Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Of course, I knew the Feds would be out in front of the building, so I tipped the doorman and had him slip me out of the side entrance. I hopped a cab, and told him to take me to Idlewild. Want to know something funny? If the cabbie hadn't taken the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, I'm sure I'd be on a flight to Mexico right now. But there we were, heading to Queens on that bridge. And I made the mistake of turning around in the back seat, and seeing that midtown skyline framed by the rear window. And before I had time to think about it, I told the cabbie, "Change of plan. As soon as you get off the bridge, turn around and bring me back to Manhattan."

'The driver didn't like this one bit. "You crazy or somethin'?" he asked me.

'"Yeah, I'm crazy. Crazy enough to stay here when I shouldn't."

'I got him to drop me off at Grand Central Station. I checked my bag at the left luggage place there - but it was raining, so before I turned the bag over to the guy, I opened it up to get a folding umbrella I'd packed away for London. That's when I found your gift. I tell you, I cried when I saw the inscription. Because I also knew that this was the pen I'd use to name names'.

I swallowed hard. And said nothing.

'That's what I had decided, halfway across the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. I was going to be a stoolie. I was going to sing like a canary. I was going to sell out several people who I hadn't seen in years, and who were as innocent as I was. I was going to keep my job, and keep my lifestyle, and keep being able to run a tab at 21. Yeah, I'd feel bad about it... but dem's de breaks, right? I mean, if the Feds knew I'd been a member of the Party, then they also knew that the people I'd be naming had been members too. So all I'd be doing is telling them stuff they already knew.

'Or, at least, that's how I rationalized it to myself.

'So I clipped the pen inside my jacket pocket, and decided that I'd celebrate my last eight hours as a man with a relatively clean conscience by doing whatever the hell I wanted to do. Especially since I had a thousand bucks in traveler's checks in my wallet. So I treated myself to a champagne breakfast at the Waldorf. Then I wandered into Tiffany's and dropped some serious cash on a sterling silver cigarette case for Ronnie and a little something for you'.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small blue box marked Tiffany's. He tossed it over to me. I stared down at it.

'Are you crazy?' I asked.

'Absolutely. Well go on, open the damn thing'.

I lifted off the lid, and stared down at an absurdly dazzling pair of platinum teardrop earrings, studded with small, perfect diamonds. I was speechless.

'Does your silence indicate ambivalence?' he asked.

'They're beautiful. But you shouldn't have done this'.

'Of course I should have. Don't you know that the great American rule of thumb is - when committing an act of moral cowardice, always soften the blow for yourself by spending a lot of money?

'Anyway, after my little spree at Tiffany's I walked up Fifth Avenue and spent a few leisurely hours at the Metropolitan Museum, looking at Rembrandts. They've got The Return of the Prodigal Son on loan from Amsterdam. Helluva picture, as Jack Warner would say. The misery of family, the need for redemption, the tug between responsibility and desire - all wrapped up in one really dark canvas. I tell you, S - the only person to use black better than Rembrandt is Coco Chanel.

'After the Met, it was lunchtime. Off to 21. Two martinis, an entire Maine lobster, half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume... and I was ready for a little more hoch kultur. The New York Phil was doing a matinee at Carnegie Hall with your old favorite, Bruno Walter, on the podium. And the band were playing Bruckner's Ninth Symphony. Amazing stuff. A big cathedral of sound. A guided tour of heaven in the company of a devout believer - and a sense that there is something just a little grander and more all-encompassing than our trivial endeavors on Planet Stupid.

'The audience went nuts when the concert ended. I too was on my feet, cheering my lungs out. Until I glanced at my watch. Four thirty. Time to stroll down to Rockefeller Center and engage in some very dirty work.

'Agent Sweet and that shithead Ross were waiting for me on the forty-third floor. Once again, I was escorted into the conference room. Once again, Ross glowered at me.

'"So," he said, "you've decided to cooperate."

'"Yes," I said. "I'll give you some names."

'"Agent Sweet told me about your little escapade at the passport office yesterday."

'"I panicked," I said.

'"That's one way of describing your actions."

'"But if the passport had come through, you'd be out of the country by now," Sweet said.

'"And I would have rued that decision for the rest of my life," I said.

'"Liar," Ross said.

'"You mean, you've never heard of a Pauline conversion, Mr Ross?"

'"Didn't that happen on the road to Damascus?" Agent Sweet asked.

'"Yes - and it's about to happen here right now in Rockefeller Center," I said. "What do you want to know?"

'Sweet sat down opposite me. He was working hard at containing his excitement, knowing full well that I was about to inform on my friends.

'"We'd like to know," he said, "who brought you into the Party, who ran your cell, and who were the other members of the cell."

'"Fine," I said. "Would you mind if I wrote this down."

'Sweet handed me a yellow legal pad. I pulled out your beautiful new pen. I uncapped it. I took a deep troubled breath. And I wrote eight names. It took less than a minute - and the funny thing was, I remembered them all with ease.

'When I was finished, I recapped the pen, put it back in my pocket, then pushed the pad forward - as if I couldn't bear to look at it. Sweet came around and patted me on the shoulder. "I know this couldn't have been easy, Mr Smythe. But I'm glad you've done the proper, patriotic thing."

'Then he picked up the pad. He stared at it for a moment, then threw it back in front of me and said, "What the hell is this?"

'"You wanted names," I said. "I gave you names."

'"Names," he said, snatching up the pad again. "This is your idea of names?" Then he started reading them one by one.

'"Sleepy, Grumpy, Dopey, Bashful, Happy, Sneezy, Doc, and... who the fuck is SW?"

'"Snow White, of course," I said.

'Ross grabbed the pad from Sweet's hand. He glanced at it, then said, "You have just committed professional hara-kiri."

'"Didn't know you spoke Japanese, Ross. Maybe you were one of their spies during the last war."

'"Get out," he yelled at me. "You're dead here."

'As I left, Sweet told me to expect a subpoena from HUAC any day. "See you in Washington, asshole," he shouted as I left'.

I stared at Eric, wide-eyed. 'You really wrote the names of the Seven Dwarfs?' I asked.

'Well, they were the first Communists that came to mind. Because, let's face it, they lived collectively, they shared their communal wealth, they...'

His face fell. He started to shudder. I ran over and held him. 'It's okay, it's okay', I said. 'You did wonderfully. I'm so damn proud of...'

'Proud of what? The fact that I killed my career this afternoon? The fact that I'm now unemployable? The fact that I'm about to lose everything?'

I suddenly heard Ronnie's voice. 'You haven't lost us', he said.

I looked up. Ronnie was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Eric glanced in his direction.

'What are you doing here?' he asked tonelessly. 'You're not due back till Monday'.

'Sara and I were just a little worried that you might have vanished into thin air'.

'I really think you both could spend your time worrying about more important matters'.

'Will you listen to Mr False Modesty', Ronnie said. 'And where the fuck have you been since naming the Seven Dwarfs?'