Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I kicked a table. I cursed myself for being such a fool, for over-reacting, for still finding him so damn attractive. I went to the kitchen. I found a bottle of J&B Scotch in a cabinet. I poured myself a shot and threw it back, thinking: I never drink before sunset. But I was in need of something strong. Because of all the jumbled emotions whirling around my brain right now, the most predominant one was sheer, absolute longing for that bloody man. I wanted to hate him - to despise him for his dishonesty, and for the snow job he perpetrated on me. Better yet, I wanted to dismiss him from my thoughts with detached coolness - to shrug my shoulders and move on. But here I was - less than twenty minutes after seeing him - feeling simultaneously furious and covetous. I so loathed him. I so wanted him. For the life of me I couldn't fathom the instantaneous rush of shock, anger and desire when I first saw him in the park. All right, the shock and the anger I could comprehend. But that ardent surge of sheer want had thrown me completely. And left me in desperate need of another small Scotch.

After downing the second shot, I put away the bottle - and left the apartment. I forced myself to eat lunch at a local coffee shop, then decided to lose myself in a double feature at my neighborhood fleapit, the Beacon. The B-movie part of the program was some forgettable war picture with Cornell Wilde and Ward Bond. But the main feature - Adam's Rib with Hepburn and Tracey - was a complete delight: smart, sassy, and urbane (not to mention set in the world of magazines - which amused me no end). Not only do movie stars get the best lines, they also land themselves in on-screen romantic conundrums that are inevitably resolved... or which end with wonderful tragic gravitas. For the rest of us mere mortals, things never turn out so clearcut. It's always a state of ongoing mess.

I returned home around six. As soon as I walked through the door, the phone began to ring. I answered it.

'Hello there', he said.

Immediately, my heart skipped a beat.

'Are you still on the line, Sara?' Jack asked.

'Yes. I'm still here'.

'So your number's not unlisted after all'.

I said nothing.

'Not that I blame you for telling me it was'.

'Jack - I really don't want to talk to you'.

'I know why. And I deserve that. But if I could just...'

'What? Explain?'

'Yes - I'd like to try to explain'.

'I don't want to hear your excuses'.

'Sara...'

'No. No excuses. No explanations. No justifications'.

'I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry...'

'Congratulations. You deserve to be sorry. Sorry for deceiving me. For deceiving her. She was part of your life when you met me, wasn't she?'

Silence.

'Well, wasn't she?'

'These things are never simple'.

'Oh, please...'

'When I met you, I didn't...'

'Jack, like I said, I don't want to know. So just go away. We have nothing to say to each other anymore'.

'Yes, we do...'he said with vehemence. 'Because for the last four years

'I'm putting the phone down now...'

'... for the last four years I have thought about you every hour of every day'.

Long silence.

'Why are you telling me this now?' I finally asked.

'Because it's the truth'.

'I don't believe you'.

'I'm not surprised. And yes, yes... I know I should have written... Should have answered all those amazing letters you sent me. But...'

'I really don't want to hear any more of this, Jack'.

'Please meet me'.

'No way'.

'Look, I'm on Broadway and Eighty-Third Street. I could be at your place in five minutes'.

'How the hell do you know where I live?'

'The phone book'.

'And let me guess what you told your wife... that you were going out for a pack of cigarettes and a little fresh air. Right?'

'Yeah', he said reluctantly. 'Something like that'.

'Surprise, surprise. More lies'.

'At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. Or a drink...'

'Goodbye'.

'Sara, please... give me a chance'.

'I did. Remember?'

I put down the phone. Instantly it rang again. I lifted the receiver.

'Just ten minutes of your time', Jack said. 'That's all I ask'.

'I gave you eight months of my time... and what did you do with it?'

'I made a terrible mistake'.

'Finally - a hint of self-knowledge. I'm not interested. Just go away, and never call me again'.

I hung up, then took the phone off the hook.

I fought the temptation of another bracing shot of Scotch. A few minutes later, my intercom rang. Oh Jesus, he was here. I went into the kitchen and lifted the intercom's earpiece, then shouted:

'I told you, I never want to see you again'.

'There's a coffee shop on the corner', Jack said, his voice cracking on the bad line. 'I'll wait there for you'.

'Don't waste your time', I said. 'I'm not coming'.

Then I hung up.

For the next half-an-hour I tried to do things. I dealt with a day's worth of dirty dishes in the sink. I made myself a cup of coffee. I brought it over to my desk. I sat down and attempted to proofread the four columns I had written during the blizzard. Finally, I got up, grabbed my coat and headed out.

It was a two-minute walk from my building to Gitlitz's Delicatessen. He was sitting in a booth near the door. A cup of coffee was in front of him, as well as an ashtray with four stubbed-out butts. As I walked in, he was lighting up another Lucky Strike. He jumped to his feet, an anxious smile on his face.

'I was starting to give up hope...' he said.

'Give up hope', I said, sliding into the booth. 'Because ten minutes from now, I'm walking out of here'.

'It is so wonderful to see you', he said, sitting back down opposite me. 'You don't know how wonderful...'

I cut him off.

'I could use a cup of coffee', I said.

'Of course, of course', he said, motioning to the waitress. 'And what do you want to eat?'

'Nothing'.

'You sure?'

'I have no appetite'.

He reached for my hand. I pulled it away.

'You look so damn beautiful, Sara'.

I glanced at my watch. 'Nine minutes, fifteen seconds. Your time's running out, Jack'.

'You really hate me, don't you?'

I dodged that one by glancing back at my watch. 'Eight minutes, forty-five seconds'.

'I made a very bad call'.

'Words is cheap... as they say in Brooklyn'.

He winced, then took a deep drag on his cigarette. The waitress arrived with my coffee.

'You're right', he said. 'What I did was inexcusable'.

'All you had to do was answer one of my letters. You got them all, didn't you?'

'Yes, all of them. They were fantastic, extraordinary. So extraordinary I've kept them all'.

'I'm touched. Next thing you're going to tell me is you showed them all to... what was her name again?'

'Dorothy'.

'Ah yes, Dorothy. Very Wizard of Oz. Let me guess: you met her in Kansas with her little dog Toto...'

I shut myself up. 'I think I should leave', I said.

'Don't. Sara, I am so damn sorry...'

'I must have written you... what?'

'Thirty-two letters, forty-four postcards', he said.

I looked at him carefully.

'That's a very precise inventory'.

'I prized each and every one of them'.

'Oh, please. Lies I can just about handle. But schmaltzy lies...'

'It's the truth'.

'I don't believe you'.

'She was pregnant, Sara. I didn't know that when I met you'.

'But you obviously knew her, some way or another, when you met me. Otherwise she couldn't have become pregnant by you. Or have I got that wrong too?'

He sighed heavily, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

'I met her in August forty-five. Stars and Stripes had just transferred me back to England after that assignment in Germany. I was doing a three-month stint at their main European bureau, which happened to be located at Allied HQ just outside of London. Dorothy was working at HQ as a typist. She'd just graduated from college - and had volunteered her services to the military. "I had this romantic idea of wanting to do my bit for the war effort," she later told me. "I saw myself as some Hemingway heroine, working in a field hospital." Instead, the Army made her a secretary in London. One day, during a coffee break in the canteen, we got talking. She was bored in the typing pool. I was bored rewriting other journalists all day. We started seeing each other after work. We started sharing a bed. It wasn't love. It wasn't passion. It was just... something to do. A way of passing the time in the Ho-Hum capital of England. Sure, we liked each other. But we both knew that this was just one of those passing flings, with no future beyond our stint in England.