Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'There's only one piece of advice I can give you', Joel Eberts said. 'And if I were in your position, it's the action I'd follow: leave the country'.

Eric considered this for a moment. 'But where would I go?' he asked.

'There are a lot of other places on this planet besides America'.

'I'm asking: where would I go to make a living?'

'How about London?' I said. 'They have TV in London, don't they?'

'Yeah - but they don't have my sense of humor. They're English, for Chrissakes'.

'I'm sure you'd find some niche for yourself. And if not London, then there's Paris or Rome...'

'Oh yeah, me writing gags for the French. What a swell idea that is...'

Joel Eberts came in here. 'Your sister's right. A talented guy like yourself will find work anywhere. But that's a secondary concern right now. What you should be focusing on is getting out of the country within forty-eight hours'.

'Won't the Feds come after me?'

'Probably not. The pattern so far is that, once they've frightened you overseas, they generally leave you alone... unless, of course, you try to come back home'.

'You mean, I'll never be allowed back to the States again?'

'Mark my words - within a couple of years, this whole meshuga blacklist business will be completely discredited'.

'A couple of years', Eric said, sounding disconsolate. 'Who the fuck ever heard of an American having to go into exile?'

'What can I say? These are bad times'.

Eric reached out and took my hand. He squeezed it hard. 'I don't want to go. I like it here. It's all I know. And have'.

I swallowed hard and said, 'The other options are terrible ones. At least this way, you'll be able to get away as cleanly as possible'.

Silence. Eric continued to shift uneasily in his chair, struggling with the decision. 'Even if I did decide to leave, there's a problem. I don't have a passport'.

'That's not a problem', Joel Eberts said.

He told us what to do. I insisted that we act on his advice immediately - because, as Eberts warned Eric, he could not afford the luxury of a reflective decision.

'Forty-eight hours from now, they're going to expect a list of names from you', Eberts said. 'If you don't give it to them, that's it. The steamroller heads in your direction. You'll be out of a job. You'll get a subpoena from HUAC. From that moment on, the Department of State will block any passport applications until after you've testified. They did that to Paul Robeson. They'll certainly do it to you'.

The way around this, however, was to get Eric a passport within the next twenty-four hours. According to Eberts, it usually took two weeks to process an application... unless you had proof that you were traveling at the last minute. So, as soon as we left Eberts' office, we took a taxi uptown to a big branch of Thomas Cook's on Fifth Avenue and 43rd Street. After some checking around, one of the travel agents there found a single berth on the SS Rotterdam sailing for Hoek van Holland the following night. We bought the ticket, then raced uptown to the Passport Office on 51st and Fifth. The clerk inspected Eric's ticket to Europe, and told him that, in order to get the passport issued by five p.m. tomorrow (a mere two hours before the SS Rotterdam sailed), he'd need the proper photographs, a copy of his birth certificate, and assorted notarized signatures by close of business today.

It was a scramble - but Eric just managed to clear the deadline that afternoon. The clerk assured him that he'd have the passport by the end of tomorrow - which would give Eric an hour to dash across town and make it to the ship by six (he had to be on board at least an hour before it sailed). It would be tight, but he'd make it.

Once we were finished at the passport office, Eric suggested we head back to his apartment at the Hampshire House. Once there, I helped him winnow through his large wardrobe and choose just enough to fit into a single large suitcase. As he put the cover on his Remington typewriter, he suddenly sank into his desk chair.

'Don't make me get on that ship', he said.

I tried to stay controlled. 'Eric, you have no choice'.

'I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave Ronnie. I've got to see him tonight'.

'Then call him. See if he can get back here'.

He started to sob again. 'No. I couldn't bear the goodbye. The scene at the docks. All that heart-rending crap'.

'Yes', I said quietly. 'I'd avoid that if I were you'.

'I'll write him a letter - which you can give him when he comes back here at the weekend'.

'He will understand. I'll make sure he does'.

'It's absurd, all this'.

'Yes', I said. 'It is absurd'.

'I'm just a jokesmith. Why the hell are they treating me like Trotsky?'

'Because they're bullies. And because they've been given carte blanche to act like bullies'.

'Everything was going so well'.

'It will go well again'.

'I love what I do, S. I've found my niche. Not only does it pay me ridiculous amounts of money, but writing the show also happens to be a lot of fun. Which is something that work isn't supposed to be. That's what really hurts about having to run away - knowing that, for the first time in my life, everything is the way I want it to be. The job. The money. The success. Ronnie...'

He gently released himself from my arms, and walked over to the living room window. Night had fallen on Manhattan. Down below was the black interior of Central Park, flanked by the seductive glow of lit apartments along Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. What always struck me about this view was how perfectly it reflected the city's spirit of arrogant indifference. It was a skyline that issued a challenge: try to conquer me. But even if you did - even if, like Eric, you were feted as a New York success - you still didn't ever really make your mark on the place. All that striving, all that ambition - and the moment after you'd had your moment, you were forgotten. Because there was always someone else in Manhattan coming up right behind you, battling to have their moment. Today, Eric was the hottest writer in television comedy. When the SS Rotterdam set sail tomorrow night, word would spread that he'd fled overseas rather than name names. Some people would applaud his actions, some would deplore them. By this time next week, however, he'd be a tertiary consideration in the minds of any of his professional colleagues. Because that's how things worked. His disappearance would be like a death. Only those who loved him would mourn his absence. For everyone else who knew him, the shock of his vanishing would be a temporary (and welcome) respite from all the incumbent pressures of work. For a few days, people would talk among themselves in hushed voices about the transitory nature of success; and the ethical rights or wrongs of Eric's choice to flee the country. Then the subject would be dropped. Because it was the start of another week and a new show had to be written.

Just as it always did.

Though I didn't ask him, I sensed that Eric was thinking what I was thinking, as we both looked out on the muted glow of that uptown skyline. Because he put his arm around my shoulders and said, 'People spend their entire damn lives chasing what I've had'.

'Stop talking about it in the past tense'.

'But it's over, S. It is over'.

We ordered in dinner from room service. We drank two bottles of champagne.

I slept on his sofa bed that night, wishing all the time that Jack was in town. The next morning, Eric drew up a list of his debts. He was nearly five thousand dollars in the red to places like Dunhill, and Brooks Brothers, and 21, and El Morocco - and assorted other watering holes and purveyors of luxury goods, with whom he maintained an account. He had less than a thousand dollars in the bank.

'How did you land yourself in this mess?' I asked.