[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil

by Agata Stanford

  I voiced my dismay.

  “He’ll live.”

  “But, why? What’d he do to deserve—”

  “He let too many people know his plans,” said Broun.

  Heywood Broun is a respected journalist, sportswriter, and theatre critic, even if you’d never guess it to look at the frumpy old thing. The Harlem community, especially the Negro intelligentsia, admire and respect him. He lectures at Columbia University, and has brought to public attention the talents of many Negro artists. Last year he showed me a poem by a young student, entitled “The Weary Blues,” published in a colored journal called The Crisis. The kid nailed it, all right: the struggle of his race, the plodding on, in just a few phrases in jazz refrain. It was he, Langston Hughes, whom we’d met last Thanksgiving night outside the Cotton Club.

  “Washington was saving up his nickels so that he could rent space at the Shoeshine Palace on Sixth Avenue. He needed twenty-five dollars for the first month and another ten dollars to buy the leather chair from the guy who was giving up his spot. Washington was going to go down to the shine parlor with the money, but the night before he planned to pay up, he stopped at a joint on Lenox Avenue to collect the last couple bucks he needed from this bootlegger he’d done a truck run for. He was feeling good; things were looking up; he’d be making good money at the Palace.

  “He had a couple of shots and went out smiling, according to the barkeep. Once out the door he was jumped, dragged to the alley, beaten, and rolled. Spent a week in the hospital. Lincoln’s the oldest of the three children. Wife works nights at a laundry.”

  We came up with a plan.

  Christmas spent with Aleck, Jane, and Ross warmed the frigid days. Snow fell on Christmas Eve, and by morning several inches lay over the cityscape like a fresh start on canvas.

  As soon as Mr. Benchley returned to Manhattan and resumed his usual activities, I found my place again. My spirits rose, as they usually do when he’s around. Silly how I depend on him. But he adds lightness, brightness, to my days.

  The night before New Year’s Eve we set out onto the icy streets for the opening night of the Marx Brothers’ show at the Lyric Theater: Aleck, Mr. Benchley, Bunny Wilson, Marc Connolly, Sherry, Edna, Heywood Broun, FPA, and I. All but Edna and Marc would write reviews, but we all sat in the critics’ circle like a string of footlights beaming up at our friends, hoping the show was as good as we expected. I do like writing good reviews, believe me, because I truly want to see good theatre, even though I’m best known for performing rather clean and efficient autopsies and insuring the rapid demise of hopeless cases. The Brothers are such wonderful entertainers, and with Irving’s music and George Kaufman’s book I don’t know that anything can go wrong. I don’t suffer fools easily, but these fools I welcome.

  After an early dinner at the Gonk we piled into two cars that Aleck had ordered for our ride to the Lyric Theater, timing our arrival to best advantage. Curtain was at 8:45 P.M.

  The street traffic was heavy, and it was slow going as we made our way across the avenues, scooting around trolleys at the congested intersections at Times Square, where Seventh Avenue and Broadway crossed like a big X marking the grid. Pedestrians moving at a brisk pace slowed to a snail’s crawl as people emerged from the subway station at Times Square and 42nd Street. Running north and south on both the East and West Side train lines was the Shuttle that connected both sides of town from Grand Central Terminal on the east to Times Square Station on the west. This link to both sides of Manhattan made the Theatre District an important crossroads, a meeting place for all to gather for special events, at times of crisis, and for mass celebrations. And the sheer glamour of that crossroads could not be denied, as was evident in the spectacular array of brilliantly lit signage that hung from the surrounding buildings, dangling above the avenues, no longer with just the old-time white lights that gave the district its name, The Great White Way, but now with the new, brilliantly colored lights, advertising everything from stomach tonics to cigarettes in a rainbow of color.

  The excitement stirred up by everyone rushing to an evening of wonder and adventure that is live theatre became evident with the noise of the traffic reaching a crescendo as drivers impatiently engaged their horns one after the other as they stood idling in line. The honking lasted for long intervals until fading to silence as wheels rolled on once again. The cavern formed by the tall buildings echoed the start of another jam-up a few blocks away, the sound reminiscent of cicadas chirping from tree to tree on a hot summer day in the country.

  We arrived at 8:40 to alight on a red-carpeted sidewalk, lined by hundreds of onlookers. Dazzlingly decked-out first-nighters hung about under the marquee, surely on display with hopes of being noticed and admired. They lingered outside the open brass doors chatting-it-up or having a smoke before entering the lobby. The haughty arrogance of the elite struck me at times as comical, but if you saw it from my perspective, the swells were oddities on display for a crowd, strutting and fluffing their feathers, and serving as a kind of sideshow for the shop clerks and housewives who’d gathered along the sidewalk hoping to catch glimpses of the rich and famous.

  We were met by the rest of our party inside the lobby, and we trooped into the orchestra section, smiling to so-and-so and so-and-so, waving to this one and that one, stopping to shake the hand or kiss the cheek. And because we had arrived with only minutes to spare before the curtain rose, most of the audience was already seated as we tramped down the center aisle toward our seats, so our party was duly noted and fawned over like royalty. Makes me laugh, Mr. Benchley giggle, and Aleck, gloat.

  And we did not disappoint: Edna wore a lovely gown of fawn-colored crushed velvet under a luxurious dark-brown sable evening coat. A headband studded with champagne-colored crystals adorned her dark bob. She looked lovely holding onto Aleck’s arm as he, sans stolen cape, but wearing a dramatic black greatcoat with a cape-like collar over his tails and a new top hat perched on his head, waltzed grandly from the lobby, nodding graciously at people on both sides of the aisle.

  Mr. Benchley, always impeccable, in top hat and tails, a sprig of holly on his lapel, took my arm as we brought up the rear. I did not have such a glorious coat as Edna’s, but I knew I looked quite fetching in my red satin gown, fabric gathered in the rear to form a train and with a deep V neckline. I wore a string of gold pearls dropping to below my waist and matching drop earrings. Over the gown I wore a brocade coat of red and golden thread, cuffed, collared, and hemmed with fringes of gold-dipped feathers. A single feather to match the coat’s trim adorned my new shingle-cut hairdo and completed the effect.

  I do clean up nicely.

  George S. Kaufman nervously made his way from the orchestra pit, where he’d been in conference with the director and Irving Berlin, to join his wife Bea at their seats in the last row of the orchestra section. Sam Harris, the show’s producer, followed behind, but made for the lobby.

  “There’s Artie over there,” said Aleck, as we entered our row.

  “Who?” asked Edna, sloughing-off the magnificent fur.

  “My friend Artie—Arthur Garfield Hays, the attorney.”

  As Mr. Benchley relieved me of my evening coat, I looked over the several rows to see a very handsome man of forty-something years nod in our direction before leaning in to speak into the ear of a rather worn-out-looking character of hang-dog expression seated next to him.

  “That’s Darrow, Clarence Darrow, the attorney, sitting next to him,” said FPA, moving forward to sit between me and Edna.

  Aleck turned suddenly and took my elbow. “Artie’s married,” he said, meeting my eyes over his spectacles. Was it a dare, or had he seen the glint in my eyes?

  The second bell rang and within a few seconds the houselights dimmed. We settled in our seats as the curtain was lit in brilliant blood-red glory and the conductor lifted his baton to signal the orchestra’s attention.

  The frantic overture began with highlights of the coming musical numbers, and settled into
a romp as the curtain parted to reveal a set depicting a hotel in Florida.

  We laughed for an hour and a half straight, watching the boys’ antics, and after an intermission break for spirited libation—a little hooch from a flask to doctor the ginger ale—we returned for another hour of side-splitting laughter. The audience would recover from one gale of laughter only so they could hear the next laugh-provoking line; the chortling and chuckling would replace the guffaws in an effort at self-control, only to be led by the boys into another wave of full-out screams. At one point I turned to observe the sophisticated ladies and gents in the row behind us, the glow from the stage lights filtering out enough for me to see the red-faced contortions of bellowing fellows and the mascara-marred cheeks of the now-graceless goddesses. Funny was funny, low humor or high, and through laughter we shared a common humanity.

  Aleck was beside himself, so high one might have thought he’d sniffed cocaine. The Brothers were his discovery, you see, and although they were no more than a half-dozen years his junior, he embraced them, especially Adolph (Harpo), with fatherly affection. More than anything, he wanted them to succeed. As for George S., well, he’d started his career as Aleck’s assistant at the newspaper, and Aleck had watched him progress into a top-notch playwright. As for Irving? They’d been friends for years. Who didn’t love him? The man could do no wrong. Nothing made Aleck happier than to watch his friends succeed. Especially if he had played a role in their success.

  By the time the curtain fell at the close of Act Two and the curtain calls went on and on with whistles and cheers and thunderous applause, and huge bouquets of flowers delivered into the arms of the cast, the Brothers continuing their antics during a standing ovation from the audience, we were all in high spirits.

  And tonight, rather than rush out of the theatre before the houselights came on to compose and phone in his review, Aleck led the delegation of Round Tablers around the orchestra pit, up through the proscenium, and out through the wings.

  We moved slowly out of our row; people were chatting, in no hurry to leave the theatre, it appeared, as if hoping against hope that the curtain would rise for a third act of Marx Brothers’ lunacy. As we entered the aisle, Arthur Garfield Hays, and his companion, Clarence Darrow, greeted us. Aleck and Hays shook hands, and with a hand at his elbow, Aleck moved his friend in the direction of the stage, where we paused for introductions to be made. I noted that the dour-faced Darrow looked rejuvenated by the evening’s fare. The sallow complexion I’d observed earlier was ruddy, now, and his gray hair had a renewed luster. I’d seen news photos of the man taken during the two great trials of this past year, and the impression I’d gleaned from them was that of a folksy, slump-shouldered, frumpy old buzzard with thumbs permanently affixed to suspenders. So I was surprised to notice that he had such a capacity for joy; there was a bit of a kick in his step, and when he smiled, the residual effect of three hours of fun lifted his hound-dog eyes to crinkle attractively at the corners.

  And Hays, well, there was an attractive man, if ever I saw one. Not a pretty boy, mind you, but a man of substance, brilliance, character, and dedication to righting injustices. More than any aphrodisiac, those qualities could make me swoon. But it wasn’t for nothin’ that he was fair of face, too. And when Hays took my hand and looked straight into my eyes and addressed me with a deep, mellow baritone, “A pleasure, Mrs. Parker, a real pleasure,” I was hooked. Damn, I thought, why do I always fall for the married ones?

  Mr. Benchley needled my spine. “Careful, Mrs. Parker, your lust is showing.”

  Mr. Darrow smiled down at me in greeting from his great height, so I’d no chance to elbow Mr. Benchley in the ribs as deserved. Mr. Darrow offered me his arm and we moved onward, following Aleck, Edna, and Hays backstage. FPA, Sherry, Marc, and Heywood tagged behind while Mr. Benchley brought up the disapproving, tongue-tsking rear.

  We wove our way through a spider web of ropes and cables that flew the backdrops of sets, as dozens of stagehands and technicians, on cues from the stage manager, raced about on various tasks. Chorus girls and boys still in costume and greasepaint dispersed to their dressing rooms. Sam Harris, Irving, and George and Bea Kaufman were beaming as they cheerfully thanked and back-patted members of the cast; it was rare to see George S. so animated as he appeared this night: talking, laughing, joking. He may be a quick-witted scoundrel at times, but he was basically a shy man.

  Aleck kissed Bea, and slapped the men on their backs with congratulatory sentiment. He introduced Hays and Darrow and then continued on the path toward the dressing rooms. Mr. Benchley was duly admired by many chorus members and several techies with whom he’d worked when starring in Irving Berlin’s Music Box Revue of 1924. And FPA, too, was quite a man-about-town, and there was scarcely a chorine who wouldn’t sell her mother into slavery for a mention in his column. Frank and Mr. Benchley lagged behind as we climbed the steel stairway to the Brothers’ dressing room.

  The wonderful smell of greasepaint, sweat, and the musty charge of electric stage lights blended in perfect proportion, a perfume that once sniffed could seduce any young thing into devoting one’s life to the Theatre. Once snared in the atmosphere of this vapor and then exposed to the exhilarating rain of applause, one becomes addicted. It’s a good thing I have no talent for singing, dancing, or acting, or I’d be among the fallen.

  Aleck knocked on the dressing-room door.

  “Who’s there?” came the reply from within.

  Oh, it was going to be a knock-knock joke.

  “Aleck”

  “Aleck who?”

  “Aleck to come in.”

  The door was thrown open, revealing Chico, face white with cold cream and a cloth in his hand bearing evidence of flesh-colored face paint. He stood there in his underwear.

  “Aleck to come in—to some money, too,” he replied.

  Groucho turned from the mirror to face us as he tore off his fake moustache: “Let’s see your money. There’s a charge, you know, for the second show.”

  Aleck entered the dressing room cramped with bouquets and standing arrangements. Someone had sent a wreath made entirely of prickly pear stalks. Cleverly, the boys had posted dozens of congratulatory telegrams on its thorns.

  “I haven’t a cent on me,” said Aleck. “Perhaps I might arrange a little loan from one of my friends.”

  “All right, then, that’ll be fifty thousand francs,” said Groucho.

  “I’ve a dollar,” said Hays.

  “I’d say you were worth more than that!”

  “Sold!” said Chico, rushing over to grab the buck Hays removed from his pocket. But Harpo beat him to it, offered the hat from his head, with his wig caught in the crown. Hays dropped the dollar into the hat.

  Groucho came over with his usual bent-duck walk, his arms behind his back to peer up into Aleck’s face.

  “So you’ve no cash of your own, you freeloader!”

  So this was the second show, I thought, and Aleck was going to let them play it out.

  These boys are as zany offstage as they are onstage. They didn’t give a crap that men of dignity had come to honor them with a visit. Marie of Romania could bestow the honor of knighthoods, and Harpo would grab her sword and fence about like a demented Douglas Fairbanks.

  “I’ve not a centime,” replied Aleck.

  “You must have some loose change somewhere,” insisted Groucho, as he started unbuttoning the impeccable white satin vest of Aleck’s evening clothes.

  Harpo pulled out Aleck’s pants pockets.

  Chico undid his tie.

  Zeppo took Aleck’s greatcoat, folded it neatly, and presented it to Darrow to hold. He handed Aleck’s walking stick to Hayes.

  Harpo indicated he wanted Sherry to hold out his hands. Harpo attempted to slap the offered palms several times, and of course, Sherry pulled away in time to avoid contact. I was next enlisted into their lunacy. I held out my palms and instead of slapping them, Harpo reached into Aleck’s top hat, from which he took,
and then placed, a set of jacks into my cupped hands.

  Heywood was next ordered to display both palms, and he complied with a giggle. Again from the hat Harpo removed a small sack. He opened the drawstring, took out a handful of marbles, pretended to swallow them and then, seeing the top hat was empty, he put it on his own head, and slapped Heywood’s palms before he could retract them.

  Harpo laughed and spun around the room.

  By this time Groucho had removed Aleck’s tailcoat and vest, and was busy removing the studs from his shirt.

  “Wait a minute!” interrupted Chico, unbuttoning Aleck’s trousers. He reached a hand down in through the waistband and pantomimed the removal of a handful of items.

  Aleck’s trousers fell to the floor. He didn’t blink an eye as he stood regally before us in white silk underwear. He was enjoying being a part of the act.

  “Let me see those,” insisted Groucho, and Harpo and Zeppo leaned in to watch as Chico slowly unclenched his fist to reveal the treasure within his palm: two tiny rhinestones for all to see.

  “The family jewels!” the Brothers shouted in unison.

  Aleck laughed, “My, they’re bigger than I thought.”

  George S. popped his head in the door, and upon glimpsing a nearly naked Woollcott, he moaned, rolled his eyes, and quickly departed.

  Groucho turned to Mr. Benchley, who’d just walked in to join us, and said:

  “I’ll bet there’s a jackpot in those pants!”

  Catching on quickly, Mr. Benchley said, nodding, in all seriousness, “So I’m told, so I’m told.”

  Groucho moved in toward Edna, and then circled her, his eyebrows raised repeatedly as he nosed in on her ample, bejeweled bosom.

  “I see you’ve brought the Woolworth Building with you, Aleck!” he said, reaching out a hand, which Edna promptly slapped.

  “I was just admiring your fifty-first floor,” he said, backing off. “Your radio antenna ain’t so bad, either . . .”