Read Online Harpo Speaks! by Harpo Marx, Rowland Barber - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harpo Marx, Rowland Barber
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took a shortcut, with stopovers at the poolroom, Gookie’s window, the front stoop of my house-where I set my all-time record of 341 tennis-ball bounces-and finally back to the store, where I got fired.
Selling papers was no good. No loot on the side. Shoe-shining was too much of a grind. Junk collecting was all right, but there was always the threat of being highjacked by an enemy gang.
If things got real desperate I could hock a pair of Frenchie’s tailoring shears, which was Chico’s old racket. As long as I gave him the pawn ticket, Frenchie never seemed to mind and he never asked for the fifty cents the pawnbroker gave me. The worst I could get was a whisk of Frenchie’s whiskbroom under my chin.
I was never as blase as Chico about hustling scratch from my own family. It made me feel guilty, so whenever Frenchie packed to go off on a selling trip, I volunteered to go along as his assistant. I helped carry the bundles of “lappas”-the odd pieces of materials-and when Frenchie made his sales pitch I held up the pieces one by one. This required skillful manipulation, since I had to hold the fabrics so the customer couldn’t see the holes or rips. I guess the official designation for my job would be Lappa Displayer and Defect Concealer.
Sometimes, when things got dull and the family was flat broke, I served as Grandpa’s assistant. Because the language barrier was too great for him, Grandpa never worked in America as a ventriloquist or magician. For some reason unknown to me, he took to umbrella mending, door-to-door, whenever he needed quick cash.
On his rounds, Grandpa carried a tool kit and a tin can on a wire sling. In the can were coals of charcoal. To get the charcoal white-hot for the soldering iron, the can had to be swung around and around, to fan the fire. My special job with Grandpa was Tin Can Swinger.
Grandpa’s umbrella business petered out after a few years. People got wise to the fact they could buy new umbrellas for the prices he charged to mend old ones. I was sorry. Tin Can Swinging was one occupation I could have stuck at permanently. It was fun.
The shortest job I ever had lasted ten minutes. I applied as a helper to an Italian dame who ran a delicatessen near 96th Street, and she hired me as soon as I walked in the store. Then she looked me up and down, with big starey eyes, and asked me to follow her downstairs to the storeroom. When she got me down there she began shaking and breathing hard and making funny wheezy sounds. I was afraid she was having a heart attack.
The dame had another kind of attack in mind. She asked me to hurry up and take my clothes off. I started to unbutton my shirt, thinking maybe she had a uniform for me. She couldn’t wait. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her, all over her body, then under her dress. I couldn’t fight loose from her grip. I was never so scared in my life.
Thank God, the bell on the upstairs door rang before the crazy dame could go any farther. She let go of my hand and returned to the store. My hand, I felt, had been tainted. It was nasty, filthy dirty. I had to wash it, immediately. The only facility in the storeroom was a big, open pickle barrel. So I washed my hand in the pickle juice and ran upstairs and through the store and never went near the joint again.
My sex education was direct, no punches pulled, and vividly illustrated. I learned a lot more about the subject and its ramifications than most twelve-year-old boys did. But the method had its drawbacks. For years I couldn’t eat pickles.
At thirteen I attained manhood, according to the Jewish faith. I was bar mitzvah-inducted as an adult member of the synagogue. This didn’t mean, however, that I would start going to shul every Saturday. The rites were performed out of deference to Grandpa, who would have been bitterly hurt if his grandsons hadn’t shown this much respect for their traditional faith. It was the least we could do.
For the occasion, Frcnchie made me a
Selling papers was no good. No loot on the side. Shoe-shining was too much of a grind. Junk collecting was all right, but there was always the threat of being highjacked by an enemy gang.
If things got real desperate I could hock a pair of Frenchie’s tailoring shears, which was Chico’s old racket. As long as I gave him the pawn ticket, Frenchie never seemed to mind and he never asked for the fifty cents the pawnbroker gave me. The worst I could get was a whisk of Frenchie’s whiskbroom under my chin.
I was never as blase as Chico about hustling scratch from my own family. It made me feel guilty, so whenever Frenchie packed to go off on a selling trip, I volunteered to go along as his assistant. I helped carry the bundles of “lappas”-the odd pieces of materials-and when Frenchie made his sales pitch I held up the pieces one by one. This required skillful manipulation, since I had to hold the fabrics so the customer couldn’t see the holes or rips. I guess the official designation for my job would be Lappa Displayer and Defect Concealer.
Sometimes, when things got dull and the family was flat broke, I served as Grandpa’s assistant. Because the language barrier was too great for him, Grandpa never worked in America as a ventriloquist or magician. For some reason unknown to me, he took to umbrella mending, door-to-door, whenever he needed quick cash.
On his rounds, Grandpa carried a tool kit and a tin can on a wire sling. In the can were coals of charcoal. To get the charcoal white-hot for the soldering iron, the can had to be swung around and around, to fan the fire. My special job with Grandpa was Tin Can Swinger.
Grandpa’s umbrella business petered out after a few years. People got wise to the fact they could buy new umbrellas for the prices he charged to mend old ones. I was sorry. Tin Can Swinging was one occupation I could have stuck at permanently. It was fun.
The shortest job I ever had lasted ten minutes. I applied as a helper to an Italian dame who ran a delicatessen near 96th Street, and she hired me as soon as I walked in the store. Then she looked me up and down, with big starey eyes, and asked me to follow her downstairs to the storeroom. When she got me down there she began shaking and breathing hard and making funny wheezy sounds. I was afraid she was having a heart attack.
The dame had another kind of attack in mind. She asked me to hurry up and take my clothes off. I started to unbutton my shirt, thinking maybe she had a uniform for me. She couldn’t wait. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her, all over her body, then under her dress. I couldn’t fight loose from her grip. I was never so scared in my life.
Thank God, the bell on the upstairs door rang before the crazy dame could go any farther. She let go of my hand and returned to the store. My hand, I felt, had been tainted. It was nasty, filthy dirty. I had to wash it, immediately. The only facility in the storeroom was a big, open pickle barrel. So I washed my hand in the pickle juice and ran upstairs and through the store and never went near the joint again.
My sex education was direct, no punches pulled, and vividly illustrated. I learned a lot more about the subject and its ramifications than most twelve-year-old boys did. But the method had its drawbacks. For years I couldn’t eat pickles.
At thirteen I attained manhood, according to the Jewish faith. I was bar mitzvah-inducted as an adult member of the synagogue. This didn’t mean, however, that I would start going to shul every Saturday. The rites were performed out of deference to Grandpa, who would have been bitterly hurt if his grandsons hadn’t shown this much respect for their traditional faith. It was the least we could do.
For the occasion, Frcnchie made me a
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