Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Like Eric, he was in his thirties: a tall, wiry fellow with thick graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a permanent self-deprecating scowl on his face. He was rather handsome in a tweedy academic sort of way - and endlessly amusing. He told me he'd been married for twelve years to a woman named Rose, who taught part-time in the Art History department at Barnard. They had two young boys, and lived on Riverside Drive and 108th Street. From everything he said, it was clear that he was devoted to his wife and children (even though, when discussing his family, he would always cloak his comments in cynicism... which, as I came to realize, was his tentative way of expressing affection). This made me instantly comfortable with him, as I sensed there would be none of the flirtatious pressure I experienced while working with Leland McGuire. I also liked the fact that, during this first meeting, he never once made any enquiries about my private life. He wanted to hear my views on writing, on writers, on working for magazines, on Harry S. Truman, and whether I supported the Dodgers or the Yankees (the Bronx Bombers, of course). He never even asked if 'Shore Leave' was, in any way, autobiographical. He simply told me it was a very good story - and was surprised to hear that it was my first stab at fiction.

'Ten years ago, I was exactly where you are now', he said. 'I'd just had a short story accepted by The New Yorker, and I was halfway through a novel I was certain would make me the John P. Marquand of my generation'.

'Who ended up publishing the novel?' I asked.

'No one - because I never finished the damn thing. And why didn't I finish it? Because I started doing foolish, time-consuming things like having children, and taking an editorial job at Harper and Brothers to meet the cost of having children, and then moving to the higher-paid echelons of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning to pay for private schools, and a bigger apartment, and a summer rental on the Cape, and all those other necessities of family life. So look to this shining example of squandered promise... and turn me down. Don't Take This Job'.

Eric concurred. 'Nat is absolutely right', he said when I called him at The Quiz Bang Show to tell him about the job offer. 'You're commitment-free. This is the time to gamble a bit, and avoid all the usual bourgeois traps...'

'Bourgeois traps?' I said with a giggle. 'You can take the boy out of the Party, but you can't take the Party out of...'

He cut me off. 'That's not funny. Especially since you never know who's listening in'.

I felt awful. 'Eric, I'm sorry. That was dumb'.

'We'll continue this conversation later', he said.

We met up that evening at McSorley's Ale House off the Bowery. Eric was seated at a booth in the rear of the bar, a stein of dark ale in front of him. I handed him a large square package.

'What's this?' he asked.

'A mea culpa for speaking before thinking on the phone'.

He tore off the brown wrapping paper. His face immediately brightened as he looked down at a recording of the Beethoven Missa Solemnis, conducted by Toscanini.

'I must encourage you to feel guilty more often', he said. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. 'Thanks'.

'I was utterly indiscreet'.

'And I was probably being a little too paranoid. But -' he lowered his voice '- some of my former, uh, friends from that era have been having difficulties recently'.

'What kind of difficulties?' I said, whispering back.

'Questions from employers - especially those in the entertainment industries - about past political allegiances. And there are rumors that the Feds are starting to snoop around anyone who was once a member of that funny little party to which I used to belong'.

'But you left in, what, nineteen forty?'

'Forty-one'.

'That's five years ago. Ancient history. Surely, no one's going to care that, once upon a time, you were a fellow traveler. I mean, look at John Dos Passos. Wasn't he a big-deal Party member in the thirties?'

'Yes, but now he's righter than Right'.

'My point exactly - Hoover and his guys wouldn't now accuse Dos Passos of being a...'

'Subversive', Eric said quickly, making certain I didn't use the 'C word.

'Yes, subversive. My point is: it doesn't matter if you were once a member of that club, as long as it's clear you're no longer affiliated to it. I mean, if an atheist becomes a Christian, is he always considered a "former atheist", or someone who has finally seen the light?'

'The latter, I guess'.

'Exactly. So stop worrying. You've seen the light. You're a "good American". You're in the clear'.

'I hope you're right'.

'But I promise not to make jokes like that on your office phone again'.

'Are you really going to take this job with Nat?'

'I'm afraid so. And yes, I know all the logical reasons why I should dodge it. But I'm a coward. I need to know where the next paycheck is coming from. I also believe in the mysteries of timing...'

'How do you mean?'

That's when I told him about the postcard I'd received that morning from Jack.

'All he said was, I'm sorry?' Eric said.

'Yes - it was short and not so sweet'.

'No wonder you're taking the job'.

'I would have accepted Nat's offer, no matter what'.

'But Lover Boy's goodbye note clinched the matter?'

'Please don't call him Lover Boy'.

'Sorry. I'm simply angry on your behalf'.

'Like I told you weeks ago, I'm cured'.

'So you said'.

'Eric, I threw his card away'.

'And accepted Nat's job offer a couple of hours later'.

'One door shuts, one door opens'.

'Is that an original line?'

'Go to hell', I said with a smile.

The beers arrived. Eric raised his stein. 'To the new assistant fiction editor of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Please keep writing'.

'I promise I will'.

Six months later, I found myself replaying that conversation in my head on a snowy December afternoon, just before Christmas. I was in my cubbyhole office on the twenty-third floor of the Saturday/Sunday offices in Rockefeller Center. My small grimy window gave me a picturesque view of a back alleyway. There were a pile of unsolicited short stories on my desk. As usual, I had sifted through ten manuscripts that day - none of which were remotely publishable. As usual, I had written a report of varying length on each story. As usual, I had attached standard rejection letters to every story. As usual, I bemoaned the fact that I wasn't getting any of my own writing done.

The job had proved far more laborious than expected. It also had virtually nothing to do with editing. Rather, I was employed (along with two of Nat's other assistants) to work my way through the three hundred or so manuscripts that arrived at Saturday/Sunday each month by unknown writers. The editorial board of the magazine prided itself on the fact that every unsolicited manuscript was 'given due consideration' - but it was pretty clear to me after eight weeks there that, by and large, my job was to say no. Occasionally, I would bump into a story that showed promise - or even real talent. But I had no power to get it into print. Rather, all I could do was 'send it upstairs' to Nat Hunter with an enthusiastic recommendation - knowing full well that the chances of him running it were negligible. Because the magazine only reserved four of its fifty-two annual issues for stories by unknown writers. The remaining forty-eight weeks were given over to established names - and Saturday/Sunday prided itself on its weekly offering of fiction by the most prestigious writers of the day: Hemingway, O'Hara, Steinbeck, Somerset Maugham, Waugh, Pearl Buck. The list was formidable, and made me realize just how absurdly lucky I was to be one of the four unknown writers to be plucked out of obscurity during 1946 for publication in the magazine.