can do about that. When they knock on your door, and give you back your pictures, you leave. If there was another exit, we’d find it. But when I go, I’m taking my music with me. (Getting up) I’m gonna leave ya, kid. I gotta go.
JACK BENNY
Groucho and Jack Benny first met in 1909 when The Four Nightingales played Jack’s hometown, Waukegan, Illinois. Jack was a violinist in the Barrison Theatre pit orchestra, “the only one in knickerbockers,” he recalled. Groucho described their meeting when he spoke at the 1974 March of Dimes tribute to Jack Benny:
“When we first met, Jack was sixteen and I was nineteen. Now he’s eighty and I’m eighty-three. Time sure goes by fast.”
A tremendous ovation followed Groucho’s words. The large cardboard violin-shaped programs were enthusiastically waved in the air.
On our way to the tribute, Groucho told me how he had met Jack Benny:
“We got off the train, and there was this fellow who charges us fifty cents apiece to get to the hotel. He picked up the reins of the horse, and the horse walked across the street, and the hotel was there. The next day I went to the theatre. There was a young fellow playing the violin. So we asked his mother—my mother asked his mother—if he could go along with us. And she says no, he was too young. ’Cause he was only sixteen years old. I met him over the years on the Orpheum Circuit, and many circuits.”
I went with Groucho and Erin to this dinner, which took place March 21, 1974, in the International Ballroom of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Jack Benny was being honored as the March of Dimes Man of the Year, and was presented with their Humanitarian Award. On the dais with Jack Benny and Groucho were Dr. Jonas Salk, Rosalind Russell, Lucille Ball, Bob Hope, George Burns, and Johnny Carson, who was the toastmaster. Groucho was excited about the affair not only because his friend Jack Benny was being honored, but also because Dr. Jonas Salk was going to be there. “He’s someone I’ve always wanted to know,” he told me in the car on the way to the dinner.
As we entered the hotel, walking along the red carpet that had been laid for the occasion, many of the fans who had lined up on either side of the roped aisle reached out to touch Groucho. Someone grabbed one of my buttons, trying to tear it off. Groucho was distinctly unamused as he observed my newly acquired celebrity status. I asked him if he ever minded being handled by so many strangers, and he said, “No, the other way is worse—if nobody wants you.” We entered to an almost musical accompaniment of “Hello, Groucho,” “How are you, Groucho?” As always, he showed little emotion.
Before we met Jack, Groucho said to me, “Now I want you to talk with Jack Benny. He’d like you to do an interview with him.” When he introduced me, he said to Jack, “She used to be in vaudeville with me,” adding more seriously, “Remember she’s mine.” Jack had read the interview I did with Groucho, and he had written to Playboy about it.
When Jack left our table, Groucho said to me:
“He used to do whatever he could in vaudeville; take little bits in other people’s acts, anything—and without getting paid. But he learned a lot. He made it here the same way we did: vaudeville, cheap rooming houses, lousy food.
“He’s a very well-educated man, and tremendously talented. Great timing. Brilliant. And Jack Benny is one of the nicest men I ever knew. He’s a credit to the Jews and show business. He’s eighty, you know, and still working. He’s a big star.”
At the Beverly Hills Hotel a few days later, Jack talked with me about Groucho and the Marx Brothers:
“They were always doing crazy things. They didn’t have to act in the films. Those films were about them. Nobody could follow them. And my style was especially impossible for following them. They created such pandemonium, no one was even listening to me because I worked quiet, like now, except I was even more quiet. It was pretty frustrating, but it was a big challenge. W. C. Fields said they were an impossible act to follow. But it really made me work, and I think, in the end, it helped me.
“They used to break me up watching them before I went on, but you know, if you asked me what exactly it was that they said or did, I don’t know. Even then, I don’t think I could have told you exactly. You couldn’t exactly explain the Marx Brothers. Also, they never did it twice the same way. I always sort of envied the way they got up there and it seemed to come so easy, and they seemed to be having such a good time. In those days, I was working very hard trying to find the real Jack Benny. Now I guess I understand that they were working too, though it looked like they were playing.
“The worst was when the manager of one of the theatres suggested that they come out with me as part of an act together. It was my act, and I felt they would take over, but after a while, I got to love it. I had a great time with them.
“I roomed with Zeppo for a while, and there never was a funnier person in real life, so it was strange that he was the straight man in the act. I don’t know if his brand of funniness could have been carried off onstage or not, but when you’re here talking with me, you might be disappointed with me because I’m not like I am when I’m performing—just a quiet man. But Zeppo offstage didn’t know how not to be funny.
“But Groucho was the genius. Groucho is a writer. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t great onstage, and he can be pretty funny off, too. He’s always funny at Hillcrest. When Groucho was very young, he used to read a lot, whenever he had time. Other people would be going out with their friends, and he would be reading a book. When he found a good book he didn’t know before, he’d be as excited as other people would be if they met a new person they really liked.”
When Jack joined Groucho after lunch at Hillcrest Country Club, a longtime favorite place for both of them, the conversation was mostly about good health, a subject of inestimable importance to both of them:
JACK BENNY
You know, don’t think I’m staying here because I’m so nuts about your company. I just don’t want to go out and play golf…
GROUCHO
I’m not crazy about you, either.
JACK BENNY
And you don’t want to play golf! You’re stuck both ways!
GROUCHO
Yes. I have to stay and be told what I can eat and what I can’t eat. Erin knows everything I’m not supposed to have.
JACK BENNY
Well, that’s right. And there’s certain things I can’t eat. See, I’ve got something else. I have…
GROUCHO
Crabs?
JACK BENNY
No. That I’ve had longer. I have…You know, where you can’t have sugar. Diabetes. I’ve had it seventeen years, but I’ve never had to take insulin. I had a blood sugar test this morning. I bet if I call up, they’ll tell me, “You’re fine.” Isn’t that amazing?
GROUCHO
It’s not amusing. But it’s amazing.
JACK BENNY
It is amazing. I’ve never had any problems. Now the only thing you have to be is careful. Careful! But as far as my diabetes is concerned, I can eat practically anything. And my doctor says, “If you feel like having a malted milk, have it!” Isn’t that amazing? I don’t eat what I shouldn’t eat, unless I just can’t eat anything else. Unless I want it badly. Then I eat it.
ERIN
Isn’t it difficult traveling?
JACK BENNY
No. Then I just don’t have sugar. Sometimes I’ll cheat a little bit with a little dessert. But then when I come back, I always go and get a blood sugar test. The damnedest thing happened: I went to Sinatra’s once to spend a week, and for some reason or other, I didn’t give a damn. I played golf every day, I had a lot of fun, ate everything, ate pie and ice cream and cake, and got drunk for only the third time in my life that I can remember getting drunk. Now, I come back and I’m afraid to have a sugar test. So I called the nurse and said, “Come to my house and give me a sugar test. But I want you to tell the doctor all the things I did.” I expected the blood sugar to be very high. “I did cheat all week long. I drank and I ate pie and I ate cake.” Sinatra loves Boston cream pie. And I would fill myself with Boston cream pie. You know how it is: full of sugar. Now, I come back, and I’ll be a son of a bitch, my doctor calls me up, and I’m afraid to answer the phone. He says, “Jack, I gotta tell you something; you defy everything in medicine.” Now, I didn’t know which way he meant that. He says to me, “With all the things you did, your test is absolutely normal!” He says, “I can’t get over it; everything you did!” Then he says to me, “You must have had a lot of fun and an awfully good time.” I says, “I certainly did.” He says, “Well, that has something to do with diabetes, with how bad or how good your condition can be. But that doesn’t mean that every week you can go out and do what you did last week.” Imagine doing everything wrong, every day! So he said, “You must have had a ball, ’cause your test is fine.” Now, I just got back from a concert tour through Canada—Winnipeg, Calgary, Vancouver—and when I go away, I do
cheat a lot on food. By the rule, he calls me immediately if there’s anything wrong, which he didn’t. So I’m gonna call him in a little while. He’ll probably tell me I’m all right.
ERIN
And you still won’t play golf.
JACK BENNY
I always have to force myself to play golf. It’s so good for you, and the weather’s so beautiful, and I’m always looking out, hoping it’s gonna start to rain so I can’t get out, hoping I can’t play. Isn’t that awful? Now I get mad when the change of season happens, and it gets dark too early. The reason I get mad is because then I say I don’t have time to play golf. Now I’ve got all the time in the world. I have nothing to do today if I don’t want to.
GROUCHO
I don’t like to ask you, but what kind of score do you shoot?
JACK BENNY
Just awful. I don’t even keep score. I just play.
GROUCHO
That’s a coward’s trick.
JACK BENNY
I know it is. But I just play. I play worse than I ever played, and I love it better.
GROUCHO
Thank God I don’t play anymore. I was a lousy player.
JACK BENNY
When I used to play fairly well, I was a miserable man to play with, because I always wanted to play better. And everybody hated to play with me. Now that I can’t play at all, I love every minute of it. I just go out and hit the ball, and that’s it.
ERIN
Who do you play with now?
JACK BENNY
Anybody. I usually get the pro, or I take a caddie and a cart, and the caddie drives and I walk. All the caddies love me because they drive and I do all the walking. And if I get tired, I get in the cart, and that settles that.
GROUCHO
All those years of not tipping have paid off.
JACK BENNY
All these years of tipping them more than anybody else has paid off! May I tell you a story? You know, because of my stingy character, I’m always a very big tipper, particularly with waiters and taxi drivers. I usually take a taxi a short distance, and I’m afraid I take them away from a good corner, so I get embarrassed.
Hello, I Must be Going Page 58
