Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Never'.

'That was a smart answer'.

'So you're not going to tell me...'

'No. Our conversations are private ones... as they should be. But I will let you in on a small thing I admitted to her yesterday: I'm happy'.

He looked at me with care. 'Really?'

'Don't sound so damn surprised'.

'I'm not surprised. Just pleased, that's all'.

'Believe me, so am I. Because everything is going so well'.

He leaned down and kissed me. 'Life can be sweet'.

'Yes', I said, kissing him back. 'It can be that'.

And when life is sweet, time seems to pass at an accelerated rate. Perhaps because the days are marked by a certain euphonious rhythm - a sense of events moving at an easy, well-ordered pace; of circumstances working in everyone's favor. My columns were going well. Harper and Brothers paid me a whopping five thousand (big money in those days) to bring out a book of my 'Real Life' pieces in 1952. Jack was promoted. He became a Senior Account Executive - and though he was still handling all those insurance companies, at least his salary had doubled. Meanwhile, Eric had his contract renewed at NBC with a salary increase which inflated his bank balance even more. Meg was promoted to a senior editor's position at McGraw-Hill, and took up with a bassist in the Artie Shaw band (it lasted around six months - something of a romantic epic by normal Meg standards). Most tellingly, my life with Jack settled into a pleasant routine. From what I could glean, Dorothy too had adjusted to her husband's curious domestic arrangements - even though she still refused to refer to his days with me as anything but out of town.

It's a much-uttered truism that we never really recognize happiness until after it has passed us by. But during the last half of 1951,I was aware of the fact that this was, without doubt, a wonderful juncture in time.

Then it ended. I even remember the exact day: the eighth of March, 1952. At six in the morning. When I was woken out of bed by the repeated ringing of my doorbell. Jack was out of town in Pittsburgh on business - so I couldn't imagine who the hell would be bothering me at this pre-dawn hour.

I opened the front door, and found Eric shivering outside. He looked like he'd been up all night. He also appeared spooked. I was instantly scared.

'What's happened?' I asked.

'They want me to name names', he said.

Six

'THEY' WERE THE network: the National Broadcasting Corporation. The afternoon before, a Senior Vice President for Corporate Affairs - a certain Mr Ira Ross - called Eric at his office on the thirty-second floor of Rockefeller Center, and asked if he had a moment or two to meet with him and a colleague. Eric wondered if the meeting could wait for tomorrow - as he was on deadline for next week's edition of The Marty Manning Show.

'Sorry', Ross said, 'but we need to see you now'.

'We', Eric said. 'As soon as that sonofabitch said we, I knew I was a dead man'.

Eric paused for a moment to sip his coffee. He asked if I had any whiskey in the house.

'Eric, it's six in the morning'.

'I know what time it is', he said. 'But the coffee's a little weak, and a shot of rye would perk it up a bit'.

When I hesitated, he said, 'Please, S. This is not the moment to start arguing about the rights or wrongs of pre-dawn drinking'.

I stood up and retrieved a bottle of Hiram Walker from a kitchen cabinet.

'It's not rye, it's bourbon. Jack doesn't drink rye'.

'As long as it's over fifty proof, I don't give a damn what it is'.

He poured a large belt of bourbon into his coffee cup. Then he sipped it again, flinching slightly as the whiskey went down.

'That's better', he said, then continued with the story.

'So up I went to Ross's office on the forty-third floor. Among the NBC writers, Ross has always been known as Himmler - because he's the guy who exterminates anyone the company wants out of the way. His secretary visibly paled when she saw me - a sure-fire sign that I was in deep shit. But instead of escorting me into his office, she brought me to an adjoining conference room. There were five guys sitting around a table. When I came in, all of them stared up at me, as if I was some death-row inmate who's been hauled in front of the appeals board for one final stab at clemency. There was a long tense silence. Idiot that I am, I tried to lighten things up by cracking a joke.

'"All this for me?" I said. But nobody laughed. Instead, Ross stood up. He's a real bloodless guy, Ross. The nondescript accountant type with thick glasses and greasy brown hair. No doubt he was bullied like hell at school - and has been getting his revenge ever since, as he so clearly delights in the small amount of power that his job gives him. Especially at a moment like this - when he was about to conduct his very own UnAmerican Activities investigation on the forty-third floor of Rockefeller Center.

'So up he stood and tonelessly introduced everyone at the table. There was Bert Schmidt, the network's head of Variety and Comedy. There were two guys - Golden and Frankel - from Legal Affairs. And there was this gentleman named Agent Brad Sweet from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You should have seen this Sweet guy. He looked like he just walked out of Central Casting. A real big, square-jawed Midwestern type, with a crew cut and a short, thickening neck, I'm sure he played linebacker when he was at high school in Nebraska, married the girl he brought to the senior prom, and probably spent his entire four years at Wichita State dreaming of the moment he could go to work for Mr Hoover, and defend Mom and the American flag from dangerous gag-writing subversives like me. Got the picture?'

'Yes', I said, pouring a small measure of bourbon into my coffee. 'I've got the picture'.

'What's with the whiskey?'

'I think I need it too'.

'Anyway, Ross motioned to a chair. I sat down. As I did, I noticed that, in front of Agent Sweet, was a big thick file with my name on it. I glanced over to the lawyers. They had my NBC contracts laid out on the table. I tried to make eye contact with Bert Schmidt - he's always been my biggest supporter within NBC - but he looked away. Scared shitless.

'Ross now got the inquisition going with that standard opening question: "I'm sure you know why you're here."

'"Not exactly," I said, "but if there are two lawyers involved, I must have done something pretty damn heinous. Let me guess? I pinched a couple of jokes from Ernie Kovaks, and now you've got me up on a plagiarism charge."

'Once again, the laugh quotient was less than zero. Instead, Ross got tetchy, and asked me to show everyone in the room a little respect. I said, "I'm not trying to be disrespectful. I'm just wondering what I'm doing here... and what the hell I've done wrong."

'That was when Agent Sweet stared at me with his fanatical Audie-Murphy-school-of-patriotism eyes, and uttered the question I knew I'd eventually be called upon to answer.

'"Mr Smythe, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"

'Without even thinking about it, I instantly said, "No." Agent Sweet tried to control a smirk as he opened my very substantial file, and said, "You're lying, Mr Smythe. If this was a court of law, you could be indicted for contempt."

'"But this isn't a court of law," I said. "It's a kangaroo court..."

'That really infuriated Ross. "Listen, smartass," he said in a low, threatening hiss, "you'd better cooperate here, or..."

'One of the lawyers - Frankel, I think it was - put a hand on his arm, as if to say: no threats. Then he turned to me and tried to sound all pleasant and reasonable.

'"You're absolutely right, Mr Smythe. This is not a court of law. This is not an investigation, or a congressional committee. This is simply a meeting convened for your benefit..."