not  crazy about it,  naturally--but what scares me  most in a fist fight is
the  guy's face.  I can't  stand looking  at  the  other  guy's face, is  my
trouble.  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if you could  both  be  blindfolded  or
something. It's  a funny  kind of yellowness, when  you come to think of it,
but it's yellowness, all right. I'm not kidding myself.  The more  I thought
about my  gloves and my yellowness, the more depressed I got, and I decided,
while  I was walking and all, to stop off  and  have a  drink somewhere. I'd
only had three drinks at Ernie's, and I didn't even finish the last one. One
thing I have, it's a terrific capacity. I  can drink  all night and not even
show it, if I'm in the  mood. Once, at the Whooton School, this  other  boy,
Raymond  Goldfarb, and  I bought a pint of Scotch and drank it in the chapel
one Saturday night, where nobody'd  see  us. He  got  stinking, but I hardly
didn't even show it. I just got very cool and nonchalant. I  puked  before I
went to bed, but I didn't really have  to--I forced myself. Anyway, before I
got  to the hotel, I started  to go in this dumpy-looking bar, but two  guys
came out, drunk as  hell, and wanted  to know where the subway was.  One  of
them  was  this very Cuban-looking guy, and he kept breathing  his  stinking
breath  in my face while I gave him directions. I ended up not even going in
the damn bar.  I just went  back to the hotel. The whole lobby was empty. It
smelled like fifty  million dead cigars. It  really did.  I wasn't sleepy or
anything, but I  was feeling  sort  of lousy.  Depressed  and  all. I almost
wished I was dead. Then, all of a sudden, I got in this big mess. The  first
thing when I got in  the elevator, the elevator guy said to me,  "Innarested
in having a good time, fella? Or is it too late for you?" "How do you mean?"
I  said. I didn't know what  he was driving at or anything. "Innarested in a
little tail t'night?" "Me?" I said. Which  was a very  dumb answer, but it's
quite embarrassing when somebody comes right up and asks you a question like
that.  "How  old are  you,  chief?" the elevator guy said.  "Why?"  I  said.
"Twenty-two." "Uh huh. Well, how 'bout it? Y'innarested? Five bucks a throw.
Fifteen bucks the  whole night." He looked at his wrist watch.  "Till  noon.
Five bucks a throw, fifteen bucks till noon." "Okay," I said. It was against
my principles and all, but I was feeling so depressed  I didn't  even think.
That's the whole trouble. When you're feeling very depressed, you can't even
think.  "Okay  what? A throw, or till noon? I gotta know."  "Just  a throw."
"Okay, what room ya in?" I looked  at the red thing with my number on it, on
my key. "Twelve twenty-two," I said. I was already sort of sorry I'd let the
thing start rolling, but it was too late now. "Okay. I'll send a  girl up in
about  fifteen minutes." He  opened  the doors  and I got out.  "Hey, is she
good-looking?" I  asked him. "I don't want any  old bag." "No old bag. Don't
worry  about it, chief." "Who do  I pay?" "Her," he said. "Let's go, chief."
He  shut the doors, practically  right in my face. I went to my room and put
some water  on my hair, but you  can't really comb a  crew cut  or anything.
Then I tested to  see if my breath  stank  from so many  cigarettes and  the
Scotch and sodas I drank at Ernie's. All you do is hold your hand under your
mouth  and  blow your breath up toward the old nostrils. It didn't  seem  to
stink much, but  I brushed  my teeth anyway. Then  I  put on  another  clean
shirt. I  knew  I  didn't have  to get  all  dolled up for  a  prostitute or
anything, but it sort of gave me something to do. I  was a little nervous. I
was starting to feel pretty sexy and all, but I was a little nervous anyway.
If you want to know the  truth, I'm  a virgin. I really am. I've had quite a
few opportunities to lose my virginity and all, but I've never got around to
it yet. Something always happens. For instance, if you're at a girl's house,
her parents always come home at  the wrong time--or you're afraid they will.
Or if you're  in the back seat of somebody's car, there's always  somebody's
date in the front seat--some girl, I mean--that  always wants to know what's
going  on all  over the whole goddam  car.  I mean  some girl in front keeps
turning  around to see what the  hell's going on. Anyway,  something  always
happens. I came quite close to doing it  a couple of times, though. One time
in  particular, I remember. Something  went  wrong, though  --I  don't  even
remember  what any more. The thing is, most  of the time when you're  coming
pretty  close  to doing it with a  girl--a  girl that isn't a prostitute  or
anything, I mean--she keeps telling  you to  stop. The trouble with me is, I
stop.  Most guys don't. I  can't help it. You never know whether they really
want you to stop, or whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're
just telling you to stop so that if you do go  through with it, the blame'll
be  on you, not  them. Anyway,  I keep stopping.  The trouble is,  I  get to
feeling  sorry for them.  I mean most girls  are so dumb and  all. After you
neck them for a while, you can really  watch them  losing their brains.  You
take a girl when she really gets passionate, she  just hasn't any  brains. I
don't know. They tell me to stop, so I stop. I always wish I hadn't, after I
take them home, but I keep  doing it anyway.  Anyway, while I was putting on
another clean shirt, I sort of figured  this was my big chance, in  a way. I
figured if  she  was a  prostitute and all, I could get  in some practice on
her,  in  case  I ever get married  or  anything.  I  worry about that stuff
sometimes. I read this book once, at the Whooton School, that had  this very
sophisticated, suave, sexy guy in it. Monsieur Blanchard was his name, I can
still remember. It was a lousy book, but this Blanchard guy was pretty good.
He had this big ch̉teau and all on the Riviera, in Europe, and all he did in
his spare time was beat women off  with a club. He  was a real rake and all,
but he knocked women out. He said, in this one  part, that a woman's body is
like a  violin and all, and that it  takes a terrific musician  to  play  it
right.  It was a very  corny book--I  realize that--but I  couldn't get that
violin stuff out of my mind anyway. In a way, that's why I sort of wanted to
get some practice in, in  case I  ever get married.  Caulfield and his Magic
Violin, boy. It's corny, I realize,  but it isn't too corny. I wouldn't mind
being  pretty good at  that stuff. Half the time, if you really want to know
the  truth, when I'm  horsing  around with a girl, I have  a helluva  lot of
trouble just finding what I'm looking for, for God's sake, if you  know what
I mean. Take this  girl that I just missed  having sexual  intercourse with,
that I  told you about. It  took  me about an  hour to just  get her  goddam
brassiere off. By the time I did get it off, she was about ready  to spit in
my eye. Anyway, I kept walking around the  room, waiting for this prostitute
to show up. I  kept  hoping she'd be  good-looking. I didn't  care too much,
though. I sort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked
on the door, and when I went to open it, I had  my suitcase right in the way
and  I  fell over it and damn near broke  my knee. I always  pick a gorgeous
time to fall over  a  suitcase or  something. When I opened  the door,  this
prostitute was standing there. She had a  polo coat on, and no hat. She  was
sort of a blonde, but  you could tell she  dyed her hair. She wasn't any old
bag, though. "How  do  you do," I  said. Suave as  hell,  boy. "You the  guy
Maurice said?" she asked me. She didn't seem too goddam friendly. "Is he the
elevator boy?" "Yeah," she said. "Yes, I  am. Come in, won't you?" I said. I
was getting more  and  more nonchalant as  it went  along. I really was. She
came in and took her coat  off right away and sort of chucked it on the bed.
She had on a  green dress underneath. Then she sort  of sat down sideways on
the chair that went with the desk  in the room and started jiggling her foot
up and down. She crossed her  legs and started jiggling this one foot up and
down. She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was
because she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in  the big
chair,  next to her, and offered her a cigarette. "I don't smoke," she said.
She had a tiny little  wheeny-whiny  voice. You  could hardly  hear her. She
never  said thank you,  either,  when you  offered her  something. She  just
didn't  know any better. "Allow  me to  introduce  myself.  My name  is  Jim
Steele," I said. "Ya got a watch on ya?" she said. She didn't care what  the
hell  my  name  was,  naturally.  "Hey,  how  old  are you,  anyways?"  "Me?
Twenty-two."  "Like  fun you  are." It was a  funny thing to say. It sounded
like a real kid. You'd think a  prostitute and all would say  "Like hell you
are" or  "Cut the crap" instead of "Like fun you  are." "How old are you?" I
asked her. "Old enough to know better," she said. She was  really witty. "Ya
got a watch on ya?" she asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her
dress over her head. I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she
did it  so  sudden and all.  I know you're supposed to feel pretty sexy when
somebody gets up and pulls their dress  over their head,  but I didn't. Sexy
was  about  the last thing I was feeling. I  felt much  more depressed  than
sexy. "Ya got a  watch on ya, hey?" "No.  No,  I  don't," I said. Boy, was I
feeling peculiar. "What's your name?" I  asked her. All she had  on was this
pink slip.  It was  really quite embarrassing. It  really  was. "Sunny," she
said.  "Let's go,  hey." "Don't you feel like talking for a while?" I  asked
her.  It was a childish thing to say, but I  was feeling  so damn  peculiar.
"Are you in a very big hurry?" She  looked at me like I  was a madman. "What
the heck ya wanna talk about?" she  said. "I don't know. Nothing special.  I
just thought perhaps  you  might care to chat for a while." She sat down  in
the chair  next to  the desk again. She didn't  like  it, though,  you could
tell.  She started  jiggling  her foot again--boy,  she was  a nervous girl.
"Would you care for a cigarette now?" I said. I forgot  she didn't smoke. "I
don't smoke. Listen, if you're gonna  talk, do  it. I  got  things to do." I
couldn't think  of anything to  talk about, though. I thought  of asking her
how she  got  to be a prostitute and  all, but I  was scared to ask her. She
probably wouldn't've told me anyway. "You don't come from New York, do you?"
I said finally. That's all I could think of. "Hollywood," she said. Then she
got up and went over to where she'd put her dress down, on the bed. "Ya  got
a  hanger?  I don't want  to  get my dress  all  wrinkly. It's brand-clean."
"Sure," I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do something. I
took her dress over to  the closet and hung it  up for her. It was funny. It
made  me feel sort of  sad when  I hung it up. I  thought  of her going in a
store and buying it,  and  nobody in the store knowing she was  a prostitute
and all. The salesman probably just thought she  was a regular girl when she
bought it. It made me feel sad as hell--I don't know why exactly. I sat down
again and  tried to  keep  the  old  conversation  going.  She  was  a lousy
conversationalist. "Do you work  every night?"  I asked her--it sounded sort
of awful,  after I'd said it. "Yeah."  She was walking all around  the room.
She picked up the menu off the desk and read it. "What do you  do during the
day?" She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. "Sleep.  Go
to the  show." She  put down the  menu and  looked  at me. "Let's go, hey. I
haven't got all--"  "Look,"  I  said. "I don't  feel  very much  like myself
tonight. I've had a rough night. Honest to God. I'll pay you and all, but do
you mind very much  if we don't do it? Do  you mind very much?" The  trouble
was, I  just  didn't want to  do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you
want to know  the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in  the
closet and all. And besides, I don't think I could ever do it with  somebody
that sits in a  stupid movie all day long. I really don't think I could. She
came over  to me, with  this funny look on her face, like as if  she  didn't
believe me.  "What'sa matter?" she  said. "Nothing's the matter." Boy, was I
getting  nervous. "The thing is, I had  an operation very recently."  "Yeah?
Where?" "On my wuddayacallit--my clavichord." "Yeah? Where the hell's that?"
"The clavichord?"  I said. "Well, actually, it's in the spinal canal. I mean
it's  quite  a ways  down in  the spinal  canal." "Yeah?" she said.  "That's
tough." Then she  sat down on  my goddam lap. "You're cute."  She made me so
nervous, I just kept on lying my head off.  "I'm still recuperating," I told
her. "You look like a guy in  the movies.  You  know. Whosis. You know who I
mean. What the  heck's his name?" "I don't know," I said.  She  wouldn't get
off my goddam lap. "Sure you know.  He was  in that  pitcher  with  Mel-vine
Douglas? The  one that  was Mel-vine  Douglas's kid brother? That falls  off
this boat? You  know who I mean." "No, I don't. I go to the movies as seldom
as  I can." Then  she started getting  funny.  Crude and all.  "Do  you mind
cutting  it out?" I said. "I'm not  in the mood, I just told you. I just had
an  operation." She didn't get up  from my lap or anything,  but she gave me
this terrifically dirty  look. "Listen," she said. "I was sleepin' when that
crazy Maurice woke me up. If you think I'm--" "I said I'd pay you for coming
and  all.  I  really  will.  I  have  plenty  of dough.  It's just  that I'm
practically just  recovering from a  very serious--"  "What the heck did you
tell  that crazy  Maurice  you wanted  a girl for, then? If you just  had  a
goddam  operation on  your goddam  wuddayacallit.  Huh?" "I  thought  I'd be
feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little premature in my calculations.
No kidding. I'm sorry. If you'll just get up a second, I'll get my wallet. I
mean it."  She was sore as hell, but she got up off  my goddam lap so that I
could go over and get my wallet off the chiffonier. I took out a five-dollar
bill and handed it  to her. "Thanks a lot,"  I told her. "Thanks a million."
"This is a five. It costs ten." She was getting funny, you could tell. I was
afraid something like that would happen--I really  was. "Maurice said five,"
I told her. "He said fifteen till  noon and only five for a throw." "Ten for
a throw." "He said  five. I'm  sorry--I really  am--but that's all I'm gonna
shell out." She sort of shrugged her  shoulders, the way she did before, and
then she said,  very cold,  "Do you mind getting me my frock? Or would it be
too much trouble?" She was a pretty spooky kid.  Even with that little bitty
voice she had, she could sort of scare you a little bit. If she'd been a big
old prostitute, with a  lot of makeup on her face and all, she wouldn't have
been  half as spooky.  I went and got  her dress for her. She put  it on and
all, and then she picked up her polo coat off the bed. "So long, crumb-bum,"
she said. "So  long," I said.  I  didn't thank  her or  anything. I'm glad I
didn't.
     14
     After Old Sunny was gone,  I sat in the chair for a  while and smoked a
couple  of  cigarettes.  It  was  getting  daylight  outside.  Boy,  I  felt
miserable.  I felt  so depressed, you can't  imagine. What  I did, I started
talking, sort  of out loud,  to  Allie. I  do that sometimes when I get very
depressed. I keep  telling him to  go  home and get his bike and  meet me in
front of  Bobby  Fallon's house.  Bobby Fallon used to live quite near us in
Maine--this is, years ago. Anyway,  what happened  was, one  day Bobby and I
were  going over  to Lake Sedebego on our bikes.  We  were going to take our
lunches and all, and  our BB guns--we were kids and  all, and  we thought we
could shoot something with our BB guns. Anyway, Allie heard us talking about
it, and he wanted to go, and I wouldn't let him. I told him he was  a child.
So once in a while, now, when I get very  depressed, I keep  saying  to him,
"Okay.  Go home and get  your bike  and meet me in front  of  Bobby's house.
Hurry up."  It  wasn't that I didn't  use  to take him  with me  when I went
somewhere.  I  did. But  that one day,  I didn't. He didn't  get  sore about
it--he never got sore about  anything-- but I keep thinking about it anyway,
when I get very depressed. Finally, though, I  got undressed and got in bed.
I felt like praying or something, when I was in bed, but I couldn't do it. I
can't always  pray  when I feel like it. In  the first place, I'm sort of an
atheist. I like Jesus and  all,  but I  don't care too much for  most of the
other stuff in the Bible. Take the Disciples, for  instance. They annoy  the
hell  out of me, if you  want to know the truth. They  were all right  after
Jesus was dead and  all, but while He was alive, they were about as much use
to Him as a hole in the head. All they did was keep letting Him down. I like
almost anybody in the Bible better than the Disciples.  If  you want to know
the truth, the guy I like best in the Bible, next to Jesus, was that lunatic
and all,  that lived in the tombs and  kept  cutting  himself with stones. I
like him  ten times as much as  the Disciples, that poor bastard. I  used to
get in quite  a few arguments about it, when I  was at Whooton  School, with
this boy that  lived  down  the corridor, Arthur  Childs. Old  Childs was  a
Quaker and all, and he read the Bible  all the time. He was a very nice kid,
and I liked him, but I could never see eye to eye with him on a lot of stuff
in  the Bible, especially the Disciples. He kept telling me if I didn't like
the Disciples, then I didn't like Jesus and all. He said that  because Jesus
picked  the  Disciples,  you  were supposed to like them. I said  I  knew He
picked them, but that He  picked  them at random. I said He didn't have time
to go around analyzing everybody. I said I wasn't blaming Jesus or anything.
It  wasn't  His  fault that  He didn't have any time. I remember I asked old
Childs if he thought  Judas, the one  that betrayed Jesus and  all, went  to
Hell after he committed suicide. Childs said certainly. That's exactly where
I disagreed with him. I said I'd bet a thousand bucks  that Jesus never sent
old Judas to  Hell. I still would, too, if I  had a thousand bucks.  I think
any one  of  the  Disciples would've  sent  him to  Hell and  all--and fast,
too--but I'll  bet anything  Jesus didn't do it. Old Childs said the trouble
with me was that I didn't go to church or anything. He was right about that,
in a way. I don't. In  the first place, my parents are  different religions,
and all the children in  our family  are atheists. If you  want to know  the
truth, I can't  even stand ministers. The ones  they've had at every  school
I've gone to, they all have  these Holy  Joe voices  when they  start giving
their sermons. God, I hate that. I don't see why the hell they can't talk in
their natural  voice. They sound so phony when they talk. Anyway, when I was
in  bed, I  couldn't pray  worth a  damn. Every time I got  started, I  kept
picturing  old Sunny calling me a crumb-bum. Finally,  I sat  up in  bed and
smoked another cigarette. It tasted lousy. I must've smoked around two packs
since  I left Pencey.  All of  a sudden, while I was  laying  there smoking,
somebody knocked on  the  door.  I  kept hoping it wasn't my door  they were
knocking on,  but  I knew damn well it  was. I don't  know how I knew, but I
knew.  I knew who it was,  too.  I'm  psychic. "Who's there?"  I said. I was
pretty scared. I'm  very yellow about those things. They just knocked again,
though.  Louder. Finally I  got  out of bed,  with  just my pajamas on,  and
opened the  door. I  didn't even  have to turn  the  light  on  in the room,
because it was  already daylight. Old Sunny and  Maurice, the pimpy elevator
guy, were standing there. "What's the matter? Wuddaya want?" I said. Boy, my
voice was  shaking like  hell.  "Nothin' much," old Maurice said. "Just five
bucks."  He did  all the talking for the two of them. Old  Sunny just  stood
there next to him, with her mouth open and all. "I paid  her already. I gave
her  five bucks.  Ask her,"  I said. Boy,  was  my  voice shaking. "It's ten
bucks, chief. I tole ya  that.  Ten bucks  for a throw,  fifteen bucks  till
noon.  I  tole ya that."  "You did not tell me  that.  You said five bucks a
throw. You said fifteen bucks  till noon, all right, but  I distinctly heard
you--" "Open up, chief." "What for?" I said. God, my old heart was damn near
beating me out of the room. I wished  I was dressed at  least. It's terrible
to be just  in your pajamas when something  like  that happens.  "Let's  go,
chief," old Maurice said. Then he gave  me a big shove with his crumby hand.
I damn near fell over on my can--he was a huge sonuvabitch. The next thing I
knew, he and old Sunny were both in the room. They acted like they owned the
damn place. Old Sunny sat  down on the window sill.  Old Maurice sat down in
the big chair and  loosened his collar and all--he was wearing this elevator
operator's uniform. Boy, was I nervous.  "All right, chief, let's have it. I
gotta get back  to work." "I  told you about ten times, I  don't owe  you  a
cent. I  already gave  her the five--" "Cut the crap,  now. Let's  have it."
"Why should  I give her  another five bucks?" I said. My voice  was cracking
all over the place. "You're trying to chisel me." Old Maurice unbuttoned his
whole  uniform coat. All he had on  underneath was a phony shirt collar, but
no shirt or anything. He had a big fat hairy stomach. "Nobody's tryna chisel
nobody," he said. "Let's have it, chief." "No." When  I said that, he got up
from his chair and started walking towards me and all. He looked like he was
very, very tired or very, very  bored. God,  was I scared. I sort of  had my
arms folded,  I  remember. It wouldn't have been so bad, I don't think, if I
hadn't had just my goddam pajamas on. "Let's have it, chief."  He came right
up to where I was standing. That's all he could say. "Let's have it, chief."
He was a real moron. "No." "Chief, you're gonna force me inna roughin' ya up
a  little bit. I don't wanna do it, but that's the way it looks,"  he  said.
"You owe us five bucks." "I don't owe you five bucks," I said. "If you rough
me up, I'll yell like hell. I'll  wake up everybody in the hotel. The police
and  all." My voice was shaking  like a bastard. "Go ahead. Yell your goddam
head off. Fine," old Maurice said. "Want your parents to know you spent  the
night  with a whore? High-class  kid like you?" He was pretty sharp,  in his
crumby way.  He  really  was.  "Leave me  alone. If  you'd said ten, it'd be
different.  But you distinctly--"  "Are  ya gonna let us have it?" He had me
right  up  against the damn door. He was almost standing on top of  me,  his
crumby old hairy stomach and all.  "Leave me alone.  Get the  hell out of my
room," I said. I still  had my arms folded and  all. God, what a jerk I was.
Then  Sunny said something for the first time. "Hey, Maurice. Want me to get
his wallet?" she said. "It's right  on the wutchamacallit." "Yeah,  get it."
"Leave my wallet alone!"  "I  awreddy  got it,"  Sunny  said. She waved five
bucks at me. "See? All I'm takin' is the five you owe me. I'm no crook." All
of a sudden I started to cry. I'd give anything if I hadn't, but I did. "No,
you're no  crooks,"  I  said.  "You're just stealing five--" "Shut up,"  old
Maurice said, and  gave  me  a  shove.  "Leave him alone,  hey," Sunny said.
"C'mon,  hey.  We got the  dough  he owes  us. Let's go.  C'mon, hey."  "I'm
comin'," old  Maurice said.  But he didn't. "I  mean it, Maurice, hey. Leave
him alone." "Who's hurtin' anybody?" he said, innocent as hell. Then what he
did, he snapped his finger very hard on my pajamas. I  won't tell  you where
he snapped it, but  it  hurt like hell.  I told  him  he  was a goddam dirty
moron. "What's that?" he said. He put his  hand behind his ear,  like a deaf
guy. "What's that? What am I?" I was still sort of crying. I was so damn mad
and  nervous and  all.  "You're a dirty  moron," I  said.  "You're  a stupid
chiseling moron, and in about two years you'll be one  of those scraggy guys
that come up to you on the street and ask for a dime for coffee. You'll have
snot  all over  your dirty filthy overcoat, and you'll be--" Then he smacked
me. I didn't even try to get  out of the way or duck or anything. All I felt
was  this terrific punch  in  my stomach. I wasn't knocked  out or anything,
though, because I remember looking up from the floor and seeing them both go
out  the door  and shut it. Then I stayed  on the  floor a fairly long time,
sort of  the way  I  did  with Stradlater. Only,  this time I thought  I was
dying. I really did. I thought I was drowning or something. The trouble was,
I  could  hardly  breathe.  When I did finally get up, I had to walk to  the
bathroom all doubled up and holding  onto my stomach and all. But I'm crazy.
I swear  to  God  I am.  About halfway to  the bathroom,  I  sort of started
pretending I had a bullet in my guts. Old 'Maurice had plugged me. Now I was
on the way  to the bathroom  to get  a good  shot of bourbon or something to
steady my nerves and help me really go into action. I pictured myself coming
out of the goddam bathroom, dressed and all, with my automatic in my pocket,
and staggering  around  a  little bit. Then I'd walk downstairs, instead  of
using  the elevator.  I'd  hold onto  the banister and  all, with this blood
trickling out of  the side of my mouth a little at a time. What  I'd do, I'd
walk  down  a  few floors--holding  onto my guts, blood leaking all over the
place-- and then I'd  ring  the elevator bell. As soon as old Maurice opened
the  doors,  he'd  see  me  with  the automatic  in my hand  and  he'd start
screaming at me, in this very high-pitched, yellow-belly voice, to leave him
alone. But I'd plug him anyway. Six shots right through his fat hairy belly.
Then I'd throw my automatic down the elevator shaft--after I'd wiped off all
the finger  prints and all. Then I'd crawl back to my  room and call up Jane
and  have  her come over and  bandage up  my guts. I pictured  her holding a
cigarette for me  to smoke while I was bleeding and all.  The goddam movies.
They can ruin you. I'm not kidding.  I stayed in  the bathroom  for about an
hour, taking  a bath and all.  Then  I got back in bed. It took me  quite  a
while to get to sleep--I wasn't even tired--but finally I did. What I really
felt  like, though,  was committing  suicide. I  felt like  jumping out  the
window.  I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover
me up as soon  as  I landed. I didn't  want a  bunch of  stupid  rubbernecks
looking at me when I was all gory.
     15
     I didn't sleep too long, because I think it was only around ten o'clock
when I  woke up. I felt pretty hungry as soon as I had a cigarette. The last
time I'd eaten  was those two hamburgers I had with Brossard and Ackley when
we went  in to Agerstown to the movies. That was  a long time ago. It seemed
like fifty years ago. The phone was right next to me, and  I started to call
down and have  them send up  some breakfast,  but I was sort  of afraid they
might send it up with  old  Maurice. If  you  think  I was dying to see  him
again, you're  crazy.  So I just laid around in bed  for a  while and smoked
another cigarette. I thought  of giving  old Jane a buzz, to see if she  was
home yet and all, but I wasn't in the mood. What I did do, I  gave old Sally
Hayes a buzz. She went to  Mary A. Woodruff, and I knew she was home because
I'd had this letter from her a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't too crazy about
her, but I'd known her for years. I used to think she was quite intelligent,
in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she knew quite a lot about the
theater and plays and literature and all that stuff. If somebody knows quite
a lot about  those  things, it takes you quite a while to  find  out whether
they're really  stupid or not. It took  me  years  to find  it  out,  in old
Sally's case. I think I'd have found it out a lot sooner if we hadn't necked
so damn much. My big trouble is, I always sort of think whoever I'm  necking
is a pretty intelligent  person. It hasn't got a goddam thing to do with it,
but I keep  thinking it anyway. Anyway, I gave  her  a buzz. First  the maid
answered. Then her father.  Then she got on. "Sally?" I  said. "Yes--who  is
this?" she said. She  was quite a  little phony. I'd already told her father
who it was. "Holden Caulfield. How are ya?" "Holden! I'm fine! How are you?"
"Swell. Listen. How are ya, anyway? I mean how's school?" "Fine," she  said.
"I mean--you know." "Swell. Well,  listen. I was wondering if  you were busy
today. It's Sunday, but there's always one or two matinees going on  Sunday.
Benefits and that stuff. Would you care to go?" "I'd love to. Grand." Grand.
If there's one word I hate, it's  grand. It's so phony. For a second,  I was
tempted to tell her to forget about the matinee. But we chewed the fat for a
while. That is, she chewed  it. You couldn't get a word  in  edgewise. First
she  told  me about  some Harvard guy-- it probably was a  freshman, but she
didn't say,  naturally--that  was rushing hell out  of  her. Calling her  up
night  and day. Night and day--that killed me.  Then she told  me about some
other guy, some West Point cadet, that  was cutting his throat over her too.
Big  deal.  I  told her to meet me  under the clock  at  the Biltmore at two
o'clock,  and  not  to  be  late,  because  the  show  probably  started  at
two-thirty. She was always late. Then I hung up.  She gave me a pain  in the
ass, but she was very good-looking. After I made the date with old Sally,  I
got out  of  bed and got dressed  and  packed my bag. I took a  look out the
window before I  left  the  room, though, to  see how all  the perverts were
doing, but they all had their  shades down. They were the heighth of modesty
in  the morning. Then I went down in the  elevator and checked out. I didn't
see old  Maurice  around  anywhere.  I didn't break my neck looking for him,
naturally, the bastard. I got a cab outside the hotel, but I didn't have the
faintest damn idea where  I was going.  I had  no place  to go. It  was only
Sunday, and I couldn't go home till Wednesday--or Tuesday the soonest. And I
certainly didn't feel like going to another hotel and getting my brains beat
out.  So what I did, I told the driver to take me  to Grand Central Station.
It  was  right  near the Biltmore,  where  I was  meeting Sally later, and I
figured what I'd do, I'd check my  bags in one  of  those strong boxes  that
they give you a key to, then get some breakfast. I was sort of hungry. While
I was in the cab, I took out my wallet and sort of counted my money. I don't
remember exactly  what I had  left, but it was  no fortune or  anything. I'd
spent a king's ransom  in about two lousy weeks.  I really had. I'm a goddam
spendthrift at heart. What I don't  spend, I lose.  Half the  time I sort of
even forget to pick up my change, at restaurants and night clubs and all. It
drives my  parents  crazy. You can't blame them. My father's  quite wealthy,
though. I don't know how much he makes--he's never discussed that stuff with
me--but I imagine quite a lot.  He's a corporation lawyer. Those boys really
haul it in. Another reason I know he's quite well off, he's always investing
money in  shows on  Broadway.  They always  flop,  though, and it drives  my
mother crazy when he does it.  She hasn't  felt too healthy since my brother
Allie died. She's very nervous. That's another reason  why I hated like hell
for her to  know I got the ax  again.  After I put my bags  in one  of those
strong boxes at the station, I went into this  little sandwich  bar and  bad
breakfast. I had  quite a large breakfast, for  me--orange  juice, bacon and
eggs,  toast and coffee. Usually I just drink some orange juice.  I'm a very
light eater. I really am.  That's  why I'm so damn skinny. I was supposed to
be on this diet where you eat a lot of starches and crap, to gain weight and
all, but I didn't ever do it. When I'm out somewhere, I generally just eat a
Swiss cheese sandwich and a  malted milk. It isn't much, but you get quite a
lot  of  vitamins  in  the  malted  milk.  H. V.  Caulfield.  Holden Vitamin
Caulfield. While  I was eating my  eggs, these two  nuns with  suitcases and
all--I  guessed  they were moving  to  another convent or something and were
waiting  for a train--came  in and sat down  next to me at the counter. They
didn't seem to know what the hell to do with their suitcases, so I gave them
a hand. They were these  very  inexpensive-looking  suitcases--the ones that
aren't genuine leather or anything.  It isn't important,  I know, but I hate
it when somebody has cheap suitcases.  It sounds terrible to say  it, but  I
can  even  get to hate  somebody, just looking  at  them, if they have cheap
suitcases  with  them. Something happened once. For a while  when I  was  at
Elkton Hills, I  roomed with this boy,  Dick  Slagle, that  had  these  very
inexpensive suitcases. He used to keep them under the bed, instead of on the
rack, so that nobody'd  see them  standing  next to mine.  It depressed holy
hell  out of me, and I kept wanting to throw  mine out or something, or even
trade with him. Mine came from Mark Cross, and they were genuine cowhide and
all  that crap, and I  guess they cost  quite a  pretty penny. But it was  a
funny  thing. Here's  what happened.  What I did, I finally put my suitcases
under my bed, instead  of on the rack, so  that  old Slagle wouldn't  get  a
goddam inferiority complex about it. But here's what he did. The day after I
put mine under my  bed, he took them out and put them back  on the rack. The
reason  he did it, it took me  a  while to find  out, was  because he wanted
people  to think my bags were his.  He  really did. He was a very funny guy,
that way. He was always  saying snotty things about them, my suitcases,  for
instance.  He kept saying  they  were  too new  and bourgeois.  That was his
favorite goddam word. He read it somewhere or heard it somewhere. Everything
I had was bourgeois as hell. Even my fountain pen was bourgeois. He borrowed
it off me all the time, but it was bourgeois anyway. We only roomed together
about two months. Then we both asked to be moved. And the funny thing was, I
sort of missed him after we moved, because  he had a  helluva good sense  of
humor and we  had a lot  of  fun sometimes. I  wouldn't be surprised  if  he
missed me, too. At first he only used to be kidding when he called my  stuff
bourgeois,  and I didn't  give a damn--it was  sort of funny, in fact. Then,
after a while, you could tell he wasn't kidding any more. The thing is, it's
really hard  to be roommates with people if your suitcases  are much  better
than theirs--if yours are really good  ones and  theirs aren't. You think if
they're  intelligent  and  all, the other person, and have a good  sense  of
humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are  better, but they do.
They really do. It's one of the reasons why  I  roomed with a stupid bastard
like  Stradlater. At least his suitcases were as good as mine. Anyway, these
two nuns were sitting next to me,  and we sort  of struck up a conversation.
The one right next  to me  had one of those straw  baskets that you see nuns
and  Salvation Army babes collecting dough  with around Christmas  time. You
see them standing on corners,  especially on Fifth  Avenue, in  front of the
big department stores and all. Anyway,  the one next  to me dropped hers  on
the floor and I reached down and picked  it up for  her. I asked her  if she
was out collecting  money for  charity and all.  She  said no. She said  she
couldn't get it in her suitcase  when  she was  packing it  and she was just
carrying  it. She had  a pretty nice smile when she looked at you. She had a
big nose,  and she had on those glasses  with sort of iron  rims that aren't
too attractive,  but  she  had  a helluva kind face.  "I thought if you were
taking up a collection," I told her, "I could make a small contribution. You
could keep the money for  when you do  take up a collection." "Oh, how  very
kind of  you," she said, and the other one, her friend, looked  over  at me.
The other one was reading a little black book while she drank her coffee. It
looked  like  a Bible,  but  it was too skinny. It  was  a  Bible-type book,
though. All the two of  them were eating for breakfast was toast and coffee.
That depressed  me. I hate it if I'm eating bacon and eggs or something  and
somebody  else is only eating toast and coffee. They  let me  give  them ten
bucks as a contribution. They kept asking me if I was sure I could afford it
and all.  I told them  I had quite a bit of money with me, but  they  didn't
seem to believe me.  They  took it, though,  finally. The both  of them kept
thanking me so much it was embarrassing. I swung the conversation  around to
general topics  and asked them  where they were  going. They said they  were
schoolteachers and that  they'd just  come from  Chicago and that they  were
going to start teaching at some convent  on 168th Street  or 186th Street or
one of those streets way the  hell uptown. The one next to me, with the iron
glasses, said she taught English  and her friend taught history and American
government. Then  I  started wondering like a  bastard what the one  sitting
next to me, that  taught English, thought about, being a nun  and all,  when
she read certain books for English. Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy
stuff in them, but books with lovers and all in them. Take old Eustacia Vye,
in  The  Return of  the  Native by  Thomas  Hardy. She  wasn't  too sexy  or
anything, but even so you can't help wondering what a nun maybe thinks about
when she reads about old Eustacia. I didn't say anything, though, naturally.
All  I said was English was my best subject. "Oh, really? Oh, I'm so  glad!"
the one with the  glasses, that taught English,  said. "What  have you  read
this year? I'd be very interested to know." She was really nice. "Well, most
of the time  we were on the Anglo-Saxons. Beowulf, and old Grendel, and Lord
Randal My  Son, and all those things. But we had to read  outside  books for
extra  credit  once in a while. I read The Return  of the  Native by  Thomas
Hardy, and Romeo and Juliet and  Julius--"  "Oh,  Romeo and  Juliet! Lovely!
Didn't you just love it?"  She certainly didn't sound much like a nun. "Yes.
I did. I liked it a lot. There were a few things I didn't like about it, but
it was quite moving, on the whole." "What didn't you like about it? Can  you
remember?" To  tell you the truth, it was sort of embarrassing, in a way, to
be talking about Romeo  and Juliet with her. I  mean  that play  gets pretty
sexy  in  some parts, and she was a nun  and  all, but she  asked  me,  so I
discussed it with her for  a while. "Well, I'm not too crazy about Romeo and
Juliet,"  I said. "I mean I like them,  but--I don't know.  They get  pretty
annoying sometimes. I mean I felt much  sorrier when old Mercutio got killed
than  when Romeo and Juliet did. The think is, I never liked Romeo  too much
after Mercutio gets stabbed by that  other  man--Juliet's cousin--what's his
name?" "Tybalt." "That's right. Tybalt," I said--I  always forget that guy's
name. "It  was Romeo's fault. I  mean I liked him the best in  the play, old
Mercutio.  I  don't  know. All those  Montagues  and Capulets,  they're  all
right--especially Juliet--but Mercutio, he was--it's hard to explain. He was
very smart  and entertaining and  all. The thing is, it  drives me crazy  if
somebody gets killed--  especially somebody  very smart and entertaining and
all--and it's somebody else's fault. Romeo and Juliet, at least it was their
own fault." "What school do you go to?" she asked me. She probably wanted to
get off the subject of Romeo and  Juliet. I told her Pencey, and she'd heard
of it. She said it was  a  very good school. I let it pass, though. Then the
other one, the one that taught history and government, said they'd better be
running along. I took their check off them, but they wouldn't let me pay it.
The one with the glasses made me give it back to her. "You've been more than
generous," she said. "You're a very sweet  boy." She certainly was nice. She
reminded me a little bit of old Ernest Morrow's mother, the one I met on the
train. When sh