Although this lawsuit was a matter taken seriously, Groucho could still say, “I’ll consult my lawyer, and if he takes the case, I’ll get another lawyer.”
Despite his having told me that “you never win” when you get involved in a lawsuit, he was suing the author and publishers of The Marx Brothers Scrapbook, a book which he had agreed to coauthor. He later regretted it, feeling that the book did not represent him, but he was unable to enjoin the sale of the book. The affair caused him continuing consternation, despite his usually successful efforts to maintain perspective and equilibrium.
Before going to lunch at CBS with Goddard Lieberson, Groucho and I were sitting in the living room of his hotel suite when Erin made a singing-and-dancing entrance from one of the bedrooms. She was wearing only flesh-colored, lace-lined panties and bra, though the outfit was, in fact, no more revealing than a conventional two-piece bathing suit. The song she sang, accompanied by high kicks, was improvised:
“We’ve got clothes,
We’ve got class.
Come on, gang,
Kiss our ass!”
Groucho looked disgusted. Her attention-getting attempts to shock him sometimes only displeased him. He put the look on his face into words:
“I’m a puritan. I’m an old-fashioned man. I was brought up on Horatio Alger and Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.”
While Groucho was in New York City, there were many requests for interviews. He didn’t accept any, but he did see New York Times writer Israel Shenker because, “I have a book by him on my coffee table at home.” He also invited Doubleday editor Ken McCormick over for tea.
KEN McCORMICK
The last time we talked about Somerset Maugham…
GROUCHO
He was a great writer.
KEN McCORMICK
Maugham is way down these days, and Conan Doyle is selling better than ever. And Edgar Wallace is hardly remembered.
GROUCHO
That’s how it is. That’s show business. That’s life. You never know.
KEN McCORMICK
Are you having any riots this time? Last time you were here there was that incredible opening for Animal Crackers…
GROUCHO
I was nearly killed.
KEN McCORMICK
Goddard told me about being in the car with you. They had to get the mounted police to come and rescue you.
GROUCHO
One of the horses asked for my autograph.
KEN McCORMICK
Did you give it to him?
GROUCHO
Yes. Then I asked him for his autograph.
KEN McCORMICK
Did he give it to you?
GROUCHO
Neigh!
During this visit to New York, Groucho had a minor accident. As he was chewing candy, some of his teeth appeared to fall out, though it turned out to be only a bridge. He noted that they weren’t really his teeth, and thus wouldn’t join the collection of one of his nurses, Donna, who saved his teeth whenever he lost one. “She has three now, and when I die, she’s going to auction them off. She keeps them in her purse.”
He posed for us, flaunting the empty space in his mouth, while nurse Barbara tried to reassure him. “It’s very becoming, Groucho.” He came back with, “You mean begoing.”
“Tomorrow I’ll call a dentist,” Barbara said.
“Call three, and we’ll play bridge,” he responded.
He tried plugging up the empty space with some chewing gum, proclaiming, “The whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.” Then he summed up the situation with his characteristic lack of self-pity:
“Cavity emptor: Biter beware!”
The last event of Groucho’s visit to New York in 1975 was a quick lunch with Betty Comden, Adolph Green, and Penelope Gilliatt, as Groucho was preparing to return home to California.
ADOLPH GREEN
(Referring to Groucho’s pending lawsuit) How about the case, Groucho?
GROUCHO
It’s cheaper by the case, only ten dollars a case.
ADOLPH GREEN
No, I mean the lawsuit.
GROUCHO
I’m having it pressed.
PENELOPE GILLIATT
Did you have a good time in New York, Groucho?
GROUCHO
I liked A Chorus Line, but I didn’t get to visit any of my old houses.
Groucho liked to know who was living in his former houses. He never really moved away from his old homes. Reputedly unsentimental, he liked to visit his former homes and their current occupants, just casually dropping in, whether in Beverly Hills or New York.
Once he asked me if I liked living in a hotel.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s like living as a guest in my own house. Do you like living in a hotel?”
“It’s only for a few days,” he answered, “and I always know I’ve got the key to my front door.”
To Groucho this key represented home. For him that was always of the utmost importance, starting with his first home, the East Ninety-third Street apartment, then the house in Chicago, followed by the grander house in Great Neck, to the houses in Beverly Hills, where he lived for almost half a century. Groucho’s house represented security and privacy, two of his primary values. Home was where Groucho could indulge his whims. “It’s not just a place to hang your head.”
Groucho was born with a wooden spoon in his mouth, rather than the proverbial silver one. Then, just as he had achieved what seemed to him the pinnacle of economic security, the crash of 1929 took away everything. When your life is show business, economic security can be ephemeral.
There is not much room at the top, and once you have arrived there, you can’t be certain how long you’ll stay. Not totally without foreboding, Groucho watched for years the countless “for sale” signs that dotted the Beverly Hills landscape. Some houses are abandoned on the way up, others on the way down. Long at the top himself, he waited most of his life for that possible rainy day. The unsettling experience of vaudeville and boardinghouses never quite left him. “We stayed in those cheap boardinghouses so we could save money, then in 1929 we lost it all.”
Groucho no longer cared much about traveling. His days of vaudeville travel seemed to have provided him with a lifetime supply, although he was proud to have visited almost every town in the United States and Canada. In 1930, when he wrote Beds, he described a person who liked to be in one bed as a “monobedder.” I asked him if that still described him, and without hesitation he answered, “Yes.”
His living room was far from being Grand Central Station, but his bedroom was his private sanctuary, a no-man’s and no-woman’s-land when the door was closed. To some extent he carried this over in a hotel. At the Sherry Netherland he announced, as he did at home in Beverly Hills, “I’m master of my house.” Then he added with a faint twinkle, “I’m an old master.”
When Betty, Adolph, and Penelope left Groucho, just before his return to California, Betty kissed him and said, “Goodbye, Groucho.” “No,” said Groucho firmly. “Not goodbye. Au revoir.” Checking out of the Sherry Netherland, Groucho saw Jack Nicholson and Dick Cavett in the lobby:
GROUCHO
(To Jack) Are you working?
JACK NICHOLSON
Hiya, sport. Yeah. Too much.
DICK CAVETT
You know, Groucho, people are still writing to me and saying I should have defended Capote. Or I should have defended you. (Noticing a long, thin box Groucho was clutching) Hey, what’s that?
GROUCHO
It’s a yard of chocolate. She (Indicating me) gave it to me.
DICK CAVETT
Is that a front yard or a back yard? (Groucho didn’t laugh or even smile, so Dick Cavett went on to explain) You used that one once on You Bet Your Life.
Before Groucho got into the limousine that would take him to the airport, he kissed me goodbye. He also kissed two pretty girls he’d never seen before who happened to be passing by. The doorman asked Groucho, “Aren’t
you going to kiss me?”
And he did.
“I wouldn’t be 78 again
for anything in the world”
Just before October 2, 1975, one of the radio news reports wished Groucho a happy “eightieth” birthday. He was quite perturbed. He was actually celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday, and, having paid full price, he thought he ought to get full credit.
The year before, when a reporter called up on Groucho’s “seventy-eighth” birthday, Groucho said, “I wouldn’t be seventy-eight again for anything in the world, I’m crazy about eighty-four.”
Groucho had called me long distance saying, “I want you here for my birthday. Please come. I hope Melinda comes. Miles will be five, and I’ll be eighty-five. I always give Miles a gift every time I give Jade something, and I give him the bigger thing. He wouldn’t understand if she got a gift and he didn’t.”
On the morning of his eighty-fifth birthday, the doorbell rang, and Groucho was told that there were some young fans who had come to wish him a happy birthday. He went to the door and greeted them, saying, “You probably think I’ve always been this old.” For the teenage boys at the door, however, the Groucho of the twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties still lived side by side with the Groucho of the 1970s. And they weren’t disappointed.
During the first week of October, and especially on October 1, the telephone at Groucho’s was virtually one continuous ring as friends called to congratulate him. He took it in stride, commenting, “Getting old isn’t all that great. Now, getting younger…that would be something.”
Television, radio, and newspaper interviews filled up much of the time preceding the birthday. The media sent more people with more paraphernalia than Groucho remembered being used to shoot The Cocoanuts. Their questions were frequently the same, but his answers were usually different. “Each one of them only listens to me once,” he explained to me between interviews, “but I have to listen every time. So I have to entertain myself.”
Groucho gave some advice to one young man who had come to interview him and who was smoking a cigarette.
“When you’re eighty-five, you should quit smoking and you should quit sex. It was fun at the time,” Groucho said fondly. Then he snapped, “When you’re eighty-five, see what you can do!”
The mayor of Los Angeles proclaimed October 2 “Groucho Marx Day.” On October 1 a large envelope arrived. “It’s from the mayor,” Erin announced. “I wonder if I’ll also get something from Metro and Goldwyn,” Groucho said as he opened the envelope. Then he read his version of the mayor’s proclamation:
“‘Whereas and whereas and whereas and whereas the party of the eleventh part…’ Sounds like a line from Animal Crackers, doesn’t it?”
There was a thick piece of cardboard in the envelope to keep the proclamation from being bent. “This is the important part,” he said, brandishing the piece of cardboard.
On the eve of Groucho’s birthday, Erin, nurse Linda, and I joined him in his bedroom, where we all watched the NBC and ABC evening newscasts, which showed the films they had made for his eighty-fifth birthday. “Look at that yellow face,” Groucho exclaimed when his image appeared on the screen. “It’s the TV set,” Erin reassured him, then nurse Linda adjusted the set so that Groucho’s skin took on more natural tones.
The ABC newscast opened on a chocolate cake made by New York pâtisserie chef Maurice Bonté. He had decorated the cake with a yellow marzipan duck and an inscription which read, “The Secret Word Is Groucho.” Later the cameras moved in on another yellow duck, a large papier-mâché piñata wearing a beret, smoking a cigar, and hanging from the chandelier in the dining room.
Groucho was in top form for his interview with ABC’s Steve Lenz:
STEVE LENZ
Were you ever…
GROUCHO
No, not that I can remember.
When the programs ended, Groucho went over to a large picture of his mother and stood by it. For a long time he didn’t say a word.
Groucho asked me if I remembered when we talked with Adolph Zukor at Hillcrest Country Club. I said I did. “He’s more than a hundred,” he said. “I don’t want to get to be that old.”
Early on the morning of October 2, just before breakfast, Groucho and I looked out a window and saw the first of his “replicas” across the street. Sitting on the curb was a young man wearing the Groucho costume and mustache. We learned that he was Stephen Torrico, president of the Anaheim Groucho Marx Fan Club, which boasted 422 members. This was their birthday gift to Groucho. “We thought he would like it for his birthday to see us out here.” Later that morning Andy and I left the house in search of some candleholders. By this time, the number of replica Grouchos had increased, and as we rode by, they called out:
“Do you know him? Do you know Groucho?”
“No, I don’t,” Andy responded, “but she does.”
Reverently, one of them said, “It must be really great to be in there.”
Groucho’s parting words to us were, “I’ll need eighty-five candles. On second thought, I’ll use three. One for each of my ex-wives.”
It had been decided to have two parties. The big party was to be held on the Sunday following Groucho’s actual birthday. Another, more intimate party was held on Groucho’s real birthday. This was a birthday dinner to which he invited Arthur Whitelaw, Dr. Morley Kert (Groucho’s doctor) and his wife Bernice, Erin, and me. Also invited was actress Phyllis Newman, Adolph Green’s wife, who arrived late, having been delayed by a TV talk show appearance.
Dr. Kert told how when Groucho came to his office he always advised everyone in the waiting room, “You’ve still got time to get out of here.”
Groucho and Arthur Whitelaw reminisced about the opening of Minnie’s Boys on Broadway. For the occasion, Arthur had wanted to present Groucho with an appropriate gift, but he couldn’t think of what to get. Hearing that the old Ruppert brewery, near where Groucho grew up, was being torn down, Arthur rushed uptown to get one of the bricks. He took the brick to Tiffany’s, where a silver plaque was made for it, and he gave it to Groucho on the opening night of Minnie’s Boys.
Arthur had a joke for Groucho:
ARTHUR WHITELAW
Did you hear that they closed the Warsaw zoo? Their clam died.
GROUCHO
I don’t understand.
ARTHUR WHITELAW
It wasn’t much of a zoo.
GROUCHO
That wasn’t much of a joke.
After Groucho blew out the candles (considerably fewer than eighty-five) on his cake, I asked him what he had wished, then added, “But perhaps you don’t believe a wish should be told.”
“I wished that my health remains good. Telling or not telling won’t do it.”
He helped cut the cake, then, in a moment of macabre inspiration, grinning fiendishly, he posed for a picture holding the knife to his throat.
In honor of the occasion, he discarded his normal regimen, and with reckless abandon devoured a heaping portion of the cake I had brought from New York.
“Thirty years ago I would have eaten the whole cake,” he said. “I’m gonna eat this much if it kills me.”
Finishing the last crumb, he added wistfully, “Nothing lasts forever.”
After dinner Groucho opened the presents. Bud Cort gave him a T-shirt with the message “Bullshit” emblazoned across the chest.
“This’ll be great to wear at Chasen’s,” Groucho said.
The Kerts gave him a cashmere sweater from Eric Ross.
“This’ll come in handy when we get some hot weather,” he said admiringly.
He seized the next box eagerly. “It’s from Carroll and Company. That’s where my son shops.” In his excitement, he tore off the gift wrapping and ribbons, not heeding Erin’s admonition to save them.
“We’d better have a lot of hot weather,” he said on viewing yet another cashmere sweater. “This must be from my son, Arthur.” He almost tore the card in half in his enthusiasm
to read the greeting.
“Oh…It’s from Irene, my son’s first wife. It’s made in Scotland.” He paused. “Did you know my son was a great tennis player?”
Opening the Hermès box, Groucho took out the French silver duck dish I had given him. “I’ll put nuts in this,” he said. “Did you ever hear Bob Hope’s line? ‘California’s full of fruits and nuts.’ A great line.”
I also brought Groucho a large chocolate bar from Krön that was decorated with a shapely female leg in a lace stocking. It read, “Have a high kickin’ birthday!”
“I’m gonna put this under glass,” he said appreciatively.
Nurse Linda gave him a plant with a card which read, “Let’s come together to celebrate the day of your birth.” Nurse Barbara’s card said simply, “From the Barbara of Seville.”
Goddard Lieberson couldn’t think what to get for Groucho, so he composed some birthday music, inspired by his good friend the late Igor Stravinsky, who had written a Greeting Prelude for conductor Pierre Monteux on his eighty-fifth birthday. Goddard’s song was called “Groucho’s Day.”
Disney Studios had sent a Walt Disney book with a picture of Mickey Mouse drawn on the inside front cover, wearing a greasepaint mustache and doing a Groucho imitation.
The gift that pleased Groucho most was Erin’s. It was a hand-knitted Bordeaux sweater that she had ordered from Eric Ross. Knitted on the front of it was a portrait of Groucho.
Gifts had been pouring in all week, especially countless boxes of cigars sent by people who didn’t know that Groucho had given up smoking. He donated these to charitable institutions. Many of the gifts were sent by people he had never met. The gifts that had preceded their givers by a few days had been mostly opened. Erin had neatly folded all the fancy gift-wrapping paper and saved the ribbons.
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