Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Then let's go', I said.

'But I thought... ?'

'What?'

'I don't know. After the show I put on with your brother, you wouldn't want anything more to do with me'.

'You thought wrong. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind?'

'No, no... we're out of here'.

Taking me by the elbow, he led me towards the door. As we were halfway into the hall, I turned back and caught Eric's eye.

'You're leaving already?' he shouted over the din, looking appalled that I was being escorted off by Jack.

'Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow at Luchows?' I shouted back.

'If you ever get there', he said.

'Believe me, she will', Jack said, and we headed down the stairs. As soon as we reached the front door of the house, he pulled me towards him, and kissed me deeply. The kiss lasted a long time. When it was finished, I said,

'You didn't ask my permission to do that'.

'You're right. I didn't. May I kiss you, Sara-without-an-h?'

'Only if you drop that without-an-h line'.

'Done deal'.

This time the kiss seemed to last about an hour. When I finally broke it, my head was whirling like a roulette wheel. Jack also looked punch-drunk. He took my face in his hands.

'Hello there', he said.

'Yes. Hello there'.

'You know I have to be at the Navy Yards...'

'You told me: by oh-nine-hundred sharp. But it's now, what? Just before one'.

'So, factor in travel time to Brooklyn, and we've got...'

'Seven hours'.

'Yeah - just seven hours'.

'It'll have to do', I said, then kissed him again. 'Now buy me a drink somewhere'.

Three

WE ENDED UP at The Lion's Head on Sheridan Square. As it was Thanksgiving Eve, there wasn't much of a late-night crowd - which meant we could find a quiet table in an alcove. I drank two Manhattans quickly, and let myself be talked into a third. Jack threw back boilermakers: neat shots of bourbon, followed by steins of beer. The lights were always dimmed down low in The Lion's Head. There were candles on the tables. Ours had a flame that kept flicking back and forth, like an illuminated metronome. The glow repeatedly danced off Jack's face. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was becoming more handsome by the second. Perhaps because - as I was also discovering - he was smart as hell. A great talker. Better yet, a great listener. And men are always ten times more attractive when they just listen.

He got me talking about myself. He seemed to want to know everything - about my parents, my childhood, my school days in Hartford, my time at Bryn Mawr, my job at Life, my thwarted literary ambitions, my brother Eric.

'Did he really read the Daily Worker for ten years?'

'I'm afraid so'.

'Is he a fellow traveler?'

'Well, he was a member of the Party for a couple of years. But that's when he was writing plays for the Federal Theater Project, and rebelling against everything he was brought up to be. And though I'd never tell him this, I really think the Party was nothing more than fashion to him. It was this year's color, or a certain style of suit that all his friends were wearing at a certain time... but one which he happily outgrew'.

'So he's no longer a member?'

'Not since forty-one'.

'That's something, I guess. But does he still sympathize with Uncle Joe?'

'Loss of faith doesn't always mean instant atheism, does it?'

He beamed at me. 'You really are a writer'.

'On the basis of one clever sentence? I don't think so'.

'I know it'.

'No, you don't - because you've never seen anything I've written'.

'Will you show me some stuff?'

'It's not very good'.

'O ye of little faith in yourself'.

'Oh, I have faith in myself. But not as a writer'.

'And what's the basis of that faith?'

'The basis?'

'Yes - as in, what do you believe in?'

'That's a big question'.

'Give it a shot'.

'Well, let's see...' I said, suddenly feeling expansive (courtesy of all those Manhattans). 'Right... first and foremost, I don't believe in God, or Jehovah, or Allah, or the Angel Moroni, or even Donald Duck'.

He laughed.

'Okay', he said, 'we've got that one cleared up'.

'And, much as I love this damn country of ours, I really don't believe in wrapping yourself up in the flag. Rabid patriotism is like Bible-thumping: it scares me because it's so doctrinaire. Real patriotism is quiet, understated, thoughtful'.

'Especially if you're a New England WASP'.

I punched his arm. 'Will you stop that!'

'No, I won't. And you're still dodging the question'.

'That's because the question's far too big to answer... and I've had far too much to drink'.

'I'm not letting you off on a self-inflicted technicality like too much booze. State your case, Miss Smythe. What the hell do you believe in?'

After a moment's pause, I heard myself say, 'Responsibility'.

Jack appeared bemused. 'What did you just say?'

'Responsibility. You asked me what I believed in. I'm telling you: responsibility'.

'Oh, got it now', he said with a smile. 'Responsibility. Admirable concept. One of the cornerstones of our nation'.

'If you're a patriot'.

'I am'.

'Yeah, I figured that. And respect that. Honestly. But... how can I put this without sounding dumb? The responsibility I'm talking about, the responsibility which I actually believe in... well, I guess it all comes down to the responsibility you have to yourself. Because I really don't know much about life, and I haven't traveled or done anything really interesting... but when I look around me, and listen to my contemporaries talking, all I hear is stuff about how other people will work out life's problems for you. How getting married by the time you're twenty-three is a good thing, because you're suddenly relieved of the burden of making a living, or dealing with personal choice, or even spending time by yourself. Whereas I'm rather scared of the idea of entrusting my entire future to another person. Because, hell, aren't they as fallible as I am? And just as scared?'

I cut myself off. 'Am I ranting here?'

Jack threw back his shot of bourbon, and motioned to the bartender for more drinks. 'You're doing fine', he said. 'Keep going'.

'Well, there's not a lot else to say, except that the moment you entrust your happiness to another person, you endanger the very possibility of happiness. Because you remove personal responsibility from the equation. You say to the other person, make me feel whole, complete, wanted. But the fact is: only you can make yourself feel whole or complete'.

He looked at me straight in the eye.

'So love is not a factor in this equation?'

I met his stare.

'Love shouldn't be about dependency, or what you can do for me, or I need you/you need me. Love should be about

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Jack threaded his fingers through mine.

'Love should be about love'.

'That'll do', I said, then added, 'Kiss me'.

And he did.

'Now you've got to tell me something about yourself', I said.

'Like what? My favorite color? My star sign? Whether I prefer Fitzgerald or Hemingway?'

'Well?'

'Fitzgerald any time'.

'I concur - but why?'

'It's an Irish thing'.

'Now it's you who's dodging the question'.

'There's not much to say about me. I'm just a guy from Brooklyn. That's about it'.

'You mean, there's nothing else about you I should know?'

'Not really'.

'Your parents might be a bit offended to hear you say that'.

'They're both dead'.

'I'm sorry'.

'Don't be. My mom died twelve years ago - just before my thirteenth birthday. An embolism. Very fast. Very nasty. And yeah, she was a saint... but I would say that'.

'And your father?'

'Dad went while I was overseas in the Army. He was a cop, and a professional hothead who liked to pick arguments with everyone. Especially me. He also liked to drink. As in: a fifth of whiskey a day. Suicide on the installment plan. Eventually he got his wish. So did I - as I spent much of my childhood dodging his belt whenever he was drunk... which was all the time'.