The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page A

momentarily stilled. There’s a sense of equivocation and expectation. At dawn, nothing seems certain … yet everything appears possible.

But then night drops away. Manhattan begins to shout at the top of its lungs. Reality truly bites. Because in the harsh light of day, possibilities vanish.

I live on 74th Street between Second and Third Avenues. It’s an ugly, squat, white brick apartment building - of the sort favored by developers in the 1960s, and which now grimly define that bland Upper East Side cityscape between Third and the River. Being a West Side girl (born and bred!), I always considered this part of town to be the urban equivalent of vanilla ice cream: dull, insipid, devoid of edge. Before I got married, I lived for years on 106th Street and Broadway - which was anything but monotonous. I loved the exuberant grime of the neighborhood - the Haitian grocery stores, the Puerto Rican bodegas, the old Jewish delis, the good bookshops near Columbia University, the no cover/no minimum jazz at the West End Cafe. But my apartment - though insanely cheap - was tiny. And Matt had this rent-controlled two-bedroom place on East 74th Street, which had been in the family for years (he’d taken it over after his grandfather died). It was a steal at $1600 a month, not to mention a hell of a lot more spacious than my single cell up in Jungleland.

But we both hated the apartment. Especially Matt - who was seriously embarrassed about living at such an unhip address, and kept telling me we’d move to the Flatiron District or Gramercy Park as soon as he left lowly paid PBS and got his senior producer gig at NBC.

Well, he got the big NBC job. He also got the big Flatiron pad - with that cropped-blonde talking head, Blair Bentley. And I ended up with the much-hated rent-controlled apartment on 74th Street - which I now cannot leave, because it is such a bargain (I have friends with kids who can’t even find a two-bed place in Astoria for $1600 a month).

Constantine, the morning doorman, was on duty when I got out of the cab. He was around sixty; a first-generation Greek immigrant, who still lived with his mom in Astoria, and who really didn’t like the idea of divorced women with children … especially those vulgar harpies who actually have to go out and earn a living. He also had the proclivities of a village stoolie - always checking up on people, always asking the sort of leading questions which made you understand that he was keeping tabs on you. My stomach sank when he opened the door of the taxi. I could see that he was interested in my trashy state.

‘Late night, Miss Malone?’ he asked.

‘No - early morning.’

‘How’s the little guy?’

‘Fine.’

‘Upstairs asleep?’

Yeah, that’s right. He’s been home alone all night, playing with my collection of hunting knives, while working his way through my extensive library of S&M videos.

‘No - he’s staying with his dad tonight.’

‘Say hi to Matt for me, Miss Malone.’

Oh, thank you. And yeah, I did catch the way you stressed Miss.

There goes your Christmas tip, malacca (the only Greek profanity I know).

I took the elevator to the fourth floor. I unlocked the three deadbolts on my door. The apartment was appallingly silent. I went straight into Ethan’s room. I sat on his bed. I stroked his Power Rangers pillow case (okay, I think the Power Rangers are totally dumb - but try having a discussion about aesthetics with a seven-year-old boy). I looked at all the guilt gifts Matt had recently bought him (an iMac computer, dozens of CD-Roms, top-of-the-line roller blades). I looked at all the guilt gifts I had recently bought him (a walking Godzilla, a complete set of Power Ranger action figures, two dozen jigsaw puzzles). I felt a stab of sadness. All this booty, all this crap - all given in an attempt to ease parental remorse. The same remorse I feel when - two or three times a week - I have to stay late at the office or go out to some business