Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Luchows was a great New York institution: a vast German-American restaurant, which was allegedly modeled after the Hofbrauhaus in Munich - though, to me, it always looked like the extravagant interior of some Erich von Stroheim movie. Germanic art deco... and just a little over the top. I think it appealed to Eric's sense of the absurd. He also had a soft spot (as I did) for Luchows' schnitzels and wursts and Frankenwein... though the management deliberately stopped serving German-produced wine during the war.

I was a little late, so Eric was already seated at our table when I arrived. He was puffing away on a cigarette, buried in that morning's edition of the New York Times. He looked up as I approached, and seemed a little stunned.

'Oh my God', he said melodramatically. 'Love at first sight'.

'It's not that obvious, is it?' I said, sitting down.

'Oh no... not at all. Your eyes are only redder than your lipstick, and you have that post-coital glow...'

'Shhh', I hissed. 'People might hear you...'

'They don't need to hear me. One look at you, and they'd know in a minute. You've got it bad, haven't you?'

'Yes. I do'.

'And where, pray tell, is your uniformed Don Giovanni now?'

'On a troop ship, bound for Europe'.

'Oh, wonderful. So not only do we have love, we also have instant heartache. Perfect. Just perfect. Waiter! A bottle of something sparkling, please. We need urgent lubrication'.

Then he looked at me and said, 'Okay. I'm all ears. Tell me everything'.

Fool that I am, I did - and worked my way through nearly two bottles of wine in the process. I always told Eric everything. He was the person I was closest to in the world. He knew me better than anybody. Which is why I dreaded telling him about the night with jack. Because I knew Eric had my best interests at heart. Which meant that I also knew how he'd interpret this story. Which, in turn, was one of the reasons I was drinking far too quickly and far too much.

'You really want my opinion?' Eric asked me when I finished.

'Of course I do', I said.

'My completely honest opinion'.

That's when he told me I was an idiot. I drank a little more wine, and toasted Thanksgiving, and made that ludicrous comment about being deliriously happy.

'Yes, delirium is the operative word here', Eric said.

'I know this all sounds mad. And I also know you think I'm acting like an adolescent...'

'This sort of thing makes everyone revert to being fifteen years old. Which makes it both wonderful and dangerous. Wonderful because... well, let's face it, there is nothing more blissfully confusing than really falling for someone'.

I decided to venture into tricky territory. 'Have you known that confusion?'

He reached for his cigarettes and matches. 'Yes. I have'.

'Often?'

'Hardly', he said, lighting up. 'Just once or twice. And though, at first, it's exhilarating, the big danger is the hope that there might be a life beyond this initial intoxication. That's when you can really do yourself some damage'.

'Did you get hurt?'

'If, during the course of your life, you've fallen hard for someone, then you've undoubtedly been hurt'.

'Does it always work that way?'

He began to tap the table with his right index finger - a sure sign that he was feeling nervous.

'In my experience, yes - it does work that way'.

Then he looked up at me with an expression on his face which basically said, don't ask me anymore. So, yet again, that section of his life was ruled off-limits to me.

'I just don't want to see you get injured', he said. 'Especially, as... uh... I presume it was the first time...'

I quickly nodded my head, then added, 'But say you felt so certain about this

'Excuse me for sounding pedantic, but certainty is an empirical concept. And empiricism, as you well know, isn't rooted in theory... but wholly in fact. For example, there is certainty that the sun will rise in the East and set in the West. Just as there is certainty that liquid will freeze below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and that if you throw yourself out a high window, you will land on the ground. But there's no certainty that you will be killed from that fall. Probability, yes. Certainty? Who's to know? It's the same with love...'

'You're saying, love's like throwing yourself out a window?'

'Come to think of it, that's not a bad analogy. Especially when it's a coup de foudre. You're having a relatively normal day, romance is about the last thing on your mind, you show up somewhere you didn't expect to be, there's this person on the other side of the room, and... splat'.

'Splat? What a charming word'.

'Well, that's always the end result of a freefall. The initial plunge is totally intoxicating. But then, inevitably, you go splat. Otherwise known as: coming back down to earth'.

'But say... just say... that this was truly meant to be?'

'Once again, we're entering the realm of the non-empirical. You want to believe that this man is the love of your life - and that you were fated to meet. But all belief is theoretical. It's not grounded in fact, let alone logic. There's no empirical proof that this Jack Malone guy is the preordained man destined for you. Only the hope that he is. And in purely theoretical terms, hope is an even shakier concept than belief'.

I was about to reach for the wine bottle, but thought better of it.

'You really are a pedant, aren't you?' I said.

'When necessary. I am also your brother who loves you. Which is why I am counseling caution here'.

'You didn't like Jack'.

'That's not really the issue, S...'

'But had you liked him, you might not be so sceptical'.

'I met him for... what?.. five minutes. We had an unfortunate exchange. End of story'.

'When you get to know him...'

'When?

'He'll be back on September first'.

'Oh my God, listen to you...'

'He promised he'd be back. He swore...'

'S, have you lost all reason? Or judgment? From what you've told me, this guy sounds like a total fantasist... and something of an operator to boot. A classic Irish combination'.

'That's not fair...'

'Hear me out. He's on shore leave, right? He crashes my party. He meets you - probably the best educated, most elegant woman he's ever encountered. He turns on the blarney, the mick charm. Before you can say "hokum", he's telling you you're the girl of his dreams: The one I knew was meant for me. But, all the time, he knows that he can say these things without commitment - because, come nine a.m. this morning, he's out of here. And sweetheart, unless I've got this all wrong, you're not going to be hearing from him again'.

I said nothing for a very long time. I just stared down at the table. Eric tried to adopt a more comforting tone.

'At worst, chalk the whole thing up to experience. In some ways, him vanishing out of your life now is probably the best outcome. Because he will always be "that boy" with whom you had one wildly romantic evening. So the shine will never go off him. Whereas if you married the guy, you'd probably discover that he likes to cut his toenails in bed, or gargles too loudly, or clears his throat through his nostrils

'Splat. You've brought me back down to earth'.

'What else is a brother to do? Anyway, I bet you anything that after you get a really good night's sleep, a little perspective will sneak up on you'.

But it didn't. Oh yes, I did sleep wonderfully that night. Nearly ten hours. But when I woke late the next morning, I was instantly consumed by thoughts of Jack. He took up residence in my mind within seconds of my eyes blinking open... and then refused to go away. I sat up in bed, and replayed frame by frame - our entire night together. I had total recall to the point where I could perfectly conjure up his voice, the contours of his face, his touch. Though I tried to heed my brother's advice - telling myself over and over that this was nothing more than a fanciful brief encounter - my arguments didn't sway me.