Of course, I wanted to lavish as much money as possible on Eric. But he wouldn’t let me do much more than pick up the occasional check for dinner or accept all the free surplus records I received from the record companies. Once or twice I made noises again about buying him an apartment, but these were always met with an instant “No, thanks.” Though he kept telling me how thrilled he was with my success, it was clear that it made him a little anxious.
“I think I’ll start introducing myself as Sara Smythe’s brother,” he said one evening.
“But I always introduce myself as the sister of the funniest comedy writer in New York,” I countered.
“Nobody rates a comedy writer,” he said.
That wasn’t totally true—because a few months after I signed my new contract with Saturday/Sunday, Eric called me early one morning in a state of high excitement. A young comedian named Marty Manning had been hired by NBC to create a show for the network’s prime-time television schedule—due to go on the air in January 1949. Manning told Eric that he’d heard great things about him from his pal Joe E. Brown—and, after a long lunch at the Friars Club, offered Eric a contract as one of his show’s top writers.
“Of course, I accepted on the spot—because Manning is a really hot talent: very smart, very innovative. The problem is, who the hell is going to watch television? I mean, do you know anyone who owns one?”
“Everyone says it’s the coming thing.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
A few days later, one of NBC’s lawyers contacted Eric to discuss his contract. The money was amazing: two hundred dollars per week, starting September 1, 1948—even though the show wasn’t premiering until January twenty-eighth. There was a problem, however: the network had become aware of the fact that Eric was deeply involved in the Presidential campaign of Henry Wallace. He’d been Roosevelt’s vice president, until FDR dropped him from the 1944 ticket for being too radical, instead choosing the untried, universally disliked Harry S. Truman. Had FDR kept his nerve and retained Wallace as his VP, he’d be our president now—and, as Eric was fond of noting, we would have a proper democratic socialist in the White House. Instead, we ended up with “that ward boss hack from Missouri” (Eric’s words again)—a hack whom everyone was betting on to lose to Dewey in November. Especially since Wallace was now running as the candidate of his own Progressive Party, and was expected to rob Truman of many left-of-center voters.
Eric adored everything about Henry Wallace: his rigorous intelligence, his belief in social justice, his unwavering support for the working man and for the original principles of the New Deal. From the moment Wallace had announced his presidential candidacy—in spring of ’48—my brother had been a leading figure in the “Show Business for Wallace” campaign, becoming one of the chief fund-raisers in the tristate area, organizing benefit performances, soliciting contributions from the entertainment community in New York.
As Eric later described it to me, the NBC lawyer—Jerry Jameson—was a perfectly reasonable fellow, with a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, and a perfectly reasonable way of explaining why the network had a few problems with his political activism.
“God knows, the National Broadcasting Company is a staunch defender of First Amendment rights,” Jameson told him. “And those rights, Eric, include supporting whatever political party or candidate you want—whether he’s hard-left, hard-right, or just plain cuckoo.”
Jameson laughed at his own joke. Eric didn’t join in. Instead he said, “Let’s get to the point here, Mr. Jameson.”
“The point, Mr. Smythe, is this: if you were simply supporting Wallace privately, there’d be no problem. But the fact that you’re flashing your radical credentials for all to see is worrying some of the NBC brass. They know Manning wants you. He keeps telling everyone how good you are. And the way the brass see it is: if Marty wants you on the team, Marty should have you. All they’re worried about is. . . .”
“What? That I might set up my own politburo within NBC? Or maybe that I’ll try to hire Laughing Joe Stalin as part of Marty’s writing team?”
“I can see why Marty wants you. You really know how to turn out a one-liner . . .”
“I am not a Communist.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I am a loyal American. I have never supported a foreign power. I have never preached civil insurrection, or the overthrow of Congress, or come out in favor of a Soviet as our next commander in chief.”
“Believe me, Mr. Smythe—you don’t have to convince me of your patriotism. All we’re asking . . . my advice to you . . . is that you take a back seat in the Wallace campaign. Sure, you can attend fund-raising stuff. Just don’t be seen to be playing such an upfront role for the guy. Face fact, Wallace has absolutely no chance of being elected. Dewey’s going to be our next president . . . and after November fifth, no one’s going to give a damn about any of this. But, Eric, take it from me—people are going to give a damn about television. Give it five, six years—and it will kill radio dead. You could be one of the pioneers of the medium. Someone, my friend, in the vanguard of an entire new revolution . . .”
“Cut the crap, Jameson. I’m a gag writer, not Tom Paine. And let’s get one thing clear: I am not your friend.”
“All right. I’m very clear on that point. I am simply asking you to be realistic.”
“All right. I’ll be completely realistic. If you want me to back out of the Wallace campaign, I want a two-year contract with Manning at three hundred dollars a week.”
“That’s excessive.”
“‘No, Jameson—that’s the deal.’ And then I put down the phone.”
I poured Eric some more wine. He needed it.
“So what happened next?” I asked.
“An hour later, the sonofabitch came back and agreed to the three hundred bucks per week, the two-year contract, three weeks paid vacation, major medical, blah, blah, blah—on the condition that it would all be taken away from me if I was seen publicly raising funds for that bad Mr. Wallace. They even added an extra proviso: they didn’t want me near any Wallace rallies, campaign parties, whatever. ‘That’s the price for your extra hundred a week,’ Jameson told me.”
“That’s outrageous,” I said. “Not to mention unconstitutional.”
“Well, as Jameson himself said, I didn’t have to accept these terms—‘because, after all, it is a free country.’ ”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Oh, I’ve done it already. I said ‘yes’ to NBC’s terms.”
I said nothing.
“Do I detect a hint of reproach in your silence?” he asked.
“I’m just a little surprised by your decision, that’s all.”
“I have to tell you, the Wallace people were very understanding. And supportive. And actually grateful.”
“Grateful? Why?”
“Because I’m giving them the extra five thousand dollars I’m making this year from NBC for agreeing to vanish from the Wallace campaign.”
I laughed loudly. “That’s brilliant,” I said. “What a classy sting.”
He put his finger to his lips. “It’s obviously all Top Secret—because if NBC learned what I was doing with their hush money, the ax would fall on my head. There is a problem, though—I won’t have the five grand until I start getting paid . . .”
“I’ll write you a check,” I said.
“I promise it will be paid back in full by February first.”
“Whenever. I’m just so damn impressed, Mr. Machiavelli. Do you always never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing?”
“Hey—it’s the American Way.”
Wallace, as predicted, was trounced at the polls. Like the rest of the nation, Truman went to bed on the night of the election, fully expecting to wake up to Thomas Dewey’s victory. But the math didn’t work out that way—and Harry stayed put at the White House. On the morning of the election, I got cold feet. Fearing that a vote for Wallace was
, in actuality, a vote for Dewey—I switched allegiance and voted for the President. When I later admitted this to Eric, he just shrugged and said, “I guess somebody has to be sensible in this family.”
Two months later, the Big Broadway Review with Marty Manning premiered on NBC. It was an immediate, huge hit. Shortly thereafter, my banker rang me one morning to say that a check for five thousand dollars had just been lodged to my account. Eric was always a man of his word.
And now, finally, he was also a huge success. The Big Broadway Review eventually turned into the Marty Manning Show—and became the talk of the town. Everyone adored it. I even went out and bought a television set—because, understandably, I had to see what my brother was cooking up each week. Marty Manning and his cohorts became overnight stars. But Eric and his writing team were also fêted. The New York Times ran a lengthy profile in its Sunday Arts and Leisure section on a day in the life of the Marty Manning writers—in which Eric featured prominently as the witty ringleader of this gang of paid gag men. Even Winchell mentioned him in his column:
Heard a good yuck the other day at the Stork Club from Marty Manning scribe Eric Smythe: “Where there’s a will, there’s always a relative” Smythe—Marty Manning’s majordomo for one-liners—also has a talented sis: Sara, whose ha-ha column in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning keeps the ladies laughing every week. Talented yucksters, them Smythes . . .
“Did you really tell Winchell that terrible joke?” I asked Eric after the column appeared.
“I was drunk at the time.”
“Well, he obviously thought it was funny.”
“Don’t you know that rabid Republicans never have a sense of humor.”
“I love being referred to as a ‘yuckster.’ ”
“What can I say, S? Fame at last.”
Not just fame—but also, for Eric, celebrity. Success transformed him. He reveled in his newfound professional esteem and prosperity. Finally, he cast off his aura of self-loathing, his need to play the failed writer in the garret. Within a month of the show’s premiere, he exchanged his down-at-heel atelier on Sullivan Street for an elegant furnished apartment at the Hampshire House on Central Park South. The rent was a staggering two hundred and fifty dollars a month—nearly four times that of his Greenwich Village place—but, as he was fond of saying, “Hey, that’s what the money’s for.”
Besides his talent for comedy, Eric also discovered another interesting gift during that first heady year with Marty Manning: an ability to spend money recklessly. As soon as he moved to Central Park South, he revamped his entire wardrobe—and started favoring bespoke suits. Whereas Manning’s other writers dressed like Damon Runyon characters—just back after a day at the track—Eric fancied himself a Noel Coward dandy: cravats, double-breasted suits in Prince of Wales check, handmade brogues, expensive aftershave. But it wasn’t just clothes that soaked up his money. He was out every night—a regular habitué at the Stork Club, or 21, or the Astor Bar, or the jazz clubs that lined 52nd Street. He would always pick up the tab. Just as he would insist on taking me on a weeklong vacation to Cuba, staying at the ultraexpensive Hotel Nacional. Just as he would hire his own personal valet. Just as he would lend money to anyone who needed it. Just as he would always be broke at the end of every month . . . until the next paycheck rolled in.
I tried to lecture him on financial restraint, and the virtue of putting a little bit aside every month. He didn’t listen to me. He was having too good a time. And he was also in love—with a musician named Ronnie Garcia, who played sax for the Rainbow Room’s resident band. Ronnie was a diminutive Cuban-American, raised on the Bronx’s Grand Concourse; a high school dropout and self-taught musician who also managed to consume books at a ferocious rate. I’d never met a better-read person. As a musician, he’d backed the likes of Dick Haymes, Mel Tormé, and Rosemary Clooney . . . but he could also carry on a very erudite conversation about Eliot’s Four Quartets (in an authentic dees-dems-and-does Bronx accent). Eric had met him at a backstage Rainbow Room party for Artie Shaw in April of 1949—and from that moment on, they were an item. Only, of course, they could never advertise that they were involved. Extreme discretion was demanded. Though the staff of the Hampshire House obviously knew that Ronnie was living with Eric, this was never mentioned. His fellow writers on Marty Manning never asked him about his private life—though they all knew he was the only member of the team who wasn’t bragging about his skirt-chasing exploits. Ronnie and Eric never showed the slightest bit of physical affection toward each other in public. Even around me, their status as a couple was never acknowledged. Only once—over dinner alone with my brother in Chinatown—did Eric openly ask me if I liked Ronnie.
“I think he’s wonderful. Smart as hell—and he plays a mean sax.”
“Good,” he said shyly. “That really makes me happy. Because . . . well . . . uh . . . you know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”
I put my hand on top of my brother’s. “Yes, Eric—I do. And it’s fine.”
He looked at me warily. “Are you sure?”
“If you’re happy, I’m happy. That’s all that matters.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
He gripped my hand. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
I leaned over and kissed his head, then said, “Shut up.”
“Now we just need to fix you up.”
“Forget it,” I said sharply. And I meant it. Because though I wasn’t short of male company—let alone suitors—I deliberately sidestepped involvement. Yes, I did see a Random House editor, Donald Clark, for around four months. And yes, I did have a short-lived fling with a Daily News journalist named Gene Smadbeck. But I ended them both—possibly because Clark was too much of a pleasant stiff, whereas Smadbeck was, at the age of thirty, already trying to drink himself to death (though, when sober, he was a total charmer). When I told Gene that it was over, he didn’t take the news very well—as he’d delusionally convinced himself he was in love with me.
“Lemme guess,” he said, “you’re dropping me for some corporate type, who will give you all the security I can’t.”
“I was married to that sort of man—as you well know—and I left him after five months. So, believe me, I don’t need a man to give me security. I’ve got enough of it myself.”
“Well, you’ve got to be leaving me for someone.”
“Why is it that men always have this preposterous idea that, if a woman doesn’t want to see them anymore, it’s because there must be someone else? Sorry to disappoint you—but I’m leaving you for no one. I’m leaving you because you’re determined to self-destruct before the age of thirty-five . . . and I don’t want a supporting role in your melodrama.”
“Christ, will you listen to the tough little broad.”
“I have to be tough,” I said. “Because tough’s the only way you hold your own . . . as a broad.”
This exchange took place in the bar of the New Yorker Hotel on 34th and Seventh. After finally extricating myself, I caught the subway home and spent the evening listening, yet again, to that amazing Ezio Pinza performance of Don Giovanni. Of all the records in my ever-growing collection, it was the one to which I kept returning. Tonight, however, I figured out why. In the opera, Donna Elvira is swearing revenge against Giovanni—because he’s robbed her of her virtue. In truth, however, Elvira’s anguish is rooted in the fact that she fell head over heels for the Don who had seduced and abandoned her. Meanwhile Donna Anna is doing her damnedest to avoid the dull, cautious Don Ottavio who so desperately wants her as his wife.
For some curious reason, this story rang a bell with me.
I had surrendered to Don Giovanni. I had surrendered to Don Ottavio. But why surrender again to anyone when you’re finding your own way in the world?
On New Year’s Eve 1949, Eric threw a bash at his Hampshire House apartment. There must have been forty people there, not to mention a five-piece band, featuring Ronn
ie (naturally) on sax. My contract with Saturday/Sunday had just been renewed for another two years. Thanks to Joel Eberts, my per column price had risen to a hundred and fifty dollars. The magazine had also just appointed me as their movie critic, at an additional hundred and fifty dollars per week. And I was still writing the monthly “Music for Middlebrows” column. All told, I would be making sixteen grand in 1950—crazy money for such easy, fun work. Meanwhile, Eric had also just finished an extended contractual renegotiation with NBC. Besides retaining his position as Marty Manning’s chief writer, the network also wanted him to develop new ideas for other shows. To keep him sweet (and out of the prying hands of CBS), they upped his salary to four hundred dollars a week, and also handed him an annual twelve-thousand-dollar consultancy fee, along with his own office and a secretary.
And so, here we were, crammed in Eric’s living room overlooking Central Park, shouting “five-four-three-two-one” as the dying moments of the 1940s vanished, and we all screamed “Happy New Year” and embraced a new decade.
After being kissed by two dozen strangers, I managed to find my brother—standing near one of the windows. A fireworks display within the park was illuminating the midnight sky. Eric—giddy on too much champagne—grabbed me in a bear hug.
“Can you believe it?” he asked me.
“Believe what?”
“You. Me. This. Everything.”
“No. I can’t believe it. Nor can I believe our luck.”
Outside, there was a rat-a-tat explosion, followed by a supernova flash of streaking red, white, and blue light.
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