I worked with Lee Marx one enchanted season, when he, I, Wayne Sidley (as boss clown) and a young man with the improbable name of Walter Sokolowski, made up the clown alley for the Tarzan Zerbini Shrine Circus.
Lee was the son of famous Vaudeville clown Carl Marx, and took over his act and makeup.
We traveled extensively in western Canada that year; it was cold and wet, and the hockey arenas we played in stank to high heaven of stale beer and cigarette smoke, not to mention the pungent aftershocks of abandoned wool socks underneath the bleachers.
Still, with Lee around, it proved instructive.
This was over 30 years ago, so I can't vouch for how things in Alberta and British Columbia are now, but back then it seemed every town we played featured a buffet restaurant run by a Chinese family -- along the lines of
"Wang Foo's All You Can Eat Buffet!"
The buffet inevitably consisted of a big bowl of bananas and apples, turning a nice mushy brown; cold cuts that could have been used to patch pneumatic tires; slices of cheese of an indeterminate lineage; rolls so crusty they made a Marine drill instructor look like a sissy; french fries that thought they were prunes; soggy translucent lettuce with ancient sliced carrots, tired red cabbage shreds, hard boiled eggs that were laid by constipated hens, spotted tomato slices, all masquerading as a salad bar; plus steaming gallons of egg drop soup (those restaurateurs sure could make one egg go a long way); and deadly little cream puffs that you thought you could eat a dozen of in one sitting -- which then came back to haunt you right after the evening show.
Lee made no bones about the fact that he intended to spend not a nickle of his salary that season, but to send it all home to his second wife so they could fix up their split level -- he showed us all photographs of the place with such guileless pride that we didn't have the heart to kid him about it.
This meant he employed a 'Harpo' trench coat whenever he went into one of these infamous buffets. He'd eat one apple, then surreptitiously slide one into a capacious coat pocket, and then do the same with everything offered on the menu -- even the cream puffs! He'd walk out of the place smelling like an overripe delicatessen; but he now had his dinner and breakfast taken care of.
Lee had also mastered the art of nursing a beer. He not only nursed it -- he gave it CPR and a blood transfusion! He could sit in a Canadian bar nursing one glass of Molson for several hours, hoovering up all the peanuts and pretzels the bartender cared to leave within reach.
On occasion, when the local Buffet looked too gruesome for even my cast iron stomach, I would join Lee in whatever tavern he was inhabiting before the matinee so I could order a hamburger and poutine (french fries covered in cheese and gravy). It was then I heard his accolades (usually aimed at disinterested bartenders who had finally caught on and were hiding the peanuts and pretzels): "Lemme tell you -- that Irvin Feld; he LOVED the clowns! He was good to all of 'em, all of the time!"
I'd ask him: "Lee, did you work for Mr. Feld?"
His reply never varied: "Nope. Never." And then he'd fall silent, relentlessly ministering to the last few remaining bubbles of foam in his glass.
This really began to intrigue me -- why was he determined to praise old man Feld to complete strangers? So finally, after hearing his little speech given to the back of a panicky bartender who was hastily thrusting a jar of depleted pickled eggs into the fridge, I offered to buy him a second beer if he would just tell my why he thought so much of Irvin Feld.
He agreed, then suspiciously eyed the fresh glass of brew in front of him; tasting it and making a face.
"Gotta wait for it to warm up a little" he explained. "I'm not used to it being so cold."
Lee was an excellent juggler, but with words he tended to get a bit mixed up and repetitive -- so I'll just give the gist of his story.
Back in the 1960's Lee and his first wife were driving through Ohio when they were involved in a terrible car accident. Lee's wife was killed and he himself suffered a number of severe and life-threatening injuries. His recovery was very slow and doubtful. He wasn't certain if he wanted to go on living, now that his wife was gone and the hospital bills were piling up.
One day a basket of fruit arrived, with a note inside reading "I knew your father well; hope this helps." It was signed "Irvin Feld".
Lee saw it as a very nice gesture -- a basket of fruit for someone he really didn't know. But when he was released from the hospital a few weeks later he found out what the note really meant. Feld had paid off Lee's entire hospital bill . . .
Lee told me not to repeat the story to anyone with the circus. Thirty-some years later, I'm still honoring his wishes to keep Mr. Feld's philanthropy inconspicuous.
After all, none of YOU have anything to do with the circus -- do you?
