Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'No, I don't. Because the equation here is a simple one: cooperate and avoid the slammer. Don't cooperate, and enjoy six months to a year as a guest of the United States government in one of their select prisons'.

'First things first, Eric. Give me all the bills'.

'No way'.

'I've got the cash in the bank. It's not a stretch...'

'I won't let you pay for my stupidity'.

'It's just money, Eric'

'I was profligate'.

'Also known as generous. So let me be generous back. What's the total damage? About five grand?'

'I am ashamed of myself'.

'You'll be even more ashamed when you're hauled into court for non-payment of bills. This way, your debts are cleared. It's one less worry. You've got enough to deal with'.

'All right, all right', he said, tossing me the pile of bills. 'Play Good Samaritan. But on one condition: that five grand is considered a loan. To be paid back as soon as I get some work'.

'If it makes you feel better, fine - call it a loan. But I'm never going to ask you for the money'.

'I can't stand all this generosity'.

I laughed. And said, 'Next thing you know, you might have to renounce misanthropy and start accepting that there are a few decent people out there who actually care about you'.

I paid off Eric's bills the next day. I also called Imogen Woods at Saturday/Sunday and informed her that I would accept the magazine's leave-of-absence offer. She assured me that, six months from now, I'd be back writing for them.

'Please don't hate me', she said. 'I'm just caught in the middle like everyone else'.

'Everyone's caught in the middle, aren't they?'

'What are you going to do with the six months?'

'My first goal is trying to keep my brother out of jail'.

Actually, my first goal was trying to snap Eric out of the depression into which he quickly descended. A depression which deepened when Ronnie was offered an amazing job opportunity: a three-month nationwide tour as part of Count Basie's orchestra. The offer arrived a week after he moved into the Ansonia with Eric. Privately he told me that - though he was over the moon about the prospect of playing in Basie's big band - he was reluctant to take the gig. Because he was worried about Eric's mental stability.

Over coffee at Gitlitz's deli, Ronnie told me, 'He's not sleeping, and he's drinking a fifth of Canadian Club every night'.

'I'll talk to him', I said.

'Good luck. He doesn't want to be talked to'.

'Have you let him know about the Basie offer?'

'Of course. "Go, go," he tells me. "I'll be fine without you."'

'You want to take the job, don't you?'

'It's a chance to play with the Count... of course I want it'.

'Then take it'.

'But... Eric needs me. And he's going to need me even more in the run-up to his Committee appearance'.

'I'll be here'.

'I'm scared for him'.

'Don't be', I lied. 'Once he finds some new work, he'll settle back down again'.

To his credit, Eric did knock on a lot of doors after his dismissal from NBC. Initially, he was optimistic about his employment prospects. After all, he was Eric Smythe - the major-domo writer from The Marty Manning Show; a man who was widely regarded in New York as one of the true comedic innovators in that new-fangled medium called television. What's more, he also had the reputation for being a consummate pro. He was smart, mischievous, and fast. When it came to cranking out material, he always made a deadline - and it was constantly fresh and original. As everyone in the business acknowledged, he was good news.

But no one would now hire him. Nor would they even meet with him. As soon as he was settled at the Ansonia, he started working the phone, trying to line up appointments with assorted producers and agents around town.

'I must have made a dozen calls yesterday', he said when I dropped by the apartment with a bag of groceries for him. 'The people I was calling were guys who'd been after me in the past to write for them. Not one of them was available to speak with me. Three were in meetings, four were at lunch, and the rest were out of town'.

'Well', I said, 'maybe it was just your unlucky day'.

'Thank you, Louisa May Alcott, for looking on the bright side of life'.

'I'm just saying - don't panic yet'.

By five the next afternoon, however, complete panic had set in. Once again, Eric had called the same twelve producers and agents. Once again, none of them was available to speak to him.

'So, do you know what I decided to do?' he said on the phone to me. 'I decided to jump the Broadway local down to Fiftieth Street and pay a little speculative lunchtime visit to Jack Dempsey's - where half of the comedy agents in New York meet to talk shop every day. There must have been, I don't know, maybe six of these guys sitting around a table. All of them knew me. All of them, at one time or another, tried to get me as a client... although I was one of those proud bastards who always maintained that he never needed an agent. Anyway, in I saunter to Jack Dempsey's. As soon as the table sees me approaching, it's like the local leper has made an appearance. Half the guys wouldn't talk to me. The others suddenly had to be elsewhere. Within two minutes of me turning up, the table was cleared. With the exception of this one old guy, Moe Canter. He must be around seventy-two. He's been handling acts since the days of vaudeville. A straight shooter, Moe. As soon as everyone's fled the scene, he tells me to sit down and buys me a cup of coffee. And he gives it to me straight:

' "Eric, what can I tell you? People in our business are scared. Everyone's terrified of ending up on some congressman's shit list - and they will snub their own brother if it means staying alive professionally. So, for the moment, I think you should consider another line of work. Because - after the Winchell item - you're an untouchable in this town. I'm sorry - but that's how it is."

'He then told me how much he admired me for refusing to rat on my friends. Know what I said back? "Everyone loves a hero... as long as he's dead."'

I took a deep breath. I tried to sound reasonable. 'All right', I said, 'this is bad, but...'

'Bad? It's a fucking catastrophe. My career is kaput. Yours too. And it's completely my fault'.

'Don't say that. And don't completely write yourself off as yet. Remember, the Winchell piece appeared only a week ago. So it's still fresh in everyone's memory. A month from now...'

'You're right. Everyone will have forgotten about the Winchell item. Instead, they'll be focusing on my contempt citation from the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities. And after my performance in front of the congressmen, I'm certain the employment opportunities will just keep rolling in'.

I could hear liquid being poured into a glass. 'What is that?'

'Canadian Club'.

'You now start drinking at three in the afternoon?'

'No, today I actually started drinking at two'.

'You have me worried'.

'There's nothing to worry about. Hell, I can always make a living churning out sonnets. Or maybe I'll corner the market in epic Norse verse. Now there's a section of the writing market that's probably blacklist-proof. All I need to do is brush up my Icelandic and...'

'I'm coming over', I said.

'No need, S. I am feeling just hunky-dory'.

'I'll be there in five minutes'.

'I won't be. I have an important appointment this afternoon...'

'With whom?'

'With the Loew's Eighty-Fourth Street movie house. They're showing a helluva double feature: Sudden Fear with Joan Crawford, Gloria Graham and the delectable Jack Palance, followed by The Steel Trap with Joe Cotton. An afternoon of pure monochromatic bliss'.

'At least let Jack and me take you to dinner tonight'.

'Dinner? Hang on, I must consult my social diary... No, I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged this evening'.