Many years ago, Arthur Marx, son of Groucho, was denied access to a Beverly Hills country club pool because, it was stated, he was Jewish. Groucho protested. “My son is only half-Jewish, so can he go in up to his knees?”

In the 60s, when I worked in Beverly Hills, Groucho and I occasionally shared morning walks. I asked him if that was a true story.

“You have my word of honor,” he said, “For what that’s worth.” True story.

Anti-semitism and restrictions for black Americans in big private clubs is mostly a thing of the past, but for women, of any color, religious order or political persuasion, the chains on many of the big doors are still there. Is there anyone else here old enough to remember when taverns had “ladies entrance” doors at the back of the bar?

The New York Racquet and Tennis Club is one of the last to hold onto this antediluvian silliness. I was invited to have a drink there one afternoon with an old actor friend, a Yale grad who, like his father, belonged to the famous club on Park Avenue.

The New York Racquet and Tennis Club is one of the last to hold onto this antediluvian silliness. I was invited to have a drink there one afternoon with an old actor friend, a Yale grad who, like his father, belonged to the famous club on Park Avenue.

After a very large martini, my friend took me on a tour of the establishment. I learned that there was a spacious swimming pool, and that sometimes, in late afternoon, men could splash about in the nude if they liked.

“What about the women?” I asked. “Oh dear fellow, women aren’t allowed to join the club.”

For myself, I can’t imagine belonging to a club or society that didn’t admit women. Women, like wine, add poetry and color to life. What would be the point of dressing up, showering and brushing one’s teeth and hair?

My own personal experience with male chauvinism came when I was only ten. I can remember the sting of it even today. Sonny Erb, Junior Reed, Billy Hagany and myself formed a club and built our own ramshackle clubhouse, just above the railroad tracks on the bank of the Mississippi. We called it Gang Busters after the popular radio show of the time.

As fate would have it, this was the summer that May Rose arrived like a summer shower, from a small town in Arkansas, to visit her grandma, who baked cakes for the Altar and Rosary Society.

May Rose was a stunning red-haired girl, tall for her age, and blessed with two startlingly white and slightly protruding front teeth. It was love at first sight. I was thrilled when May Rose wanted to be a Gang Buster. But the boys said “no girls.”

In protest, I withdrew my membership in the club. Luckily, later that same week, May Rose and friends decided to stage a family play in the basement of her grandma’s house. She asked me to play the father. Chocolate milk and Oreos were served. And that’s how I became an actor and future ardent supporter of women’s rights. Vive la femme.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.

 

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