It was time to exit the City of Angels but I had some things to accomplish before I left. I took an abbreviated driving tour of Beverly Hills and Bel Air, passing Clara Bow's old house, the home where Lana Turner once lived (it's where her daughter stabbed her husband), Bogie and Bacall's former home, and a Jimmy Stewart residence (he may still live there, I'm not certain). I also had the address for the house that was used as the Beverly Hillbillies mansion but I never managed a good look at it, too many walls and trees. Then it was north on the San Diego Freeway to the Eden Memorial Cemetery, where Groucho Marx rests.

One of the first places I went upon receiving my driver's license (and the mobility that came with it) some 16 years ago was the miniscule (and now defunct) Mini-Mall Theatre in north Oklahoma City. They featured old movies there, mostly comedies, and I wanted to see a Marx Brothers movie. I had become intrigued somehow with the Marxes, Groucho especially, but had never seen one of their films.

The bill that evening was to be Horsefeathers, followed by Duck Soup. As Horsefeathers opens, Groucho is being inducted as President of Huxley College. Following his introduction by the outgoing president, Groucho begins his speech this way: "Members of the faculty and faculty members, students of Huxley and Huxley students - well, I guess that covers everyone. I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech and that reminds me of a story that's so dirty I'm ashamed to think of it myself. I came to this college for one reason: to get my son out of it. I remember the day he left for school, a mere boy and a beardless youth. I kissed them both goodbye." Groucho was off and running and so was I. From that night on, I couldn't get enough of Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and sometimes Zeppo. They became my avocation. I loved Harpo's innocently mischievous ways and Chico's puns and crazy piano stylings. Most of all, though, I loved Groucho. I felt an odd connection to him. He was cracking the jokes I would make if I were clever enough, and they came rapid-fire.

The Marxes were unique, among film comedians, in that they weren't trying to get along; they were looking to stir things up. Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Buster Keaton, Martin and Lewis - all tried to play by the rules but found that their good intentions weren't enough; things usually went haywire in spite of their best efforts. The Marxes didn't wait for trouble to find them, they went looking for it. They were comic anarchists, just the ticket for a teenage boy who was always expected to play by the rules.

Over the years, I've read everything Groucho wrote, seen all his films (even Otto Preminger's Skidoo - hoo-boy, is it bad!) and watched reruns of his TV show, You Bet Your Life, at every opportunity. I sent him a birthday card on what was to be his last birthday; a few days later, I got an 8x10 in return. It's a picture of Groucho, Harpo, and Chico, inscribed, "To Brett, Best Wishes from Groucho." It remains my most prized possession.

It came as quite a shock to me when he died in 1977. It shouldn't have, of course; he was, after all, nearly 87 years old when he passed. Somehow, though, I always felt I'd get the chance to meet him someday; now that he was gone, that dream was ended.

So, I came to be with him today in the only way I can; I spent a few moments at the tiny vault that holds his ashes. There's a small plaque with a Star of David that reads, simply: Groucho Marx 1890-1977. It's an odd thing, this tradition of visiting the grave of a loved one. I suppose we hope that death is something like Thornton Wilder portrayed it in Our Town; that if we come to a final resting place, we can speak to the dead and they will hear us. I suspect that they are not here, though. It's likely they have gone somewhere far, far away, a place that is beyond our reach. Nonetheless, like countless hopefuls before me, spread over countless generations since the beginning of time, I spoke this day. I spoke to Groucho, on the outside chance that he could hear me. Feeling not even a little bit foolish, I thanked him for the joy and laughter he's brought me; I told him how I much missed him. There were a few moments spent in fond reminiscence. Then, I got back in my car and drove north, to San Francisco.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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