Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Mr Eberts, please. I can well afford it. I'm now making more money than I know what to do with'.

'I'm sure you'll figure out ways of spending it'.

Actually, there was little I wanted to buy. My new music column meant that I was being inundated with free records from all the music companies. I had no mortgage, no rent. I had no dependents. I still had most of that five thousand dollars cash in the bank. Lawrence Braun seemed to be achieving reasonable growth on my twenty-thousand-dollar portfolio. I was suddenly earning seven thousand a year - giving me an after-tax income of five thousand dollars. Prudently, I started salting away two thousand per annum in my pension plan, but this still gave me nearly sixty dollars a week to live on. Back in 1948, a top-price ticket on Broadway or at Carnegie Hall was two dollars fifty. A movie was sixty cents. My weekly grocery bill was under ten dollars. Breakfast at my local Greek coffee shop was forty cents - and that included scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and bottomless coffee. A great meal at Luchows for two was no more than eight dollars tops.

Of course, I wanted to lavish as much money as possible on Eric. But he wouldn't let me do much more than pick up the occasional check for dinner or accept all the free surplus records I received from the record companies. Once or twice I made noises again about buying him an apartment, but these were always met with an instant 'No thanks'. Though he kept telling me how thrilled he was with my success, it was clear that it made him a little anxious.

'I think I'll start introducing myself as Sara Smythe's brother', he said one evening.

'But I always introduce myself as the sister of the funniest comedy writer in New York', I countered.

'Nobody rates a comedy writer', he said.

That wasn't totally true - because a few months after I signed my new contract with Saturday/Sunday, Eric called me early one morning in a state of high excitement. A young comedian named Marty Manning had been hired by NBC to create a show for the network's prime-time television schedule - due to go on the air in January 1949. Manning told Eric that he'd heard great things about him from his pal, Joe E. Brown - and, after a long lunch at the Friar's Club, offered Eric a contract as one of his show's top writers.

'Of course, I accepted on the spot - because Manning is a really hot talent: very smart, very innovative. The problem is, who the hell is going to watch television? I mean, do you know anyone who owns one?'

'Everyone says it's the coming thing'.

'Don't hold your breath'.

A few days later, one of NBC's lawyers contacted Eric to discuss his contract. The money was amazing: two hundred dollars per week, starting September 1st, 1948 - even though the show wasn't premiering until January twenty-eighth. There was a problem, however: the network had become aware of the fact that Eric was deeply involved in the Presidential campaign of Henry Wallace. He'd been Roosevelt's Vice President, until FDR dropped him from the 1944 ticket for being too radical, instead choosing the untried, universally disliked Harry S. Truman. Had FDR kept his nerve and retained Wallace as his VP, he'd be our president now - and, as Eric was fond of noting, we would have a proper democratic socialist in the White House. Instead, we ended up with 'that ward boss hack from Missouri' (Eric's words again) - a hack whom everyone was betting on to lose to Dewey in November. Especially since Wallace was now running as the candidate of his own Progressive Party, and was expected to rob Truman of many left-of-center voters.

Eric adored everything about Henry Wallace: his rigorous intelligence, his belief in social justice, his unwavering support for the working man and for the original principles of the New Deal. From the moment Wallace had announced his presidential candidacy - in spring of '48 - my brother had been a leading figure in the 'Show Business for Wallace' campaign, becoming one of the chief fundraisers in the Tri-State area, organizing benefit performances, soliciting contributions from the entertainment community in New York.

As Eric later described it to me, the NBC lawyer - Jerry Jameson - was a perfectly reasonable fellow, with a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, and a perfectly reasonable way of explaining why the network had a few problems with his political activism.

'God knows, the National Broadcasting Company is a staunch defender of First Amendment rights', Jameson told him. 'And those rights, Eric, include supporting whatever political party or candidate you want - whether he's hard-left, hard-right, or just plain cuckoo'.

Jameson laughed at his own joke. Eric didn't join in. Instead he said, 'Let's get to the point here, Mr Jameson'.

'The point, Mr Smythe, is this: if you were simply supporting Wallace privately, there'd be no problem. But the fact that you're flashing your radical credentials for all to see is worrying some of the NBC brass. They know Manning wants you. He keeps telling everyone how good you are. And the way the brass see it is: if Marty wants you on the team, Marty should have you. All they're worried about is... '.

'What? That I might set up my own Politburo within NBC? Or maybe that I'll try to hire Laughing Joe Stalin as part of Marty's writing team?'

'I can see why Marty wants you. You really know how to turn out a one-liner...'

'I am not a Communist'.

'That's good to hear'.

'I am a loyal American. I have never supported a foreign power. I have never preached civil insurrection, or the overthrow of Congress, or come out in favor of a Soviet as our next Commander in Chief'.

'Believe me, Mr Smythe - you don't have to convince me of your patriotism. All we're asking... my advice to you... is that you take a back seat in the Wallace campaign. Sure, you can attend fundraising stuff. Just don't be seen to be playing such an upfront role for the guy. Face fact, Wallace has absolutely no chance of being elected. Dewey's going to be our next president... and after November fifth, no one's going to give a damn about any of this. But Eric, take it from me - people are going to give a damn about television. Give it five, six years - and it will kill radio dead. You could be one of the pioneers of the medium. Someone, my friend, in the vanguard of an entire new revolution...'

'Cut the crap, Jameson. I'm a gag writer, not Tom Paine. And let's get one thing clear: I am not your friend'.

'All right. I'm very clear on that point. I am simply asking you to be realistic'.

'All right. I'll be completely realistic. If you want me to back out of the Wallace campaign, I want a two-year contract with Manning at three hundred dollars a week'.

'That's excessive'.

'"No, Jameson - that's the deal." And then I put down the phone'.

I poured Eric some more wine. He needed it.

'So what happened next?' I asked.

'An hour later, the sonofabitch came back and agreed to the three hundred bucks per week, the two-year contract, three weeks paid vacation, major medical, blah, blah, blah - on the condition that it would all be taken away from me if I was seen publicly raising funds for that bad Mr Wallace. They even added an extra proviso: they didn't want me near any Wallace rallies, campaign parties, whatever. "That's the price for your extra hundred a week," Jameson told me'.

'That's outrageous', I said. 'Not to mention unconstitutional'.

'Well, as Jameson himself said, I didn't have to accept these terms - "because, after all, it is a free country"'.

'So what are you going to do?'

'Oh, I've done it already. I said "yes" to NBC's terms'.

I said nothing.

'Do I detect a hint of reproach in your silence?' he asked.

'I'm just a little surprised by your decision, that's all'.

'I have to tell you, the Wallace people were very understanding. And supportive. And actually grateful'.