Fred Allen and the Old Howard (from his book, Much About Me)

The Daisy Lunch, next to the Old Howard, was popular. The Daisy diner could get up slowly off his stool after consuming beans, frankfurters, bread and butter, apple pie and ice cream, all washed down with a large mug of hot coffee, and settle his obligation for twenty-five cents. If the waitress was pretty and the diner was in a generous mood, he might throw her a nickel tip. A little alehouse, next to Hamm's, was a gathering place for some of the older performers, who liked to sip their ale, puff at their pipes, and discuss their yesterdays.

The Bucket of Blood was a poolroom down in a cellar under Higgins's; it was in this sunken billiard emporium that the betting fraternity consorted.  The Howard Street habituates soon became acquainted with all the coast defenders, the smalltime actors who lived in rooming houses nearby. As they walked down Howard Street on their way to the Daisy Lunch or to the streetcar, to leave for some suburban theater, they formed a parade of unique characters. There was Dancing Bandy, who featured his famous Bandy Walks: during his final dancing number Bandy walked in step like a fat man, a minister, a Jewish pushcart salesman, an effeminate male, a Civil War veteran and so on. There were Malumby and Musette, an Englishman and his wife who impersonated costermongers, wearing suits and dresses covered with pearl buttons, and singing Cockney songs. There was Hindu Sam, the fire-eater, and his famous Hindu Basket Trick. 

 Hindu Sam placed his small son in a small wicker basket and, after closing the top and chanting a few incantations, proceeded to thrust long swords through the basket from every possible angle without impaling the boy. Sam claimed that his Hindu powers enabled him to protect his small son from harm. Sam's Hindu powers, however, could not stop his small son from growing. When the boy became too large to fit into the basket, Hindu Sam's theatrical career came to an abrupt end.

Also in the procession would be the Minstrel Maids, featuring Cassie French. Cassie had an enormous bust. With her short neck and protruding bosom, Cassie always looked as though she were looking over somebody else's behind. When the Minstrel Maids played the Old Howard, if there were only four men in the horseshoe balcony, they would all be huddled together at the extreme ends of the horseshoe to enjoy a bird's-eye view of Cassie. There was also Major Doyle, the midget, who was an accomplished baron twirler. There was Mike Scott, the Dublin Dancer. Mike was a heel and toe artist. The Lancashire Clog, as well as other clogs and reels, confined the dancer and his jigging to one spot; he did his entire act on a marble-topped pedestal. As age robbed Mike of his agility, and he found the altitude bothering him, he took the marble top off his pedestal and placed it on the floor. Everybody knew when Mike had a date booked. He would come down Howard Street with his wooden shoes under one arm and his marble slab under the other. I have often wondered if, when Mike Scott passed on, they used the marble slab for his tombstone.

Also on regular view was Tom Heffernan, a dancer who had but one leg. To keep up appearances, and for purposes of dancing, Tom wore an old-style wooden leg. He lived in a small room on the second floor of the William Tell House, and when he was out of work, Bacchus often beckoned, and Tom would go out for a romp. Once he was under way, Tom drank through the days and nights until his blotting potential had been exceeded. At this point, friends delivered Tom, a limp tweedy bundle, back to the William Tell House, carried him up two flights to his room, and deposited him on his bed. To make sure that Tom could not rejoin his roistering friends until his stupor had run its course, the lady who ran the William Tell House would unfasten his wooden leg, walk it downstairs, and stand the leg in a corner of her office. This strategy paid off many nights. There were other nights, however, when Tom, refreshed after a few hours' sleep, would awaken after midnight and realize that he had to have a drink immediately. After a few attempts at standing, it would dawn on Tom that his wooden leg was missing. In Tom's code, thirst did not concede to gravity; he would improvise locomotion. Seconds later, the colored man selling his fried chicken on the curb and the actors gathered under the street light in front of Hamm's would see the front door of the William Tell House open and would also see something that looked like an alligator wearing a vest slither along the side- walk close to the wall and turn the corner. It was Tom Heffernan, who had crawled down two flights of stairs on his stomach en route to the little alehouse next to Hamm's.

Toby Lyons, the comedian, was a great favorite. Toby's famous song was "Hinky Dee." During the chorus of the song Toby shouted to the audience, "What's his namei" And the audience, to a man, shouted back, "Hinky Dee!" Then there was Dainty Irene. Dainty Irene had an unusual talent. Although she was only four feet tall and weighed only eightyfive pounds, Dainty Irene did an iron-jaw act. At fairs and circuses Dainty Irene performed on a crossbar one hundred feet in the air. She finally married the man who operated the rigging for her act, and as soon as they were married, the husband decided that they could economize on travel expenses. He said that because of her small size, Dainty Irene should travel for half fare. He made her buy children's clothing and, riding on trains, she was compelled to curl up and lie in one corner of the seat. When the conductor passed through the car, the husband handed him one full fare and one half ticket. This went on for forty years. When Dainty Irene died at the age of sixty, her husband had her laid out in baby clothes and insisted on a discount by having the mortician bury her in a child's casket.

The Bostonian was a small rooming house on Howard Street, interesting chiefly because it was here that all the female impersonators lived. The other actors called the Bostonian the Y.W. Three of the coast-defender impersonators were Calvette, Jaquette, and Willie DeTello.

This was the world, then, in which the actors lived in Boston in I9I2. I had eaten there, at the Daisy Lunch, and LaToy had taken me around to the Rexford, but I had no official artistic standing in the community. The other actors had never heard of Fred St. James. Frankly, I hadn't thought much about him myself until the Monday morning I arrived at the Scenic Temple and saw my picture in the lobby. Underneath the picture it said, "Fred St. James -- Comedy Juggler. There were four other acts: a man and wife acrobatic and high-kicking act known as Miller and Miller; the Riley Sisters, two girl singers; Bartlett and Earle, an old couple who did a comedy talking act; and a studious-looking gentleman who operated a mechanical man. The mechanical man had no name and no talent. His act consisted of lighting up his eyes, raising his hands stiffly, bowing stiffly to the audience, and walking stitffy around the stage. The gentleman who operated the mechanical man sat stiffly at the side of the stage, lecturing an the wonders his mechanical stooge was performing; he pulled switches, pressed buttons, and lighted up bulbs as the mechanical man was cutting his dull, buzzing didoes.  

The actors at the Scenic Temple did three shows daily: a matinee at two-thirty and evening shows at seven and nine. When I had appeared on Amateur Nights, there was excite- ment backstage, and the audience exuded an air of anticipation. Both of these stimulants were lacking at the Scenic Temple. The audience consisted of middle-class families, mostly women and children. All of these smalltime-theater audiences were composed of the same ingredients: the enthusiastic and not too discriminating element who enjoyed the show and applauded everything, or the tired set who just wanted to sit back and rest and ignore the whole thing.

I had never done my juggling act three times in one day before. To my surprise, I found the audiences varied. At the matinees, people would laugh and applaud. At the seven o'clock show, I went through my act to riotous silence. At the nine-o'clock show, all was well again. After two days, and the mixed reactions of the audiences, I started to worry that perhaps I had rushed my career. My act was really a crude monologue with incidental juggling tricks. It was neither fish nor fowl. At the National Theatre, to a metropolitan audience, my act had been accepted as a burlesque of a routine juggling act, and it had been thought funny. The East Boston housewives, and their young that they hadn't eaten, who came to the Scenic Temple weren't interested in innovations. When an act was a monologist they wanted to hear him talk. When a juggler showed up on the stage they demanded that he juggle. "None of that shandy-gaff," as they say in England. 

The other acts obviously knew I was an amateur trespassing in their profession and ignored me. My act was getting worse each day, and my ego was being deflated at a rate that would eventually reduce it to caraway-seed proportions. On Thursday, however, the deflation was halted, and the slow leak in my confidence was vulcanized. Coming over from Boston on the ferry, I met Miller and Miller, the opening act. Mr. Miller acknowledged my existence by saying "Hello." I was so flattered that I started to talk. I confessed to Mr. Miller that this was my first professional vaudeville date, and that I was worried about my act. Mr. Miller told me that my trouble was that I didn't make up. All comedy jugglers, according to Mr. Miller, used comedy make-ups, and when they came on the stage the audience laughed at the comedy make-up and knew that the act was going to be funny. Mr. Miller assured me that if I would assume a grotesque guise the success of my act would be instantaneous. Why I listened to Mr. Miller I will never know. Mr. Miller himself was about forty years old, and his act consisted of a few tumbling tricks, after which his wife announced that Mr. Miller was the high-kicking champion of the world.

To live up to this claim Mr. Miller proceeded to kick a number of cigar boxes out of his wife's hand. First, his wife stood on the stage and held out one cigar box. Mr. Miller adjusted it, placed himself under the cigar box, and executed a back somersault. When his feet were aloft he kicked the cigar box out of his wife's hand up into the air. His wife then stood on a chair and held out another cigar box, and Mr. Miller repeated his aerial prank.  After the applause Mrs. Miller stood on a kitchen table and held out a cigar box. Then the chair was placed on the table, and Mrs. Miller mounted the chair with her cigar box. Here was the climax of the act: Mr. Miller first executed two somersaults and purposely missed the cigar box both times. Now that the suspense was at its peak, Mr. Miller ventured a third try. On this attempt Mr. Miller's toe made contact, the cigar box flew into space, Mrs. Miller was helped down, and Miller and Miller rushed to the footlights to bask in acclaim. Mr. Miller had been traveling around smalltime theaters kicking cigar boxes out of his wife's hand for years without ever fixing up his own act, and here he was telling me how to fix mine. I should have smelled a rat, but the wind of my enthusiasm was blowing in Mr. Miller's favor.

W'hen I asked Mr. Miller about a specific comedy make-up for my act, it developed that this was my lucky day. Mr. Miller had a red wig at the theater that was very funny even without me. I could become the owner of the red wig by crossing Mr. Miller's palm with ten dollars. By the time the ferry had docked, and Miller and Miller and I had arrived at the Scenic Temple, the deal had been consummated. When I admitted that I didn't even know how to make myself up, Mr. Miller agreed to throw in one stick of greasepaint, one can of powder (complete with puff), and make-up instructions along with the red wig. Before the matinee, Mr. Miller made me up. Wearing the red wig that came down over my forehead and blended into my skin, with my eyelids whitened, with a clown mouth and my front teeth blacked out, I looked like a Fatsy Bolivar. (Fatsy Bolivar was a slang name applied to a bumpkin character; later it was shortened to Fatsy, and referred to any person who was the butt of a joke.)

I didn't have any comedy wardrobe to go with my red wig and my funny head, but Mr. Miller assured me that with a juggler nobody would know the difference. At the matinee, my act seemed to go better. The audience laughed when I walked out onto the stage. The jokes didn't have anything to do with my new character, but this didn't affect my reception The remaining shows of the week were done under Mr. Miller's guidance. He made me up for every show, and showed me how to make up my eyes and mouth, and how to black out my front teeth with a sort of wax that he had decided to throw in with the red wig. The last night at the Scenic Temple Mr. Miller predicted that, fortified with the red wig and my new make-up, my act was going to be a sensation. I was taking a short cut to success. We shook hands and parted. I haven't seen Mr. Miller since. It is fortunate that I haven't.

The next Monday I was booked to play the Superb Theatre in Roxbury. The person who named the theater the Superb was careless with his adjective. The Superb was like a hundred other small neighborhood theaters that sprang into existence with the coming of the motion picture. Architecturally they were all alike. There was no balcony; the seats were all on one floor, with aisles on either side. The white screen with a wide black border surrounding it was painted on the back wall. The so-called stage had no scenery. It was a five-foot scaffold jutting out from under the picture screen. Popping up along the outer rim of this stage there was a row of naked light bulbs which posed as footlights. Some months before, I had graced the Superb stage at an Amateur Night. Now I was back as a professional. At rehearsal, the piano player and the drummer didn't recognize me. To them I was Fred St. James, the opening act. As matinee time approached I went to my dressing room to make myself up, but without Mr. Miller I couldn't seem to do anything right. The front of the red wig wouldn't blend into my forehead, the white on my eyes looked as though somebody had hit me with two marshmallows, my clown mouth looked like an incision that hadn't healed, and the wax that blacked out my teeth kept slipping down. When I finished I looked like a nearsighted schoolboy who had dressed himself up to frighten the neighbors on Halloween.

The show finally started. I was the first act and in spite of my incongruous appearance the audience responded fairly well. My act finished with some hat tricks that could be relied upon for applause. I returned to the dressing room and started to remove my make-up. As I sat before my mirror, busily spreading cold cream over my cheeks, I heard a strange sound behind me. It was a sort of swishing that came from the general direction of the door. I turned around, looked down, and there on the floor I saw my music and my lobby photographs. They had been pushed under the door. It seemed rather strange at first, Then I thought that perhaps the piano player had memorized my music and that, since the theater had a small lobby, the manager was returning some photos that he couldn't use. After I had washed up and put on my street clothes I opened the dressing-room door. The vaudeville part of the show was over, and the piano player was coming out of the pit. I thanked him for returning my music he said, "I'm sorry, kid." When I asked him why, he told me.  The theater manager had watched my act and remembered that I had appeared at the Superb at an Amateur Night. The theater catered to a neighborhood audience with the same people coming every week. The manager knew that the audience would recognize me; he couldn't afford to have his patrons think that when he advertised professional vaudeville he was trying to put something over by booking amateur talent. When the piano player had finished I said, "And that's why my music and photos were slipped under the door?" He said, "Yes, kid. You're canned!"

It was too much for me. I knew that the manager would inform the Keith booking office that Fred St. James, the great personality out of ·the West, was really no more than a local amateur who had recently been working for Sam Cohen. Fred St. James, red wig and all, had come to an untimely end. I was afraid to call the booking office, and I was sure that my other contracts would be canceled. I didn't know where to find LaToy in my hour of need. Left to my own devices, I packed up my juggling equipment and went home.  I said nothing to my Aunt Lizzie. I knew she would tell me about the actor who went to school with her and later went to a drunkard's grave. The next day I went into Boston, and avoiding Howard Street and the actors' haunts, started looking for a job. 

That young muscular fellow right in front of Fred Allen's arm pit is myself at ten years old. The other children include my brother and two girl cousins.  The place is Old Orchard Beach.  We were up there on vacation and Fred was on a blanket nearby, typing on a portable typewriter.  Portland [his wife and radio co-star] was with him and my grandfather insisted that we not bother him.  I guess he overheard my grandfather and thanked him.  A little later in the day he stopped typing and struck up a conversation with my grandfather.  The next thing I knew, we were being lined up for a picture.  My mother was just about to snap the photo when Fred, in that nasal twang of his advised, "Excuse me Miss, but I think the picture will come out a whole lot better if you remove your finger from the front of the lens!"  Of course that story has been told and re-told many times over the years.  The other interesting fact about this event is that it was taken the week of the Japanese surrender [August, 1945].