Джером Д.Сэлинджер. Над пропастью во ржи (engl)
J.D.Salinger. The catcher in the rye
Origin: Библиотека "Артефакт" -- http://andrey.tsx.org/
TO MY MOTHER
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably
want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was like, and
how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David
Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want
to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the
second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told
anything pretty personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything
like that, especially my father. They're nice and all--I'm not saying
that--but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my
whole goddam autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman
stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty
run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that's all I told
D. B. about, and he's my brother and all. He's in Hollywood. That isn't too
far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically
every week end. He's going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe.
He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around
two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He's
got a lot of dough, now. He didn't use to. He used to be just a regular
writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The
Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was "The
Secret Goldfish." It was about this little kid that wouldn't let anybody
look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money. It killed
me. Now he's out in Hollywood, D. B., being a prostitute. If there's one
thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me. Where I want
to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is this school
that's in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You've probably
seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always
showing some hotshot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you
ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse
anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse's picture, it
always says: "Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid,
clear-thinking young men." Strictly for the birds. They don't do any damn
more molding at Pencey than they do at any other school. And I didn't know
anybody there that was splendid and clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys.
If that many. And they probably came to Pencey that way. Anyway, it was the
Saturday of the football game with Saxon Hall. The game with Saxon Hall was
supposed to be a very big deal around Pencey. It was the last game of the
year, and you were supposed to commit suicide or something if old Pencey
didn't win. I remember around three o'clock that afternoon I was standing
way the hell up on top of Thomsen Hill, right next to this crazy cannon that
was in the Revolutionary War and all. You could see the whole field from
there, and you could see the two teams bashing each other all over the
place. You couldn't see the grandstand too hot, but you could hear them all
yelling, deep and terrific on the Pencey side, because practically the whole
school except me was there, and scrawny and faggy on the Saxon Hall side,
because the visiting team hardly ever brought many people with them. There
were never many girls at all at the football games. Only seniors were
allowed to bring girls with them. It was a terrible school, no matter how
you looked at it. I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few
girls around once in a while, even if they're only scratching their arms or
blowing their noses or even just giggling or something. Old Selma
Thurmer--she was the headmaster's daughter--showed up at the games quite
often, but she wasn't exactly the type that drove you mad with desire. She
was a pretty nice girl, though. I sat next to her once in the bus from
Agerstown and we sort of struck up a conversation. I liked her. She had a
big nose and her nails were all bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had
on those damn falsies that point all over the place, but you felt sort of
sorry for her. What I liked about her, she didn't give you a lot of horse
manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony
slob he was. The reason I was standing way up on Thomsen Hill, instead of
down at the game, was because I'd just got back from New York with the
fencing team. I was the goddam manager of the fencing team. Very big deal.
We'd gone in to New York that morning for this fencing meet with McBurney
School. Only, we didn't have the meet. I left all the foils and equipment
and stuff on the goddam subway. It wasn't all my fault. I had to keep
getting up to look at this map, so we'd know where to get off. So we got
back to Pencey around two-thirty instead of around dinnertime. The whole
team ostracized me the whole way back on the train. It was pretty funny, in
a way. The other reason I wasn't down at the game was because I was on my
way to say good-by to old Spencer, my history teacher. He had the grippe,
and I figured I probably wouldn't see him again till Christmas vacation
started. He wrote me this note saying he wanted to see me before I went
home. He knew I wasn't coming back to Pencey. I forgot to tell you about
that. They kicked me out. I wasn't supposed to come back after Christmas
vacation on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying myself
and all. They gave me frequent warning to start applying myself--especially
around midterms, when my parents came up for a conference with old
Thurmer--but I didn't do it. So I got the ax. They give guys the ax quite
frequently at Pencey. It has a very good academic rating, Pencey. It really
does. Anyway, it was December and all, and it was cold as a witch's teat,
especially on top of that stupid hill. I only had on my reversible and no
gloves or anything. The week before that, somebody'd stolen my camel's-hair
coat right out of my room, with my fur-lined gloves right in the pocket and
all. Pencey was full of crooks. Quite a few guys came from these very
wealthy families, but it was full of crooks anyway. The more expensive a
school is, the more crooks it has--I'm not kidding. Anyway, I kept standing
next to that crazy cannon, looking down at the game and freezing my ass off.
Only, I wasn't watching the game too much. What I was really hanging around
for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools
and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care
if it's a sad good-by or a bad goodby, but when I leave a place I like to
know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse. I was lucky. All of
a sudden I thought of something that helped make me know I was getting the
hell out. I suddenly remembered this time, in around October, that I and
Robert Tichener and Paul Campbell were chucking a football around, in front
of the academic building. They were nice guys, especially Tichener. It was
just before dinner and it was getting pretty dark out, but we kept chucking
the ball around anyway. It kept getting darker and darker, and we could
hardly see the ball any more, but we didn't want to stop doing what we were
doing. Finally we had to. This teacher that taught biology, Mr. Zambesi,
stuck his head out of this window in the academic building and told us to go
back to the dorm and get ready for dinner. If I get a chance to remember
that kind of stuff, I can get a good-by when I need one--at least, most of
the time I can. As soon as I got it, I turned around and started running
down the other side of the hill, toward old Spencer's house. He didn't live
on the campus. He lived on Anthony Wayne Avenue. I ran all the way to the
main gate, and then I waited a second till I got my breath. I have no wind,
if you want to know the truth. I'm quite a heavy smoker, for one thing--that
is, I used to be. They made me cut it out. Another thing, I grew six and a
half inches last year. That's also how I practically got t. b. and came out
here for all these goddam checkups and stuff. I'm pretty healthy, though.
Anyway, as soon as I got my breath back I ran across Route 204. It was icy
as hell and I damn near fell down. I don't even know what I was running
for--I guess I just felt like it. After I got across the road, I felt like I
was sort of disappearing. It was that kind of a crazy afternoon,
terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were
disappearing every time you crossed a road. Boy, I rang that doorbell fast
when I got to old Spencer's house. I was really frozen. My ears were hurting
and I could hardly move my fingers at all. "C'mon, c'mon," I said right out
loud, almost, "somebody open the door." Finally old Mrs. Spencer opened. it.
They didn't have a maid or anything, and they always opened the door
themselves. They didn't have too much dough. "Holden!" Mrs. Spencer said.
"How lovely to see you! Come in, dear! Are you frozen to death?" I think she
was glad to see me. She liked me. At least, I think she did. Boy, did I get
in that house fast. "How are you, Mrs. Spencer?" I said. "How's Mr.
Spencer?" "Let me take your coat, dear," she said. She didn't hear me ask
her how Mr. Spencer was. She was sort of deaf. She hung up my coat in the
hall closet, and I sort of brushed my hair back with my hand. I wear a crew
cut quite frequently and I never have to comb it much. "How've you been,
Mrs. Spencer?" I said again, only louder, so she'd hear me. "I've been just
fine, Holden." She closed the closet door. "How have you been?" The way she
asked me, I knew right away old Spencer'd told her I'd been kicked out.
"Fine," I said. "How's Mr. Spencer? He over his grippe yet?" "Over it!
Holden, he's behaving like a perfect--I don't know what... He's in his room,
dear. Go right in."
2
They each had their own room and all. They were both around seventy
years old, or even more than that. They got a bang out of things, though--in
a haif-assed way, of course. I know that sounds mean to say, but I don't
mean it mean. I just mean that I used to think about old Spencer quite a
lot, and if you thought about him too much, you wondered what the heck he
was still living for. I mean he was all stooped over, and he had very
terrible posture, and in class, whenever he dropped a piece of chalk at the
blackboard, some guy in the first row always had to get up and pick it up
and hand it to him. That's awful, in my opinion. But if you thought about
him just enough and not too much, you could figure it out that he wasn't
doing too bad for himself. For instance, one Sunday when some other guys and
I were over there for hot chocolate, he showed us this old beat-up Navajo
blanket that he and Mrs. Spencer'd bought off some Indian in Yellowstone
Park. You could tell old Spencer'd got a big bang out of buying it. That's
what I mean. You take somebody old as hell, like old Spencer, and they can
get a big bang out of buying a blanket. His door was open, but I sort of
knocked on it anyway, just to be polite and all. I could see where he was
sitting. He was sitting in a big leather chair, all wrapped up in that
blanket I just told you about. He looked over at me when I knocked. "Who's
that?" he yelled. "Caulfield? Come in, boy." He was always yelling, outside
class. It got on your nerves sometimes. The minute I went in, I was sort of
sorry I'd come. He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were pills
and medicine all over the place, and everything smelled like Vicks Nose
Drops. It was pretty depressing. I'm not too crazy about sick people,
anyway. What made it even more depressing, old Spencer had on this very sad,
ratty old bathrobe that he was probably born in or something. I don't much
like to see old guys in their pajamas and bathrobes anyway. Their bumpy old
chests are always showing. And their legs. Old guys' legs, at beaches and
places, always look so white and unhairy. "Hello, sir," I said. "I got your
note. Thanks a lot." He'd written me this note asking me to stop by and say
good-by before vacation started, on account of I wasn't coming back. "You
didn't have to do all that. I'd have come over to say good-by anyway." "Have
a seat there, boy," old Spencer said. He meant the bed. I sat down on it.
"How's your grippe, sir?" "M'boy, if I felt any better I'd have to send for
the doctor," old Spencer said. That knocked him out. He started chuckling
like a madman. Then he finally straightened himself out and said, "Why
aren't you down at the game? I thought this was the day of the big game."
"It is. I was. Only, I just got back from New York with the fencing team," I
said. Boy, his bed was like a rock. He started getting serious as hell. I
knew he would. "So you're leaving us, eh?" he said. "Yes, sir. I guess I
am." He started going into this nodding routine. You never saw anybody nod
as much in your life as old Spencer did. You never knew if he was nodding a
lot because he was thinking and all, or just because he was a nice old guy
that didn't know his ass from his elbow. "What did Dr. Thurmer say to you,
boy? I understand you had quite a little chat." "Yes, we did. We really did.
I was in his office for around two hours, I guess." "What'd he say to you?"
"Oh... well, about Life being a game and all. And how you should play it
according to the rules. He was pretty nice about it. I mean he didn't hit
the ceiling or anything. He just kept talking about Life being a game and
all. You know." "Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays
according to the rules." "Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it." Game, my ass.
Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it's a
game, all right--I'll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where
there aren't any hot-shots, then what's a game about it? Nothing. No game.
"Has Dr. Thurmer written to your parents yet?" old Spencer asked me. "He
said he was going to write them Monday." "Have you yourself communicated
with them?" "No, sir, I haven't communicated with them, because I'll
probably see them Wednesday night when I get home." "And how do you think
they'll take the news?" "Well... they'll be pretty irritated about it," I
said. "They really will. This is about the fourth school I've gone to." I
shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. "Boy!" I said. I also say "Boy!"
quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I
act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen
now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. It's really ironical,
because I'm six foot two and a half and I have gray hair. I really do. The
one side of my head--the right side--is full of millions of gray hairs. I've
had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act sometimes like I was
only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It's partly
true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.
I don't give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me
to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am--I really do--but
people never notice it. People never notice anything. Old Spencer started
nodding again. He also started picking his nose. He made out like he was
only pinching it, but he was really getting the old thumb right in there. I
guess he thought it was all right to do because it was only me that was in
the room. I didn't care, except that it's pretty disgusting to watch
somebody pick their nose. Then he said, "I had the privilege of meeting your
mother and dad when they had their little chat with Dr. Thurmer some weeks
ago. They're grand people." "Yes, they are. They're very nice." Grand.
There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear
it. Then all of a sudden old Spencer looked like he had something very good,
something sharp as a tack, to say to me. He sat up more in his chair and
sort of moved around. It was a false alarm, though. All he did was lift the
Atlantic Monthly off his lap and try to chuck it on the bed, next to me. He
missed. It was only about two inches away, but he missed anyway. I got up
and picked it up and put it down on the bed. All of a sudden then, I wanted
to get the hell out of the room. I could feel a terrific lecture coming on.
I didn't mind the idea so much, but I didn't feel like being lectured to and
smell Vicks Nose Drops and look at old Spencer in his pajamas and bathrobe
all at the same time. I really didn't. It started, all right. "What's the
matter with you, boy?" old Spencer said. He said it pretty tough, too, for
him. "How many subjects did you carry this term?" "Five, sir." "Five. And
how many are you failing in?" "Four." I moved my ass a little bit on the
bed. It was the hardest bed I ever sat on. "I passed English all right," I
said, "because I had all that Beowulf and Lord Randal My Son stuff when I
was at the Whooton School. I mean I didn't have to do any work in English at
all hardly, except write compositions once in a while." He wasn't even
listening. He hardly ever listened to you when you said something. "I
flunked you in history because you knew absolutely nothing." "I know that,
sir. Boy, I know it. You couldn't help it." "Absolutely nothing," he said
over again. That's something that drives me crazy. When people say something
twice that way, after you admit it the first time. Then he said it three
times. "But absolutely nothing. I doubt very much if you opened your
textbook even once the whole term. Did you? Tell the truth, boy." "Well, I
sort of glanced through it a couple of times," I told him. I didn't want to
hurt his feelings. He was mad about history. "You glanced through it, eh?"
he said--very sarcastic. "Your, ah, exam paper is over there on top of my
chiffonier. On top of the pile. Bring it here, please." It was a very dirty
trick, but I went over and brought it over to him--I didn't have any
alternative or anything. Then I sat down on his cement bed again. Boy, you
can't imagine how sorry I was getting that I'd stopped by to say good-by to
him. He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something. "We
studied the Egyptians from November 4th to December 2nd," he said. "You
chose to write about them for the optional essay question. Would you care to
hear what you had to say?" "No, sir, not very much," I said. He read it
anyway, though. You can't stop a teacher when they want to do something.
They just do it.
The Egyptians were an ancient race of Caucasians residing in one of the
northern sections of Africa. The latter as we all know is the largest
continent in the Eastern Hemisphere.
I had to sit there and listen to that crap. It certainly was a dirty
trick.
The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for various
reasons. Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients
were that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people so that their
faces would not rot for innumerable centuries. This interesting riddle is
still quite a challenge to modern science in the twentieth century.
He stopped reading and put my paper down. I was beginning to sort of
hate him. "Your essay, shall we say, ends there," he said in this very
sarcastic voice. You wouldn't think such an old guy would be so sarcastic
and all. "However, you dropped me a little note, at the bottom of the page,"
he said. "I know I did," I said. I said it very fast because I wanted to
stop him before he started reading that out loud. But you couldn't stop him.
He was hot as a firecracker.
DEAR MR. SPENCER [he read out loud]. That is all I know about the
Egyptians. I can't seem to get very interested in them although your
lectures are very interesting. It is all right with me if you flunk me
though as I am flunking everything else except English anyway. Respectfully
yours, HOLDEN CAULFIELD.
He put my goddam paper down then and looked at me like he'd just beaten
hell out of me in ping-pong or something. I don't think I'll ever forgive
him for reading me that crap out loud. I wouldn't've read it out loud to him
if he'd written it--I really wouldn't. In the first place, I'd only written
that damn note so that he wouldn't feel too bad about flunking me. "Do you
blame me for flunking you, boy?" he said. "No, sir! I certainly don't," I
said. I wished to hell he'd stop calling me "boy" all the time. He tried
chucking my exam paper on the bed when he was through with it. Only, he
missed again, naturally. I had to get up again and pick it up and put it on
top of the Atlantic Monthly. It's boring to do that every two minutes. "What
would you have done in my place?" he said. "Tell the truth, boy." Well, you
could see he really felt pretty lousy about flunking me. So I shot the bull
for a while. I told him I was a real moron, and all that stuff. I told him
how I would've done exactly the same thing if I'd been in his place, and how
most people didn't appreciate how tough it is being a teacher. That kind of
stuff. The old bull. The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of
something else while I shot the bull. I live in New York, and I was thinking
about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was
wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where
did the ducks go. I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got
all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took
them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away. I'm lucky,
though. I mean I could shoot the old bull to old Spencer and think about
those ducks at the same time. It's funny. You don't have to think too hard
when you talk to a teacher. All of a sudden, though, he interrupted me while
I was shooting the bull. He was always interrupting you. "How do you feel
about all this, boy? I'd be very interested to know. Very interested." "You
mean about my flunking out of Pencey and all?" I said. I sort of wished he'd
cover up his bumpy chest. It wasn't such a beautiful view. "If I'm not
mistaken, I believe you also had some difficulty at the Whooton School and
at Elkton Hills." He didn't say it just sarcastic, but sort of nasty, too.
"I didn't have too much difficulty at Elkton Hills," I told him. "I didn't
exactly flunk out or anything. I just quit, sort of." "Why, may I ask?"
"Why? Oh, well it's a long story, sir. I mean it's pretty complicated." I
didn't feel like going into the whole thing with him. He wouldn't have
understood it anyway. It wasn't up his alley at all. One of the biggest
reasons I left Elkton Hills was because I was surrounded by phonies. That's
all. They were coming in the goddam window. For instance, they had this
headmaster, Mr. Haas, that was the phoniest bastard I ever met in my life.
Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for instance, old Haas went
around shaking hands with everybody's parents when they drove up to school.
He'd be charming as hell and all. Except if some boy had little old
funny-looking parents. You should've seen the way he did with my roommate's
parents. I mean if a boy's mother was sort of fat or corny-looking or
something, and if somebody's father was one of those guys that wear those
suits with very big shoulders and corny black-and-white shoes, then old Hans
would just shake hands with them and give them a phony smile and then he'd
go talk, for maybe a half an hour, with somebody else's parents. I can't
stand that stuff. It drives me crazy. It makes me so depressed I go crazy. I
hated that goddam Elkton Hills. Old Spencer asked me something then, but I
didn't hear him. I was thinking about old Haas. "What, sir?" I said. "Do you
have any particular qualms about leaving Pencey?" "Oh, I have a few qualms,
all right. Sure... but not too many. Not yet, anyway. I guess it hasn't
really hit me yet. It takes things a while to hit me. All I'm doing right
now is thinking about going home Wednesday. I'm a moron." "Do you feel
absolutely no concern for your future, boy?" "Oh, I feel some concern for my
future, all right. Sure. Sure, I do." I thought about it for a minute. "But
not too much, I guess. Not too much, I guess." "You will," old Spencer said.
"You will, boy. You will when it's too late." I didn't like hearing him say
that. It made me sound dead or something. It was very depressing. "I guess I
will," I said. "I'd like to put some sense in that head of yours, boy. I'm
trying to help you. I'm trying to help you, if I can." He really was, too.
You could see that. But it was just that we were too much on opposite sides
ot the pole, that's all. "I know you are, sir," I said. "Thanks a lot. No
kidding. I appreciate it. I really do." I got up from the bed then. Boy, I
couldn't've sat there another ten minutes to save my life. "The thing is,
though, I have to get going now. I have quite a bit of equipment at the gym
I have to get to take home with me. I really do." He looked up at me and
started nodding again, with this very serious look on his face. I felt sorry
as hell for him, all of a sudden. But I just couldn't hang around there any
longer, the way we were on opposite sides of the pole, and the way he kept
missing the bed whenever he chucked something at it, and his sad old
bathrobe with his chest showing, and that grippy smell of Vicks Nose Drops
all over the place. "Look, sir. Don't worry about me," I said. "I mean it.
I'll be all right. I'm just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes
through phases and all, don't they?" "I don't know, boy. I don't know." I
hate it when somebody answers that way. "Sure. Sure, they do," I said. "I
mean it, sir. Please don't worry about me." I sort of put my hand on his
shoulder. "Okay?" I said. "Wouldn't you like a cup of hot chocolate before
you go? Mrs. Spencer would be--" "I would, I really would, but the thing is,
I have to get going. I have to go right to the gym. Thanks, though. Thanks a
lot, sir." Then we shook hands. And all that crap. It made me feel sad as
hell, though. "I'll drop you a line, sir. Take care of your grippe, now."
"Good-by, boy." After I shut the door and started back to the living room,
he yelled something at me, but I couldn't exactly hear him. I'm pretty sure
he yelled "Good luck!" at me, I hope to hell not. I'd never yell "Good
luck!" at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.
3
I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If
I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me
where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible. So
when I told old Spencer I had to go to the gym and get my equipment and
stuff, that was a sheer lie. I don't even keep my goddam equipment in the
gym. Where I lived at Pencey, I lived in the Ossenburger Memorial Wing of
the new dorms. It was only for juniors and seniors. I was a junior. My
roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to
Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out
of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the
country that you could get members of your family buried for about five
bucks apiece. You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them
in a sack and dumps them in the river. Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of
dough, and they named our wing alter him. The first football game of the
year, he came up to school in this big goddam Cadillac, and we all had to
stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive--that's a cheer. Then,
the next morning, in chapel, be made a speech that lasted about ten hours.
He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular
guy he was. Very big deal. Then he started telling us how he was never
ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down
his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God--talk to
Him and all--wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our
buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was
driving his car. That killed me. I just see the big phony bastard shifting
into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs. The only
good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all
about what a swell guy he was, what a hot-shot and all, then all of a sudden
this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this
terrific fart. It was a very crude thing to do, in chapel and all, but it
was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla. He damn near blew the roof off. Hardly
anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like he didn't even
hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on
the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it. Boy, was he sore. He
didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory
study hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He
said that the boy that had created the disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to
go to Pencey. We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off another one, right
while old Thurmer was making his speech, but be wasn't in the right mood.
Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in
the new dorms. It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old
Spencer, because everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our
room, for a change. It felt sort of cosy. I took off my coat and my tie and
unbuttoned my shirt collar; and then I put on this hat that I'd bought in
New York that morning. It was this red hunting hat, with one of those very,
very long peaks. I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out
of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only
cost me a buck. The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the
back--very corny, I'll admit, but I liked it that way. I looked good in it
that way. Then I got this book I was reading and sat down in my chair. There
were two chairs in every room. I had one and my roommate, Ward Stradlater,
had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody was always sitting on
them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs. The book I was reading was
this book I took out of the library by mistake. They gave me the wrong book,
and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me Out of
Africa, by Isak Dinesen. I thought it was going to stink, but it didn't. It
was a very good book. I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite
author is my brother D. B., and my next favorite is Ring Lardner. My brother
gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my birthday, just before I went to
Pencey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one
story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's
always speeding. Only, he's married, the cop, so be can't marry her or
anything. Then this girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That
story just about killed me. What I like best is a book that's at least funny
once in a while. I read a lot of classical books, like The Return of the
Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries
and all, but they don't knock me out too much. What really knocks me out is
a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote
it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone
whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind
calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D. B. told me
he's dead. You take that book Of Human Bondage, by Somerset Maugham, though.
I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn't want
to call Somerset Maugham up. I don't know, He just isn't the kind of guy I'd
want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like
that Eustacia Vye. Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started
reading that book Out of Africa. I'd read it already, but I wanted to read
certain parts over again. I'd only read about three pages, though, when I
heard somebody coming through the shower curtains. Even without looking up,
I knew right away who it was. It was Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed
right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our
wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me. He was
probably the only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn't down at the
game. He hardly ever went anywhere. He was a very peculiar guy. He was a
senior, and he'd been at Pencey the whole four years and all, but nobody
ever called him anything except "Ackley." Not even Herb Gale, his own
roommate, ever called him "Bob" or even "Ack." If he ever gets married, his
own wife'll probably call him "Ackley." He was one of these very, very tall,
round-shouldered guys--he was about six four--with lousy teeth. The whole
time he roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They
always looked mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him
in the dining room with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or
something. Besides that, he had a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead
or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole face. And not only that,
he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy. I wasn't too
crazy about him, to tell you the truth. I could feel him standing on the
shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a look to see if Stradlater was
around. He hated Stradlater's guts and he never came in the room if
Stradlater was around. He hated everybody's guts, damn near. He came down
off the shower ledge and came in the room. "Hi," he said. He always said it
like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn't want you to
think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he'd come in
by mistake, for God's sake. "Hi," I said, but I didn't look up from my book.
With a guy like Ackley, if you looked up from your book you were a goner.
You were a goner anyway, but not as quick if you didn't look up right away.
He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always
did, picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier. He always
picked up your personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your
nerves sometimes. "How was the fencing?" he said. He just wanted me to quit
reading and enjoying myself. He didn't give a damn about the fencing. "We
win, or what?" he said. "Nobody won," I said. Without looking up, though.
"What?" he said. He always made you say everything twice. "Nobody won," I
said. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with on my
chiffonier. He was looking at this picture of this girl I used to go around
with in New York, Sally Hayes. He must've picked up that goddam picture and
looked at it at least five thousand times since I got it. He always put it
back in the wrong place, too, when he was finished. He did it on purpose.
You could tell. "Nobody won," he said. "How come?" "I left the goddam foils
and stuff on the subway." I still didn't look up at him. "On the subway, for
Chrissake! Ya lost them, ya mean?" "We got on the wrong subway. I had to
keep getting up to look at a goddam map on the wall." He came over and stood
right in my light. "Hey," I said. "I've read this same sentence about twenty
times since you came in." Anybody else except Ackley would've taken the
goddam hint. Not him, though. "Think they'll make ya pay for em?" he said.
"I don't know, and I don't give a damn. How 'bout sitting down or something,
Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light." He didn't like it when you
called him "Ackley kid." He was always telling me I was a goddam kid,
because I was sixteen and he was eighteen. It drove him mad when I called
him "Ackley kid." He kept standing there. He was exactly the kind of a guy
that wouldn't get out of your light when you asked him to. He'd do it,
finally, but it took him a lot longer if you asked him to. "What the hellya
reading?" he said. "Goddam book." He shoved my book back with his hand so
that he could see the name of it. "Any good?" he said. "This sentence I'm
reading is terrific." I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood. He
didn't get It, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up
all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the
floor. You couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was
impossible. I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley
making himself at home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New
York and all, and I started yawning. Then I started horsing around a little
bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored.
What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front,
then pulled it way down over my eyes. That way, I couldn't see a goddam
thing. "I think I'm going blind," I said in this very hoarse voice. "Mother
darling, everything's getting so dark in here." "You're nuts. I swear to
God," Ackley said. "Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won't you give me
your hand?" "For Chrissake, grow up." I started groping around in front of
me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything. I kept saying,
"Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand?" I was only horsing
around, naturally. That stuff gives me a bang sometimes. Besides, I know it
annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me.
I was pretty sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I
pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed. "Who belongsa this?"
Ackley said. He was holding my roommate's knee supporter up to show me. That
guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd even pick up your jock strap or
something. I told him it was Stradlater's. So he chucked it on Stradlater's
bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed. He
came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down
in a chair. Just always on the arm. "Where the hellja get that hat?" he
said. "New York." "How much?" "A buck." "You got robbed." He started
cleaning his goddam fingernails with the end of a match. He was always
cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were always
mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always
cleaning his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy.
He took another look at my hat while he was cleaning them. "Up home we wear
a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake," he said. "That's a deer
shooting hat." "Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of
closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting
hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat." "Your folks know you got kicked
out yet?" "Nope." "Where the hell's Stradlater at, anyway?" "Down at the
game. He's got a date." I yawned. I was yawning all over the place. For one
thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either
froze to death or died of the heat. "The great Stradlater," Ackley said.
"--Hey. Lend me your scissors a second, willya? Ya got 'em handy?" "No. I
packed them already. They're way in the top of the closet." "Get 'em a
second, willya?" Ackley said, "I got this hangnail I want to cut off." He
didn't care if you'd packed something or not and had it way in the top of
the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too.
The second I opened the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket--in its
wooden press and all--fell right on my head. It made a big clunk, and it
hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He started laughing
in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was
taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him. Something like
that--a guy getting hit on the head with a rock or something--tickled the
pants off Ackley. "You have a damn good sense of humor, Ackley kid," I told
him. "You know that?" I handed him the scissors. "Lemme be your manager.
I'll get you on the goddam radio." I sat down in my chair again, and he
started cutting his big horny-looking nails. "How 'bout using the table or
something?" I said. "Cut 'em over the table, willya? I don't feel like
walking on your crumby nails in my bare feet tonight." He kept right on
cutting them over the floor, though. What lousy manners. I mean it. "Who's
Stradlater's date?" he said. He was always keeping tabs on who Stradlater
was dating, even though he hated Stradlater's guts. "I don't know. Why?" "No
reason. Boy, I can't stand that sonuvabitch. He's one sonuvabitch I really
can't stand." "He's crazy about you. He told me he thinks you're a goddam
prince," I said. I call people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing
around. It keeps me from getting bored or something. "He's got this superior
attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I just can't stand the sonuvabitch.
You'd think he--" "Do you mind cutting your nails over the table, hey?" I
said. "I've asked you about fifty--" "He's got this goddam superior attitude
all the time," Ackley said. "I don't even think the sonuvabitch is
intelligent. He thinks he is. He thinks he's about the most--" "Ackley! For
Chrissake. Willya please cut your crumby nails over the table? I've asked
you fifty times." He started cutting his nails over the table, for a change.
The only way he ever did anything was if you yelled at him. I watched him
for a while. Then I said, "The reason you're sore at Stradlater is because
he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while. He didn't mean
to insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anything, but
he didn't mean anything insulting. All he meant was you'd look better and
feel better if you sort of brushed your teeth once in a while." "I brush my
teeth. Don't gimme that." "No, you don't. I've seen you, and you don't," I
said. I didn't say it nasty, though. I felt sort of sorry for him, in a way.
I mean it isn't too nice, naturally, if somebody tells you you don't brush
your teeth. "Stradlater's all right He's not too bad," I said. "You don't
know him, thats the trouble." "I still say he's a sonuvabitch. He's a
conceited sonuvabitch." "He's conceited, but he's very generous in some
things. He really is," I said. "Look. Suppose, for instance, Stradlater was
wearing a tie or something that you liked. Say he had a tie on that you
liked a helluva lot--I'm just giving you an example, now. You know what he'd
do? He'd probably take it off and give it ta you. He really would. Or--you
know what he'd do? He'd leave it on your bed or something. But he'd give you
the goddam tie. Most guys would probably just--" "Hell," Ackley said. "If I
had his dough, I would, too." "No, you wouldn't." I shook my head. "No, you
wouldn't, Ackley kid. If you had his dough, you'd be one of the biggest--"
"Stop calling me 'Ackley kid,' God damn it. I'm old enough to be your lousy
father." "No, you're not." Boy, he could really be aggravating sometimes. He
never missed a chance to let you know you were sixteen and he was eighteen.
"In the first place, I wouldn't let you in my goddam family," I said. "Well,
just cut out calling me--" All of a sudden the door opened, and old
Stradlater barged in, in a big hurry. He was always in a big hurry.
Everything was a very big deal. He came over to me and gave me these two
playful as hell slaps on both cheeks--which is something that can be very
annoying. 'Listen," he said. "You going out anywheres special tonight?" "I
don't know. I might. What the hell's it doing out--snowing?" He had snow all
over his coat. "Yeah. Listen. If you're not going out anyplace special, how
'bout lending me your hound's-tooth jacket?" "Who won the game?" I said.
"It's only the half. We're leaving," Stradlater said. "No kidding, you gonna
use your hound's-tooth tonight or not? I spilled some crap all over my gray
flannel." "No, but I don't want you stretching it with your goddam shoulders
and all," I said. We were practically the same heighth, but he weighed about
twice as much as I did. He had these very broad shoulders. "I won't stretch
it." He went over to the closet in a big hurry. "How'sa boy, Ackley?" he
said to Ackley. He was at least a pretty friendly guy, Stradlater. It was
partly a phony kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello to Ackley
and all. Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy?" He wouldn't
answer him, but he didn't have guts enough not to at least grunt. Then he
said to me, "I think I'll get going. See ya later." "Okay," I said. He never
exactly broke your heart when he went back to his own room. Old Stradlater
started taking off his coat and tie and all. "I think maybe I'll take a fast
shave," he said. He had a pretty heavy beard. He really did. "Where's your
date?" I asked him. "She's waiting in the Annex." He went out of the room
with his toilet kit and towel under his arm. No shirt on or anything. He
always walked around in his bare torso because he thought he had a damn good
build. He did, too. I have to admit it.
4
I didn't have anything special to do, so I went down to the can and
chewed the rag with him while he was shaving. We were the only ones in the
can, because everybody was still down at the game. It was hot as hell and
the windows were all steamy. There were about ten washbowls, all right
against the wall. Stradlater had the middle one. I sat down on the one right
next to him and started turning the cold water on and off--this nervous
habit I have. Stradlater kept whistling 'Song of India" while he shaved. He
had one of those very piercing whistles that are practically never in tune,
and he always picked out some song that's hard to whistle even if you're a
good whistler, like "Song of India" or "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue." He could
really mess a song up. You remember I said before that Ackley was a slob in
his personal habits? Well, so was Stradlater, but in a different way.
Stradlater was more of a secret slob. He always looked all right,
Stradlater, but for instance, you should've seen the razor he shaved himself
with. It was always rusty as hell and full of lather and hairs and crap. He
never cleaned it or anything. He always looked good when he was finished
fixing himself up, but he was a secret slob anyway, if you knew him the way
I did. The reason he fixed himself up to look good was because he was madly
in love with himself. He thought he was the handsomest guy in the Western
Hemisphere. He was pretty handsome, too--I'll admit it. But he was mostly
the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year
Book, they'd right away say, "Who's this boy?" I mean he was mostly a Year
Book kind of handsome guy. I knew a lot of guys at Pencey I thought were a
lot handsomer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw
their pictures in the Year Book. They'd look like they had big noses or
their ears stuck out. I've had that experience frequently. Anyway, I was
sitting on the washbowl next to where Stradlater was shaving, sort of
turning the water on and off. I still had my red hunting hat on, with the
peak around to the back and all. I really got a bang out of that hat. "Hey,"
Stradlater said. "Wanna do me a big favor?" "What?" I said. Not too
enthusiastic. He was always asking you to do him a big favor. You take a
very handsome guy, or a guy that thinks he's a real hot-shot, and they're
always asking you to do them a big favor. Just because they're crazy about
themseif, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just
dying to do them a favor. It's sort of funny, in a way. "You goin' out
tonight?" he said. "I might. I might not. I don't know. Why?" "I got about a
hundred pages to read for history for Monday," he said. "How 'bout writing a
composition for me, for English? I'll be up the creek if I don't get the
goddam thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it?" It was very
ironical. It really was. "I'm the one that's flunking out of the goddam
place, and you're asking me to write you a goddam composition," I said.
"Yeah, I know. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it
in. Be a buddy. Be a buddyroo. Okay?" I didn't answer him right away.
Suspense is good for some bastards like Stradlater. "What on?" I said.
"Anything. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once
lived in or something-- you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell."
He gave out a big yawn while he said that. Which is something that gives me
a royal pain in the ass. I mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking
you to do them a goddam favor. "Just don't do it too good, is all," he said.
"That sonuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in English, and he knows
you're my roommate. So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the
right place." That's something else that gives me a royal pain. I mean if
you're good at writing compositions and somebody starts talking about
commas. Stradlater was always doing that. He wanted you to think that the
only reason he was lousy at writing compositions was because he stuck all
the commas in the wrong place. He was a little bit like Ackley, that way. I
once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on
the team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor,
without even touching the backboard or anything. Ackley kept saying, the
whole goddam game, that Coyle had a perfect build for basketball. God, how I
hate that stuff. I got bored sitting on that washbowl after a while, so I
backed up a few feet and started doing this tap dance, just for the hell of
it. I was just amusing myself. I can't really tap-dance or anything, but it
was a stone floor in the can, and it was good for tap-dancing. I started
imitating one of those guys in the movies. In one of those musicals. I hate
the movies like poison, but I get a bang imitating them. Old Stradlater
watched me in the mirror while he was shaving. All I need's an audience. I'm
an exhibitionist. "I'm the goddarn Governor's son," I said. I was knocking
myself out. Tap-dancing all over the place. "He doesn't want me to be a tap
dancer. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in my goddam blood,
tap-dancing." Old Stradlater laughed. He didn't have too bad a sense of
humor. "It's the opening night of the Ziegfeld Follies." I was getting out
of breath. I have hardly any wind at all. "The leading man can't go on. He's
drunk as a bastard. So who do they get to take his place? Me, that's who.
The little ole goddam Governor's son." "Where'dja get that hat?" Stradlater
said. He meant my hunting hat. He'd never seen it before. I was out of
breath anyway, so I quit horsing around. I took off my hat and looked at it
for about the ninetieth time. "I got it in New York this morning. For a
buck. Ya like it?" Stradlater nodded. "Sharp," he said. He was only
flattering me, though, because right away he said, "Listen. Are ya gonna
write that composition for me? I have to know." "If I get the time, I will.
If I don't, I won't," I said. I went over and sat down at the washbowl next
to him again. "Who's your date?" I asked him. "Fitzgerald?" "Hell, no! I
told ya. I'm through with that pig." "Yeah? Give her to me, boy. No kidding.
She's my type." "Take her... She's too old for you." All of a sudden--for no
good reason, really, except that I was sort of in the mood for horsing
around--I felt like jumping off the washbowl and getting old Stradlater in a
half nelson. That's a wrestling hold, in case you don't know, where you get
the other guy around the neck and choke him to death, if you feel like it.
So I did it. I landed on him like a goddam panther. "Cut it out, Holden, for
Chrissake!" Stradlater said. He didn't feel like horsing around. He was
shaving and all. "Wuddaya wanna make me do--cut my goddam head off?" I
didn't let go, though. I had a pretty good half nelson on him. "Liberate
yourself from my viselike grip." I said. "Je-sus Christ." He put down his
razor, and all of a sudden jerked his arms up and sort of broke my hold on
him. He was a very strong guy. I'm a very weak guy. "Now, cut out the crap,"
he said. He started shaving himself all over again. He always shaved himself
twice, to look gorgeous. With his crumby old razor. "Who is your date if it
isn't Fitzgerald?" I asked him. I sat down on the washbowl next to him
again. "That Phyllis Smith babe?" "No. It was supposed to he, but the
arrangements got all screwed up. I got Bud Thaw's girl's roommate now...
Hey. I almost forgot. She knows you." "Who does?" I said. "My date." "Yeah?"
I said. "What's her name?" I was pretty interested. "I'm thinking... Uh.
Jean Gallagher." Boy, I nearly dropped dead when he said that. "Jane
Gallagher," I said. I even got up from the washbowl when he said that. I
damn near dropped dead. "You're damn right I know her. She practically lived
right next door to me, the summer before last. She had this big damn
Doberman pinscher. That's how I met her. Her dog used to keep coming over in
our--" "You're right in my light, Holden, for Chrissake," Stradlater said.
"Ya have to stand right there?" Boy, was I excited, though. I really was.
"Where is she?" I asked him. "I oughta go down and say hello to her or
something. Where is she? In the Annex?" "Yeah." "How'd she happen to mention
me? Does she go to B. M. now? She said she might go there. She said she
might go to Shipley, too. I thought she went to Shipley. How'd she happen to
mention me?" I was pretty excited. I really was. "I don't know, for
Chrissake. Lift up, willya? You're on my towel," Stradlater said. I was
sitting on his stupid towel. "Jane Gallagher," I said. I couldn't get over
it. "Jesus H. Christ." Old Stradlater was putting Vitalis on his hair. My
Vitalis. "She's a dancer," I said. "Ballet and all. She used to practice
about two hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and
all. She was worried that it might make her legs lousy--all thick and all. I
used to play checkers with her all the time." "You used to play what with
her all the time?" "Checkers." "Checkers, for Chrissake!" "Yeah. She
wouldn't move any of her kings. What she'd do, when she'd get a king, she
wouldn't move it. She'd just leave it in the back row. She'd get them all
lined up in the back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the way
they looked when they were all in the back row." Stradlater didn't say
anything. That kind of stuff doesn't interest most people. "Her mother
belonged to the same club we did," I said. "I used to caddy once in a while,
just to make some dough. I caddy'd for her mother a couple of times. She
went around in about a hundred and seventy, for nine holes." Stradlater
wasn't hardly listening. He was combing his gorgeous locks. "I oughta go
down and at least say hello to her," I said. "Why don'tcha?" "I will, in a
minute." He started parting his hair all over again. It took him about an
hour to comb his hair. "Her mother and father were divorced. Her mother was
married again to some booze hound," I said. "Skinny guy with hairy legs. I
remember him. He wore shorts all the time. Jane said he was supposed to be a
playwright or some goddam thing, but all I ever saw him do was booze all the
time and listen to every single goddam mystery program on the radio. And run
around the goddam house, naked. With Jane around, and all." "Yeah?"
Stradlater said. That really interested him. About the booze hound running
around the house naked, with Jane around. Stradlater was a very sexy
bastard. "She had a lousy childhood. I'm not kidding." That didn't interest
Stradlater, though. Only very sexy stuff interested him. "Jane Gallagher.
Jesus... I couldn't get her off my mind. I really couldn't. "I oughta go
down and say hello to her, at least." "Why the hell don'tcha, instead of
keep saying it?" Stradlater said. I walked over to the window, but you
couldn't see out of it, it was so steamy from all the heat in the can.. "I'm
not in the mood right now," I said. I wasn't, either. You have to be in the
mood for those things. "I thought she went to Shipley. I could've sworn she
went to Shipley." I walked around the can for a little while. I didn't have
anything else to do. "Did she enjoy the game?" I said. "Yeah, I guess so. I
don't know." "Did she tell you we used to play checkers all the time, or
anything?" "I don't know. For Chrissake, I only just met her," Stradlater
said. He was finished combing his goddam gorgeous hair. He was putting away
all his crumby toilet articles. "Listen. Give her my regards, willya?"
"Okay," Stradlater said, but I knew he probably wouldn't. You take a guy
like Stradlater, they never give your regards to people. He went back to the
room, but I stuck around in the can for a while, thinking about old Jane.
Then I went back to the room, too. Stradlater was putting on his tie, in
front of the mirror, when I got there. He spent around half his goddam life
in front of the mirror. I sat down in my chair and sort of watched him for a
while. "Hey," I said. "Don't tell her I got kicked out, willya?" "Okay."
That was one good thing about Stradlater. You didn't have to explain every
goddam little thing with him, the way you had to do with Ackley. Mostly, I
guess, because he wasn't too interested. That's really why. Ackley, it was
different. Ackley was a very nosy bastard. He put on my hound's-tooth
jacket. "Jesus, now, try not to stretch it all over the place" I said. I'd
only worn it about twice. "I won't. Where the hell's my cigarettes?" "On the
desk." He never knew where he left anything. "Under your muffler." He put
them in his coat pocket--my coat pocket. I pulled the peak of my hunting hat
around to the front all of a sudden, for a change. I was getting sort of
nervous, all of a sudden. I'm quite a nervous guy. "Listen, where ya going
on your date with her?" I asked him. "Ya know yet?" "I don't know. New York,
if we have time. She only signed out for nine-thirty, for Chrissake." I
didn't like the way he said it, so I said, "The reason she did that, she
probably just didn't know what a handsome, charming bastard you are. If
she'd known, she probably would've signed out for nine-thirty in the
morning." "Goddam right," Stradlater said. You couldn't rile him too easily.
He was too conceited. "No kidding, now. Do that composition for me," he
said. He had his coat on, and he was all ready to go. "Don't knock yourself
out or anything, but just make it descriptive as hell. Okay?" I didn't
answer him. I didn't feel like it. All I said was, "Ask her if she still
keeps all her kings in the back row." "Okay," Stradlater said, but I knew he
wouldn't. "Take it easy, now." He banged the hell out of the room. I sat
there for about a half hour after he left. I mean I just sat in my chair,
not doing anything. I kept thinking about Jane, and about Stradlater having
a date with her and all. It made me so nervous I nearly went crazy. I
already told you what a sexy bastard Stradlater was. All of a sudden, Ackley
barged back in again, through the damn shower curtains, as usual. For once
in my stupid life, I was really glad to see him. He took my mind off the
other stuff. He stuck around till around dinnertime, talking about all the
guys at Pencey that he hated their guts, and squeezing this big pimple on
his chin. He didn't even use his handkerchief. I don't even think the
bastard had a handkerchief, if you want to know the truth. I never saw him
use one, anyway.
5
We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey. It was
supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak. I'll bet a thousand
bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys' parents came up to
school on Sunday, and old Thurmer probably figured everybody's mother would
ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night, and he'd say,
"Steak." What a racket. You should've seen the steaks. They were these
little hard, dry jobs that you could hardly even cut. You always got these
very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you got Brown
Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the little kids in the lower school
that didn't know any better--and guys like Ackley that ate everything. It
was nice, though, when we got out of the dining room. There were about three
inches of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down like a madman. It
looked pretty as hell, and we all started throwing snowballs and horsing
around all over the place. It was very childish, but everybody was really
enjoying themselves. I didn't have a date or anything, so I and this friend
of mine, Mal Brossard, that was on the wrestling team, decided we'd take a
bus into Agerstown and have a hamburger and maybe see a lousy movie. Neither
of us felt like sitting around on our ass all night. I asked Mal if he
minded if Ackley came along with us. The reason I asked was because Ackley
never did anything on Saturday night, except stay in his room and squeeze
his pimples or something. Mal said he didn't mind but that he wasn't too
crazy about the idea. He didn't like Ackley much. Anyway, we both went to
our rooms to get ready and all, and while I was putting on my galoshes and
crap, I yelled over and asked old Ackley if he wanted to go to the movies.
He could hear me all right through the shower curtains, but he didn't answer
me right away. He was the kind of a guy that hates to answer you right away.
Finally he came over, through the goddam curtains, and stood on the shower
ledge and asked who was going besides me. He always had to know who was
going. I swear, if that guy was shipwrecked somewhere, and you rescued him
in a goddam boat, he'd want to know who the guy was that was rowing it
before he'd even get in. I told him Mal Brossard was going. He said, "That
bastard... All right. Wait a second." You'd think he was doing you a big
favor. It took him about five hours to get ready. While he was doing it, I
went over to my window and opened it and packed a snowball with my bare
hands. The snow was very good for packing. I didn't throw it at anything,
though. I started to throw it. At a car that was parked across the street.
But I changed my mind. The car looked so nice and white. Then I started to
throw it at a hydrant, but that looked too nice and white, too. Finally I
didn't throw it at anything. All I did was close the window and walk around
the room with the snowball, packing it harder. A little while later, I still
had it with me when I and Brossnad and Ackley got on the bus. The bus driver
opened the doors and made me throw it out. I told him I wasn't going to
chuck it at anybody, but he wouldn't believe me. People never believe you.
Brossard and Ackley both had seen the picture that was playing, so all we
did, we just had a couple of hamburgers and played the pinball machine for a
little while, then took the bus back to Pencey. I didn't care about not
seeing the movie, anyway. It was supposed to be a comedy, with Cary Grant in
it, and all that crap. Besides, I'd been to the movies with Brossard and
Ackley before. They both laughed like hyenas at stuff that wasn't even
funny. I didn't even enjoy sitting next to them in the movies. It was only
about a quarter to nine when we got back to the dorm. Old Brossard was a
bridge fiend, and he started looking around the dorm for a game. Old Ackley
parked himself in my room, just for a change. Only, instead of sitting on
the arm of Stradlater's chair, he laid down on my bed, with his face right
on my pillow and all. He started talking in this very monotonous voice, and
picking at all his pimples. I dropped about a thousand hints, but I couldn't
get rid of him. All he did was keep talking in this very monotonous voice
about some babe he was supposed to have had sexual intercourse with the
summer before. He'd already told me about it about a hundred times. Every
time he told it, it was different. One minute he'd be giving it to her in
his cousin's Buick, the next minute he'd be giving it to her under some
boardwalk. It was all a lot of crap, naturally. He was a virgin if ever I
saw one. I doubt if he ever even gave anybody a feel. Anyway, finally I had
to come right out and tell him that I had to write a composition for
Stradlater, and that he had to clear the hell out, so I could concentrate.
He finally did, but he took his time about it, as usual. After he left, I
put on my pajamas and bathrobe and my old hunting hat, and started writing
the composition. The thing was, I couldn't think of a room or a house or
anything to describe the way Stradlater said he had to have. I'm not too
crazy about describing rooms and houses anyway. So what I did, I wrote about
my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It
really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was
left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he
had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In
green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he
was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia
and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him.
He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as
intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always
writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a
boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They
really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member
in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at
anybody. People with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily, but Allie
never did, and he had very red hair. I'll tell you what kind of red hair he
had. I started playing golf when I was only ten years old. I remember once,
the summer I was around twelve, teeing off and all, and having a hunch that
if I turned around all of a sudden, I'd see Allie. So I did, and sure
enough, he was sitting on his bike outside the fence--there was this fence
that went all around the course--and he was sitting there, about a hundred
and fifty yards behind me, watching me tee off. That's the kind of red hair
he had. God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at
something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his
chair. I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed
and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I don't blame them.
I really don't. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke all the
goddam windows with my fist, just for the hell of it. I even tried to break
all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer, but my hand was
already broken and everything by that time, and I couldn't do it. It was a
very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was
doing it, and you didn't know Allie. My hand still hurts me once in a while
when it rains and all, and I can't make a real fist any more--not a tight
one, I mean--but outside of that I don't care much. I mean I'm not going to
be a goddam surgeon or a violinist or anything anyway. Anyway, that's what I
wrote Stradlater's composition about. Old Allie's baseball mitt. I happened
to have it with me, in my suitcase, so I got it out and copied down the
poems that were written on it. All I had to do was change Allie's name so
that nobody would know it was my brother and not Stradlater's. I wasn't too
crazy about doing it, but I couldn't think of anything else descriptive.
Besides, I sort of liked writing about it. It took me about an hour, because
I had to use Stradlater's lousy typewriter, and it kept jamming on me. The
reason I didn't use my own was because I'd lent it to a guy down the hall.
It was around ten-thirty, I guess, when I finished it. I wasn't tired,
though, so I looked out the window for a while. It wasn't snowing out any
more, but every once in a while you could hear a car somewhere not being
able to get started. You could also hear old Ackley snoring. Right through
the goddam shower curtains you could hear him. He had sinus trouble and he
couldn't breathe too hot when he was asleep. That guy had just about
everything. Sinus trouble, pimples, lousy teeth, halitosis, crumby
fingernails. You had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.
6
Some things are hard to remember. I'm thinking now of when Stradlater
got back from his date with Jane. I mean I can't remember exactly what I was
doing when I heard his goddam stupid footsteps coming down the corridor. I
probably was still looking out the window, but I swear I can't remember. I
was so damn worried, that's why. When I really worry about something, I
don't just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about
something. Only, I don't go. I'm too worried to go. I don't want to
interrupt my worrying to go. If you knew Stradlater, you'd have been
worried, too. I'd double-dated with that bastard a couple of times, and I
know what I'm talking about. He was unscrupulous. He really was. Anyway, the
corridor was all linoleum and all, and you could hear his goddam footsteps
coming right towards the room. I don't even remember where I was sitting
when he came in--at the window, or in my chair or his. I swear I can't
remember. He came in griping about how cold it was out. Then he said, "Where
the hell is everybody? It's like a goddam morgue around here." I didn't even
bother to answer him. If he was so goddam stupid not to realize it was
Saturday night and everybody was out or asleep or home for the week end, I
wasn't going to break my neck telling him. He started getting undressed. He
didn't say one goddam word about Jane. Not one. Neither did I. I just
watched him. All he did was thank me for letting him wear my hound's-tooth.
He hung it up on a hanger and put it in the closet. Then when he was taking
off his tie, he asked me if I'd written his goddam composition for him. I
told him it was over on his goddam bed. He walked over and read it while he
was unbuttoning his shirt. He stood there, reading it, and sort of stroking
his bare chest and stomach, with this very stupid expression on his face. He
was always stroking his stomach or his chest. He was mad about himself. All
of a sudden, he said, "For Chrissake, Holden. This is about a goddam
baseball glove." "So what?" I said. Cold as hell. "Wuddaya mean so what? I
told ya it had to be about a goddam room or a house or something." "You said
it had to be descriptive. What the hell's the difference if it's about a
baseball glove?" "God damn it." He was sore as hell. He was really furious.
"You always do everything backasswards." He looked at me. "No wonder you're
flunking the hell out of here," he said. "You don't do one damn thing the
way you're supposed to. I mean it. Not one damn thing." "All right, give it
back to me, then," I said. I went over and pulled it right out of his goddam
hand. Then I tore it up. "What the hellja do that for?" he said. I didn't
even answer him. I just threw the pieces in the wastebasket. Then I lay down
on my bed, and we both didn't say anything for a long time. He got all
undressed, down to his shorts, and I lay on my bed and lit a cigarette. You
weren't allowed to smoke in the dorm, but you could do it late at night when
everybody was asleep or out and nobody could smell the smoke. Besides, I did
it to annoy Stradlater. It drove him crazy when you broke any rules. He
never smoked in the dorm. It was only me. He still didn't say one single
solitary word about Jane. So finally I said, "You're back pretty goddam late
if she only signed out for nine-thirty. Did you make her be late signing
in?" He was sitting on the edge of his bed, cutting his goddam toenails,
when I asked him that. "Coupla minutes," he said. "Who the hell signs out
for nine-thirty on a Saturday night?" God, how I hated him. "Did you go to
New York?" I said. "Ya crazy? How the hell could we go to New York if she
only signed out for nine-thirty?" "That's tough." He looked up at me.
"Listen," he said, "if you're gonna smoke in the room, how 'bout going down
to the can and do it? You may be getting the hell out of here, but I have to
stick around long enough to graduate." I ignored him. I really did. I went
right on smoking like a madman. All I did was sort of turn over on my side
and watched him cut his damn toenails. What a school. You were always
watching somebody cut their damn toenails or squeeze their pimples or
something. "Did you give her my regards?" I asked him. "Yeah." The hell he
did, the bastard. "What'd she say?" I said. "Did you ask her if she still
keeps all her kings in the back row?" "No, I didn't ask her. What the hell
ya think we did all night--play checkers, for Chrissake?" I didn't even
answer him. God, how I hated him. "If you didn't go to New York, where'd ya
go with her?" I asked him, after a little while. I could hardly keep my
voice from shaking all over the place. Boy, was I getting nervous. I just
had a feeling something had gone funny. He was finished cutting his damn
toenails. So he got up from the bed, in just his damn shorts and all, and
started getting very damn playful. He came over to my bed and started
leaning over me and taking these playful as hell socks at my shoulder. "Cut
it out," I said. "Where'd you go with her if you didn't go to New York?"
"Nowhere. We just sat in the goddam car." He gave me another one of those
playtul stupid little socks on the shoulder. "Cut it out," I said. "Whose
car?" "Ed Banky's." Ed Banky was the basketball coach at Pencey. Old
Stradlater was one of his pets, because he was the center on the team, and
Ed Banky always let him borrow his car when he wanted it. It wasn't allowed
for students to borrow faculty guys' cars, but all the athletic bastards
stuck together. In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards
stick together. Stradlater kept taking these shadow punches down at my
shoulder. He had his toothbrush in his hand, and he put it in his mouth.
"What'd you do?" I said. "Give her the time in Ed Banky's goddam car?" My
voice was shaking something awful. "What a thing to say. Want me to wash
your mouth out with soap?" "Did you?" "That's a professional secret, buddy."
This next part I don't remember so hot. All I know is I got up from the bed,
like I was going down to the can or something, and then I tried to sock him,
with all my might, right smack in the toothbrush, so it would split his
goddam throat open. Only, I missed. I didn't connect. All I did was sort of
get him on the side of the head or something. It probably hurt him a little
bit, but not as much as I wanted. It probably would've hurt him a lot, but I
did it with my right hand, and I can't make a good fist with that hand. On
account of that injury I told you about. Anyway, the next thing I knew, I
was on the goddam floor and he was sitting on my chest, with his face all
red. That is, he had his goddam knees on my chest, and he weighed about a
ton. He had hold of my wrists, too, so I couldn't take another sock at him.
I'd've killed him. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he kept saying,
and his stupid race kept getting redder and redder. "Get your lousy knees
off my chest," I told him. I was almost bawling. I really was. "Go on, get
off a me, ya crumby bastard." He wouldn't do it, though. He kept holding
onto my wrists and I kept calling him a sonuvabitch and all, for around ten
hours. I can hardly even remember what all I said to him. I told him he
thought he could give the time to anybody he felt like. I told him he didn't
even care if a girl kept all her kings in the back row or not, and the
reason he didn't care was because he was a goddam stupid moron. He hated it
when you called a moron. All morons hate it when you call them a moron.
"Shut up, now, Holden," he said with his big stupid red face. "just shut up,
now." "You don't even know if her first name is Jane or Jean, ya goddam
moron!" "Now, shut up, Holden, God damn it--I'm warning ya," he said--I
really had him going. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna slam ya one." "Get
your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest." "If I letcha up, will you
keep your mouth shut?" I didn't even answer him. He said it over again.
"Holden. If I letcha up, willya keep your mouth shut?" "Yes." He got up off
me, and I got up, too. My chest hurt like hell from his dirty knees. "You're
a dirty stupid sonuvabitch of a moron," I told him. That got him really mad.
He shook his big stupid finger in my face. "Holden, God damn it, I'm warning
you, now. For the last time. If you don't keep your yap shut, I'm gonna--"
"Why should I?" I said--I was practically yelling. "That's just the trouble
with all you morons. You never want to discuss anything. That's the way you
can always tell a moron. They never want to discuss anything intellig--"
Then he really let one go at me, and the next thing I knew I was on the
goddam floor again. I don't remember if he knocked me out or not, but I
don't think so. It's pretty hard to knock a guy out, except in the goddam
movies. But my nose was bleeding all over the place. When I looked up old
Stradlater was standing practically right on top of me. He had his goddam
toilet kit under his arm. "Why the hell don'tcha shut up when I tellya to?"
he said. He sounded pretty nervous. He probably was scared he'd fractured my
skull or something when I hit the floor. It's too bad I didn't. "You asked
for it, God damn it," he said. Boy, did he look worried. I didn't even
bother to get up. I just lay there in the floor for a while, and kept
calling him a moron sonuvabitch. I was so mad, I was practically bawling.
"Listen. Go wash your face," Stradlater said. "Ya hear me?" I told him to go
wash his own moron face--which was a pretty childish thing to say, but I was
mad as hell. I told him to stop off on the way to the can and give Mrs.
Schmidt the time. Mrs. Schmidt was the janitor's wife. She was around
sixty-five. I kept sitting there on the floor till I heard old Stradlater
close the door and go down the corridor to the can. Then I got up. I
couldn't find my goddam hunting hat anywhere. Finally I found it. It was
under the bed. I put it on, and turned the old peak around to the back, the
way I liked it, and then I went over and took a look at my stupid face in
the mirror. You never saw such gore in your life. I had blood all over my
mouth and chin and even on my pajamas and bath robe. It partly scared me and
it partly fascinated me. All that blood and all sort of made me look tough.
I'd only been in about two fights in my life, and I lost both of them. I'm
not too tough. I'm a pacifist, if you want to know the truth. I had a
feeling old Ackley'd probably heard all the racket and was awake. So I went
through the shower curtains into his room, just to see what the hell he was
doing. I hardly ever went over to his room. It always had a funny stink in
it, because he was so crumby in his personal habits.
7
A tiny bit of light came through the shower curtains and all from our
room, and I could see him lying in bed. I knew damn well he was wide awake.
"Ackley?" I said. "Y'awake?" "Yeah." It was pretty dark, and I stepped on
somebody's shoe on the floor and danm near fell on my head. Ackley sort of
sat up in bed and leaned on his arm. He had a lot of white stuff on his
face, for his pimples. He looked sort of spooky in the dark. "What the
hellya doing, anyway?" I said. "Wuddaya mean what the hell am I doing? I was
tryna sleep before you guys started making all that noise. What the hell was
the fight about, anyhow?" "Where's the light?" I couldn't find the light. I
was sliding my hand all over the wall. "Wuddaya want the light for?... Right
next to your hand." I finally found the switch and turned It on. Old Ackley
put his hand up so the light wouldn't hurt his eyes. "Jesus!" he said. "What
the hell happened to you?" He meant all the blood and all. "I had a little
goddam tiff with Stradlater," I said. Then I sat down on the floor. They
never had any chairs in their room. I don't know what the hell they did with
their chairs. "Listen," I said, "do you feel like playing a little Canasta?"
He was a Canasta fiend. "You're still bleeding, for Chrissake. You better
put something on it." "It'll stop. Listen. Ya wanna play a little Canasta or
don'tcha?" "Canasta, for Chrissake. Do you know what time it is, by any
chance?" "It isn't late. It's only around eleven, eleven-thirty." "Only
around!" Ackley said. "Listen. I gotta get up and go to Mass in the morning,
for Chrissake. You guys start hollering and fighting in the middle of the
goddam--What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?" "It's a long story. I
don't wanna bore ya, Ackley. I'm thinking of your welfare," I told him. I
never discussed my personal life with him. In the first place, he was even
more stupid than Stradlater. Stradlater was a goddam genius next to Ackley.
"Hey," I said, "is it okay if I sleep in Ely's bed tonight? He won't be back
till tomorrow night, will he?" I knew damn well he wouldn't. Ely went home
damn near every week end. "I don't know when the hell he's coming back,"
Ackley said. Boy, did that annoy me. "What the hell do you mean you don't
know when he's coming back? He never comes back till Sunday night, does he?"
"No, but for Chrissake, I can't just tell somebody they can sleep in his
goddam bed if they want to." That killed me. I reached up from where I was
sitting on the floor and patted him on the goddam shoulder. "You're a
prince, Ackley kid," I said. "You know that?" "No, I mean it--I can't just
tell somebody they can sleep in--" "You're a real prince. You're a gentleman
and a scholar, kid," I said. He really was, too. "Do you happen to have any
cigarettes, by any chance?--Say 'no' or I'll drop dead." "No, I don't, as a
matter of fact. Listen, what the hell was the fight about?" I didn't answer
him. All I did was, I got up and went over and looked out the window. I felt
so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead. "What the hell was
the fight about, anyhow?" Ackley said, for about the fiftieth time. He
certainly was a bore about that. "About you," I said. "About me, for
Chrissake?" "Yeah. I was defending your goddam honor. Stradlater said you
had a lousy personality. I couldn't let him get away with that stuff." That
got him excited. "He did? No kidding? He did?" I told him I was only
kidding, and then I went over and laid down on Ely's bed. Boy, did I feel
rotten. I felt so damn lonesome. "This room stinks," I said. "I can smell
your socks from way over here. Don'tcha ever send them to the laundry?" "If
you don't like it, you know what you can do," Ackley said. What a witty guy.
"How 'bout turning off the goddam light?" I didn't turn it off right away,
though. I just kept laying there on Ely's bed, thinking about Jane and all.
It just drove me stark staring mad when I thought about her and Stradlater
parked somewhere in that fat-assed Ed Banky's car. Every time I thought
about it, I felt like jumping out the window. The thing is, you didn't know
Stradlater. I knew him. Most guys at Pencey just talked about having sexual
intercourse with girls all the time--like Ackley, for instance--but old
Stradlater really did it. I was personally acquainted with at least two
girls he gave the time to. That's the truth. "Tell me the story of your
fascinating life, Ackley kid," I said. "How 'bout turning off the goddam
light? I gotta get up for Mass in the morning." I got up and turned it off,
if it made him happy. Then I laid down on Ely's bed again. "What're ya gonna
do--sleep in Ely's bed?" Ackley said. He was the perfect host, boy. "I may.
I may not. Don't worry about it." "I'm not worried about it. Only, I'd hate
like hell if Ely came in all of a sudden and found some guy--" "Relax. I'm
not gonna sleep here. I wouldn't abuse your goddam hospitality." A couple of
minutes later, he was snoring like mad. I kept laying there in the dark
anyway, though, trying not to think about old Jane and Stradlater in that
goddam Ed Banky's car. But it was almost impossible. The trouble was, I knew
that guy Stradlater's technique. That made it even worse. We once
double-dated, in Ed Banky's car, and Stradlater was in the back, with his
date, and I was in the front with mine. What a technique that guy had. What
he'd do was, he'd start snowing his date in this very quiet, sincere
voice--like as if he wasn't only a very handsome guy but a nice, sincere
guy, too. I damn near puked, listening to him. His date kept saying,
"No--please. Please, don't. Please." But old Stradlater kept snowing her in
this Abraham Lincoln, sincere voice, and finally there'd be this terrific
silence in the back of the car. It was really embarrassing. I don't think he
gave that girl the time that night--but damn near. Damn near. While I was
laying there trying not to think, I heard old Stradlater come back from the
can and go in our room. You could hear him putting away his crumby toilet
articles and all, and opening the window. He was a fresh-air fiend. Then, a
little while later, he turned off the light. He didn't even look around to
see where I was at. It was even depressing out in the street. You couldn't
even hear any cars any more. I got feeling so lonesome and rotten, I even
felt like waking Ackley up. "Hey, Ackley," I said, in sort of a whisper, so
Stradlater couldn't hear me through the shower curtain. Ackley didn't hear
me, though. "Hey, Ackley!" He still didn't hear me. He slept like a rock.
"Hey, Ackley!" He heard that, all right. "What the hell's the matter with
you?" he said. "I was asleep, for Chrissake." "Listen. What's the routine on
joining a monastery?" I asked him. I was sort of toying with the idea of
joining one. "Do you have to be a Catholic and all?" "Certainly you have to
be a Catholic. You bastard, did you wake me just to ask me a dumb ques--"
"Aah, go back to sleep. I'm not gonna join one anyway. The kind of luck I
have, I'd probably join one with all the wrong kind of monks in it. All
stupid bastards. Or just bastards." When I said that, old Ackley sat way the
hell up in bed. "Listen," he said, "I don't care what you say about me or
anything, but if you start making cracks about my goddam religion, for
Chrissake--" "Relax," I said. "Nobody's making any cracks about your goddam
religion." I got up off Ely's bed, and started towards the door. I didn't
want to hang around in that stupid atmosphere any more. I stopped on the
way, though, and picked up Ackley's hand, and gave him a big, phony
handshake. He pulled it away from me. "What's the idea?" he said. "No idea.
I just want to thank you for being such a goddam prince, that's all," I
said. I said it in this very sincere voice. "You're aces, Ackley kid," I
said. "You know that?" "Wise guy. Someday somebody's gonna bash your--" I
didn't even bother to listen to him. I shut the damn door and went out in
the corridor. Everybody was asleep or out or home for the week end, and it
was very, very quiet and depressing in the corridor. There was this empty
box of Kolynos toothpaste outside Leahy and Hoffman's door, and while I
walked down towards the stairs, I kept giving it a boot with this
sheep-lined slipper I had on. What I thought I'd do, I thought I might go
down and see what old Mal Brossard was doing. But all of a sudden, I changed
my mind. All of a sudden, I decided what I'd really do, I'd get the hell out
of Pencey--right that same night and all. I mean not wait till Wednesday or
anything. I just didn't want to hang around any more. It made me too sad and
lonesome. So what I decided to do, I decided I'd take a room in a hotel in
New York--some very inexpensive hotel and all--and just take it easy till
Wednesday. Then, on Wednesday, I'd go home all rested up and feeling swell.
I figured my parents probably wouldn't get old Thurmer's letter saying I'd
been given the ax till maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. I didn't want to go home
or anything till they got it and thoroughly digested it and all. I didn't
want to be around when they first got it. My mother gets very hysterical.
She's not too bad after she gets something thoroughly digested, though.
Besides, I sort of needed a little vacation. My nerves were shot. They
really were. Anyway, that's what I decided I'd do. So I went back to the
room and turned on the light, to start packing and all. I already had quite
a few things packed. Old Stradlater didn't even wake up. I lit a cigarette
and got all dressed and then I packed these two Gladstones I have. It only
took me about two minutes. I'm a very rapid packer. One thing about packing
depressed me a little. I had to pack these brand-new ice skates my mother
had practically just sent me a couple of days before. That depressed me. I
could see my mother going in Spaulding's and asking the salesman a million
dopy questions--and here I was getting the ax again. It made me feel pretty
sad. She bought me the wrong kind of skates--I wanted racing skates and she
bought hockey--but it made me sad anyway. Almost every time somebody gives
me a present, it ends up making me sad. After I got all packed, I sort of
counted my dough. I don't remember exactly how much I had, but I was pretty
loaded. My grandmother'd just sent me a wad about a week before. I have this
grandmother that's quite lavish with her dough. She doesn't have all her
marbles any more--she's old as hell--and she keeps sending me money for my
birthday about four times a year. Anyway, even though I was pretty loaded, I
figured I could always use a few extra bucks. You never know. So what I did
was, I went down the hail and woke up Frederick Woodruff, this guy I'd lent
my typewriter to. I asked him how much he'd give me for it. He was a pretty
wealthy guy. He said he didn't know. He said he didn't much want to buy it.
Finally he bought it, though. It cost about ninety bucks, and all he bought
it for was twenty. He was sore because I'd woke him up. When I was all set
to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a while next to the stairs
and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort of crying. I don't
know why. I put my red hunting hat on, and turned the peak around to the
back, the way I liked it, and then I yelled at the top of my goddam voice,
"Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole
floor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all
over the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck.
8
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the whole
way to the station. It wasn't too far, but it was cold as hell, and the snow
made it hard for walking, and my Gladstones kept banging hell out of my
legs. I sort of enjoyed the air and all, though. The only trouble was, the
cold made my nose hurt, and right under my upper lip, where old Stradlater'd
laid one on me. He'd smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty
sore. My ears were nice and warm, though. That hat I bought had earlaps in
it, and I put them on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. Nobody was around
anyway. Everybody was in the sack. I was quite lucky when I got to the
station, because I only had to wait about ten minutes for a train. While I
waited, I got some snow in my hand and washed my face with it. I still had
quite a bit of blood on. Usually I like riding on trains, especially at
night, with the lights on and the windows so black, and one of those guys
coming up the aisle selling coffee and sandwiches and magazines. I usually
buy a ham sandwich and about four magazines. If I'm on a train at night, I
can usually even read one of those dumb stories in a magazine without
puking. You know. One of those stories with a lot of phony, lean-jawed guys
named David in it, and a lot of phony girls named Linda or Marcia that are
always lighting all the goddam Davids' pipes for them. I can even read one
of those lousy stories on a train at night, usually. But this time, it was
different. I just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat and not did
anything. All I did was take off my hunting hat and put it in my pocket. All
of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to me.
Practically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and all, but
she sat down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she had this big
bag with her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck the bag right
out in the middle of the aisle, where the conductor and everybody could trip
over it. She had these orchids on, like she'd just been to a big party or
something. She was around forty or forty-five, I guess, but she was very
good looking. Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or
anything like that--although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean.
They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle.
Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excuse
me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my
suitcases, up on the rack. "Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a
goddam Pencey sticker on one of my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit. "Oh,
do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice telephone
voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said. "Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest
Morrow? He goes to Pencey." "Yes, I do. He's in my class." Her son was
doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pencey, in the whole crumby
history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he'd had
a shower, snapping his soggy old wet towel at people's asses. That's exactly
the kind of a guy he was. "Oh, how nice!" the lady said. But not corny. She
was just nice and all. "I must tell Ernest we met," she said. "May I ask
your name, dear?" "Rudolf Schmidt," I told her. I didn't feel like giving
her my whole life history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our
dorm. "Do you like Pencey?" she asked me. "Pencey? It's not too bad. It's
not paradise or anything, but it's as good as most schools. Some of the
faculty are pretty conscientious." "Ernest just adores it." "I know he
does," I said. Then I started shooting the old crap around a little bit. "He
adapts himself very well to things. He really does. I mean he really knows
how to adapt himself." "Do you think so?" she asked me. She sounded
interested as hell. "Ernest? Sure," I said. Then I watched her take off her
gloves. Boy, was she lousy with rocks. "I just broke a nail, getting out of
a cab," she said. She looked up at me and sort of smiled. She had a
terrifically nice smile. She really did. Most people have hardly any smile
at all, or a lousy one. "Ernest's father and I sometimes worry about him,"
she said. "We sometimes feel he's not a terribly good mixer." "How do you
mean?" "Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a terribly
good mixer with other boys. Perhaps he takes things a little more seriously
than he should at his age." Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was
about as sensitive as a goddam toilet seat. I gave her a good look. She
didn't look like any dope to me. She looked like she might have a pretty
damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of. But you can't always
tell--with somebody's mother, I mean. Mothers are all slightly insane. The
thing is, though, I liked old Morrow's mother. She was all right. "Would you
care for a cigarette?" I asked her. She looked all around. "I don't believe
this is a smoker, Rudolf," she said. Rudolf. That killed me. "That's all
right. We can smoke till they start screaming at us," I said. She took a
cigarette off me, and I gave her a light. She looked nice, smoking. She
inhaled and all, but she didn't wolf the smoke down, the way most women
around her age do. She had a lot of charm. She had quite a lot of sex
appeal, too, if you really want to know. She was looking at me sort of
funny. I may be wrong but I believe your nose is bleeding, dear, she said,
all of a sudden. I nodded and took out my handkerchief. "I got hit with a
snowball," I said. "One of those very icy ones." I probably would've told
her what really happened, but it would've taken too long. I liked her,
though. I was beginning to feel sort of sorry I'd told her my name was
Rudolf Schmidt. "Old Ernie," I said. "He's one of the most popular boys at
Pencey. Did you know that?" "No, I didn't." I nodded. "It really took
everybody quite a long time to get to know him. He's a funny guy. A strange
guy, in lots of ways--know what I mean? Like when I first met him. When I
first met him, I thought he was kind of a snobbish person. That's what I
thought. But he isn't. He's just got this very original personality that
takes you a little while to get to know him." Old Mrs. Morrow didn't say
anything, but boy, you should've seen her. I had her glued to her seat. You
take somebody's mother, all they want to hear about is what a hot-shot their
son is. Then I really started chucking the old crap around. "Did he tell you
about the elections?" I asked her. "The class elections?" She shook her
head. I had her in a trance, like. I really did. "Well, a bunch of us wanted
old Ernie to be president of the class. I mean he was the unanimous choice.
I mean he was the only boy that could really handle the job," I said--boy,
was I chucking it. "But this other boy--Harry Fencer--was elected. And the
reason he was elected, the simple and obvious reason, was because Ernie
wouldn't let us nominate him. Because he's so darn shy and modest and all.
He refused... Boy, he's really shy. You oughta make him try to get over
that." I looked at her. "Didn't he tell you about it?" "No, he didn't." I
nodded. "That's Ernie. He wouldn't. That's the one fault with him--he's too
shy and modest. You really oughta get him to try to relax occasionally."
Right that minute, the conductor came around for old Mrs. Morrow's ticket,
and it gave me a chance to quit shooting it. I'm glad I shot it for a while,
though. You take a guy like Morrow that's always snapping their towel at
people's asses--really trying to hurt somebody with it--they don't just stay
a rat while they're a kid. They stay a rat their whole life. But I'll bet,
after all the crap I shot, Mrs. Morrow'll keep thinking of him now as this
very shy, modest guy that wouldn't let us nominate him for president. She
might. You can't tell. Mothers aren't too sharp about that stuff. "Would you
care for a cocktail?" I asked her. I was feeling in the mood for one myself.
"We can go in the club car. All right?" "Dear, are you allowed to order
drinks?" she asked me. Not snotty, though. She was too charming and all to
be snotty. "Well, no, not exactly, but I can usually get them on account of
my heighth," I said. "And I have quite a bit of gray hair." I turned
sideways and showed her my gray hair. It fascinated hell out of her. "C'mon,
join me, why don't you?" I said. I'd've enjoyed having her. "I really don't
think I'd better. Thank you so much, though, dear," she said. "Anyway, the
club car's most likely closed. It's quite late, you know." She was right.
I'd forgotten all about what time it was. Then she looked at me and asked me
what I was afraid she was going to ask me. "Ernest wrote that he'd be home
on Wednesday, that Christmas vacation would start on Wednesday," she said.
"I hope you weren't called home suddenly because of illness in the family."
She really looked worried about it. She wasn't just being nosy, you could
tell. "No, everybody's fine at home," I said. "It's me. I have to have this
operation." "Oh! I'm so sorry," she said. She really was, too. I was right
away sorry I'd said it, but it was too late. "It isn't very serious. I have
this tiny little tumor on the brain." "Oh, no!" She put her hand up to her
mouth and all. "Oh, I'll be all right and everything! It's right near the
outside. And it's a very tiny one. They can take it out in about two
minutes." Then I started reading this timetable I had in my pocket. Just to
stop lying. Once I get started, I can go on for hours if I feel like it. No
kidding. Hours. We didn't talk too much after that. She started reading this
Vogue she had with her, and I looked out the window for a while. She got off
at Newark. She wished me a lot of luck with the operation and all. She kept
calling me Rudolf. Then she invited me to visit Ernie during the summer, at
Gloucester, Massachusetts. She said their house was right on the beach, and
they had a tennis court and all, but I just thanked her and told her I was
going to South America with my grandmother. Which was really a hot one,
because my grandmother hardly ever even goes out of the house, except maybe
to go to a goddam matinee or something. But I wouldn't visit that
sonuvabitch Morrow for all the dough in the world, even if I was desperate.
9
The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Station, I went into this
phone booth. I felt like giving somebody a buzz. I left my bags right
outside the booth so that I could watch them, but as soon as I was inside, I
couldn't think of anybody to call up. My brother D. B. was in Hollywood. My
kid sister Phoebe goes to bed around nine o'clock--so I couldn't call her
up. She wouldn't've cared if I'd woke her up, but the trouble was, she
wouldn't've been the one that answered the phone. My parents would be the
ones. So that was out. Then I thought of giving Jane Gallagher's mother a
buzz, and find out when Jane's vacation started, but I didn't feel like it.
Besides, it was pretty late to call up. Then I thought of calling this girl
I used to go around with quite frequently, Sally Hayes, because I knew her
Christmas vacation had started already--she'd written me this long, phony
letter, inviting me over to help her trim the Christmas tree Christmas Eve
and all--but I was afraid her mother'd answer the phone. Her mother knew my
mother, and I could picture her breaking a goddam leg to get to the phone
and tell my mother I was in New York. Besides, I wasn't crazy about talking
to old Mrs. Hayes on the phone. She once told Sally I was wild. She said I
was wild and that I had no direction in life. Then I thought of calling up
this guy that went to the Whooton School when I was there, Carl Luce, but I
didn't like him much. So I ended up not calling anybody. I came out of the
booth, after about twenty minutes or so, and got my bags and walked over to
that tunnel where the cabs are and got a cab. I'm so damn absent-minded, I
gave the driver my regular address, just out of habit and all--I mean I
completely forgot I was going to shack up in a hotel for a couple of days
and not go home till vacation started. I didn't think of it till we were
halfway through the park. Then I said, "Hey, do you mind turning around when
you get a chance? I gave you the wrong address. I want to go back downtown."
The driver was sort of a wise guy. "I can't turn around here, Mac. This
here's a one-way. I'll have to go all the way to Ninedieth Street now." I
didn't want to start an argument. "Okay," I said. Then I thought of
something, all of a sudden. "Hey, listen," I said. "You know those ducks in
that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance,
do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen
over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?" I realized it was only one
chance in a million. He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman.
"What're ya tryna do, bud?" he said. "Kid me?" "No--I was just interested,
that's all." He didn't say anything more, so I didn't either. Until we came
out of the park at Ninetieth Street. Then he said, "All right, buddy. Where
to?" "Well, the thing is, I don't want to stay at any hotels on the East
Side where I might run into some acquaintances of mine. I'm traveling
incognito," I said. I hate saying corny things like "traveling incognito."
But when I'm with somebody that's corny, I always act corny too. "Do you
happen to know whose band's at the Taft or the New Yorker, by any chance?"
"No idear, Mac." "Well--take me to the Edmont then," I said. "Would you care
to stop on the way and join me for a cocktail? On me. I'm loaded." "Can't do
it, Mac. Sorry." He certainly was good company. Terrific personality. We got
to the Edmont Hotel, and I checked in. I'd put on my red hunting cap when I
was in the cab, just for the hell of it, but I took it off before I checked
in. I didn't want to look like a screwball or something. Which is really
ironic. I didn't know then that the goddam hotel was full of perverts and
morons. Screwballs all over the place. They gave me this very crumby room,
with nothing to look out of the window at except the other side of the
hotel. I didn't care much. I was too depressed to care whether I had a good
view or not. The bellboy that showed me to the room was this very old guy
around sixty-five. He was even more depressing than the room was. He was one
of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up
the baldness. I'd rather be bald than do that. Anyway, what a gorgeous job
for a guy around sixty-five years old. Carrying people's suitcases and
waiting around for a tip. I suppose he wasn't too intelligent or anything,
but it was terrible anyway. After he left, I looked out the window for a
while, with my coat on and all. I didn't have anything else to do. You'd be
surprised what was going on on the other side of the hotel. They didn't even
bother to pull their shades down. I saw one guy, a gray-haired, very
distinguished-looking guy with only his shorts on, do something you wouldn't
believe me if I told you. First he put his suitcase on the bed. Then he took
out all these women's clothes, and put them on. Real women's clothes--silk
stockings, high-heeled shoes, brassiere, and one of those corsets with the
straps hanging down and all. Then he put on this very tight black evening
dress. I swear to God. Then he started walking up and down the room, taking
these very small steps, the way a woman does, and smoking a cigarette and
looking at himself in the mirror. He was all alone, too. Unless somebody was
in the bathroom--I couldn't see that much. Then, in the window almost right
over his, I saw a man and a woman squirting water out of their mouths at
each other. It probably was highballs, not water, but I couldn't see what
they had in their glasses. Anyway, first he'd take a swallow and squirt it
all over her, then she did it to him--they took turns, for God's sake. You
should've seen them. They were in hysterics the whole time, like it was the
funniest thing that ever happened. I'm not kidding, the hotel was lousy with
perverts. I was probably the only normal bastard in the whole place--and
that isn't saying much. I damn near sent a telegram to old Stradlater
telling him to take the first train to New York. He'd have been the king of
the hotel. The trouble was, that kind of junk is sort of fascinating to
watch, even if you don't want it to be. For instance, that girl that was
getting water squirted all over her face, she was pretty good-looking. I
mean that's my big trouble. In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac
you ever saw. Sometimes I can think of very crumby stuff I wouldn't mind
doing if the opportunity came up. I can even see how it might be quite a lot
of fun, in a crumby way, and if you were both sort of drunk and all, to get
a girl and squirt water or something all over each other's face. The thing
is, though, I don't like the idea. It stinks, if you analyze it. I think if
you don't really like a girl, you shouldn't horse around with her at all,
and if you do like her, then you're supposed to like her face, and if you
like her face, you ought to be careful about doing crumby stuff to it, like
squirting water all over it. It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff
is a lot of fun sometimes. Girls aren't too much help, either, when you
start trying not to get too crumby, when you start trying not to spoil
anything really good. I knew this one girl, a couple of years ago, that was
even crumbier than I was. Boy, was she crumby! We had a lot of fun, though,
for a while, in a crumby way. Sex is something I really don't understand too
hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules
for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I
was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain
in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it--the same night, as
a matter of fact. I spent the whole night necking with a terrible phony
named Anne Louise Sherman. Sex is something I just don't understand. I swear
to God I don't. I started toying with the idea, while I kept standing there,
of giving old Jane a buzz--I mean calling her long distance at B. M., where
she went, instead of calling up her mother to find out when she was coming
home. You weren't supposed to call students up late at night, but I had it
all figured out. I was going to tell whoever answered the phone that I was
her uncle. I was going to say her aunt had just got killed in a car accident
and I had to speak to her immediately. It would've worked, too. The only
reason I didn't do it was because I wasn't in the mood. If you're not in the
mood, you can't do that stuff right. After a while I sat down in a chair and
smoked a couple of cigarettes. I was feeling pretty horny. I have to admit
it. Then, all of a sudden, I got this idea. I took out my wallet and started
looking for this address a guy I met at a party last summer, that went to
Princeton, gave me. Finally I found it. It was all a funny color from my
wallet, but you could still read it. It was the address of this girl that
wasn't exactly a whore or anything but that didn't mind doing it once in a
while, this Princeton guy told me. He brought her to a dance at Princeton
once, and they nearly kicked him out for bringing her. She used to be a
burlesque stripper or something. Anyway, I went over to the phone and gave
her a buzz. Her name was Faith Cavendish, and she lived at the Stanford Arms
Hotel on Sixty-fifth and Broadway. A dump, no doubt. For a while, I didn t
think she was home or something. Nobody kept answering. Then, finally,
somebody picked up the phone. "Hello?" I said. I made my voice quite deep so
that she wouldn't suspect my age or anything. I have a pretty deep voice
anyway. "Hello," this woman's voice said. None too friendly, either. "Is
this Miss Faith Cavendish?" "Who's this?" she said. "Who's calling me up at
this crazy goddam hour?" That sort of scared me a little bit. "Well, I know
it's quite late," I said, in this very mature voice and all. "I hope you'll
forgive me, but I was very anxious to get in touch with you." I said it
suave as hell. I really did. "Who is this?" she said. "Well, you don't know
me, but I'm a friend of Eddie Birdsell's. He suggested that if I were in
town sometime, we ought to get together for a cocktail or two." "Who? You're
a friend of who?" Boy, she was a real tigress over the phone. She was damn
near yelling at me. "Edmund Birdsell. Eddie Birdsell," I said. I couldn't
remember if his name was Edmund or Edward. I only met him once, at a goddam
stupid party. "I don't know anybody by that name, Jack. And if you think I
enjoy bein' woke up in the middle--" "Eddie Birdsell? From Princeton?" I
said. You could tell she was running the name over in her mind and all.
"Birdsell, Birdsell... from Princeton... Princeton College?" "That's right,"
I said. "You from Princeton College?" "Well, approximately." "Oh... How is
Eddie?" she said. "This is certainly a peculiar time to call a person up,
though. Jesus Christ." "He's fine. He asked to be remembered to you." "Well,
thank you. Remember me to him," she said. "He's a grand person. What's he
doing now?" She was getting friendly as hell, all of a sudden. "Oh, you
know. Same old stuff," I said. How the hell did I know what he was doing? I
hardly knew the guy. I didn't even know if he was still at Princeton.
"Look," I said. "Would you be interested in meeting me for a cocktail
somewhere?" "By any chance do you have any idea what time it is?" she said.
"What's your name, anyhow, may I ask?" She was getting an English accent,
all of a sudden. "You sound a little on the young side." I laughed. "Thank
you for the compliment," I said-- suave as hell. "Holden Caulfield's my
name." I should've given her a phony name, but I didn't think of it. "Well,
look, Mr. Cawffle. I'm not in the habit of making engagements in the middle
of the night. I'm a working gal." "Tomorrow's Sunday," I told her. "Well,
anyway. I gotta get my beauty sleep. You know how it is." "I thought we
might have just one cocktail together. It isn't too late." "Well. You're
very sweet," she said. "Where ya callin' from? Where ya at now, anyways?"
"Me? I'm in a phone booth." "Oh," she said. Then there was this very long
pause. "Well, I'd like awfully to get together with you sometime, Mr.
Cawffle. You sound very attractive. You sound like a very attractive person.
But it is late." "I could come up to your place." "Well, ordinary, I'd say
grand. I mean I'd love to have you drop up for a cocktail, but my roommate
happens to be ill. She's been laying here all night without a wink of sleep.
She just this minute closed her eyes and all. I mean." "Oh. That's too bad."
"Where ya stopping at? Perhaps we could get together for cocktails
tomorrow." "I can't make it tomorrow," I said. "Tonight's the only time I
can make it." What a dope I was. I shouldn't've said that. "Oh. Well, I'm
awfully sorry." "I'll say hello to Eddie for you." "Willya do that? I hope
you enjoy your stay in New York. It's a grand place." "I know it is. Thanks.
Good night," I said. Then I hung up. Boy, I really fouled that up. I
should've at least made it for cocktails or something.
10
It was still pretty early. I'm not sure what time it was, but it wasn't
too late. The one thing I hate to do is go to bed when I'm not even tired.
So I opened my suitcases and took out a clean shirt, and then I went in the
bathroom and washed and changed my shirt. What I thought I'd do, I thought
I'd go downstairs and see what the hell was going on in the Lavender Room.
They had this night club, the Lavender Room, in the hotel. While I was
changing my shirt, I damn near gave my kid sister Phoebe a buzz, though. I
certainly felt like talking to her on the phone. Somebody with sense and
all. But I couldn't take a chance on giving her a buzz, because she was only
a little kid and she wouldn't have been up, let alone anywhere near the
phone. I thought of maybe hanging up if my parents answered, but that
wouldn't've worked, either. They'd know it was me. My mother always knows
it's me. She's psychic. But I certainly wouldn't have minded shooting the
crap with old Phoebe for a while. You should see her. You never saw a little
kid so pretty and smart in your whole life. She's really smart. I mean she's
had all A's ever since she started school. As a matter of fact, I'm the only
dumb one in the family. My brother D. B. 's a writer and all, and my brother
Allie, the one that died, that I told you about, was a wizard. I'm the only
really dumb one. But you ought to see old Phoebe. She has this sort of red
hair, a little bit like Allie's was, that's very short in the summertime. In
the summertime, she sticks it behind her ears. She has nice, pretty little
ears. In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though. Sometimes my mother
braids it and sometimes she doesn't. It's really nice, though. She's only
ten. She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny. Roller-skate skinny. I
watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to
go to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny. You'd like her.
I mean if you tell old Phoebe something, she knows exactly what the hell
you're talking about. I mean you can even take her anywhere with you. If you
take her to a lousy movie, for instance, she knows it's a lousy movie. If
you take her to a pretty good movie, she knows it's a pretty good movie. D.
B. and I took her to see this French movie, The Baker's Wife, with Raimu in
it. It killed her. Her favorite is The 39 Steps, though, with Robert Donat.
She knows the whole goddam movie by heart, because I've taken her to see it
about ten times. When old Donat comes up to this Scotch farmhouse, for
instance, when he's running away from the cops and all, Phoebe'll say right
out loud in the movie--right when the Scotch guy in the picture says
it--"Can you eat the herring?" She knows all the talk by heart. And when
this professor in the picture, that's really a German spy, sticks up his
little finger with part of the middle joint missing, to show Robert Donat,
old Phoebe beats him to it--she holds up her little finger at me in the
dark, right in front of my face. She's all right. You'd like her. The only
trouble is, she's a little too affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional,
for a child. She really is. Something else she does, she writes books all
the time. Only, she doesn't finish them. They're all about some kid named
Hazel Weatherfield--only old Phoebe spells it "Hazle." Old Hazle
Weatherfield is a girl detective. She's supposed to be an orphan, but her
old man keeps showing up. Her old man's always a "tall attractive gentleman
about 20 years of age." That kills me. Old Phoebe. I swear to God you'd like
her. She was smart even when she was a very tiny little kid. When she was a
very tiny little kid, I and Allie used to take her to the park with us,
especially on Sundays. Allie had this sailboat he used to like to fool
around with on Sundays, and we used to take old Phoebe with us. She'd wear
white gloves and walk right between us, like a lady and all. And when Allie
and I were having some conversation about things in general, old Phoebe'd be
listening. Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a
little kid, but she'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd
give Allie or I a push or something, and say, "Who? Who said that? Bobby or
the lady?" And we'd tell her who said it, and she'd say, "Oh," and go right
on listening and all. She killed Allie, too. I mean he liked her, too. She's
ten now, and not such a tiny little kid any more, but she still kills
everybody--everybody with any sense, anyway. Anyway, she was somebody you
always felt like talking to on the phone. But I was too afraid my parents
would answer, and then they'd find out I was in New York and kicked out of
Pencey and all. So I just finished putting on my shirt. Then I got all ready
and went down in the elevator to the lobby to see what was going on. Except
for a few pimpy-looking guys, and a few whory-looking blondes, the lobby was
pretty empty. But you could hear the band playing in the Lavender Room, and
so I went in there. It wasn't very crowded, but they gave me a lousy table
anyway--way in the back. I should've waved a buck under the head-waiter's
nose. In New York, boy, money really talks--I'm not kidding. The band was
putrid. Buddy Singer. Very brassy, but not good brassy--corny brassy. Also,
there were very few people around my age in the place. In fact, nobody was
around my age. They were mostly old, show-offy-looking guys with their
dates. Except at the table right next to me. At the table right next to me,
there were these three girls around thirty or so. The whole three of them
were pretty ugly, and they all had on the kind of hats that you knew they
didn't really live in New York, but one of them, the blonde one, wasn't too
bad. She was sort of cute, the blonde one, and I started giving her the old
eye a little bit, but just then the waiter came up for my order. I ordered a
Scotch and soda, and told him not to mix it--I said it fast as hell, because
if you hem and haw, they think you're under twenty-one and won't sell you
any intoxicating liquor. I had trouble with him anyway, though. "I'm sorry,
sir," he said, "but do you have some verification of your age? Your driver's
license, perhaps?" I gave him this very cold stare, like he'd insulted the
hell out of me, and asked him, "Do I look like I'm under twenty-one?" "I'm
sorry, sir, but we have our--" "Okay, okay," I said. I figured the hell with
it. "Bring me a Coke." He started to go away, but I called him back.
"Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or something?" I asked him. I asked him
very nicely and all. "I can't sit in a corny place like this cold sober.
Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or something?" "I'm very sorry, sir..." he
said, and beat it on me. I didn't hold it against him, though. They lose
their jobs if they get caught selling to a minor. I'm a goddam minor. I
started giving the three witches at the next table the eye again. That is,
the blonde one. The other two were strictly from hunger. I didn't do it
crudely, though. I just gave all three of them this very cool glance and
all. What they did, though, the three of them, when I did it, they started
giggling like morons. They probably thought I was too young to give anybody
the once-over. That annoyed hell out of me-- you'd've thought I wanted to
marry them or something. I should've given them the freeze, after they did
that, but the trouble was, I really felt like dancing. I'm very fond of
dancing, sometimes, and that was one of the times. So all of a sudden, I
sort of leaned over and said, "Would any of you girls care to dance?" I
didn't ask them crudely or anything. Very suave, in fact. But God damn it,
they thought that was a panic, too. They started giggling some more. I'm not
kidding, they were three real morons. "C'mon," I said. "I'll dance with you
one at a time. All right? How 'bout it? C'mon!" I really felt like dancing.
Finally, the blonde one got up to dance with me, because you could tell I
was really talking to her, and we walked out to the dance floor. The other
two grools nearly had hysterics when we did. I certainly must've been very
hard up to even bother with any of them. But it was worth it. The blonde was
some dancer. She was one of the best dancers I ever danced with. I'm not
kidding, some of these very stupid girls can really knock you out on a dance
floor. You take a really smart girl, and half the time she's trying to lead
you around the dance floor, or else she's such a lousy dancer, the best
thing to do is stay at the table and just get drunk with her. "You really
can dance," I told the blonde one. "You oughta be a pro. I mean it. I danced
with a pro once, and you're twice as good as she was. Did you ever hear of
Marco and Miranda?" "What?" she said. She wasn't even listening to me. She
was looking all around the place. "I said did you ever hear of Marco and
Miranda?" "I don't know. No. I don't know." "Well, they're dancers, she's a
dancer. She's not too hot, though. She does everything she's supposed to,
but she's not so hot anyway. You know when a girl's really a terrific
dancer?" "Wudga say?" she said. She wasn't listening to me, even. Her mind
was wandering all over the place. "I said do you know when a girl's really a
terrific dancer?" "Uh-uh." "Well--where I have my hand on your back. If I
think there isn't anything underneath my hand--no can, no legs, no feet, no
anything--then the girl's really a terrific dancer." She wasn't listening,
though. So I ignored her for a while. We just danced. God, could that dopey
girl dance. Buddy Singer and his stinking band was playing "Just One of
Those Things" and even they couldn't ruin it entirely. It's a swell song. I
didn't try any trick stuff while we danced--I hate a guy that does a lot of
show-off tricky stuff on the dance floor--but I was moving her around
plenty, and she stayed with me. The funny thing is, I thought she was
enjoying it, too, till all of a sudden she came out with this very dumb
remark. "I and my girl friends saw Peter Lorre last night," she said. "The
movie actor. In person. He was buyin' a newspaper. He's cute." "You're
lucky," I told her. "You're really lucky. You know that?" She was really a
moron. But what a dancer. I could hardly stop myself from sort of giving her
a kiss on the top of her dopey head--you know-- right where the part is, and
all. She got sore when I did it. "Hey! What's the idea?" "Nothing. No idea.
You really can dance," I said. "I have a kid sister that's only in the
goddam fourth grade. You're about as good as she is, and she can dance
better than anybody living or dead." "Watch your language, if you don't
mind." What a lady, boy. A queen, for Chrissake. "Where you girls from?" I
asked her. She didn't answer me, though. She was busy looking around for old
Peter Lorre to show up, I guess. "Where you girls from?" I asked her again.
"What?" she said. "Where you girls from? Don't answer if you don't feel like
it. I don't want you to strain yourself." "Seattle, Washington," she said.
She was doing me a big favor to tell me. "You're a very good
conversationalist," I told her. "You know that?" "What?" I let it drop. It
was over her head, anyway. "Do you feel like jitterbugging a little bit, if
they play a fast one? Not corny jitterbug, not jump or anything--just nice
and easy. Everybody'll all sit down when they play a fast one, except the
old guys and the fat guys, and we'll have plenty of room. Okay?" "It's
immaterial to me," she said. "Hey--how old are you, anyhow?" That annoyed
me, for some reason. "Oh, Christ. Don't spoil it," I said. "I'm twelve, for
Chrissake. I'm big for my age." "Listen. I toleja about that. I don't like
that type language," she said. "If you're gonna use that type language, I
can go sit down with my girl friends, you know." I apologized like a madman,
because the band was starting a fast one. She started jitterbugging with
me-- but just very nice and easy, not corny. She was really good. All you
had to do was touch her. And when she turned around, her pretty little butt
twitched so nice and all. She knocked me out. I mean it. I was half in love
with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time
they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if
they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never
know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy.
They really can. They didn't invite me to sit down at their table-- mostly
because they were too ignorant--but I sat down anyway. The blonde I'd been
dancing with's name was Bernice something--Crabs or Krebs. The two ugly
ones' names were Marty and Laverne. I told them my name was Jim Steele, just
for the hell of it. Then I tried to get them in a little intelligent
conversation, but it was practically impossible. You had to twist their
arms. You could hardly tell which was the stupidest of the three of them.
And the whole three of them kept looking all around the goddam room, like as
if they expected a flock of goddam movie stars to come in any minute. They
probably thought movie stars always hung out in the Lavender Room when they
came to New York, instead of the Stork Club or El Morocco and all. Anyway,
it took me about a half hour to find out where they all worked and all in
Seattle. They all worked in the same insurance office. I asked them if they
liked it, but do you think you could get an intelligent answer out of those
three dopes? I thought the two ugly ones, Marty and Laverne, were sisters,
but they got very insulted when I asked them. You could tell neither one of
them wanted to look like the other one, and you couldn't blame them, but it
was very amusing anyway. I danced with them all--the whole three of
them--one at a time. The one ugly one, Laverne, wasn't too bad a dancer, but
the other one, old Marty, was murder. Old Marty was like dragging the Statue
of Liberty around the floor. The only way I could even half enjoy myself
dragging her around was if I amused myself a little. So I told her I just
saw Gary Cooper, the movie star, on the other side of the floor. "Where?"
she asked me--excited as hell. "Where?" "Aw, you just missed him. He just
went out. Why didn't you look when I told you?" She practically stopped
dancing, and started looking over everybody's heads to see if she could see
him. "Oh, shoot!" she said. I'd just about broken her heart-- I really had.
I was sorry as hell I'd kidded her. Some people you shouldn't kid, even if
they deserve it. Here's what was very funny, though. When we got back to the
table, old Marty told the other two that Gary Cooper had just gone out. Boy,
old Laverne and Bernice nearly committed suicide when they heard that. They
got all excited and asked Marty if she'd seen him and all. Old Mart said
she'd only caught a glimpse of him. That killed me. The bar was closing up
for the night, so I bought them all two drinks apiece quick before it
closed, and I ordered two more Cokes for myself. The goddam table was lousy
with glasses. The one ugly one, Laverne, kept kidding me because I was only
drinking Cokes. She had a sterling sense of humor. She and old Marty were
drinking Tom Collinses--in the middle of December, for God's sake. They
didn't know any better. The blonde one, old Bernice, was drinking bourbon
and water. She was really putting it away, too. The whole three of them kept
looking for movie stars the whole time. They hardly talked--even to each
other. Old Marty talked more than the other two. She kept saying these very
corny, boring things, like calling the can the "little girls' room," and she
thought Buddy Singer's poor old beat-up clarinet player was really terrific
when he stood up and took a couple of ice-cold hot licks. She called his
clarinet a "licorice stick." Was she corny. The other ugly one, Laverne,
thought she was a very witty type. She kept asking me to call up my father
and ask him what he was doing tonight. She kept asking me if my father had a
date or not. Four times she asked me that--she was certainly witty. Old
Bernice, the blonde one, didn't say hardly anything at all. Every time I'd
ask her something, she said "What?" That can get on your nerves after a
while. All of a sudden, when they finished their drink, all three of them
stood up on me and said they had to get to bed. They said they were going to
get up early to see the first show at Radio City Music Hall. I tried to get
them to stick around for a while, but they wouldn't. So we said good-by and
all. I told them I'd look them up in Seattle sometime, if I ever got there,
but I doubt if I ever will. Look them up, I mean. With cigarettes and all,
the check came to about thirteen bucks. I think they should've at least
offered to pay for the drinks they had before I joined them--I wouldn't've
let them, naturally, but they should've at least offered. I didn't care
much, though. They were so ignorant, and they had those sad, fancy hats on
and all. And that business about getting up early to see the first show at
Radio City Music Hall depressed me. If somebody, some girl in an
awful-looking hat, for instance, comes all the way to New York--from
Seattle, Washington, for God's sake--and ends up getting up early in the
morning to see the goddam first show at Radio City Music Hall, it makes me
so depressed I can't stand it. I'd've bought the whole three of them a
hundred drinks if only they hadn't told me that. I left the Lavender Room
pretty soon after they did. They were closing it up anyway, and the band had
quit a long time ago. In the first place, it was one of those places that
are very terrible to be in unless you have somebody good to dance with, or
unless the waiter lets you buy real drinks instead of just Cokes. There
isn't any night club in the world you can sit in for a long time unless you
can at least buy some liquor and get drunk. Or unless you're with some girl
that really knocks you out.
11
All of a sudden, on my way out to the lobby, I got old Jane Gallagher
on the brain again. I got her on, and I couldn't get her off. I sat down in
this vomity-looking chair in the lobby and thought about her and Stradlater
sitting in that goddam Ed Banky's car, and though I was pretty damn sure old
Stradlater hadn't given her the time--I know old Jane like a book--I still
couldn't get her off my brain. I knew her like a book. I really did. I mean,
besides checkers, she was quite fond of all athletic sports, and after I got
to know her, the whole summer long we played tennis together almost every
morning and golf almost every afternoon. I really got to know her quite
intimately. I don't mean it was anything physical or anything--it
wasn't--but we saw each other all the time. You don't always have to get too
sexy to get to know a girl. The way I met her, this Doberman pinscher she
had used to come over and relieve himself on our lawn, and my mother got
very irritated about it. She called up Jane's mother and made a big stink
about it. My mother can make a very big stink about that kind of stuff. Then
what happened, a couple of days later I saw Jane laying on her stomach next
to the swimming pool, at the club, and I said hello to her. I knew she lived
in the house next to ours, but I'd never conversed with her before or
anything. She gave me the big freeze when I said hello that day, though. I
had a helluva time convincing her that I didn't give a good goddam where her
dog relieved himself. He could do it in the living room, for all I cared.
Anyway, after that, Jane and I got to be friends and all. I played golf with
her that same afternoon. She lost eight balls, I remember. Eight. I had a
terrible time getting her to at least open her eyes when she took a swing at
the ball. I improved her game immensely, though. I'm a very good golfer. If
I told you what I go around in, you probably wouldn't believe me. I almost
was once in a movie short, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I
figured that anybody that hates the movies as much as I do, I'd be a phony
if I let them stick me in a movie short. She was a funny girl, old Jane. I
wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful. She knocked me out,
though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mean when she was talking and she
got excited about something, her mouth sort of went in about fifty
directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never really closed it
all the way, her mouth. It was always just a little bit open, especially
when she got in her golf stance, or when she was reading a book. She was
always reading, and she read very good books. She read a lot of poetry and
all. She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever showed Allie's
baseball mitt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or
anything, because that was her first summer in Maine--before that, she went
to Cape Cod--but I told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in
that kind of stuff. My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother
always thought Jane and her mother were sort of snubbing her or something
when they didn't say hello. My mother saw them in the village a lot, because
Jane used to drive to market with her mother in this LaSalle convertible
they had. My mother didn't think Jane was pretty, even. I did, though. I
just liked the way she looked, that's all. I remember this one afternoon. It
was the only time old Jane and I ever got close to necking, even. It was a
Saturday and it was raining like a bastard out, and I was over at her house,
on the porch--they had this big screened-in porch. We were playing checkers.
I used to kid her once in a while because she wouldn't take her kings out of
the back row. But I didn't kid her much, though. You never wanted to kid
Jane too much. I think I really like it best when you can kid the pants off
a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a funny thing. The girls I like
best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I think they'd
like it if you kidded them--in fact, I know they would--but it's hard to get
started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them.
Anyway, I was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to
necking. It was raining like hell and we were out on her porch, and all of a
sudden this booze hound her mother was married to came out on the porch and
asked Jane if there were any cigarettes in the house. I didn't know him too
well or anything, but he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't talk to
you much unless he wanted something off you. He had a lousy personality.
Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answer him when he asked her if she knew where
there was any cigarettes. So the guy asked her again, but she still wouldn't
answer him. She didn't even look up from the game. Finally the guy went
inside the house. When he did, I asked Jane what the hell was going on. She
wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like she was concentrating on
her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, this tear plopped
down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares--boy, I can still see
it. She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know why, but
it bothered hell out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her move
over on the glider so that I could sit down next to her--I practically sat
down in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she really started to cry, and
the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over--anywhere--her eyes, her
nose, her forehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears--her whole face except
her mouth and all. She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it
was the closest we ever got to necking. After a while, she got up and went
in and put on this red and white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and
we went to a goddam movie. I asked her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy--that was
the booze hound's name--had ever tried to get wise with her. She was pretty
young, but she had this terrific figure, and I wouldn't've put it past that
Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never did find out what the hell was
the matter. Some girls you practically never find out what's the matter. I
don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, just
because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with
her all the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but
she was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them,
their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving
their hand all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or
something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or something,
and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie
was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it.
You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All
you knew was, you were happy. You really were. One other thing I just
thought of. One time, in this movie, Jane did something that just about
knocked me out. The newsreel was on or something, and all of a sudden I felt
this hand on the back of my neck, and it was Jane's. It was a funny thing to
do. I mean she was quite young and all, and most girls if you see them
putting their hand on the back of somebody's neck, they're around
twenty-five or thirty and usually they're doing it to their husband or their
little kid--I do it to my kid sister Phoebe once in a while, for instance.
But if a girl's quite young and all and she does it, it's so pretty it just
about kills you. Anyway, that's what I was thinking about while I sat in
that vomity-looking chair in the lobby. Old Jane. Every time I got to the
part about her out with Stradlater in that damn Ed Banky's car, it almost
drove me crazy. I knew she wouldn't let him get to first base with her, but
it drove me crazy anyway. I don't even like to talk about it, if you want to
know the truth. There was hardly anybody in the lobby any more. Even all the
whory-looking blondes weren't around any more, and all of a sudden I felt
like getting the hell out of the place. It was too depressing. And I wasn't
tired or anything. So I went up to my room and put on my coat. I also took a
look out the window to see if all the perverts were still in action, but the
lights and all were out now. I went down in the elevator again and got a cab
and told the driver to take me down to Ernie's. Ernie's is this night club
in Greenwich Village that my brother D. B. used to go to quite frequently
before he went out to Hollywood and prostituted himself. He used to take me
with him once in a while. Ernie's a big fat colored guy that plays the
piano. He's a terrific snob and he won't hardly even talk to you unless
you're a big shot or a celebrity or something, but he can really play the
piano. He's so good he's almost corny, in fact. I don't exactly know what I
mean by that, but I mean it. I certainly like to hear him play, but
sometimes you feel like turning his goddam piano over. I think it's because
sometimes when he plays, he sounds like the kind of guy that won't talk to
you unless you're a big shot.
12
The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just
tossed his cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go
anywhere late at night. What made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome
out, even though it was Saturday night. I didn't see hardly anybody on the
street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl crossing a street, with
their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of
hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at
something you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody
laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes
you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go home and shoot
the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally, after I was riding a
while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name was
Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I
thought maybe he might know about the ducks. "Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You
ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by Central Park South?" "The
what?" "The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You
know." "Yeah, what about it?" "Well, you know the ducks that swim around in
it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the
wintertime, by any chance?" "Where who goes?" "The ducks. Do you know, by
any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and
take them away, or do they fly away by themselves--go south or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very
impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I
know?" he said. "How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"
"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or something.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore." I stopped having a conversation with him, if he
was going to get so damn touchy about it. But he started it up again
himself. He turned all the way around again, and said, "The fish don't go no
place. They stay right where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam lake."
"The fish--that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the
ducks," I said. "What's different about it? Nothin's different about it,"
Horwitz said. Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's
tougher for the fish, the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for
Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake." I didn't say anything for about a
minute. Then I said, "All right. What do they do, the fish and all, when
that whole little lake's a solid block of ice, people skating on it and
all?" Old Horwitz turned around again. "What the hellaya mean what do they
do?" he yelled at me. "They stay right where they are, for Chrissake." "They
can't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it." "Who's ignoring it?
Nobody's ignoring it!" Horwitz said. He got so damn excited and all, I was
afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something.
"They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They
get frozen right in one position for the whole winter." "Yeah? What do they
eat, then? I mean if they're frozen solid, they can't swim around looking
for food and all." "Their bodies, for Chrissake--what'sa matter with ya?
Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and
crap that's in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That's
their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" He turned way the hell around
again to look at me. "Oh," I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going
to crack the damn taxi up or something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy,
it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him. "Would you care to stop
off and have a drink with me somewhere?" I said. He didn't answer me,
though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a
pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all. "I ain't got no time for no liquor,
bud," he said. "How the hell old are you, anyways? Why ain'tcha home in
bed?" "I'm not tired." When I got out in front of Ernie's and paid the fare,
old Horwitz brought up the fish again. He certainly had it on his mind.
"Listen," he said. "If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you,
wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be
winter, do ya?" "No, but--" "You're goddam right they don't," Horwitz said,
and drove off like a bat out of hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever
met. Everything you said made him sore. Even though it was so late, old
Ernie's was jampacked. Mostly with prep school jerks and college jerks.
Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for Christmas
vacation than the schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was
so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the
piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat
down at the piano. Nobody's that good. About three couples, besides me, were
waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get
a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big damn mirror in front of
the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his
face while he played. You couldn't see his fingers while he played--just his
big old face. Big deal. I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that
he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking
it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes,
and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You
should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would've puked.
They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in
the movies at stuff that isn't funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano
player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific,
I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap
for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam
closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads
off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble
bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano
player. It was very phony--I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a
funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I
don't even think he knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't
all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes that clap their heads
off--they'd foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance. Anyway, it made me
feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back and went
back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn't feel much like being
all alone. They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall
and behind a goddam post, where you couldn't see anything. It was one of
those tiny little tables that if the people at the next table don't get up
to let you by--and they never do, the bastards--you practically have to
climb into your chair. I ordered a Scotch and soda, which is my favorite
drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. If you were only around six years old, you
could get liquor at Ernie's, the place was so dark and all, and besides,
nobody cared how old you were. You could even be a dope fiend and nobody'd
care. I was surrounded by jerks. I'm not kidding. At this other tiny table,
right to my left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy
and this funny-looking girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little
older. It was funny. You could see they were being careful as hell not to
drink up the minimum too fast. I listened to their conversation for a while,
because I didn't have anything else to do. He was telling her about some pro
football game he'd seen that afternoon. He gave her every single goddam play
in the whole game--I'm not kidding. He was the most boring guy I ever
listened to. And you could tell his date wasn't even interested in the
goddam game, but she was even funnier-looking than he was, so I guess she
had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them
sometimes. Sometimes I can't even look at them, especially if they're with
some dopey guy that's telling them all about a goddam football game. On my
right, the conversation was even worse, though. On my right there was this
very Joe Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those
flitty-looking Tattersall vests. All those Ivy League bastards look alike.
My father wants me to go to Yale, or maybe Princeton, but I swear, I
wouldn't go to one of those Ivy League colleges, if I was dying, for God's
sake. Anyway, this Joe Yale-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with
him. Boy, she was good-looking. But you should've heard the conversation
they were having. In the first place, they were both slightly crocked. What
he was doing, he was giving her a feel under the table, and at the same time
telling her all about some guy in his dorm that had eaten a whole bottle of
aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying to him, "How
horrible... Don't, darling. Please, don't. Not here." Imagine giving
somebody a feel and telling them about a guy committing suicide at the same
time! They killed me. I certainly began to feel like a prize horse's ass,
though, sitting there all by myself. There wasn't anything to do except
smoke and drink. What I did do, though, I told the waiter to ask old Ernie
if he'd care to join me for a drink. I told him to tell him I was D. B. 's
brother. I don't think he ever even gave him my message, though. Those
bastards never give your message to anybody. All of a sudden, this girl came
up to me and said, "Holden Caulfield!" Her name was Lillian Simmons. My
brother D. B. used to go around with her for a while. She had very big
knockers. "Hi," I said. I tried to get up, naturally, but it was some job
getting up, in a place like that. She had some Navy officer with her that
looked like he had a poker up his ass. "How marvelous to see you!" old
Lillian Simmons said. Strictly a phony. "How's your big brother?" That's all
she really wanted to know. "He's fine. He's in Hollywood." "In Hollywood!
How marvelous! What's he doing?" "I don't know. Writing," I said. I didn't
feel like discussing it. You could tell she thought it was a big deal, his
being in Hollywood. Almost everybody does. Mostly people who've never read
any of his stories. It drives me crazy, though. "How exciting," old Lillian
said. Then she introduced me to the Navy guy. His name was Commander Blop or
something. He was one of those guys that think they're being a pansy if they
don't break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you.
God, I hate that stuff. "Are you all alone, baby?" old Lillian asked me. She
was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tell she
liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move
out of the way, but she didn't even notice him. It was funny. You could tell
the waiter didn't like her much, you could tell even the Navy guy didn't
like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn't like her much.
Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way. "Don't you have
a date, baby?" she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn't even tell
me to sit down. She was the type that keeps you standing up for hours.
"Isn't he handsome?" she said to the Navy guy. "Holden, you're getting
handsomer by the minute." The Navy guy told her to come on. He told her they
were blocking up the whole aisle. "Holden, come join us," old Lillian said.
"Bring your drink." "I was just leaving," I told her. "I have to meet
somebody." You could tell she was just trying to get in good with me. So
that I'd tell old D. B. about it. "Well, you little so-and-so. All right for
you. Tell your big brother I hate him, when you see him." Then she left. The
Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to've met each other. Which
always kills me. I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not
at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff,
though. After I'd told her I had to meet somebody, I didn't have any goddam
choice except to leave. I couldn't even stick around to hear old Ernie play
something halfway decent. But I certainly wasn't going to sit down at a
table with old Lillian Simmons and that Navy guy and be bored to death. So I
left. It made me mad, though, when I was getting my coat. People are always
ruining things for you.
13
I walked all the way back to the hotel. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. I
didn't do it because I felt like walking or anything. It was more because I
didn't feel like getting in and out of another taxicab. Sometimes you get
tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators.
All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up. When I
was a kid, I used to walk all the way up to our apartment very frequently.
Twelve stories. You wouldn't even have known it had snowed at all. There was
hardly any snow on the sidewalks. But it was freezing cold, and I took my
red hunting hat out of my pocket and put it on--I didn't give a damn how I
looked. I even put the earlaps down. I wished I knew who'd swiped my gloves
at Pencey, because my hands were freezing. Not that I'd have done much about
it even if I had known. I'm one of these very yellow guys. I try not to show
it, but I am. For instance, if I'd found out at Pencey who'd stolen my
gloves, I probably would've gone down to the crook's room and said, "Okay.
How 'bout handing over those gloves?" Then the crook that had stolen them
probably would've said, his voice very innocent and all, "What gloves?" Then
what I probably would've done, I'd have gone in his closet and found the
gloves somewhere. Hidden in his goddam galoshes or something, for instance.
I'd have taken them out and showed them to the guy and said, "I suppose
these are your goddam gloves?" Then the crook probably would've given me
this very phony, innocent look, and said, "I never saw those gloves before
in my life. If they're yours, take 'em. I don't want the goddam things."
Then I probably would've just stood there for about five minutes. I'd have
the damn gloves right in my hand and all, but I'd feel I ought to sock the
guy in the jaw or something--break his goddam jaw. Only, I wouldn't have the
guts to do it. I'd just stand there, trying to look tough. What I might do,
I might say something very cutting and snotty, to rile him up--instead of
socking him in the jaw. Anyway if I did say something very cutting and
snotty, he'd probably get up and come over to me and say, "Listen,
Caulfield. Are you calling me a crook?" Then, instead of saying, "You're
goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!" all I probably would've said
would be, "All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshes."
Right away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn't going to take a
sock at him, and he probably would've said, "Listen. Let's get this
straight. Are you calling me a thief?" Then I probably would've said,
"Nobody's calling anybody a thief. All I know is my gloves were in your
goddam galoshes." It could go on like that for hours. Finally, though, I'd
leave his room without even taking a sock at him. I'd probably go down to
the can and sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror.
Anyway, that's what I thought about the whole way back to the hotel. It's no
fun to he yellow. Maybe I'm not all yellow. I don't know. I think maybe I'm
just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if
they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I
lose something--it used to drive my mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys
spend days looking for something they lost. I never seem to have anything
that if I lost it I'd care too much. Maybe that's why I'm partly yellow.
It's no excuse, though. It really isn't. What you should be is not yellow at
all. If you're supposed to sock somebody in the jaw, and you sort of feel
like doing it, you should do it. I'm just no good at it, though. I'd rather
push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock him in
the jaw. I hate fist fights. I don't mind getting hit so much--although I'm
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 chвteau 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 she smiled, mostly. "We've enjoyed talking to you so much," she
said. I said I'd enjoyed talking to them a lot, too. I meant it, too. I'd
have enjoyed it even more though, I think, if I hadn't been sort of afraid,
the whole time I was talking to them, that they'd all of a sudden try to
find out if I was a Catholic. Catholics are always trying to find out if
you're a Catholic. It happens to me a lot, I know, partly because my last
name is Irish, and most people of Irish descent are Catholics. As a matter
of fact, my father was a Catholic once. He quit, though, when he married my
mother. But Catholics are always trying to find out if you're a Catholic
even if they don't know your last name. I knew this one Catholic boy, Louis
Shaney, when I was at the Whooton School. He was the first boy I ever met
there. He and I were sitting in the first two chairs outside the goddam
infirmary, the day school opened, waiting for our physicals, and we sort of
struck up this conversation about tennis. He was quite interested in tennis,
and so was I. He told me he went to the Nationals at Forest Hills every
summer, and I told him I did too, and then we talked about certain hot-shot
tennis players for quite a while. He knew quite a lot about tennis, for a
kid his age. He really did. Then, after a while, right in the middle of the
goddam conversation, he asked me, "Did you happen to notice where the
Catholic church is in town, by any chance?" The thing was, you could tell by
the way he asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He
really was. Not that he was prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to
know. He was enjoying the conversation about tennis and all, but you could
tell he would've enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic and all. That kind of
stuff drives me crazy. I'm not saying it ruined our conversation or
anything--it didn't--but it sure as hell didn't do it any good. That's why I
was glad those two nuns didn't ask me if I was a Catholic. It wouldn't have
spoiled the conversation if they had, but it would've been different,
probably. I'm not saying I blame Catholics. I don't. I'd be the same way,
probably, if I was a Catholic. It's just like those suitcases I was telling
you about, in a way. All I'm saying is that it's no good for a nice
conversation. That's all I'm saying. When they got up to go, the two nuns, I
did something very stupid and embarrassing. I was smoking a cigarette, and
when I stood up to say good-by to them, by mistake I blew some smoke in
their face. I didn't mean to, but I did it. I apologized like a madman, and
they were very polite and nice about it, but it was very embarrassing
anyway. After they left, I started getting sorry that I'd only given them
ten bucks for their collection. But the thing was, I'd made that date to go
to a matinee with old Sally Hayes, and I needed to keep some dough for the
tickets and stuff. I was sorry anyway, though. Goddam money. It always ends
up making you blue as hell.
16
After I had my breakfast, it was only around noon, and I wasn't meeting
old Sally till two o'clock, so I started taking this long walk. I couldn't
stop thinking about those two nuns. I kept thinking about that beatup old
straw basket they went around collecting money with when they weren't
teaching school. I kept trying to picture my mother or somebody, or my aunt,
or Sally Hayes's crazy mother, standing outside some department store and
collecting dough for poor people in a beat-up old straw basket. It was hard
to picture. Not so much my mother, but those other two. My aunt's pretty
charitable--she does a lot of Red Cross work and all--but she's very
well-dressed and all, and when she does anything charitable she's always
very well-dressed and has lipstick on and all that crap. I couldn't picture
her doing anything for charity if she had to wear black clothes and no
lipstick while she was doing it. And old Sally Hayes's mother. Jesus Christ.
The only way she could go around with a basket collecting dough would be if
everybody kissed her ass for her when they made a contribution. If they just
dropped their dough in her basket, then walked away without saying anything
to her, ignoring her and all, she'd quit in about an hour. She'd get bored.
She'd hand in her basket and then go someplace swanky for lunch. That's what
I liked about those nuns. You could tell, for one thing, that they never
went anywhere swanky for lunch. It made me so damn sad when I thought about
it, their never going anywhere swanky for lunch or anything. I knew it
wasn't too important, but it made me sad anyway. I started walking over
toward Broadway, just for the hell of it, because I hadn't been over there
in years. Besides, I wanted to find a record store that was open on Sunday.
There was this record I wanted to get for Phoebe, called "Little Shirley
Beans." It was a very hard record to get. It was about a little kid that
wouldn't go out of the house because two of her front teeth were out and she
was ashamed to. I heard it at Pencey. A boy that lived on the next floor had
it, and I tried to buy it off him because I knew it would knock old Phoebe
out, but he wouldn't sell it. It was a very old, terrific record that this
colored girl singer, Estelle Fletcher, made about twenty years ago. She
sings it very Dixieland and whorehouse, and it doesn't sound at all mushy.
If a white girl was singing it, she'd make it sound cute as hell, but old
Estelle Fletcher knew what the hell she was doing, and it was one of the
best records I ever heard. I figured I'd buy it in some store that was open
on Sunday and then I'd take it up to the park with me. It was Sunday and
Phoebe goes rollerskating in the park on Sundays quite frequently. I knew
where she hung out mostly. It wasn't as cold as it was the day before, but
the sun still wasn't out, and it wasn't too nice for walking. But there was
one nice thing. This family that you could tell just came out of some church
were walking right in front of me--a father, a mother, and a little kid
about six years old. They looked sort of poor. The father had on one of
those pearl-gray hats that poor guys wear a lot when they want to look
sharp. He and his wife were just walking along, talking, not paying any
attention to their kid. The kid was swell. He was walking in the street,
instead of on the sidewalk, but right next to the curb. He was making out
like he was walking a very straight line, the way kids do, and the whole
time he kept singing and humming. I got up closer so I could hear what he
was singing. He was singing that song, "If a body catch a body coming
through the rye." He had a pretty little voice, too. He was just singing for
the hell of it, you could tell. The cars zoomed by, brakes screeched all
over the place, his parents paid no attention to him, and he kept on walking
next to the curb and singing "If a body catch a body coming through the
rye." It made me feel better. It made me feel not so depressed any more.
Broadway was mobbed and messy. It was Sunday, and only about twelve o'clock,
but it was mobbed anyway. Everybody was on their way to the movies--the
Paramount or the Astor or the Strand or the Capitol or one of those crazy
places. Everybody was all dressed up, because it was Sunday, and that made
it worse. But the worst part was that you could tell they all wanted to go
to the movies. I couldn't stand looking at them. I can understand somebody
going to the movies because there's nothing else to do, but when somebody
really wants to go, and even walks fast so as to get there quicker, then it
depresses hell out of me. Especially if I see millions of people standing in
one of those long, terrible lines, all the way down the block, waiting with
this terrific patience for seats and all. Boy, I couldn't get off that
goddam Broadway fast enough. I was lucky. The first record store I went into
had a copy of "Little Shirley Beans." They charged me five bucks for it,
because it was so hard to get, but I didn't care. Boy, it made me so happy
all of a sudden. I could hardly wait to get to the park to see if old Phoebe
was around so that I could give it to her. When I came out of the record
store, I passed this drugstore, and I went in. I figured maybe I'd give old
Jane a buzz and see if she was home for vacation yet. So I went in a phone
booth and called her up. The only trouble was, her mother answered the
phone, so I had to hang up. I didn't feel like getting involved in a long
conversation and all with her. I'm not crazy about talking to girls' mothers
on the phone anyway. I should've at least asked her if Jane was home yet,
though. It wouldn't have killed me. But I didn't feel like it. You really
have to be in the mood for that stuff. I still had to get those damn theater
tickets, so I bought a paper and looked up to see what shows were playing.
On account of it was Sunday, there were only about three shows playing. So
what I did was, I went over and bought two orchestra seats for I Know My
Love. It was a benefit performance or something. I didn't much want to see
it, but I knew old Sally, the queen of the phonies, would start drooling all
over the place when I told her I had tickets for that, because the Lunts
were in it and all. She liked shows that are supposed to be very
sophisticated and dry and all, with the Lunts and all. I don't. I don't like
any shows very much, if you want to know the truth. They're not as bad as
movies, but they're certainly nothing to rave about. In the first place, I
hate actors. They never act like people. They just think they do. Some of
the good ones do, in a very slight way, but not in a way that's fun to
watch. And if any actor's really good, you can always tell he knows he's
good, and that spoils it. You take Sir Laurence Olivier, for example. I saw
him in Hamlet. D. B. took Phoebe and I to see it last year. He treated us to
lunch first, and then he took us. He'd already seen it, and the way he
talked about it at lunch, I was anxious as hell to see it, too. But I didn't
enjoy it much. I just don't see what's so marvelous about Sir Laurence
Olivier, that's all. He has a terrific voice, and he's a helluva handsome
guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or something,
but he wasn't at all the way D. B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a
goddam general, instead of a sad, screwed-up type guy. The best part in the
whole picture was when old Ophelia's brother--the one that gets in the duel
with Hamlet at the very end--was going away and his father was giving him a
lot of advice. While the father kept giving him a lot of advice, old Ophelia
was sort of horsing around with her brother, taking his dagger out of the
holster, and teasing him and all while he was trying to look interested in
the bull his father was shooting. That was nice. I got a big bang out of
that. But you don't see that kind of stuff much. The only thing old Phoebe
liked was when Hamlet patted this dog on the head. She thought that was
funny and nice, and it was. What I'll have to do is, I'll have to read that
play. The trouble with me is, I always have to read that stuff by myself. If
an actor acts it out, I hardly listen. I keep worrying about whether he's
going to do something phony every minute. After I got the tickets to the
Lunts' show, I took a cab up to the park. I should've taken a subway or
something, because I was getting slightly low on dough, but I wanted to get
off that damn Broadway as fast as I could. It was lousy in the park. It
wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there didn't look like
there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar
butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat
down on them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no
reason, you got goose flesh while you walked. It didn't seem at all like
Christmas was coming soon. It didn't seem like anything was coming. But I
kept walking over to the Mall anyway, because that's where Phoebe usually
goes when she's in the park. She likes to skate near the bandstand. It's
funny. That's the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid. When
I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There were a few kids
around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up with a soft ball,
but no Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though, sitting on a bench all
by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and
could tell me where she was or something, so I went over and sat down next
to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe Caulfield, by any chance?" "Who?"
she said. All she had on was jeans and about twenty sweaters. You could tell
her mother made them for her, because they were lumpy as hell. "Phoebe
Caulfield. She lives on Seventy-first Street. She's in the fourth grade,
over at--" "You know Phoebe?" "Yeah, I'm her brother. You know where she
is?" "She's in Miss Callon's class, isn't she?" the kid said. "I don't know.
Yes, I think she is." "She's prob'ly in the museum, then. We went last
Saturday," the kid said. "Which museum?" I asked her. She shrugged her
shoulders, sort of. "I don't know," she said. "The museum." "I know, but the
one where the pictures are, or the one where the Indians are?" "The one
where the Indians." "Thanks a lot," I said. I got up and started to go, but
then I suddenly remembered it was Sunday. "This is Sunday," I told the kid.
She looked up at me. "Oh. Then she isn't." She was having a helluva time
tightening her skate. She didn't have any gloves on or anything and her
hands were all red and cold. I gave her a hand with it. Boy, I hadn't had a
skate key in my hand for years. It didn't feel funny, though. You could put
a skate key in my hand fifty years from now, in pitch dark, and I'd still
know what it is. She thanked me and all when I had it tightened for her. She
was a very nice, polite little kid. God, I love it when a kid's nice and
polite when you tighten their skate for them or something. Most kids are.
They really are. I asked her if she'd care to have a hot chocolate or
something with me, but she said no, thank you. She said she had to meet her
friend. Kids always have to meet their friend. That kills me. Even though it
was Sunday and Phoebe wouldn't be there with her class or anything, and even
though it was so damp and lousy out, I walked all the way through the park
over to the Museum of Natural History. I knew that was the museum the kid
with the skate key meant. I knew that whole museum routine like a book.
Phoebe went to the same school I went to when I was a kid, and we used to go
there all the time. We had this teacher, Miss Aigletinger, that took us
there damn near every Saturday. Sometimes we looked at the animals and
sometimes we looked at the stuff the Indians had made in ancient times.
Pottery and straw baskets and all stuff like that. I get very happy when I
think about it. Even now. I remember after we looked at all the Indian
stuff, usually we went to see some movie in this big auditorium. Columbus.
They were always showing Columbus discovering America, having one helluva
time getting old Ferdinand and Isabella to lend him the dough to buy ships
with, and then the sailors mutinying on him and all. Nobody gave too much of
a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and
stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It
always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were
in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world. I loved that damn museum. I
remember you had to go through the Indian Room to get to the auditorium. It
was a long, long room, and you were only supposed to whisper. The teacher
would go first, then the class. You'd be two rows of kids, and you'd have a
partner. Most of the time my partner was this girl named Gertrude Levine.
She always wanted to hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or
sweaty or something. The floor was all stone, and if you had some marbles in
your hand and you dropped them, they bounced like madmen all over the floor
and made a helluva racket, and the teacher would hold up the class and go
back and see what the hell was going on. She never got sore, though, Miss
Aigletinger. Then you'd pass by this long, long Indian war canoe, about as
long as three goddam Cadillacs in a row, with about twenty Indians in it,
some of them paddling, some of them just standing around looking tough, and
they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one very spooky guy
in the back of the canoe, with a mask on. He was the witch doctor. He gave
me the creeps, but I liked him anyway. Another thing, if you touched one of
the paddles or anything while you were passing, one of the guards would say
to you, "Don't touch anything, children," but he always said it in a nice
voice, not like a goddam cop or anything. Then you'd pass by this big glass
case, with Indians inside it rubbing sticks together to make a fire, and a
squaw weaving a blanket. The squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of
bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a
good look at it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they
didn't have any more bosom than we did. Then, just before you went inside
the auditorium, right near the doors, you passed this Eskimo. He was sitting
over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing through it. He had about
two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that museum
was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside
them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The
birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in
back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were
really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at
them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The best
thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where
it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that
Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would
still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that
water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and
that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket.
Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you.
Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly.
You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or
the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever
and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class,
instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a
terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles
in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in
some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd
feel like it. I took my old hunting hat out of my pocket while I walked, and
put it on. I knew I wouldn't meet anybody that knew me, and it was pretty
damp out. I kept walking and walking, and I kept thinking about old Phoebe
going to that museum on Saturdays the way I used to. I thought how she'd see
the same stuff I used to see, and how she'd be different every time she saw
it. It didn't exactly depress me to think about it, but it didn't make me
feel gay as hell, either. Certain things they should stay the way they are.
You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just
leave them alone. I know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway. Anyway,
I kept thinking about all that while I walked. I passed by this playground
and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids on a seesaw. One of them
was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to sort of even
up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them
alone. Then a funny thing happened. When I got to the museum, all of a
sudden I wouldn't have gone inside for a million bucks. It just didn't
appeal to me--and here I'd walked through the whole goddam park and looked
forward to it and all. If Phoebe'd been there, I probably would have, but
she wasn't. So all I did, in front of the museum, was get a cab and go down
to the Biltmore. I didn't feel much like going. I'd made that damn date with
Sally, though.
17
I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those
leather couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A
lot of schools were home for vacation already, and there were about a
million girls sitting and standing around waiting for their dates to show
up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls
with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell
girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them. It was
really nice sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of
depressing, too, because you kept wondering what the hell would happen to
all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured
most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about
how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore
and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game
like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys
that are very boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about
calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys. I really don't.
When I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed for about two months with this boy,
Harris Mackim. He was very intelligent and all, but he was one of the
biggest bores I ever met. He had one of these very raspy voices, and he
never stopped talking, practically. He never stopped talking, and what was
awful was, he never said anything you wanted to hear in the first place. But
he could do one thing. The sonuvabitch could whistle better than anybody I
ever heard. He'd be making his bed, or hanging up stuff in the closet--he
was always hanging up stuff in the closet--it drove me crazy--and he'd be
whistling while he did it, if he wasn't talking in this raspy voice. He
could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled
jazz. He could take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whistle
it so nice and easy--right while he was hanging stuff up in the closet--that
it could kill you. Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific
whistler. I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a
terrific whistler." But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even
though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a
terrific whistler, the best I ever heard. So I don't know about bores. Maybe
you shouldn't feel too sorry if you see some swell girl getting married to
them. They don't hurt anybody, most of them, and maybe they're secretly all
terrific whistlers or something. Who the hell knows? Not me. Finally, old
Sally started coming up the stairs, and I started down to meet her. She
looked terrific. She really did. She had on this black coat and sort of a
black beret. She hardly ever wore a hat, but that beret looked nice. The
funny part is, I felt like marrying her the minute I saw her. I'm crazy. I
didn't even like her much, and yet all of a sudden I felt like I was in love
with her and wanted to marry her. I swear to God I'm crazy. I admit it.
"Holden!" she said. "It's marvelous to see you! It's been ages." She had one
of these very loud, embarrassing voices when you met her somewhere. She got
away with it because she was so damn good-looking, but it always gave me a
pain in the ass. "Swell to see you," I said. I meant it, too. "How are ya,
anyway?" "Absolutely marvelous. Am I late?" I told her no, but she was
around ten minutes late, as a matter of fact. I didn't give a damn, though.
All that crap they have in cartoons in the Saturday Evening Post and all,
showing guys on street corners looking sore as hell because their dates are
late--that's bunk. If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a
damn if she's late? Nobody. "We better hurry," I said. "The show starts at
two-forty." We started going down the stairs to where the taxis are. "What
are we going to see?" she said. "I don't know. The Lunts. It's all I could
get tickets for." "The Lunts! Oh, marvelous!" I told you she'd go mad when
she heard it was for the Lunts. We horsed around a little bit in the cab on
the way over to the theater. At first she didn't want to, because she had
her lipstick on and all, but I was being seductive as hell and she didn't
have any alternative. Twice, when the goddam cab stopped short in traffic, I
damn near fell off the seat. Those damn drivers never even look where
they're going, I swear they don't. Then, just to show you how crazy I am,
when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all.
It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I'm
crazy. I swear to God I am. "Oh, darling, I love you too," she said. Then,
right in the same damn breath, she said, "Promise me you'll let your hair
grow. Crew cuts are getting corny. And your hair's so lovely." Lovely my
ass. The show wasn't as bad as some I've seen. It was on the crappy side,
though. It was about five hundred thousand years in the life of this one old
couple. It starts out when they're young and all, and the girl's parents
don't want her to marry the boy, but she marries him anyway. Then they keep
getting older and older. The husband goes to war, and the wife has this
brother that's a drunkard. I couldn't get very interested. I mean I didn't
care too much when anybody in the family died or anything. They were all
just a bunch of actors. The husband and wife were a pretty nice old
couple--very witty and all--but I couldn't get too interested in them. For
one thing, they kept drinking tea or some goddam thing all through the play.
Every time you saw them, some butler was shoving some tea in front of them,
or the wife was pouring it for somebody. And everybody kept coming in and
going out all the time--you got dizzy watching people sit down and stand up.
Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne were the old couple, and they were very good,
but I didn't like them much. They were different, though, I'll say that.
They didn't act like people and they didn't act like actors. It's hard to
explain. They acted more like they knew they were celebrities and all. I
mean they were good, but they were too good. When one of them got finished
making a speech, the other one said something very fast right after it. It
was supposed to be like people really talking and interrupting each other
and all. The trouble was, it was too much like people talking and
interrupting each other. They acted a little bit the way old Ernie, down in
the Village, plays the piano. If you do something too good, then, after a
while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. And then you're not as
good any more. But anyway, they were the only ones in the show--the Lunts, I
mean--that looked like they had any real brains. I have to admit it. At the
end of the first act we went out with all the other jerks for a cigarette.
What a deal that was. You never saw so many phonies in all your life,
everybody smoking their ears off and talking about the play so that
everybody could hear and know how sharp they were. Some dopey movie actor
was standing near us, having a cigarette. I don't know his name, but he
always plays the part of a guy in a war movie that gets yellow before it's
time to go over the top. He was with some gorgeous blonde, and the two of
them were trying to be very blasй and all, like as if he didn't even know
people were looking at him. Modest as hell. I got a big bang out of it. Old
Sally didn't talk much, except to rave about the Lunts, because she was busy
rubbering and being charming. Then all of a sudden, she saw some jerk she
knew on the other side of the lobby. Some guy in one of those very dark gray
flannel suits and one of those checkered vests. Strictly Ivy League. Big
deal. He was standing next to the wall, smoking himself to death and looking
bored as hell. Old Sally kept saying, "I know that boy from somewhere." She
always knew somebody, any place you took her, or thought she did. She kept
saying that till I got bored as hell, and I said to her, "Why don't you go
on over and give him a big soul kiss, if you know him? He'll enjoy it." She
got sore when I said that. Finally, though, the jerk noticed her and came
over and said hello. You should've seen the way they said hello. You'd have
thought they hadn't seen each other in twenty years. You'd have thought
they'd taken baths in the same bathtub or something when they were little
kids. Old buddyroos. It was nauseating. The funny part was, they probably
met each other just once, at some phony party. Finally, when they were all
done slobbering around, old Sally introduced us. His name was George
something--I don't even remember--and he went to Andover. Big, big deal. You
should've seen him when old Sally asked him how he liked the play. He was
the kind of a phony that have to give themselves room when they answer
somebody's question. He stepped back, and stepped right on the lady's foot
behind him. He probably broke every toe in her body. He said the play itself
was no masterpiece, but that the Lunts, of course, were absolute angels.
Angels. For Chrissake. Angels. That killed me. Then he and old Sally started
talking about a lot of people they both knew. It was the phoniest
conversation you ever heard in your life. They both kept thinking of places
as fast as they could, then they'd think of somebody that lived there and
mention their name. I was all set to puke when it was time to go sit down
again. I really was. And then, when the next act was over, they continued
their goddam boring conversation. They kept thinking of more places and more
names of people that lived there. The worst part was, the jerk had one of
those very phony, Ivy League voices, one of those very tired, snobby voices.
He sounded just like a girl. He didn't hesitate to horn in on my date, the
bastard. I even thought for a minute that he was going to get in the goddam
cab with us when the show was over, because he walked about two blocks with
us, but he had to meet a bunch of phonies for cocktails, he said. I could
see them all sitting around in some bar, with their goddam checkered vests,
criticizing shows and books and women in those tired, snobby voices. They
kill me, those guys. I sort of hated old Sally by the time we got in the
cab, after listening to that phony Andover bastard for about ten hours. I
was all set to take her home and all--I really was--but she said, "I have a
marvelous idea!" She was always having a marvelous idea. "Listen," she said.
"What time do you have to be home for dinner? I mean are you in a terrible
hurry or anything? Do you have to be home any special time?" "Me? No. No
special time," I said. Truer word was never spoken, boy. "Why?" "Let's go
ice-skating at Radio City!" That's the kind of ideas she always had.
"Ice-skating at Radio City? You mean right now?" "Just for an hour or so.
Don't you want to? If you don't want to--" "I didn't say I didn't want to,"
I said. "Sure. If you want to." "Do you mean it? Don't just say it if you
don't mean it. I mean I don't give a darn, one way or the other." Not much
she didn't. "You can rent those darling little skating skirts," old Sally
said. "Jeannette Cultz did it last week." That's why she was so hot to go.
She wanted to see herself in one of those little skirts that just come down
over their butt and all. So we went, and after they gave us our skates, they
gave Sally this little blue butt-twitcher of a dress to wear. She really did
look damn good in it, though. I save to admit it. And don't think she didn't
know it. The kept walking ahead of me, so that I'd see how cute her little
ass looked. It did look pretty cute, too. I have to admit it. The funny part
was, though, we were the worst skaters on the whole goddam rink. I mean the
worst. And there were some lulus, too. Old Sally's ankles kept bending in
till they were practically on the ice. They not only looked stupid as hell,
but they probably hurt like hell, too. I know mine did. Mine were killing
me. We must've looked gorgeous. And what made it worse, there were at least
a couple of hundred rubbernecks that didn't have anything better to do than
stand around and watch everybody falling all over themselves. "Do you want
to get a table inside and have a drink or something?" I said to her finally.
"That's the most marvelous idea you've had all day," the said. She was
killing herself. It was brutal. I really felt sorry for her. We took off our
goddam skates and went inside this bar where you can get drinks and watch
the skaters in just your stocking feet. As soon as we sat down, old Sally
took off her gloves, and I gave her a cigarette. She wasn't looking too
happy. The waiter came up, and I ordered a Coke for her--she didn't
drink--and a Scotch and soda for myself, but the sonuvabitch wouldn't bring
me one, so I had a Coke, too. Then I sort of started lighting matches. I do
that quite a lot when I'm in a certain mood. I sort of let them burn down
till I can't hold them any more, then I drop them in the ashtray. It's a
nervous habit. Then all of a sudden, out of a clear blue sky, old Sally
said, "Look. I have to know. Are you or aren't you coming over to help me
trim the tree Christmas Eve? I have to know." She was still being snotty on
account of her ankles when she was skating. "I wrote you I would. You've
asked me that about twenty times. Sure, I am." "I mean I have to know," she
said. She started looking all around the goddam room. All of a sudden I quit
lighting matches, and sort of leaned nearer to her over the table. I had
quite a few topics on my mind. "Hey, Sally," I said. "What?" she said. She
was looking at some girl on the other side of the room. "Did you ever get
fed up?" I said. "I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going
to go lousy unless you did something? I mean do you like school, and all
that stuff?" "It's a terrific bore." "I mean do you hate it? I know it's a
terrific bore, but do you hate it, is what I mean." "Well, I don't exactly
hate it. You always have to--" "Well, I hate it. Boy, do I hate it," I said.
"But it isn't just that. It's everything. I hate living in New York and all.
Taxicabs, and Madison Avenue buses, with the drivers and all always yelling
at you to get out at the rear door, and being introduced to phony guys that
call the Lunts angels, and going up and down in elevators when you just want
to go outside, and guys fitting your pants all the time at Brooks, and
people always--" "Don't shout, please," old Sally said. Which was very
funny, because I wasn't even shouting. "Take cars," I said. I said it in
this very quiet voice. "Take most people, they're crazy about cars. They
worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about
how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already
they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. I don't
even like old cars. I mean they don't even interest me. I'd rather have a
goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake. A horse you can at
least--" "I don't know what you're even talking about," old Sally said. "You
jump from one--" "You know something?" I said. "You're probably the only
reason I'm in New York right now, or anywhere. If you weren't around, I'd
probably be someplace way the hell off. In the woods or some goddam place.
You're the only reason I'm around, practically." "You're sweet," she said.
But you could tell she wanted me to change the damn subject. "You ought to
go to a boys' school sometime. Try it sometime," I said. "It's full of
phonies, and all you do is study so that you can learn enough to be smart
enough to be able to buy a goddam Cadillac some day, and you have to keep
making believe you give a damn if the football team loses, and all you do is
talk about girls and liquor and sex all day, and everybody sticks together
in these dirty little goddam cliques. The guys that are on the basketball
team stick together, the Catholics stick together, the goddam intellectuals
stick together, the guys that play bridge stick together. Even the guys that
belong to the goddam Book-of-the-Month Club stick together. If you try to
have a little intelligent--" "Now, listen," old Sally said. "Lots of boys
get more out of school than that." "I agree! I agree they do, some of them!
But that's all I get out of it. See? That's my point. That's exactly my
goddam point," I said. "I don't get hardly anything out of anything. I'm in
bad shape. I'm in lousy shape." "You certainly are." Then, all of a sudden,
I got this idea. "Look," I said. "Here's my idea. How would you like to get
the hell out of here? Here's my idea. I know this guy down in Greenwich
Village that we can borrow his car for a couple of weeks. He used to go to
the same school I did and he still owes me ten bucks. What we could do is,
tomorrow morning we could drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont, and all
around there, see. It's beautiful as hell up there, It really is." I was
getting excited as hell, the more I thought of it, and I sort of reached
over and took old Sally's goddam hand. What a goddam fool I was. "No
kidding," I said. "I have about a hundred and eighty bucks in the bank. I
can take it out when it opens in the morning, and then I could go down and
get this guy's car. No kidding. We'll stay in these cabin camps and stuff
like that till the dough runs out. Then, when the dough runs out, I could
get a job somewhere and we could live somewhere with a brook and all and,
later on, we could get married or something. I could chop all our own wood
in the wintertime and all. Honest to God, we could have a terrific time!
Wuddaya say? C'mon! Wuddaya say? Will you do it with me? Please!" "You can't
just do something like that," old Sally said. She sounded sore as hell. "Why
not? Why the hell not?" "Stop screaming at me, please," she said. Which was
crap, because I wasn't even screaming at her. "Why can'tcha? Why not?"
"Because you can't, that's all. In the first place, we're both practically
children. And did you ever stop to think what you'd do if you didn't get a
job when your money ran out? We'd starve to death. The whole thing's so
fantastic, it isn't even--" "It isn't fantastic. I'd get a job. Don't worry
about that. You don't have to worry about that. What's the matter? Don't you
want to go with me? Say so, if you don't." "It isn't that. It isn't that at
all," old Sally said. I was beginning to hate her, in a way. "We'll have
oodles of time to do those things--all those things. I mean after you go to
college and all, and if we should get married and all. There'll be oodles of
marvelous places to go to. You're just--" "No, there wouldn't be. There
wouldn't be oodles of places to go to at all. It'd be entirely different," I
said. I was getting depressed as hell again. "What?" she said. "I can't hear
you. One minute you scream at me, and the next you--" "I said no, there
wouldn't be marvelous places to go to after I went to college and all. Open
your ears. It'd be entirely different. We'd have to go downstairs in
elevators with suitcases and stuff. We'd have to phone up everybody and tell
'em good-by and send 'em postcards from hotels and all. And I'd be working
in some office, making a lot of dough, and riding to work in cabs and
Madison Avenue buses, and reading newspapers, and playing bridge all the
time, and going to the movies and seeing a lot of stupid shorts and coming
attractions and newsreels. Newsreels. Christ almighty. There's always a dumb
horse race, and some dame breaking a bottle over a ship, and some chimpanzee
riding a goddam bicycle with pants on. It wouldn't be the same at all. You
don't see what I mean at all." "Maybe I don't! Maybe you don't, either," old
Sally said. We both hated each other's guts by that time. You could see
there wasn't any sense trying to have an intelligent conversation. I was
sorry as hell I'd started it. "C'mon, let's get outa here," I said. "You
give me a royal pain in the ass, if you want to know the truth." Boy, did
she hit the ceiling when I said that. I know I shouldn't've said it, and I
probably wouldn't've ordinarily, but she was depressing the hell out of me.
Usually I never say crude things like that to girls. Boy, did she hit the
ceiling. I apologized like a madman, but she wouldn't accept my apology. She
was even crying. Which scared me a little bit, because I was a little afraid
she'd go home and tell her father I called her a pain in the ass. Her father
was one of those big silent bastards, and he wasn't too crazy about me
anyhow. He once told old Sally I was too goddam noisy. "No kidding. I'm
sorry," I kept telling her. "You're sorry. You're sorry. That's very funny,"
she said. She was still sort of crying, and all of a sudden I did feel sort
of sorry I'd said it. "C'mon, I'll take ya home. No kidding." "I can go home
by myself, thank you. If you think I'd let you take me home, you're mad. No
boy ever said that to me in my entire life." The whole thing was sort of
funny, in a way, if you thought about it, and all of a sudden I did
something I shouldn't have. I laughed. And I have one of these very loud,
stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie or something,
I'd probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up. It made old Sally
madder than ever. I stuck around for a while, apologizing and trying to get
her to excuse me, but she wouldn't. She kept telling me to go away and leave
her alone. So finally I did it. I went inside and got my shoes and stuff,
and left without her. I shouldn't've, but I was pretty goddam fed up by that
time. If you want to know the truth, I don't even know why I started all
that stuff with her. I mean about going away somewhere, to Massachusetts and
Vermont and all. I probably wouldn't've taken her even if she'd wanted to go
with me. She wouldn't have been anybody to go with. The terrible part,
though, is that I meant it when I asked her. That's the terrible part. I
swear to God I'm a madman.
18
When I left the skating rink I felt sort of hungry, so I went in this
drugstore and had a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted, and then I went in a
phone booth. I thought maybe I might give old Jane another buzz and see if
she was home yet. I mean I had the whole evening free, and I thought I'd
give her a buzz and, if she was home yet, take her dancing or something
somewhere. I never danced with her or anything the whole time I knew her. I
saw her dancing once, though. She looked like a very good dancer. It was at
this Fourth of July dance at the club. I didn't know her too well then, and
I didn't think I ought to cut in on her date. She was dating this terrible
guy, Al Pike, that went to Choate. I didn't know him too well, but he was
always hanging around the swimming pool. He wore those white Lastex kind of
swimming trunks, and he was always going off the high dive. He did the same
lousy old half gainer all day long. It was the only dive he could do, but he
thought he was very hot stuff. All muscles and no brains. Anyway, that's who
Jane dated that night. I couldn't understand it. I swear I couldn't. After
we started going around together, I asked her how come she could date a
showoff bastard like Al Pike. Jane said he wasn't a show-off. She said he
had an inferiority complex. She acted like she felt sorry for him or
something, and she wasn't just putting it on. She meant it. It's a funny
thing about girls. Every time you mention some guy that's strictly a
bastard--very mean, or very conceited and all--and when you mention it to
the girl, she'll tell you he has an inferiority complex. Maybe he has, but
that still doesn't keep him from being a bastard, in my opinion. Girls. You
never know what they're going to think. I once got this girl Roberta Walsh's
roommate a date with a friend of mine. His name was Bob Robinson and he
really had an inferiority complex. You could tell he was very ashamed of his
parents and all, because they said "he don't" and "she don't" and stuff like
that and they weren't very wealthy. But he wasn't a bastard or anything. He
was a very nice guy. But this Roberta Walsh's roommate didn't like him at
all. She told Roberta he was too conceited--and the reason she thought he
was conceited was because he happened to mention to her that he was captain
of the debating team. A little thing like that, and she thought he was
conceited! The trouble with girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big
a bastard he is, they'll say he has an inferiority complex, and if they
don't like him, no matter how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority
complex he has, they'll say he's conceited. Even smart girls do it. Anyway,
I gave old Jane a buzz again, but her phone didn't answer, so I had to hang
up. Then I had to look through my address book to see who the hell might be
available for the evening. The trouble was, though, my address book only has
about three people in it. Jane, and this man, Mr. Antolini, that was my
teacher at Elkton Hills, and my father's office number. I keep forgetting to
put people's names in. So what I did finally, I gave old Carl Luce a buzz.
He graduated from the Whooton School after I left. He was about three years
older than I was, and I didn't like him too much, but he was one of these
very intellectual guys-- he had the highest I. Q. of any boy at Whooton--and
I thought he might want to have dinner with me somewhere and have a slightly
intellectual conversation. He was very enlightening sometimes. So I gave him
a buzz. He went to Columbia now, but he lived on 65th Street and all, and I
knew he'd be home. When I got him on the phone, he said he couldn't make it
for dinner but that he'd meet me for a drink at ten o'clock at the Wicker
Bar, on 54th. I think he was pretty surprised to hear from me. I once called
him a fat-assed phony. I had quite a bit of time to kill till ten o'clock,
so what I did, I went to the movies at Radio City. It was probably the worst
thing I could've done, but it was near, and I couldn't think of anything
else. I came in when the goddam stage show was on. The Rockettes were
kicking their heads off, the way they do when they're all in line with their
arms around each other's waist. The audience applauded like mad, and some
guy behind me kept saying to his wife, "You know what that is? That's
precision." He killed me. Then, after the Rockettes, a guy came out in a
tuxedo and roller skates on, and started skating under a bunch of little
tables, and telling jokes while he did it. He was a very good skater and
all, but I couldn't enjoy it much because I kept picturing him practicing to
be a guy that roller-skates on the stage. It seemed so stupid. I guess I
just wasn't in the right mood. Then, after him, they had this Christmas
thing they have at Radio City every year. All these angels start coming out
of the boxes and everywhere, guys carrying crucifixes and stuff all over the
place, and the whole bunch of them--thousands of them--singing "Come All Ye
Faithful!" like mad. Big deal. It's supposed to be religious as hell, I
know, and very pretty and all, but I can't see anything religious or pretty,
for God's sake, about a bunch of actors carrying crucifixes all over the
stage. When they were all finished and started going out the boxes again,
you could tell they could hardly wait to get a cigarette or something. I saw
it with old Sally Hayes the year before, and she kept saying how beautiful
it was, the costumes and all. I said old Jesus probably would've puked if He
could see it--all those fancy costumes and all. Sally said I was a
sacrilegious atheist. I probably am. The thing Jesus really would've liked
would be the guy that plays the kettle drums in the orchestra. I've watched
that guy since I was about eight years old. My brother Allie and I, if we
were with our parents and all, we used to move our seats and go way down so
we could watch him. He's the best drummer I ever saw. He only gets a chance
to bang them a couple of times during a whole piece, but he never looks
bored when he isn't doing it. Then when he does bang them, he does it so
nice and sweet, with this nervous expression on his face. One time when we
went to Washington with my father, Allie sent him a postcard, but I'll bet
he never got it. We weren't too sure how to address it. After the Christmas
thing was over, the goddam picture started. It was so putrid I couldn't take
my eyes off it. It was about this English guy, Alec something, that was in
the war and loses his memory in the hospital and all. He comes out of the
hospital carrying a cane and limping all over the place, all over London,
not knowing who the hell he is. He's really a duke, but he doesn't know it.
Then he meets this nice, homey, sincere girl getting on a bus. Her goddam
hat blows off and he catches it, and then they go upstairs and sit down and
start talking about Charles Dickens. He's both their favorite author and
all. He's carrying this copy of Oliver Twist and so's she. I could've puked.
Anyway, they fell in love right away, on account of they're both so nuts
about Charles Dickens and all, and he helps her run her publishing business.
She's a publisher, the girl. Only, she's not doing so hot, because her
brother's a drunkard and he spends all their dough. He's a very bitter guy,
the brother, because he was a doctor in the war and now he can't operate any
more because his nerves are shot, so he boozes all the time, but he's pretty
witty and all. Anyway, old Alec writes a book, and this girl publishes it,
and they both make a hatful of dough on it. They're all set to get married
when this other girl, old Marcia, shows up. Marcia was Alec's fiancйe before
he lost his memory, and she recognizes him when he's in this store
autographing books. She tells old Alec he's really a duke and all, but he
doesn't believe her and doesn't want to go with her to visit his mother and
all. His mother's blind as a bat. But the other girl, the homey one, makes
him go. She's very noble and all. So he goes. But he still doesn't get his
memory back, even when his great Dane jumps all over him and his mother
sticks her fingers all over his face and brings him this teddy bear he used
to slobber around with when he was a kid. But then, one day, some kids are
playing cricket on the lawn and he gets smacked in the head with a cricket
ball. Then right away he gets his goddam memory back and he goes in and
kisses his mother on the forehead and all. Then he starts being a regular
duke again, and he forgets all about the homey babe that has the publishing
business. I'd tell you the rest of the story, but I might puke if I did. It
isn't that I'd spoil it for you or anything. There isn't anything to spoil
for Chrissake. Anyway, it ends up with Alec and the homey babe getting
married, and the brother that's a drunkard gets his nerves back and operates
on Alec's mother so she can see again, and then the drunken brother and old
Marcia go for each other. It ends up with everybody at this long dinner
table laughing their asses off because the great Dane comes in with a bunch
of puppies. Everybody thought it was a male, I suppose, or some goddam
thing. All I can say is, don't see it if you don't want to puke all over
yourself. The part that got me was, there was a lady sitting next to me that
cried all through the goddam picture. The phonier it got, the more she
cried. You'd have thought she did it because she was kindhearted as hell,
but I was sitting right next to her, and she wasn't. She had this little kid
with her that was bored as hell and had to go to the bathroom, but she
wouldn't take him. She kept telling him to sit still and behave himself. She
was about as kindhearted as a goddam wolf. You take somebody that cries
their goddam eyes out over phony stuff in the movies, and nine times out of
ten they're mean bastards at heart. I'm not kidding. After the movie was
over, I started walking down to the Wicker Bar, where I was supposed to meet
old Carl Luce, and while I walked I sort of thought about war and all. Those
war movies always do that to me. I don't think I could stand it if I had to
go to war. I really couldn't. It wouldn't be too bad if they'd just take you
out and shoot you or something, but you have to stay in the Army so goddam
long. That's the whole trouble. My brother D. B. was in the Army for four
goddam years. He was in the war, too--he landed on D-Day and all--but I
really think he hated the Army worse than the war. I was practically a child
at the time, but I remember when he used to come home on furlough and all,
all he did was lie on his bed, practically. He hardly ever even came in the
living room. Later, when he went overseas and was in the war and all, he
didn't get wounded or anything and he didn't have to shoot anybody. All he
had to do was drive some cowboy general around all day in a command car. He
once told Allie and I that if he'd had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've
known which direction to shoot in. He said the Army was practically as full
of bastards as the Nazis were. I remember Allie once asked him wasn't it
sort of good that he was in the war because he was a writer and it gave him
a lot to write about and all. He made Allie go get his baseball mitt and
then he asked him who was the best war poet, Rupert Brooke or Emily
Dickinson. Allie said Emily Dickinson. I don't know too much about it
myself, because I don't read much poetry, but I do know it'd drive me crazy
if I had to be in the Army and be with a bunch of guys like Ackley and
Stradlater and old Maurice all the time, marching with them and all. I was
in the Boy Scouts once, for about a week, and I couldn't even stand looking
at the back of the guy's neck in front of me. They kept telling you to look
at the back of the guy's neck in front of you. I swear if there's ever
another war, they better just take me out and stick me in front of a firing
squad. I wouldn't object. What gets me about D. B., though, he hated the war
so much, and yet he got me to read this book A Farewell to Arms last summer.
He said it was so terrific. That's what I can't understand. It had this guy
in it named Lieutenant Henry that was supposed to be a nice guy and all. I
don't see how D. B. could hate the Army and war and all so much and still
like a phony like that. I mean, for instance, I don't see how he could like
a phony book like that and still like that one by Ring Lardner, or that
other one he's so crazy about, The Great Gatsby. D. B. got sore when I said
that, and said I was too young and all to appreciate it, but I don't think
so. I told him I liked Ring Lardner and The Great Gatsby and all. I did,
too. I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed
me. Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If
there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll
volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.
19
In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of
swanky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't
any more. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed
to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window.
They used to have these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play
the piano and sing about three times every night. One of them played the
piano--strictly lousy--and the other one sang, and most of the songs were
either pretty dirty or in French. The one that sang, old Janine, was always
whispering into the goddam microphone before she sang. She'd say, "And now
we like to geeve you our impression of Vooly Voo Fransay. Eet ees the story
of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg ceety, just like New York, and
falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen. We hope you like eet."
Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as hell, she'd sing
some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive all the
phonies in the place mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough and
heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the
world, I swear you did. The bartender was a louse, too. He was a big snob.
He didn't talk to you at all hardly unless you were a big shot or a
celebrity or something. If you were a big shot or a celebrity or something,
then he was even more nauseating. He'd go up to you and say, with this big
charming smile, like he was a helluva swell guy if you knew him, "Well!
How's Connecticut?" or "How's Florida?" It was a terrible place, I'm not
kidding. I cut out going there entirely, gradually. It was pretty early when
I got there. I sat down at the bar--it was pretty crowded--and had a couple
of Scotch and sodas before old Luce even showed up. I stood up when I
ordered them so they could see how tall I was and all and not think I was a
goddam minor. Then I watched the phonies for a while. Some guy next to me
was snowing hell out of the babe he was with. He kept telling her she had
aristocratic hands. That killed me. The other end of the bar was full of
flits. They weren't too flitty-looking--I mean they didn't have their hair
too long or anything--but you could tell they were flits anyway. Finally old
Luce showed up. Old Luce. What a guy. He was supposed to be my Student
Adviser when I was at Whooton. The only thing he ever did, though, was give
these sex talks and all, late at night when there was a bunch of guys in his
room. He knew quite a bit about sex, especially perverts and all. He was
always telling us about a lot of creepy guys that go around having affairs
with sheep, and guys that go around with girls' pants sewed in the lining of
their hats and all. And flits and Lesbians. Old Luce knew who every flit and
Lesbian in the United States was. All you had to do was mention
somebody--anybody--and old Luce'd tell you if he was a flit or not.
Sometimes it was hard to believe, the people he said were flits and Lesbians
and all, movie actors and like that. Some of the ones he said were flits
were even married, for God's sake. You'd keep saying to him, "You mean Joe
Blow's a flit? Joe Blow? That big, tough guy that plays gangsters and
cowboys all the time?" Old Luce'd say, "Certainly." He was always saying
"Certainly." He said it didn't matter if a guy was married or not. He said
half the married guys in the world were flits and didn't even know it. He
said you could turn into one practically overnight, if you had all the
traits and all. He used to scare the hell out of us. I kept waiting to turn
into a flit or something. The funny thing about old Luce, I used to think he
was sort of flitty himself, in a way. He was always saying, "Try this for
size," and then he'd goose the hell out of you while you were going down the
corridor. And whenever he went to the can, he always left the goddam door
open and talked to you while you were brushing your teeth or something. That
stuff's sort of flitty. It really is. I've known quite a few real flits, at
schools and all, and they're always doing stuff like that, and that's why I
always had my doubts about old Luce. He was a pretty intelligent guy,
though. He really was. He never said hello or anything when he met you. The
first thing he said when he sat down was that he could only stay a couple of
minutes. He said he had a date. Then he ordered a dry Martini. He told the
bartender to make it very dry, and no olive. "Hey, I got a flit for you," I
told him. "At the end of the bar. Don't look now. I been saving him for ya."
"Very funny," he said. "Same old Caulfield. When are you going to grow up?"
I bored him a lot. I really did. He amused me, though. He was one of those
guys that sort of amuse me a lot. "How's your sex life?" I asked him. He
hated you to ask him stuff like that. "Relax," he said. "Just sit back and
relax, for Chrissake." "I'm relaxed," I said. "How's Columbia? Ya like it?"
"Certainly I like it. If I didn't like it I wouldn't have gone there," he
said. He could be pretty boring himself sometimes. "What're you majoring
in?" I asked him. "Perverts?" I was only horsing around. "What're you trying
to be--funny?" "No. I'm only kidding," I said. "Listen, hey, Luce. You're
one of these intellectual guys. I need your advice. I'm in a terrific--" He
let out this big groan on me. "Listen, Caulfield. If you want to sit here
and have a quiet, peaceful drink and a quiet, peaceful conver--" "All right,
all right," I said. "Relax." You could tell he didn't feel like discussing
anything serious with me. That's the trouble with these intellectual guys.
They never want to discuss anything serious unless they feel like it. So all
I did was, I started discussing topics in general with him. "No kidding,
how's your sex life?" I asked him. "You still going around with that same
babe you used to at Whooton? The one with the terrffic--" "Good God, no," he
said. "How come? What happened to her?" "I haven't the faintest idea. For
all I know, since you ask, she's probably the Whore of New Hampshire by this
time." "That isn't nice. If she was decent enough to let you get sexy with
her all the time, you at least shouldn't talk about her that way." "Oh,
God!" old Luce said. "Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conversation?
I want to know right now." "No," I said, "but it isn't nice anyway. If she
was decent and nice enough to let you--" "Must we pursue this horrible trend
of thought?" I didn't say anything. I was sort of afraid he'd get up and
leave on me if I didn't shut up. So all I did was, I ordered another drink.
I felt like getting stinking drunk. "Who're you going around with now?" I
asked him. "You feel like telling me?" "Nobody you know." "Yeah, but who? I
might know her." "Girl lives in the Village. Sculptress. If you must know."
"Yeah? No kidding? How old is she?" "I've never asked her, for God's sake."
"Well, around how old?" "I should imagine she's in her late thirties," old
Luce said. "In her late thirties? Yeah? You like that?" I asked him. "You
like 'em that old?" The reason I was asking was because he really knew quite
a bit about sex and all. He was one of the few guys I knew that did. He lost
his virginity when he was only fourteen, in Nantucket. He really did. "I
like a mature person, if that's what you mean. Certainly." "You do? Why? No
kidding, they better for sex and all?" "Listen. Let's get one thing
straight. I refuse to answer any typical Caulfield questions tonight. When
in hell are you going to grow up?" I didn't say anything for a while. I let
it drop for a while. Then old Luce ordered another Martini and told the
bartender to make it a lot dryer. "Listen. How long you been going around
with her, this sculpture babe?" I asked him. I was really interested. "Did
you know her when you were at Whooton?" "Hardly. She just arrived in this
country a few months ago." "She did? Where's she from?" "She happens to be
from Shanghai." "No kidding! She Chinese, for Chrissake?" "Obviously." "No
kidding! Do you like that? Her being Chinese?" "Obviously." "Why? I'd be
interested to know--I really would." "I simply happen to find Eastern
philosophy more satisfactory than Western. Since you ask." "You do? Wuddaya
mean 'philosophy'? Ya mean sex and all? You mean it's better in China? That
what you mean?" "Not necessarily in China, for God's sake. The East I said.
Must we go on with this inane conversation?" "Listen, I'm serious," I said.
"No kidding. Why's it better in the East?" "It's too involved to go into,
for God's sake," old Luce said. "They simply happen to regard sex as both a
physical and a spiritual experience. If you think I'm--" "So do I! So do I
regard it as a wuddayacallit--a physical and spiritual experience and all. I
really do. But it depends on who the hell I'm doing it with. If I'm doing it
with somebody I don't even--" "Not so loud, for God's sake, Caulfield. If
you can't manage to keep your voice down, let's drop the whole--" "All
right, but listen," I said. I was getting excited and I was talking a little
too loud. Sometimes I talk a little loud when I get excited. "This is what I
mean, though," I said. "I know it's supposed to be physical and spiritual,
and artistic and all. But what I mean is, you can't do it with
everybody--every girl you neck with and all--and make it come out that way.
Can you?" "Let's drop it," old Luce said. "Do you mind?" "All right, but
listen. Take you and this Chinese babe. What's so good about you two?" "Drop
it, I said." I was getting a little too personal. I realize that. But that
was one of the annoying things about Luce. When we were at Whooton, he'd
make you describe the most personal stuff that happened to you, but if you
started asking him questions about himself, he got sore. These intellectual
guys don't like to have an intellectual conversation with you unless they're
running the whole thing. They always want you to shut up when they shut up,
and go back to your room when they go back to their room. When I was at
Whooton old Luce used to hate it--you really could tell he did--when after
he was finished giving his sex talk to a bunch of us in his room we stuck
around and chewed the fat by ourselves for a while. I mean the other guys
and myself. In somebody else's room. Old Luce hated that. He always wanted
everybody to go back to their own room and shut up when he was finished
being the big shot. The thing he was afraid of, he was afraid somebody'd say
something smarter than he had. He really amused me. "Maybe I'll go to China.
My sex life is lousy," I said. "Naturally. Your mind is immature." "It is.
It really is. I know it," I said. "You know what the trouble with me is? I
can never get really sexy--I mean really sexy--with a girl I don't like a
lot. I mean I have to like her a lot. If I don't, I sort of lose my goddam
desire for her and all. Boy, it really screws up my sex life something
awful. My sex life stinks." "Naturally it does, for God's sake. I told you
the last time I saw you what you need." "You mean to go to a psychoanalyst
and all?" I said. That's what he'd told me I ought to do. His father was a
psychoanalyst and all. "It's up to you, for God's sake. It's none of my
goddam business what you do with your life." I didn't say anything for a
while. I was thinking. "Supposing I went to your father and had him
psychoanalyze me and all," I said. "What would he do to me? I mean what
would he do to me?" "He wouldn't do a goddam thing to you. He'd simply talk
to you, and you'd talk to him, for God's sake. For one thing, he'd help you
to recognize the patterns of your mind." "The what?" "The patterns of your
mind. Your mind runs in-- Listen. I'm not giving an elementary course in
psychoanalysis. If you're interested, call him up and make an appointment.
If you're not, don't. I couldn't care less, frankly." I put my hand on his
shoulder. Boy, he amused me. "You're a real friendly bastard," I told him.
"You know that?" He was looking at his wrist watch. "I have to tear," he
said, and stood up. "Nice seeing you." He got the bartender and told him to
bring him his check. "Hey," I said, just before he beat it. "Did your father
ever psychoanalyze you?" "Me? Why do you ask?" "No reason. Did he, though?
Has he?" "Not exactly. He's helped me to adjust myself to a certain extent,
but an extensive analysis hasn't been necessary. Why do you ask?" "No
reason. I was just wondering." "Well. Take it easy," he said. He was leaving
his tip and all and he was starting to go. "Have just one more drink," I
told him. "Please. I'm lonesome as hell. No kidding." He said he couldn't do
it, though. He said he was late now, and then he left. Old Luce. He was
strictly a pain in the ass, but he certainly had a good vocabulary. He had
the largest vocabulary of any boy at Whooton when I was there. They gave us
a test.
20
I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine
to come out and do their stuff, but they weren't there. A flitty-looking guy
with wavy hair came out and played the piano, and then this new babe,
Valencia, came out and sang. She wasn't any good, but she was better than
old Tina and Janine, and at least she sang good songs. The piano was right
next to the bar where I was sitting and all, and old Valencia was standing
practically right next to me. I sort of gave her the old eye, but she
pretended she didn't even see me. I probably wouldn't have done it, but I
was getting drunk as hell. When she was finished, she beat it out of the
room so fast I didn't even get a chance to invite her to join me for a
drink, so I called the headwaiter over. I told him to ask old Valencia if
she'd care to join me for a drink. He said he would, but he probably didn't
even give her my message. People never give your message to anybody. Boy, I
sat at that goddam bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a
bastard. I could hardly see straight. The one thing I did, though, I was
careful as hell not to get boisterous or anything. I didn't want anybody to
notice me or anything or ask how old I was. But, boy, I could hardly see
straight. When I was really drunk, I started that stupid business with the
bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a bullet in
their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all,
to keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn't want anybody to
know I was even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded
sonuvabitch. Finally what I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz
and see if she was home yet. So I paid my check and all. Then I left the bar
and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping my hand under my
jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk. But when I got
inside this phone booth, I wasn't much in the mood any more to give old Jane
a buzz. I was too drunk, I guess. So what I did, I gave old Sally Hayes a
buzz. I had to dial about twenty numbers before I got the right one. Boy,
was I blind. "Hello," I said when somebody answered the goddam phone. I sort
of yelled it, I was so drunk. "Who is this?" this very cold lady's voice
said. "This is me. Holden Caulfield. Lemme speaka Sally, please." "Sally's
asleep. This is Sally's grandmother. Why are you calling at this hour,
Holden? Do you know what time it is?" "Yeah. Wanna talka Sally. Very
important. Put her on." "Sally's asleep, young man. Call her tomorrow. Good
night." "Wake 'er up! Wake 'er up, hey. Attaboy." Then there was a different
voice. "Holden, this is me." It was old Sally. "What's the big idea?"
"Sally? That you?" "Yes--stop screaming. Are you drunk?" "Yeah. Listen.
Listen, hey. I'll come over Christmas Eve. Okay? Trimma goddarn tree for ya.
Okay? Okay, hey, Sally?" "Yes. You're drunk. Go to bed now. Where are you?
Who's with you?" "Sally? I'll come over and trimma tree for ya, okay? Okay,
hey?" "Yes. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?" "Nobody. Me,
myself and I." Boy was I drunk! I was even still holding onto my guts. "They
got me. Rocky's mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know that?" "I can't
hear you. Go to bed now. I have to go. Call me tomorrow." "Hey, Sally! You
want me trimma tree for ya? Ya want me to? Huh?" "Yes. Good night. Go home
and go to bed." She hung up on me. "G'night. G'night, Sally baby. Sally
sweetheart darling," I said. Can you imagine how drunk I was? I hung up too,
then. I figured she probably just came home from a date. I pictured her out
with the Lunts and all somewhere, and that Andover jerk. All of them
swimming around in a goddam pot of tea and saying sophisticated stuff to
each other and being charming and phony. I wished to God I hadn't even
phoned her. When I'm drunk, I'm a madman. I stayed in the damn phone booth
for quite a while. I kept holding onto the phone, sort of, so I wouldn't
pass out. I wasn't feeling too marvelous, to tell you the truth. Finally,
though, I came out and went in the men's room, staggering around like a
moron, and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. Then I dunked my
head in it, right up to the ears. I didn't even bother to dry it or
anything. I just let the sonuvabitch drip. Then I walked over to this
radiator by the window and sat down on it. It was nice and warm. It felt
good because I was shivering like a bastard. It's a funny thing, I always
shiver like hell when I'm drunk. I didn't have anything else to do, so I
kept sitting on the radiator and counting these little white squares on the
floor. I was getting soaked. About a gallon of water was dripping down my
neck, getting all over my collar and tie and all, but I didn't give a damn.
I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty soon, the guy that played the
piano for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitty-looking guy, came in to
comb his golden locks. We sort of struck up a conversation while he was
combing it, except that he wasn't too goddam friendly. "Hey. You gonna see
that Valencia babe when you go back in the bar?" I asked him. "It's highly
probable," he said. Witty bastard. All I ever meet is witty bastards.
"Listen. Give her my compliments. Ask her if that goddam waiter gave her my
message, willya?" "Why don't you go home, Mac? How old are you, anyway?"
"Eighty-six. Listen. Give her my compliments. Okay?" "Why don't you go home,
Mac?" "Not me. Boy, you can play that goddam piano." I told him. I was just
flattering him. He played the piano stinking, if you want to know the truth.
"You oughta go on the radio," I said. "Handsome chap like you. All those
goddam golden locks. Ya need a manager?" "Go home, Mac, like a good guy. Go
home and hit the sack." "No home to go to. No kidding--you need a manager?"
He didn't answer me. He just went out. He was all through combing his hair
and patting it and all, so he left. Like Stradlater. All these handsome guys
are the same. When they're done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on
you. When I finally got down off the radiator and went out to the hat-check
room, I was crying and all. I don't know why, but I was. I guess it was
because I was feeling so damn depressed and lonesome. Then, when I went out
to the checkroom, I couldn't find my goddam check. The hat-check girl was
very nice about it, though. She gave me my coat anyway. And my "Little
Shirley Beans" record--I still had it with me and all. I gave her a buck for
being so nice, but she wouldn't take it. She kept telling me to go home and
go to bed. I sort of tried to make a date with her for when she got through
working, but she wouldn't do it. She said she was old enough to be my mother
and all. I showed her my goddam gray hair and told her I was forty-two--I
was only horsing around, naturally. She was nice, though. I showed her my
goddam red hunting hat, and she liked it. She made me put it on before I
went out, because my hair was still pretty wet. She was all right. I didn't
feel too drunk any more when I went outside, but it was getting very cold
out again, and my teeth started chattering like hell. I couldn't make them
stop. I walked over to Madison Avenue and started to wait around for a bus
because I didn't have hardly any money left and I had to start economizing
on cabs and all. But I didn't feel like getting on a damn bus. And besides,
I didn't even know where I was supposed to go. So what I did, I started
walking over to the park. I figured I'd go by that little lake and see what
the hell the ducks were doing, see if they were around or not, I still
didn't know if they were around or not. It wasn't far over to the park, and
I didn't have anyplace else special to go to--I didn't even know where I was
going to sleep yet--so I went. I wasn't tired or anything. I just felt blue
as hell. Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I
dropped old Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a
big envelope and all, but it broke anyway. I damn near cried, it made me
feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces out of the envelope
and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything, but I
didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was
it dark. I've lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like
the back of my hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and
ride my bike when I was a kid, but I had the most terrific trouble finding
that lagoon that night. I knew right where it was--it was right near Central
Park South and all--but I still couldn't find it. I must've been drunker
than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting darker and
darker and spookier and spookier. I didn't see one person the whole time I
was in the park. I'm just as glad. I probably would've jumped about a mile
if I had. Then, finally, I found it. What it was, it was partly frozen and
partly not frozen. But I didn't see any ducks around. I walked all around
the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in fact--but I didn't see a
single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, they might be asleep
or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and all. That's how
I nearly fell in. But I couldn't find any. Finally I sat down on this bench,
where it wasn't so goddam dark. Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard,
and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of
full of little hunks of ice. That worried me. I thought probably I'd get
pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my
funeral and all. My grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the
numbers of the streets when you ride on a goddam bus with him, and my
aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be
there. They all came when Allie died, the whole goddam stupid bunch of them.
I have this one stupid aunt with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he
looked lying there, D. B. told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the
hospital. I had to go to the hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway,
I kept worrying that I was getting pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in
my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry as hell for my mother and
father. Especially my mother, because she still isn't over my brother Allie
yet. I kept picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and
athletic equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old
Phoebe come to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was
the only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me
in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombstone and all.
Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I
hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the
river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People
coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all
that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody. When the weather's
nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old
Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the
first place, I certainly don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery.
Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the
sun was out, but twice--twice--we were there when it started to rain. It was
awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his
stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting
the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what
nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on
their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except
Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the
cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand
it anyway. I just wish he wasn't there. You didn't know him. If you'd known
him, you'd know what I mean. It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the
sun only comes out when it feels like coming out. After a while, just to get
my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I took out my dough and tried to
count it in the lousy light from the street lamp. All I had was three
singles and five quarters and a nickel left--boy, I spent a fortune since I
left Pencey. Then what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sort of
skipped the quarters and the nickel across it, where it wasn't frozen. I
don't know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought it'd take my mind
off getting pneumonia and dying. It didn't, though. I started thinking how
old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died. It was a childish way to
think, but I couldn't stop myself. She'd feel pretty bad if something like
that happened. She likes me a lot. I mean she's quite fond of me. She really
is. Anyway, I couldn't get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd
do, I figured I'd better sneak home and see her, in case I died and all. I
had my door key with me and all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak in the
apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat with her for a
while. The only thing that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a
bastard. It's a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy
bastard, and everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might
hear me sneaking in. But I decided I'd try it anyhow. So I got the hell out
of the park, and went home. I walked all the way. It wasn't too far, and I
wasn't tired or even drunk any more. It was just very cold and nobody around
anywhere.
21
The best break I had in years, when I got home the regular night
elevator boy, Pete, wasn't on the car. Some new guy I'd never seen was on
the car, so I figured that if I didn't bump smack into my parents and all
I'd be able to say hello to old Phoebe and then beat it and nobody'd even
know I'd been around. It was really a terrific break. What made it even
better, the new elevator boy was sort of on the stupid side. I told him, in
this very casual voice, to take me up to the Dicksteins'. The Dicksteins
were these people that had the other apartment on our floor. I'd already
taken off my hunting hat, so as not to look suspicious or anything. I went
in the elevator like I was in a terrific hurry. He had the elevator doors
all shut and all, and was all set to take me up, and then he turned around
and said, "They ain't in. They're at a party on the fourteenth floor."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm supposed to wait for them. I'm their
nephew." He gave me this sort of stupid, suspicious look. "You better wait
in the lobby, fella," he said. "I'd like to--I really would," I said. "But I
have a bad leg. I have to hold it in a certain position. I think I'd better
sit down in the chair outside their door." He didn't know what the hell I
was talking about, so all he said was "Oh" and took me up. Not bad, boy.
It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and
they'll do practically anything you want them to. I got off at our
floor--limping like a bastard--and started walking over toward the
Dicksteins' side. Then, when I heard the elevator doors shut, I turned
around and went over to our side. I was doing all right. I didn't even feel
drunk anymore. Then I took out my door key and opened our door, quiet as
hell. Then, very, very carefully and all, I went inside and closed the door.
I really should've been a crook. It was dark as hell in the foyer,
naturally, and naturally I couldn't turn on any lights. I had to be careful
not to bump into anything and make a racket. I certainly knew I was home,
though. Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn't smell like anyplace else. I
don't know what the hell it is. It isn't cauliflower and it isn't perfume--I
don't know what the hell it is--but you always know you're home. I started
to take off my coat and hang it up in the foyer closet, but that closet's
full of hangers that rattle like madmen when you open the door, so I left it
on. Then I started walking very, very slowly back toward old Phoebe's room.
I knew the maid wouldn't hear me because she had only one eardrum. She had
this brother that stuck a straw down her ear when she was a kid, she once
told me. She was pretty deaf and all. But my parents, especially my mother,
she has ears like a goddam bloodhound. So I took it very, very easy when I
went past their door. I even held my breath, for God's sake. You can hit my
father over the head with a chair and he won't wake up, but my mother, all
you have to do to my mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she'll hear
you. She's nervous as hell. Half the time she's up all night smoking
cigarettes. Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Phoebe's room. She
wasn't there, though. I forgot about that. I forgot she always sleeps in D.
B. 's room when he's away in Hollywood or some place. She likes it because
it's the biggest room in the house. Also because it has this big old madman
desk in it that D. B. bought off some lady alcoholic in Philadelphia, and
this big, gigantic bed that's about ten miles wide and ten miles long. I
don't know where he bought that bed. Anyway, old Phoebe likes to sleep in D.
B. 's room when he's away, and he lets her. You ought to see her doing her
homework or something at that crazy desk. It's almost as big as the bed. You
can hardly see her when she's doing her homework. That's the kind of stuff
she likes, though. She doesn't like her own room because it's too little,
she says. She says she likes to spread out. That kills me. What's old Phoebe
got to spread out? Nothing. Anyway, I went into D. B. 's room quiet as hell,
and turned on the lamp on the desk. Old Phoebe didn't even wake up. When the
light was on and all, I sort of looked at her for a while. She was laying
there asleep, with her face sort of on the side of the pillow. She had her
mouth way open. It's funny. You take adults, they look lousy when they're
asleep and they have their mouths way open, but kids don't. Kids look all
right. They can even have spit all over the pillow and they still look all
right. I went around the room, very quiet and all, looking at stuff for a
while. I felt swell, for a change. I didn't even feel like I was getting
pneumonia or anything any more. I just felt good, for a change. Old Phoebe's
clothes were on this chair right next to the bed. She's very neat, for a
child. I mean she doesn't just throw her stuff around, like some kids. She's
no slob. She had the jacket to this tan suit my mother bought her in Canada
hung up on the back of the chair. Then her blouse and stuff were on the
seat. Her shoes and socks were on the floor, right underneath the chair,
right next to each other. I never saw the shoes before. They were new. They
were these dark brown loafers, sort of like this pair I have, and they went
swell with that suit my mother bought her in Canada. My mother dresses her
nice. She really does. My mother has terrific taste in some things. She's no
good at buying ice skates or anything like that, but clothes, she's perfect.
I mean Phoebe always has some dress on that can kill you. You take most
little kids, even if their parents are wealthy and all, they usually have
some terrible dress on. I wish you could see old Phoebe in that suit my
mother bought her in Canada. I'm not kidding. I sat down on old D. B. 's
desk and looked at the stuff on it. It was mostly Phoebe's stuff, from
school and all. Mostly books. The one on top was called Arithmetic Is Fun! I
sort of opened the first page and took a look at it. This is what old Phoebe
had on it:
PHOEBE WEATHERFIELD CAULFIELD 4B-1
That killed me. Her middle name is Josephine, for God's sake, not
Weatherfield. She doesn't like it, though. Every time I see her she's got a
new middle name for herself. The book underneath the arithmetic was a
geography, and the book under the geography was a speller. She's very good
in spelling. She's very good in all her subjects, but she's best in
spelling. Then, under the speller, there were a bunch of notebooks. She has
about five thousand notebooks. You never saw a kid with so many notebooks. I
opened the one on top and looked at the first page. It had on it:
Bernice meet me at recess I have something very very important to tell
you.
That was all there was on that page. The next one had on it:
Why has south eastern Alaska so many caning factories? Because theres
so much salmon Why has it valuable forests? because it has the right
climate. What has our government done to make life easier for the alaskan
eskimos? look it up for tomorrow!!! Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield Phoebe
Weatherfield Caulfield Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield Phoebe W. Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield, Esq. Please pass to Shirley!!!! Shirley you
said you were sagitarius but your only taurus bring your skates when you
come over to my house
I sat there on D. B. 's desk and read the whole notebook. It didn't
take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook,
Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long. Kid's notebooks kill me.
Then I lit another cigarette--it was my last one. I must've smoked about
three cartons that day. Then, finally, I woke her up. I mean I couldn't sit
there on that desk for the rest of my life, and besides, I was afraid my
parents might barge in on me all of a sudden and I wanted to at least say
hello to her before they did. So I woke her up. She wakes up very easily. I
mean you don't have to yell at her or anything. All you have to do,
practically, is sit down on the bed and say, "Wake up, Phoeb," and bingo,
she's awake. "Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck
and all. She's very affectionate. I mean she's quite affectionate, for a
child. Sometimes she's even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss, and
she said, "Whenja get home7' She was glad as hell to see me. You could tell.
"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?" "I'm fine. Did you get my
letter? I wrote you a five-page--" "Yeah--not so loud. Thanks." She wrote me
this letter. I didn't get a chance to answer it, though. It was all about
this play she was in in school. She told me not to make any dates or
anything for Friday so that I could come see it. "How's the play?" I asked
her. "What'd you say the name of it was?" "'A Christmas Pageant for
Americans. ' It stinks, but I'm Benedict Arnold. I have practically the
biggest part," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. She gets very excited when
she tells you that stuff. "It starts out when I'm dying. This ghost comes in
on Christmas Eve and asks me if I'm ashamed and everything. You know. For
betraying my country and everything. Are you coming to it?" She was sitting
way the hell up in the bed and all. "That's what I wrote you about. Are
you?" "Sure I'm coming. Certainly I'm coming." "Daddy can't come. He has to
fly to California," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. It only takes her
about two seconds to get wide-awake. She was sitting--sort of kneeling--way
up in bed, and she was holding my goddam hand. "Listen. Mother said you'd be
home Wednesday," she said. "She said Wednesday." "I got out early. Not so
loud. You'll wake everybody up." "What time is it? They won't be home till
very late, Mother said. They went to a party in Norwalk, Connecticut," old
Phoebe said. "Guess what I did this afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!" "I
don't know--Listen. Didn't they say what time they'd--" "The Doctor," old
Phoebe said. "It's a special movie they had at the Lister Foundation. Just
this one day they had it--today was the only day. It was all about this
doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a blanket over this child's
face that's a cripple and can't walk. Then they send him to jail and
everything. It was excellent." "Listen a second. Didn't they say what time
they'd--" "He feels sorry for it, the doctor. That's why he sticks this
blanket over her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they make
him go to jail for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck the
blanket over its head comes to visit him all the time and thanks him for
what he did. He was a mercy killer. Only, he knows he deserves to go to jail
because a doctor isn't supposed to take things away from God. This girl in
my class's mother took us. Alice Holmborg, She's my best friend. She's the
only girl in the whole--" "Wait a second, willya?" I said. "I'm asking you a
question. Did they say what time they'd be back, or didn't they?" "No, but
not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so they wouldn't have
to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now! Except that Mother said
nobody can play it when the car's in traffic." I began to relax, sort of. I
mean I finally quit worrying about whether they'd catch me home or not. I
figured the hell with it. If they did, they did. You should've seen old
Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with red elephants on the collars.
Elephants knock her out. "So it was a good picture, huh?" I said. "Swell,
except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her all the time if she
felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture. Always in the middle of
something important, her mother'd lean all over me and everything and ask
Alice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves." Then I told her about the
record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I told her. "Only I broke it on the
way home." I took the pieces out of my coat pocket and showed her. "I was
plastered," I said. "Gimme the pieces," she said. "I'm saving them." She
took them right out of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the
night table. She kills me. "D. B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.
"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have to stay in
Hollywood and write a picture about Annapolis." "Annapolis, for God's sake!"
"It's a love story and everything. Guess who's going to be in it! What movie
star. Guess!" "I'm not interested. Annapolis, for God's sake. What's D. B.
know about Annapolis, for God's sake? What's that got to do with the kind of
stories he writes?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam
Hollywood. "What'd you do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had this
big hunk of adhesive tape on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her pajamas
didn't have any sleeves. "This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class,
pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna
see?" She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm. "Leave it
alone. Why'd he push you down the stairs?" "I don't know. I think he hates
me," old Phoebe said. "This other girl and me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and
stuff all over his windbreaker." "That isn't nice. What are you--a child,
for God's sake?" "No, but every time I'm in the park, he follows me
everywhere. He's always following me. He gets on my nerves." "He probably
likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--" "I don't want him to like me,"
she said. Then she started looking at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how
come you're not home Wednesday?" "What?" Boy, you have to watch her every
minute. If you don't think she's smart, you're mad. "How come you're not
home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kicked out or anything, did
you?" "I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--" "You did get
kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her
fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She
had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear to God.
"Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--" "You did. You did," she said.
Then she smacked me again with her fist. If you don't think that hurts,
you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then she flopped on her stomach
on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head. She does that quite
frequently. She's a true madman sometimes. "Cut it out, now," I said.
"Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam
thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me." She wouldn't take it off,
though. You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to. All she kept
saying was, "Daddy s gonna kill you." You could hardly understand her with
that goddam pillow over her head. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Use your head. In
the first place, I'm going away. What I may do, I may get a job on a ranch
or something for a while. I know this guy whose grandfather's got a ranch in
Colorado. I may get a job out there," I said. "I'll keep in touch with you
and all when I'm gone, if I go. C'mon. Take that off your head. C'mon, hey,
Phoeb. Please. Please, willya?' She wouldn t take it off, though I tried
pulling it off, but she's strong as hell. You get tired fighting with her.
Boy, if she wants to keep a pillow over her head, she keeps it. "Phoebe,
please. C'mon outa there," I kept saying. "C'mon, hey... Hey, Weatherfield.
C'mon out." She wouldn't come out, though. You can't even reason with her
sometimes. Finally, I got up and went out in the living room and got some
cigarettes out of the box on the table and stuck some in my pocket. I was
all out.
22
When I came back, she had the pillow off her head all right--I knew she
would--but she still wouldn't look at me, even though she was laying on her
back and all. When I came around the side of the bed and sat down again, she
turned her crazy face the other way. She was ostracizing the hell out of me.
Just like the fencing team at Pencey when I left all the goddam foils on the
subway. "How's old Hazel Weatherfield?" I said. "You write any new stories
about her? I got that one you sent me right in my suitcase. It's down at the
station. It's very good." "Daddy'll kill you." Boy, she really gets
something on her mind when she gets something on her mind. "No, he won't.
The worst he'll do, he'll give me hell again, and then he'll send me to that
goddam military school. That's all he'll do to me. And in the first place, I
won't even be around. I'll be away. I'll be--I'll probably be in Colorado on
this ranch." "Don't make me laugh. You can't even ride a horse." "Who can't?
Sure I can. Certainly I can. They can teach you in about two minutes," I
said. "Stop picking at that." She was picking at that adhesive tape on her
arm. "Who gave you that haircut?" I asked her. I just noticed what a stupid
haircut somebody gave her. It was way too short. "None of your business,"
she said. She can be very snotty sometimes. She can be quite snotty. "I
suppose you failed in every single subject again," she said--very snotty. It
was sort of funny, too, in a way. She sounds like a goddam schoolteacher
sometimes, and she's only a little child. "No, I didn't," I said. "I passed
English." Then, just for the hell of it, I gave her a pinch on the behind.
It was sticking way out in the breeze, the way she was laying on her side.
She has hardly any behind. I didn't do it hard, but she tried to hit my hand
anyway, but she missed. Then all of a sudden, she said, "Oh, why did you do
it?" She meant why did I get the ax again. It made me sort of sad, the way
she said it. "Oh, God, Phoebe, don't ask me. I'm sick of everybody asking me
that," I said. "A million reasons why. It was one of the worst schools I
ever went to. It was full of phonies. And mean guys. You never saw so many
mean guys in your life. For instance, if you were having a bull session in
somebody's room, and somebody wanted to come in, nobody'd let them in if
they were some dopey, pimply guy. Everybody was always locking their door
when somebody wanted to come in. And they had this goddam secret fraternity
that I was too yellow not to join. There was this one pimply, boring guy,
Robert Ackley, that wanted to get in. He kept trying to join, and they
wouldn't let him. Just because he was boring and pimply. I don't even feel
like talking about it. It was a stinking school. Take my word." Old Phoebe
didn't say anything, but she was listen ing. I could tell by the back of her
neck that she was listening. She always listens when you tell her something.
And the funny part is she knows, half the time, what the hell you're talking
about. She really does. I kept talking about old Pencey. I sort of felt like
it. "Even the couple of nice teachers on the faculty, they were phonies,
too," I said. "There was this one old guy, Mr. Spencer. His wife was always
giving you hot chocolate and all that stuff, and they were really pretty
nice. But you should've seen him when the headmaster, old Thurmer, came in
the history class and sat down in the back of the room. He was always coming
in and sitting down in the back of the room for about a half an hour. He was
supposed to be incognito or something. After a while, he'd be sitting back
there and then he'd start interrupting what old Spencer was saying to crack
a lot of corny jokes. Old Spencer'd practically kill himself chuckling and
smiling and all, like as if Thurmer was a goddam prince or something."
"Don't swear so much." "It would've made you puke, I swear it would," I
said. "Then, on Veterans' Day. They have this day, Veterans' Day, that all
the jerks that graduated from Pencey around 1776 come back and walk all over
the place, with their wives and children and everybody. You should've seen
this one old guy that was about fifty. What he did was, he came in our room
and knocked on the door and asked us if we'd mind if he used the bathroom.
The bathroom was at the end of the corridor--I don't know why the hell he
asked us. You know what he said? He said he wanted to see if his initials
were still in one of the can doors. What he did, he carved his goddam stupid
sad old initials in one of the can doors about ninety years ago, and he
wanted to see if they were still there. So my roommate and I walked him down
to the bathroom and all, and we had to stand there while he looked for his
initials in all the can doors. He kept talking to us the whole time, telling
us how when he was at Pencey they were the happiest days of his life, and
giving us a lot of advice for the future and all. Boy, did he depress me! I
don't mean he was a bad guy--he wasn't. But you don't have to be a bad guy
to depress somebody--you can be a good guy and do it. All you have to do to
depress somebody is give them a lot of phony advice while you're looking for
your initials in some can door--that's all you have to do. I don't know.
Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been all out of breath. He
was all out of breath from just climbing up the stairs, and the whole time
he was looking for his initials he kept breathing hard, with his nostrils
all funny and sad, while he kept telling Stradlater and I to get all we
could out of Pencey. God, Phoebe! I can't explain. I just didn't like
anything that was happening at Pencey. I can't explain." Old Phoebe said
something then, but I couldn't hear her. She had the side of her mouth right
smack on the pillow, and I couldn't hear her. "What?" I said. "Take your
mouth away. I can't hear you with your mouth that way." "You don't like
anything that's happening." It made me even more depressed when she said
that. "Yes I do. Yes I do. Sure I do. Don't say that. Why the hell do you
say that?" "Because you don't. You don't like any schools. You don't like a
million things. You don't." "I do! That's where you're wrong--that's exactly
where you're wrong! Why the hell do you have to say that?" I said. Boy, was
she depressing me. "Because you don't," she said. "Name one thing." "One
thing? One thing I like?" I said. "Okay." The trouble was, I couldn't
concentrate too hot. Sometimes it's hard to concentrate. "One thing I like a
lot you mean?" I asked her. She didn't answer me, though. She was in a
cockeyed position way the hell over the other side of the bed. She was about
a thousand miles away. "C'mon answer me," I said. "One thing I like a lot,
or one thing I just like?" "You like a lot." "All right," I said. But the
trouble was, I couldn't concentrate. About all I could think of were those
two nuns that went around collecting dough in those beatup old straw
baskets. Especially the one with the glasses with those iron rims. And this
boy I knew at Elkton Hills. There was this one boy at Elkton Hills, named
James Castle, that wouldn't take back something he said about this very
conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy,
and one of Stabile's lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So
Stabile, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle's
room and went in and locked the goddam door and tried to make him take back
what he said, but he wouldn't do it. So they started in on him. I won't even
tell you what they did to him--it's too repulsive--but he still wouldn't
take it back, old James Castle. And you should've seen him. He was a skinny
little weak-looking guy, with wrists about as big as pencils. Finally, what
he did, instead of taking back what he said, he jumped out the window. I was
in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just
thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a
boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running through the corridor and
down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran downstairs too, and there
was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and all. He was dead,
and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody would even go
near him. He had on this turtleneck sweater I'd lent him. All they did with
the guys that were in the room with him was expel them. They didn't even go
to jail. That was about all I could think of, though. Those two nuns I saw
at breakfast and this boy James Castle I knew at Elkton Hills. The funny
part is, I hardly even know James Castle, if you want to know the truth. He
was one of these very quiet guys. He was in my math class, but he was way
over on the other side of the room, and he hardly ever got up to recite or
go to the blackboard or anything. Some guys in school hardly ever get up to
recite or go to the blackboard. I think the only time I ever even had a
conversation with him was that time he asked me if he could borrow this
turtleneck sweater I had. I damn near dropped dead when he asked me, I was
so surprised and all. I remember I was brushing my teeth, in the can, when
he asked me. He said his cousin was coming in to take him for a drive and
all. I didn't even know he knew I had a turtleneck sweater. All I knew about
him was that his name was always right ahead of me at roll call. Cabel, R.,
Cabel, W., Castle, Caulfield--I can still remember it. If you want to know
the truth, I almost didn't lend him my sweater. Just because I didn't know
him too well. "What?" I said to old Phoebe. She said something to me, but I
didn't hear her. "You can't even think of one thing." "Yes, I can. Yes, I
can." "Well, do it, then." "I like Allie," I said. "And I like doing what
I'm doing right now. Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about
stuff, and--" "Allie's dead--You always say that! If somebody's dead and
everything, and in Heaven, then it isn't really--" "I know he's dead! Don't
you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because
somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially
if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're
alive and all." Old Phoebe didn't say anything. When she can't think of
anything to say, she doesn't say a goddam word. "Anyway, I like it now," I
said. "I mean right now. Sitting here with you and just chewing the fat and
horsing--" "That isn't anything really!" "It is so something really!
Certainly it is! Why the hell isn't it? People never think anything is
anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it," "Stop swearing. All right,
name something else. Name something you'd like to be. Like a scientist. Or a
lawyer or something." "I couldn't be a scientist. I'm no good in science."
"Well, a lawyer--like Daddy and all." "Lawyers are all right, I guess--but
it doesn't appeal to me," I said. "I mean they're all right if they go
around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you
don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of
dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look
like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you did go around saving guys' lives
and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wanted to save
guys' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted to do was
be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and
congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters
and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you
weren't being a phony? The trouble is, you wouldn't." I'm not too sure old
Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking about. I mean she's only a little
child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebody at least
listens, it's not too bad. "Daddy's going to kill you. He's going to kill
you," she said. I wasn't listening, though. I was thinking about something
else--something crazy. "You know what I'd like to be?" I said. "You know
what I'd like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?" "What? Stop
swearing." "You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the
rye'? I'd like--" "It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old
Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns." "I know it's a poem by Robert
Burns." She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through
the rye." I didn't know it then, though. "I thought it was 'If a body catch
a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing
some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and
nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they
start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look
where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's
all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's
crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything for a long time. Then, when she said
something, all she said was, "Daddy's going to kill you." "I don't give a
damn if he does," I said. I got up from the bed then, because what I wanted
to do, I wanted to phone up this guy that was my English teacher at Elkton
Hills, Mr. Antolini. He lived in New York now. He quit Elkton Hills. He took
this job teaching English at N. Y. U. "I have to make a phone call," I told
Phoebe. "I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep." I didn't want her to go to
sleep while I was in the living room. I knew she wouldn't but I said it
anyway, just to make sure. While I was walking toward the door, old Phoebe
said, "Holden!" and I turned around. She was sitting way up in bed. She
looked so pretty. "I'm taking belching lessons from this girl, Phyllis
Margulies," she said. "Listen." I listened, and I heard something, but it
wasn't much. "Good," I said. Then I went out in the living room and called
up this teacher I had, Mr. Antolini.
23
I made it very snappy on the phone because I was afraid my parents
would barge in on me right in the middle of it. They didn't, though. Mr.
Antolini was very nice. He said I could come right over if I wanted to. I
think I probably woke he and his wife up, because it took them a helluva
long time to answer the phone. The first thing he asked me was if anything
was wrong, and I said no. I said I'd flunked out of Pencey, though. I
thought I might as well tell him. He said "Good God," when I said that. He
had a good sense of humor and all. He told me to come right over if I felt
like it. He was about the best teacher I ever had, Mr. Antolini. He was a
pretty young guy, not much older than my brother D. B., and you could kid
around with him without losing your respect for him. He was the one that
finally picked up that boy that jumped out the window I told you about,
James Castle. Old Mr. Antolini felt his pulse and all, and then he took off
his coat and put it over James Castle and carried him all the way over to
the infirmary. He didn't even give a damn if his coat got all bloody. When I
got back to D. B. 's room, old Phoebe'd turned the radio on. This dance
music was coming out. She'd turned it on low, though, so the maid wouldn't
hear it. You should've seen her. She was sitting smack in the middle of the
bed, outside the covers, with her legs folded like one of those Yogi guys.
She was listening to the music. She kills me. "C'mon," I said. "You feel
like dancing?" I taught her how to dance and all when she was a tiny little
kid. She's a very good dancer. I mean I just taught her a few things. She
learned it mostly by herself. You can't teach somebody how to really dance.
"You have shoes on," she said. "I'll take 'em off. C'mon." She practically
jumped off the bed, and then she waited while I took my shoes off, and then
I danced with her for a while. She's really damn good. I don't like people
that dance with little kids, because most of the time it looks terrible. I
mean if you're out at a restaurant somewhere and you see some old guy take
his little kid out on the dance floor. Usually they keep yanking the kid's
dress up in the back by mistake, and the kid can't dance worth a damn
anyway, and it looks terrible, but I don't do it out in public with Phoebe
or anything. We just horse around in the house. It's different with her
anyway, because she can dance. She can follow anything you do. I mean if you
hold her in close as hell so that it doesn't matter that your legs are so
much longer. She stays right with you. You can cross over, or do some corny
dips, or even jitterbug a little, and she stays right with you. You can even
tango, for God's sake. We danced about four numbers. In between numbers
she's funny as hell. She stays right in position. She won't even talk or
anything. You both have to stay right in position and wait for the orchestra
to start playing again. That kills me. You're not supposed to laugh or
anything, either. Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned
off the radio. Old Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers. "I'm
improving, aren't I?" she asked me. "And how," I said. I sat down next to
her on the bed again. I was sort of out of breath. I was smoking so damn
much, I had hardly any wind. She wasn't even out of breath. "Feel my
forehead," she said all of a sudden. "Why?" "Feel it. Just feel it once." I
felt it. I didn't feel anything, though. "Does it feel very feverish?" she
said. "No. Is it supposed to?" "Yes--I'm making it. Feel it again." I felt
it again, and I still didn't feel anything, but I said, "I think it's
starting to, now." I didn't want her to get a goddam inferiority complex.
She nodded. "I can make it go up to over the thermoneter." "Thermometer. Who
said so?" "Alice Holmborg showed me how. You cross your legs and hold your
breath and think of something very, very hot. A radiator or something. Then
your whole forehead gets so hot you can burn somebody's hand." That killed
me. I pulled my hand away from her forehead, like I was in terrific danger.
"Thanks for telling me," I said. "Oh, I wouldn't've burned your hand. I'd've
stopped before it got too--Shhh!" Then, quick as hell, she sat way the hell
up in bed. She scared hell out of me when she did that. "What's the matter?"
I said. "The front door!" she said in this loud whisper. "It's them!" I
quick jumped up and ran over and turned off the light over the desk. Then I
jammed out my cigarette on my shoe and put it in my pocket. Then I fanned
hell out of the air, to get the smoke out--I shouldn't even have been
smoking, for God's sake. Then I grabbed my shoes and got in the closet and
shut the door. Boy, my heart was beating like a bastard. I heard my mother
come in the room. "Phoebe?" she said. "Now, stop that. I saw the light,
young lady." "Hello!" I heard old Phoebe say. "I couldn't sleep. Did you
have a good time?" "Marvelous," my mother said, but you could tell she
didn't mean it. She doesn't enjoy herself much when she goes out. "Why are
you awake, may I ask? Were you warm enough?" "I was warm enough, I just
couldn't sleep." "Phoebe, have you been smoking a cigarette in here? Tell me
the truth, please, young lady." "What?" old Phoebe said. "You heard me." "I
just lit one for one second. I just took one puff. Then I threw it out the
window." "Why, may I ask?" "I couldn't sleep." "I don't like that, Phoebe. I
don't like that at all," my mother said. "Do you want another blanket?" "No,
thanks. G'night!" old Phoebe said. She was trying to get rid of her, you
could tell. "How was the movie?" my mother said. "Excellent. Except Alice's
mother. She kept leaning over and asking her if she felt grippy during the
whole entire movie. We took a taxi home." "Let me feel your forehead." "I
didn't catch anything. She didn't have anything. It was just her mother."
"Well. Go to sleep now. How was your dinner?" "Lousy," Phoebe said. "You
heard what your father said about using that word. What was lousy about it?
You had a lovely lamb chop. I walked all over Lexington Avenue just to--"
"The lamb chop was all right, but Charlene always breathes on me whenever
she puts something down. She breathes all over the food and everything. She
breathes on everything." "Well. Go to sleep. Give Mother a kiss. Did you say
your prayers?" "I said them in the bathroom. G'night!" "Good night. Go right
to sleep now. I have a splitting headache," my mother said. She gets
headaches quite frequently. She really does. "Take a few aspirins," old
Phoebe said. "Holden'll be home on Wednesday, won't he?" "So far as I know.
Get under there, now. Way down." I heard my mother go out and close the
door. I waited a couple of minutes. Then I came out of the closet. I bumped
smack into old Phoebe when I did it, because it was so dark and she was out
of bed and coming to tell me. "I hurt you?" I said. You had to whisper now,
because they were both home. "I gotta get a move on," I said. I found the
edge of the bed in the dark and sat down on it and started putting on my
shoes. I was pretty nervous. I admit it. "Don't go now," Phoebe whispered.
"Wait'll they're asleep!" "No. Now. Now's the best time," I said. "She'll be
in the bathroom and Daddy'll turn on the news or something. Now's the best
time." I could hardly tie my shoelaces, I was so damn nervous. Not that they
would've killed me or anything if they'd caught me home, but it would've
been very unpleasant and all. "Where the hell are ya?" I said to old Phoebe.
It was so dark I couldn't see her. "Here." She was standing right next to
me. I didn't even see her. "I got my damn bags at the station," I said.
"Listen. You got any dough, Phoeb? I'm practically broke." "Just my
Christmas dough. For presents and all. I haven't done any shopping at all
yet." "Oh." I didn't want to take her Christmas dough. "You want some?" she
said. "I don't want to take your Christmas dough." "I can lend you some,"
she said. Then I heard her over at D. B. 's desk, opening a million drawers
and feeling around with her hand. It was pitch-black, it was so dark in the
room. "If you go away, you won't see me in the play," she said. Her voice
sounded funny when she said it. "Yes, I will. I won't go way before that.
You think I wanna miss the play?" I said. "What I'll do, I'll probably stay
at Mr. Antolini's house till maybe Tuesday night. Then I'll come home. If I
get a chance, I'll phone ya." "Here," old Phoebe said. She was trying to
give me the dough, but she couldn't find my hand. "Where?" She put the dough
in my hand. "Hey, I don't need all this," I said. "Just give me two bucks,
is all. No kidding--Here." I tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't
take it. "You can take it all. You can pay me back. Bring it to the play."
"How much is it, for God's sake?" "Eight dollars and eighty-five cents.
Sixty-five cents. I spent some." Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry. I
couldn't help it. I did it so nobody could hear me, but I did it. It scared
hell out of old Phoebe when I started doing it, and she came over and tried
to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam
dime. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put
her old arm around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still
couldn't stop for a long time. I thought I was going to choke to death or
something. Boy, I scared hell out of poor old Phoebe. The damn window was
open and everything, and I could feel her shivering and all, because all she
had on was her pajamas. I tried to make her get back in bed, but she
wouldn't go. Finally I stopped. But it certainly took me a long, long time.
Then I finished buttoning my coat and all. I told her I'd keep in touch with
her. She told me I could sleep with her if I wanted to, but I said no, that
I'd better beat it, that Mr. Antolini was waiting for me and all. Then I
took my hunting hat out of my coat pocket and gave it to her. She likes
those kind of crazy hats. She didn't want to take it, but I made her. I'll
bet she slept with it on. She really likes those kind of hats. Then I told
her again I'd give her a buzz if I got a chance, and then I left. It was a
helluva lot easier getting out of the house than it was getting in, for some
reason. For one thing, I didn't give much of a damn any more if they caught
me. I really didn't. I figured if they caught me, they caught me. I almost
wished they did, in a way. I walked all the way downstairs, instead of
taking the elevator. I went down the back stairs. I nearly broke my neck on
about ten million garbage pails, but I got out all right. The elevator boy
didn't even see me. He probably still thinks I'm up at the Dicksteins'.
24
Mr. and Mrs. Antolini had this very swanky apartment over on Sutton
Place, with two steps that you go down to get in the living room, and a bar
and all. I'd been there quite a few times, because after I left Elkton Hills
Mr. Antoilni came up to our house for dinner quite frequently to find out
how I was getting along. He wasn't married then. Then when he got married, I
used to play tennis with he and Mrs. Antolini quite frequently, out at the
West Side Tennis Club, in Forest Hills, Long Island. Mrs. Antolini, belonged
there. She was lousy with dough. She was about sixty years older than Mr.
Antolini, but they seemed to get along quite well. For one thing, they were
both very intellectual, especially Mr. Antolini except that he was more
witty than intellectual when you were with him, sort of like D. B. Mrs.
Antolini was mostly serious. She had asthma pretty bad. They both read all
D. B. 's stories--Mrs. Antolini, too--and when D. B. went to Hollywood, Mr.
Antolini phoned him up and told him not to go. He went anyway, though. Mr.
Antolini said that anybody that could write like D. B. had no business going
out to Hollywood. That's exactly what I said, practically. I would have
walked down to their house, because I didn't want to spend any of Phoebe's
Christmas dough that I didn't have to, but I felt funny when I got outside.
Sort of dizzy. So I took a cab. I didn't want to, but I did. I had a helluva
time even finding a cab. Old Mr. Antolini answered the door when I rang the
bell--after the elevator boy finally let me up, the bastard. He had on his
bathrobe and slippers, and he had a highball in one hand. He was a pretty
sophisticated guy, and he was a pretty heavy drinker. "Holden, m'boy!" he
said. "My God, he's grown another twenty inches. Fine to see you." "How are
you, Mr. Antolini? How's Mrs. Antolini?" "We're both just dandy. Let's have
that coat." He took my coat off me and hung it up. "I expected to see a
day-old infant in your arms. Nowhere to turn. Snowflakes in your eyelashes."
He's a very witty guy sometimes. He turned around and yelled out to the
kitchen, "Lillian! How's the coffee coming?" Lillian was Mrs. Antolini's
first name. "It's all ready," she yelled back. "Is that Holden? Hello,
Holden!" "Hello, Mrs. Antolini!" You were always yelling when you were
there. That's because the both of them were never in the same room at the
same time. It was sort of funny. "Sit down, Holden," Mr. Antolini said. You
could tell he was a little oiled up. The room looked like they'd just had a
party. Glasses were all over the place, and dishes with peanuts in them.
"Excuse the appearance of the place," he said. "We've been entertaining some
Buffalo friends of Mrs. Antolini's... Some buffaloes, as a matter of fact."
I laughed, and Mrs. Antolini yelled something in to me from the kitchen, but
I couldn't hear her. "What'd she say?" I asked Mr. Antolini. "She said not
to look at her when she comes in. She just arose from the sack. Have a
cigarette. Are you smoking now?" "Thanks," I said. I took a cigarette from
the box he offered me. "Just once in a while. I'm a moderate smoker." "I'll
bet you are," he said. He gave me a light from this big lighter off the
table. "So. You and Pencey are no longer one," he said. He always said
things that way. Sometimes it amused me a lot and sometimes it didn't. He
sort of did it a little bit too much. I don't mean he wasn't witty or
anything--he was--but sometimes it gets on your nerves when somebody's
always saying things like "So you and Pencey are no longer one." D. B. does
it too much sometimes, too. "What was the trouble?" Mr. Antolini asked me.
"How'd you do in English? I'll show you the door in short order if you
flunked English, you little ace composition writer." "Oh, I passed English
all right. It was mostly literature, though. I only wrote about two
compositions the whole term," I said. "I flunked Oral Expression, though.
They had this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked."
"Why?" "Oh, I don't know." I didn't feel much like going into It. I was
still feeling sort of dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all
of a sudden. I really did. But you could tell he was interested, so I told
him a little bit about it. "It's this course where each boy in class has to
get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all. And if the
boy digresses at all, you're supposed to yell 'Digression!' at him as fast
as you can. It just about drove me crazy. I got an F in it." "Why?" "Oh, I
don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't know. The
trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting
and all." "You don't care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells
you something?" "Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all.
But I don't like them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess
I don't like it when somebody sticks to the point all the time. The boys
that got the best marks in Oral Expression were the ones that stuck to the
point all the time--I admit it. But there was this one boy, Richard
Kinsella. He didn't stick to the point too much, and they were always
yelling 'Digression!' at him. It was terrible, because in the first place,
he was a very nervous guy--I mean he was a very nervous guy--and his lips
were always shaking whenever it was his time to make a speech, and you could
hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of the room. When his
lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches better
than anybody else's. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got
a D plus because they kept yelling 'Digression!' at him all the time. For
instance, he made this speech about this farm his father bought in Vermont.
They kept yelling 'Digression!' at him the whole time he was making it, and
this teacher, Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on it because he hadn't told what
kind of animals and vegetables and stuff grew on the farm and all. What he
did was, Richard Kinsella, he'd start telling you all about that stuff--then
all of a sudden he'd start telling you about this letter his mother got from
his uncle, and how his uncle got polio and all when he was forty-two years
old, and how he wouldn't let anybody come to see him in the hospital because
he didn't want anybody to see him with a brace on. It didn't have much to do
with the farm--I admit it--but it was nice. It's nice when somebody tells
you about their uncle. Especially when they start out telling you about
their father's farm and then all of a sudden get more interested in their
uncle. I mean it's dirty to keep yelling 'Digression!' at him when he's all
nice and excited. I don't know. It's hard to explain." I didn't feel too
much like trying, either. For one thing, I had this terrific headache all of
a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come in with the coffee.
That's something that annoys hell out of me--I mean if somebody says the
coffee's all ready and it isn't. "Holden... One short, faintly stuffy,
pedagogical question. Don't you think there's a time and place for
everything? Don't you think if someone starts out to tell you about his
father's farm, he should stick to his guns, then get around to telling you
about his uncle's brace? Or, if his uncle's brace is such a provocative
subject, shouldn't he have selected it in the first place as his
subject--not the farm?" I didn't feel much like thinking and answering and
all. I had a headache and I felt lousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache,
if you want to know the truth. "Yes--I don't know. I guess he should. I mean
I guess he should've picked his uncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if
that interested him most. But what I mean is, lots of time you don't know
what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn't
interest you most. I mean you can't help it sometimes. What I think is,
you're supposed to leave somebody alone if he's at least being interesting
and he's getting all excited about something. I like it when somebody gets
excited about something. It's nice. You just didn't know this teacher, Mr.
Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, him and the goddam class. I mean
he'd keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time. Some things you
just can't do that to. I mean you can't hardly ever simplify and unify
something just because somebody wants you to. You didn't know this guy, Mr.
Vinson. I mean he was very intelligent and all, but you could tell he didn't
have too much brains." "Coffee, gentlemen, finally," Mrs. Antolini said. She
came in carrying this tray with coffee and cakes and stuff on it. "Holden,
don't you even peek at me. I'm a mess." "Hello, Mrs. Antolini," I said. I
started to get up and all, but Mr. Antolini got hold of my jacket and pulled
me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini's hair was full of those iron curler jobs,
and she didn't have any lipstick or anything on. She didn't look too
gorgeous. She looked pretty old and all. "I'll leave this right here. Just
dive in, you two," she said. She put the tray down on the cigarette table,
pushing all these glasses out of the way. "How's your mother, Holden?"
"She's fine, thanks. I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"
"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet. The
top shelf. I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said. She looked
it, too. "Can you boys make up the couch by yourselves?" "We'll take care of
everything. You run along to bed," Mr. Antolini said. He gave Mrs. Antolini
a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroom. They were always
kissing each other a lot in public. I had part of a cup of coffee and about
half of some cake that was as hard as a rock. All old Mr. Antolini had was
another highball, though. He makes them strong, too, you could tell. He may
get to be an alcoholic if he doesn't watch his step. "I had lunch with your
dad a couple of weeks ago," he said all of a sudden. "Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't." "You're aware, of course, that he's terribly concerned about
you." "I know it. I know he is," I said. "Apparently before he phoned me
he'd just had a long, rather harrowing letter from your latest headmaster,
to the effect that you were making absolutely no effort at all. Cutting
classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In general, being an
all-around--" "I didn't cut any classes. You weren't allowed to cut any.
There were a couple of them I didn't attend once in a while, like that Oral
Expression I told you about, but I didn't cut any." I didn't feel at all
like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel a little better, but I
still had this awful headache. Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked
like a fiend. Then he said, "Frankly, I don't know what the hell to say to
you, Holden." "I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that." "I have a
feeling that you're riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I
don't honestly know what kind... Are you listening to me?" "Yes." You could
tell he was trying to concentrate and all. "It may be the kind where, at the
age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating everybody who comes in looking as
if he might have played football in college. Then again, you may pick up
just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret between he and
I. ' Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the
nearest stenographer. I just don't know. But do you know what I'm driving
at, at all?" "Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. "But you're wrong about that
hating business. I mean about hating football players and all. You really
are. I don't hate too many guys. What I may do, I may hate them for a little
while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at Pencey, and this other boy, Robert
Ackley. I hated them once in a while--I admit it--but it doesn't last too
long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn't see them, if they didn't
come in the room, or if I didn't see them in the dining room for a couple of
meals, I sort of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them." Mr. Antolini
didn't say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk of ice and
put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking.
I kept wishing, though, that he'd continue the conversation in the morning,
instead of now, but he was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion
when you're not. "All right. Listen to me a minute now... I may not word
this as memorably as I'd like to, but I'll write you a letter about it in a
day or two. Then you can get it all straight. But listen now, anyway." He
started concentrating again. Then he said, "This fall I think you're riding
for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't
permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and
falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other
in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't
supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them
with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even
got started. You follow me?" "Yes, sir." "Sure?" "Yes." He got up and poured
some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. He didn't say anything
for a long time. "I don't want to scare you," he said, "but I can very
clearly see you dying nobly, one way or another, for some highly unworthy
cause." He gave me a funny look. "If I write something down for you, will
you read it carefully? And keep it?" "Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. I
still have the paper he gave me. He went over to this desk on the other side
of the room, and without sitting down wrote something on a piece of paper.
Then he came back and sat down with the paper in his hand. "Oddly enough,
this wasn't written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst
named Wilhelm Stekel. Here's what he--Are you still with me?" "Yes, sure I
am." "Here's what he said: 'The mark of the immature man is that he wants to
die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to
live humbly for one. '" He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right
when he gave it to me, and then I thanked him and all and put it in my
pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble. It really was. The
thing was, though, I didn't feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt so
damn tired all of a sudden. You could tell he wasn't tired at all, though.
He was pretty oiled up, for one thing. "I think that one of these days," he
said, "you're going to have to find out where you want to go. And then
you've got to start going there. But immediately. You can't afford to lose a
minute. Not you." I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but
I wasn't too sure what he was talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I
wasn't too positive at the time. I was too damn tired. "And I hate to tell
you," he said, "but I think that once you have a fair idea where you want to
go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You'll have to.
You're a student--whether the idea appeals to you or not. You're in love
with knowledge. And I think you'll find, once you get past all the Mr.
Vineses and their Oral Comp--" "Mr. Vinsons," I said. He meant all the Mr.
Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. I shouldn't have interrupted him, though.
"All right--the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you're
going to start getting closer and closer--that is, if you want to, and if
you look for it and wait for it--to the kind of information that will be
very, very dear to your heart. Among other things, you'll find that you're
not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened
by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited
and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally
and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of
their troubles. You'll learn from them--if you want to. Just as someday, if
you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a
beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's
poetry." He stopped and took a big drink out of his highball. Then he
started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn't try to stop him
or anything. "I'm not trying to tell you," he said, "that only educated and
scholarly men are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It's
not so. But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they're brilliant
and creative to begin with--which, unfortunately, is rarely the case--tend
to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are
merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly,
and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the
end. And--most important--nine times out of ten they have more humility than
the unscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?" "Yes, sir." He didn't say
anything again for quite a while. I don't know if you've ever done it, but
it's sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when
they're thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn't
that I was bored or anything--I wasn't--but I was so damn sleepy all of a
sudden. "Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go
along with it any considerable distance, it'll begin to give you an idea
what size mind you have. What it'll fit and, maybe, what it won't. After a
while, you'll have an idea what kind of thoughts your particular size mind
should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an extraordinary amount of
time trying on ideas that don't suit you, aren't becoming to you. You'll
begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly." Then,
all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn't help it! Mr.
Antolini just laughed, though. "C'mon," he said, and got up. "We'll fix up
the couch for you." I followed him and he went over to this closet and tried
to take down some sheets and blankets and stuff that was on the top shelf,
but he couldn't do it with this highball glass in his hand. So he drank it
and then put the glass down on the floor and then he took the stuff down. I
helped him bring it over to the couch. We both made the bed together. He
wasn't too hot at it. He didn't tuck anything in very tight. I didn't care,
though. I could've slept standing up I was so tired. "How're all your
women?" "They're okay." I was being a lousy conversationalist, but I didn't
feel like it. "How's Sally?" He knew old Sally Hayes. I introduced him once.
"She's all right. I had a date with her this afternoon." Boy, it seemed like
twenty years ago! "We don't have too much in common any more." "Helluva
pretty girl. What about that other girl? The one you told me about, in
Maine?" "Oh--Jane Gallagher. She's all right. I'm probably gonna give her a
buzz tomorrow." We were all done making up the couch then. "It's all yours,"
Mr. Antolini said. "I don't know what the hell you're going to do with those
legs of yours." "That's all right. I'm used to short beds," I said. "Thanks
a lot, sir. You and Mrs. Antolini really saved my life tonight." "You know
where the bathroom is. If there's anything you want, just holler. I'll be in
the kitchen for a while--will the light bother you?" "No--heck, no. Thanks a
lot." "All right. Good night, handsome." "G'night, sir. Thanks a lot." He
went out in the kitchen and I went in the bathroom and got undressed and
all. I couldn't brush my teeth because I didn't have any toothbrush with me.
I didn't have any pajamas either and Mr. Antolini forgot to lend me some. So
I just went back in the living room and turned off this little lamp next to
the couch, and then I got in bed with just my shorts on. It was way too
short for me, the couch, but I really could've slept standing up without
batting an eyelash. I laid awake for just a couple of seconds thinking about
all that stuff Mr. Antolini'd told me. About finding out the size of your
mind and all. He was really a pretty smart guy. But I couldn't keep my
goddam eyes open, and I fell asleep. Then something happened. I don't even
like to talk about it. I woke up all of a sudden. I don't know what time it
was or anything, but I woke up. I felt something on my head, some guy's
hand. Boy, it really scared hell out of me. What it was, it was Mr.
Antolini's hand. What he was doing was, he was sitting on the floor right
next to the couch, in the dark and all, and he was sort of petting me or
patting me on the goddam head. Boy, I'll bet I jumped about a thousand feet.
"What the hellya doing?" I said. "Nothing! I'm simply sitting here,
admiring--" "What're ya doing, anyway?" I said over again. I didn't know
what the hell to say--I mean I was embarrassed as hell. "How 'bout keeping
your voice down? I'm simply sitting here--" "I have to go, anyway," I
said--boy, was I nervous! I started putting on my damn pants in the dark. I
could hardly get them on I was so damn nervous. I know more damn perverts,
at schools and all, than anybody you ever met, and they're always being
perverty when I'm around. "You have to go where?" Mr. Antolini said. He was
trying to act very goddam casual and cool and all, but he wasn't any too
goddam cool. Take my word. "I left my bags and all at the station. I think
maybe I'd better go down and get them. I have all my stuff in them."
"They'll be there in the morning. Now, go back to bed. I'm going to bed
myself. What's the matter with you?" "Nothing's the matter, it's just that
all my money and stuff's in one of my bags. I'll be right back. I'll get a
cab and be right back," I said. Boy, I was falling all over myself in the
dark. "The thing is, it isn't mine, the money. It's my mother's, and I--"
"Don't be ridiculous, Holden. Get back in that bed. I'm going to bed myself.
The money will be there safe and sound in the morn--" "No, no kidding. I
gotta get going. I really do." I was damn near all dressed already, except
that I couldn't find my tie. I couldn't remember where I'd put my tie. I put
on my jacket and all without it. Old Mr. Antolini was sitting now in the big
chair a little ways away from me, watching me. It was dark and all and I
couldn't see him so hot, but I knew he was watching me, all right. He was
still boozing, too. I could see his trusty highball glass in his hand.
"You're a very, very strange boy." "I know it," I said. I didn't even look
around much for my tie. So I went without it. "Good-by, sir," I said,
"Thanks a lot. No kidding." He kept walking right behind me when I went to
the front door, and when I rang the elevator bell he stayed in the damn
doorway. All he said was that business about my being a "very, very strange
boy" again. Strange, my ass. Then he waited in the doorway and all till the
goddam elevator came. I never waited so long for an elevator in my whole
goddam life. I swear. I didn't know what the hell to talk about while I was
waiting for the elevator, and he kept standing there, so I said, "I'm gonna
start reading some good books. I really am." I mean you had to say
something. It was very embarrassing. "You grab your bags and scoot right on
back here again. I'll leave the door unlatched." "Thanks a lot," I said.
"G'by!" The elevator was finally there. I got in and went down. Boy, I was
shaking like a madman. I was sweating, too. When something perverty like
that happens, I start sweating like a bastard. That kind of stuff's happened
to me about twenty times since I was a kid. I can't stand it.
25
When I got outside, it was just getting light out. It was pretty cold,
too, but it felt good because I was sweating so much. I didn't know where
the hell to go. I didn't want to go to another hotel and spend all Phoebe's
dough. So finally all I did was I walked over to Lexington and took the
subway down to Grand Central. My bags were there and all, and I figured I'd
sleep in that crazy waiting room where all the benches are. So that's what I
did. It wasn't too bad for a while because there weren't many people around
and I could stick my feet up. But I don't feel much like discussing it. It
wasn't too nice. Don't ever try it. I mean it. It'll depress you. I only
slept till around nine o'clock because a million people started coming in
the waiting room and I had to take my feet down. I can't sleep so hot if I
have to keep my feet on the floor. So I sat up. I still had that headache.
It was even worse. And I think I was more depressed than I ever was in my
whole life. I didn't want to, but I started thinking about old Mr. Antolini
and I wondered what he'd tell Mrs. Antolini when she saw I hadn't slept
there or anything. That part didn't worry me too much, though, because I
knew Mr. Antolini was very smart and that he could make up something to tell
her. He could tell her I'd gone home or something. That part didn't worry me
much. But what did worry me was the part about how I'd woke up and found him
patting me on the head and all. I mean I wondered if just maybe I was wrong
about thinking be was making a flitty pass at ne. I wondered if maybe he
just liked to pat guys on the head when they're asleep. I mean how can you
tell about that stuff for sure? You can't. I even started wondering if maybe
I should've got my bags and gone back to his house, the way I'd said I
would. I mean I started thinking that even if he was a flit he certainly'd
been very nice to me. I thought how he hadn't minded it when I'd called him
up so late, and how he'd told me to come right over if I felt like it. And
how he went to all that trouble giving me that advice about finding out the
size of your mind and all, and how he was the only guy that'd even gone near
that boy James Castle I told you about when he was dead. I thought about all
that stuff. And the more I thought about it, the more depressed I got. I
mean I started thinking maybe I should've gone back to his house. Maybe he
was only patting my head just for the hell of it. The more I thought about
it, though, the more depressed and screwed up about it I got. What made it
even worse, my eyes were sore as hell. They felt sore and burny from not
getting too much sleep. Besides that, I was getting sort of a cold, and I
didn't even have a goddam handkerchief with me. I had some in my suitcase,
but I didn't feel like taking it out of that strong box and opening it up
right in public and all. There was this magazine that somebody'd left on the
bench next to me, so I started reading it, thinking it'd make me stop
thinking about Mr. Antolini and a million other things for at least a little
while. But this damn article I started reading made me feel almost worse. It
was all about hormones. It described how you should look, your face and eyes
and all, if your hormones were in good shape, and I didn't look that way at
all. I looked exactly like the guy in the article with lousy hormones. So I
started getting worried about my hormones. Then I read this other article
about how you can tell if you have cancer or not. It said if you had any
sores in your mouth that didn't heal pretty quickly, it was a sign that you
probably had cancer. I'd had this sore on the inside of my lip for about two
weeks. So figured I was getting cancer. That magazine was some little
cheerer upper. I finally quit reading it and went outside for a walk. I
figured I'd be dead in a couple of months because I had cancer. I really
did. I was even positive I would be. It certainly didn't make me feel too
gorgeous. It'sort of looked like it was going to rain, but I went for this
walk anyway. For one thing, I figured I ought to get some breakfast. I
wasn't at all hungry, but I figured I ought to at least eat something. I
mean at least get something with some vitamins in it. So I started walking
way over east, where the pretty cheap restaurants are, because I didn't want
to spend a lot of dough. While I was walking, I passed these two guys that
were unloading this big Christmas tree off a truck. One guy kept saying to
the other guy, "Hold the sonuvabitch up! Hold it up, for Chrissake!" It
certainly was a gorgeous way to talk about a Christmas tree. It was sort of
funny, though, in an awful way, and I started to sort of laugh. It was about
the worst thing I could've done, because the minute I started to laugh I
thought I was going to vomit. I really did. I even started to, but it went
away. I don't know why. I mean I hadn't eaten anything unsanitary or like
that and usually I have quite a strong stomach. Anyway, I got over it, and I
figured I'd feel better if I had something to eat. So I went in this very
cheap-looking restaurant and had doughnuts and coffee. Only, I didn't eat
the doughnuts. I couldn't swallow them too well. The thing is, if you get
very depressed about something, it's hard as hell to swallow. The waiter was
very nice, though. He took them back without charging me. I just drank the
coffee. Then I left and started walking over toward Fifth Avenue. It was
Monday and all, and pretty near Christmas, and all the stores were open. So
it wasn't too bad walking on Fifth Avenue. It was fairly Christmasy. All
those scraggy-looking Santa Clauses were standing on corners ringing those
bells, and the Salvation Army girls, the ones that don't wear any lipstick
or anything, were tinging bells too. I sort of kept looking around for those
two nuns I'd met at breakfast the day before, but I didn't see them. I knew
I wouldn't, because they'd told me they'd come to New York to be
schoolteachers, but I kept looking for them anyway. Anyway, it was pretty
Christmasy all of a sudden. A million little kids were downtown with their
mothers, getting on and off buses and coming in and out of stores. I wished
old Phoebe was around. She's not little enough any more to go stark staring
mad in the toy department, but she enjoys horsing around and looking at the
people. The Christmas before last I took her downtown shopping with me. We
had a helluva time. I think it was in Bloomingdale's. We went in the shoe
department and we pretended she--old Phoebe-- wanted to get a pair of those
very high storm shoes, the kind that have about a million holes to lace up.
We had the poor salesman guy going crazy. Old Phoebe tried on about twenty
pairs, and each time the poor guy had to lace one shoe all the way up. It
was a dirty trick, but it killed old Phoebe. We finally bought a pair of
moccasins and charged them. The salesman was very nice about it. I think he
knew we were horsing around, because old Phoebe always starts giggling.
Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or
anything. Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening.
Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I
had this feeling that I'd never get to the other side of the street. I
thought I'd just go down, down, down, and nobody'd ever see me again. Boy,
did it scare me. You can't imagine. I started sweating like a bastard--my
whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something
else. Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was
talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him, "Allie, don't let me disappear.
Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please,
Allie." And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without
disappearing, I'd thank him. Then it would start all over again as soon as I
got to the next corner. But I kept going and all. I was sort of afraid to
stop, I think--I don't remember, to tell you the truth. I know I didn't stop
till I was way up in the Sixties, past the zoo and all. Then I sat down on
this bench. I could hardly get my breath, and I was still sweating like a
bastard. I sat there, I guess, for about an hour. Finally, what I decided
I'd do, I decided I'd go away. I decided I'd never go home again and I'd
never go away to another school again. I decided I'd just see old Phoebe and
sort of say good-by to her and all, and give her back her Christmas dough,
and then I'd start hitchhiking my way out West. What I'd do, I figured, I'd
go down to the Holland Tunnel and bum a ride, and then I'd bum another one,
and another one, and another one, and in a few days I'd be somewhere out
West where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody'd know me and I'd
get a job. I figured I could get a job at a filling station somewhere,
putting gas and oil in people's cars. I didn't care what kind of job it was,
though. Just so people didn't know me and I didn't know anybody. I thought
what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I
wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody.
If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece
of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after
a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of
my life. Everybody'd think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they'd
leave me alone. They'd let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and
they'd pay me a salary and all for it, and I'd build me a little cabin
somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I'd
build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I'd want it to
be sunny as hell all the time. I'd cook all my own food, and later on, if I
wanted to get married or something, I'd meet this beautiful girl that was
also a deaf-mute and we'd get married. She'd come and live in my cabin with
me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she'd have to write it on a
goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we'd
hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to
read and write by ourselves. I got excited as hell thinking about it. I
really did. I knew the part about pretending I was a deaf-mute was crazy,
but I liked thinking about it anyway. But I really decided to go out West
and all. All I wanted to do first was say good-by to old Phoebe. So all of a
sudden, I ran like a madman across the street--I damn near got killed doing
it, if you want to know the truth--and went in this stationery store and
bought a pad and pencil. I figured I'd write her a note telling her where to
meet me so I could say good-by to her and give her back her Christmas dough,
and then I'd take the note up to her school and get somebody in the
principal's office to give it to her. But I just put the pad and pencil in
my pocket and started walking fast as hell up to her school--I was too
excited to write the note right in the stationery store. I walked fast
because I wanted her to get the note before she went home for lunch, and I
didn't have any too much time. I knew where her school was, naturally,
because I went there myself when I was a kid. When I got there, it felt
funny. I wasn't sure I'd remember what it was like inside, but I did. It was
exactly the same as it was when I went there. They had that same big yard
inside, that was always sort of dark, with those cages around the light
bulbs so they wouldn't break if they got hit with a ball. They had those
same white circles painted all over the floor, for games and stuff. And
those same old basketball rings without any nets--just the backboards and
the rings. Nobody was around at all, probably because it wasn't recess
period, and it wasn't lunchtime yet. All I saw was one little kid, a colored
kid, on his way to the bathroom. He had one of those wooden passes sticking
out of his hip pocket, the same way we used to have, to show he had
permission and all to go to the bathroom. I was still sweating, but not so
bad any more. I went over to the stairs and sat down on the first step and
took out the pad and pencil I'd bought. The stairs had the same smell they
used to have when I went there. Like somebody'd just taken a leak on them.
School stairs always smell like that. Anyway, I sat there and wrote this
note:
I can't wait around till Wednesday any more so I will probably hitch
hike out west this afternoon. Meet me at the Museum of art near the door at
quarter past 12 if you can and I will give you your Christmas dough back. I
didn't spend much.
Love, HOLDEN
Her school was practically right near the museum, and she had to pass
it on her way home for lunch anyway, so I knew she could meet me all right.
Then I started walking up the stairs to the principal's office so I could
give the note to somebody that would bring it to her in her classroom. I
folded it about ten times so nobody'd open it. You can't trust anybody in a
goddam school. But I knew they'd give it to her if I was her brother and
all. While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I
was going to puke again. Only, I didn't. I sat down for a second, and then I
felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me
crazy. Somebody'd written "Fuck you" on the wall. It drove me damn near
crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and
how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid
would tell them--all cockeyed, naturally--what it meant, and how they'd all
think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept
wanting to kill whoever'd written it. I figured it was some perverty bum
that'd sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and
then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and
how I'd smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead
and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn't have the guts to do it. I knew that.
That made me even more depressed. I hardly even had the guts to rub it off
the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some
teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I'd written it. But I
rubbed it out anyway, finally. Then I went on up to the principal's office.
The principal didn't seem to be around, but some old lady around a hundred
years old was sitting at a typewriter. I told her I was Phoebe Caulfield's
brother, in 4B-1, and I asked her to please give Phoebe the note. I said it
was very important because my mother was sick and wouldn't have lunch ready
for Phoebe and that she'd have to meet me and have lunch in a drugstore. She
was very nice about it, the old lady. She took the note off me and called
some other lady, from the next office, and the other lady went to give it to
Phoebe. Then the old lady that was around a hundred years old and I shot the
breeze for a while, She was pretty nice, and I told her how I'd gone there
to school, too, and my brothers. She asked me where I went to school now,
and I told her Pencey, and she said Pencey was a very good school. Even if
I'd wanted to, I wouldn't have had the strength to straighten her out.
Besides, if she thought Pencey was a very good school, let her think it. You
hate to tell new stuff to somebody around a hundred years old. They don't
like to hear it. Then, after a while, I left. It was funny. She yelled "Good
luck!" at me the same way old Spencer did when I left Pencey. God, how I
hate it when somebody yells "Good luck!" at me when I'm leaving somewhere.
It's depressing. I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another
"Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this
one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off. It's
hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub
out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible. I looked
at the clock in the recess yard, and it was only twenty to twelve, so I had
quite a lot of time to kill before I met old Phoebe. But I just walked over
to the museum anyway. There wasn't anyplace else to go. I thought maybe I
might stop in a phone booth and give old Jane Gallagher a buzz before I
started bumming my way west, but I wasn't in the mood. For one thing, I
wasn't even sure she was home for vacation yet. So I just went over to the
museum, and hung around. While I was waiting around for Phoebe in the
museum, right inside the doors and all, these two little kids came up to me
and asked me if I knew where the mummies were. The one little kid, the one
that asked me, had his pants open. I told him about it. So he buttoned them
up right where he was standing talking to me--he didn't even bother to go
behind a post or anything. He killed me. I would've laughed, but I was
afraid I'd feel like vomiting again, so I didn't. "Where're the mummies,
fella?" the kid said again. "Ya know?" I horsed around with the two of them
a little bit. "The mummies? What're they?" I asked the one kid. "You know.
The mummies--them dead guys. That get buried in them toons and all." Toons.
That killed me. He meant tombs. "How come you two guys aren't in school?" I
said. "No school t'day," the kid that did all the talking said. He was
lying, sure as I'm alive, the little bastard. I didn't have anything to do,
though, till old Phoebe showed up, so I helped them find the place where the
mummies were. Boy, I used to know exactly where they were, but I hadn't been
in that museum in years. "You two guys so interested in mummies?" I said.
"Yeah." "Can't your friend talk?" I said. "He ain't my friend. He's my
brudda." "Can't he talk?" I looked at the one that wasn't doing any talking.
"Can't you talk at all?" I asked him. "Yeah," he said. "I don't feel like
it." Finally we found the place where the mummies were, and we went in. "You
know how the Egyptians buried their dead?" I asked the one kid. "Naa."
"Well, you should. It's very interesting. They wrapped their faces up in
these cloths that were treated with some secret chemical. That way they
could be buried in their tombs for thousands of years and their faces
wouldn't rot or anything. Nobody knows how to do it except the Egyptians.
Even modern science." To get to where the mummies were, you had to go down
this very narrow sort of hall with stones on the side that they'd taken
right out of this Pharaoh's tomb and all. It was pretty spooky, and you
could tell the two hot-shots I was with weren't enjoying it too much. They
stuck close as hell to me, and the one that didn't talk at all practically
was holding onto my sleeve. "Let's go," he said to his brother. "I seen 'em
awreddy. C'mon, hey." He turned around and beat it. "He's got a yella streak
a mile wide," the other one said. "So long!" He beat it too. I was the only
one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and
peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall.
Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right
under the glass part of the wall, under the stones. That's the whole
trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there
isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not
looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose.
Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a
cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on
it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under
that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact. After I came out of the
place where the mummies were, I had to go to the bathroom. I sort of had
diarrhea, if you want to know the truth. I didn't mind the diarrhea part too
much, but something else happened. When I was coming out of the can, right
before I got to the door, I sort of passed out. I was lucky, though. I mean
I could've killed myself when I hit the floor, but all I did was sort of
land on my side. it was a funny thing, though. I felt better after I passed
out. I really did. My arm sort of hurt, from where I fell, but I didn't feel
so damn dizzy any more. It was about ten after twelve or so then, and so I
went back and stood by the door and waited for old Phoebe. I thought how it
might be the last time I'd ever see her again. Any of my relatives, I mean.
I figured I'd probably see them again, but not for years. I might come home
when I was about thirty-five. I figured, in case somebody got sick and
wanted to see me before they died, but that would be the only reason I'd
leave my cabin and come back. I even started picturing how it would be when
I came back. I knew my mother'd get nervous as hell and start to cry and beg
me to stay home and not go back to my cabin, but I'd go anyway. I'd be
casual as hell. I'd make her calm down, and then I'd go over to the other
side of the living room and take out this cigarette case and light a
cigarette, cool as all hell. I'd ask them all to visit me sometime if they
wanted to, but I wouldn't insist or anything. What I'd do, I'd let old
Phoebe come out and visit me in the summertime and on Christmas vacation and
Easter vacation. And I'd let D. B. come out and visit me for a while if he
wanted a nice, quiet place for his writing, but he couldn't write any movies
in my cabin, only stories and books. I'd have this rule that nobody could do
anything phony when they visited me. If anybody tried to do anything phony,
they couldn't stay. All of a sudden I looked at the clock in the checkroom
and it was twenty-five of one. I began to get scared that maybe that old
lady in the school had told that other lady not to give old Phoebe my
message. I began to get scared that maybe she'd told her to burn it or
something. It really scared hell out of me. I really wanted to see old
Phoebe before I hit the road. I mean I had her Christmas dough and all.
Finally, I saw her. I saw her through the glass part of the door. The reason
I saw her, she had my crazy hunting hat on--you could see that hat about ten
miles away. I went out the doors and started down these stone stairs to meet
her. The thing I couldn't understand, she had this big suitcase with her.
She was just coming across Fifth Avenue, and she was dragging this goddam
big suitcase with her. She could hardly drag it. When I got up closer, I saw
it was my old suitcase, the one I used to use when I was at Whooton. I
couldn't figure out what the hell she was doing with it. "Hi," she said when
she got up close. She was all out of breath from that crazy suitcase. "I
thought maybe you weren't coming," I said. "What the hell's in that bag? I
don't need anything. I'm just going the way I am. I'm not even taking the
bags I got at the station. What the hellya got in there?" She put the
suitcase down. "My clothes," she said. "I'm going with you. Can I? Okay?"
"What?" I said. I almost fell over when she said that. I swear to God I did.
I got sort of dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out or something
again. "I took them down the back elevator so Charlene wouldn't see me. It
isn't heavy. All I have in it is two dresses and my moccasins and my
underwear and socks and some other things. Feel it. It isn't heavy. Feel it
once... Can't I go with you? Holden? Can't I? Please." "No. Shut up." I
thought I was going to pass out cold. I mean I didn't mean to tell her to
shut up and all, but I thought I was going to pass out again. "Why can't I?
Please, Holden! I won't do anything-- I'll just go with you, that's all! I
won't even take my clothes with me if you don't want me to--I'll just take
my--" "You can't take anything. Because you're not going. I'm going alone.
So shut up." "Please, Holden. Please let me go. I'll be very, very,
very--You won't even--" "You're not going. Now, shut up! Gimme that bag," I
said. I took the bag off her. I was almost all set to hit her, I thought I
was going to smack her for a second. I really did. She started to cry. "I
thought you were supposed to be in a play at school and all I thought you
were supposed to be Benedict Arnold in that play and all," I said. I said it
very nasty. "Whuddaya want to do? Not be in the play, for God's sake?" That
made her cry even harder. I was glad. All of a sudden I wanted her to cry
till her eyes practically dropped out. I almost hated her. I think I hated
her most because she wouldn't be in that play any more if she went away with
me. "Come on," I said. I started up the steps to the museum again. I figured
what I'd do was, I'd check the crazy suitcase she'd brought in the
checkroom, andy then she could get it again at three o'clock, after school.
I knew she couldn't take it back to school with her. "Come on, now," I said.
She didn't go up the steps with me, though. She wouldn't come with me. I
went up anyway, though, and brought the bag in the checkroom and checked it,
and then I came down again. She was still standing there on the sidewalk,
but she turned her back on me when I came up to her. She can do that. She
can turn her back on you when she feels like it. "I'm not going away
anywhere. I changed my mind. So stop crying, and shut up," I said. The funny
part was, she wasn't even crying when I said that. I said it anyway, though,
"C'mon, now. I'll walk you back to school. C'mon, now. You'll be late." She
wouldn't answer me or anything. I sort of tried to get hold of her old hand,
but she wouldn't let me. She kept turning around on me. "Didja have your
lunch? Ya had your lunch yet?" I asked her. She wouldn't answer me. All she
did was, she took off my red hunting hat--the one I gave her--and
practically chucked it right in my face. Then she turned her back on me
again. It nearly killed me, but I didn't say anything. I just picked it up
and stuck it in my coat pocket. "Come on, hey. I'll walk you back to
school," I said. "I'm not going back to school." I didn't know what to say
when she said that. I just stood there for a couple of minutes. "You have to
go back to school. You want to be in that play, don't you? You want to be
Benedict Arnold, don't you?" "No." "Sure you do. Certainly you do. C'mon,
now, let's go," I said. "In the first place, I'm not going away anywhere, I
told you. I'm going home. I'm going home as soon as you go back to school.
First I'm gonna go down to the station and get my bags, and then I'm gonna
go straight--" "I said I'm not going back to school. You can do what you
want to do, but I'm not going back to chool," she said. "So shut up." It was
the first time she ever told me to shut up. It sounded terrible. God, it
sounded terrible. It sounded worse than swearing. She still wouldn't look at
me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or
something, she wouldn't let me. "Listen, do you want to go for a walk?" I
asked her. "Do you want to take a walk down to the zoo? If I let you not go
back to school this afternoon and go for walk, will you cut out this crazy
stuff?" She wouldn't answer me, so I said it over again. "If I let you skip
school this afternoon and go for a little walk, will you cut out the crazy
stuff? Will you go back to school tomorrow like a good girl?" "I may and I
may not," she said. Then she ran right the hell across the street, without
even looking to see if any cars were coming. She's a madman sometimes. I
didn't follow her, though. I knew she'd follow me, so I started walking
downtown toward the zoo, on the park side of the street, and she started
walking downtown on the other goddam side of the street, She wouldn't look
over at me at all, but I could tell she was probably watching me out of the
corner of her crazy eye to see where I was going and all. Anyway, we kept
walking that way all the way to the zoo. The only thing that bothered me was
when a double-decker bus came along because then I couldn't see across the
street and I couldn't see where the hell she was. But when we got to the
zoo, I yelled over to her, "Phoebe! I'm going in the zoo! C'mon, now!" She
wouldn't look at me, but I could tell she heard me, and when I started down
the steps to the zoo I turned around and saw she was crossing the street and
following me and all. There weren't too many people in the zoo because it
was sort of a lousy day, but there were a few around the sea lions' swimming
pool and all. I started to go by but old Phoebe stopped and made out she was
watching the sea lions getting fed--a guy was throwing fish at them--so I
went back. I figured it was a good chance to catch up with her and all. I
went up and sort of stood behind her and sort of put my hands on her
shoulders, but she bent her knees and slid out from me--she can certainly be
very snotty when she wants to. She kept standing there while the sea lions
were getting fed and I stood right behind her. I didn't put my hands on her
shoulders again or anything because if I had she really would've beat it on
me. Kids are funny. You have to watch what you're doing. She wouldn't walk
right next to me when we left the sea lions, but she didn't walk too far
away. She sort of walked on one side of the sidewalk and I walked on the
other side. It wasn't too gorgeous, but it was better than having her walk
about a mile away from me, like before. We went up and watched the bears, on
that little hill, for a while, but there wasn't much to watch. Only one of
the bears was out, the polar bear. The other one, the brown one, was in his
goddam cave and wouldn't come out. All you could see was his rear end. There
was a little kid standing next to me, with a cowboy hat on practically over
his ears, and he kept telling his father, "Make him come out, Daddy. Make
him come out." I looked at old Phoebe, but she wouldn't laugh. You know kids
when they're sore at you. They won't laugh or anything. After we left the
bears, we left the zoo and crossed over this little street in the park, and
then we went through one of those little tunnels that always smell from
somebody's taking a leak. It was on the way to the carrousel. Old Phoebe
still wouldn't talk to me or anything, but she was sort of walking next to
me now. I took a hold of the belt at the back of her coat, just for the hell
of it, but she wouldn't let me. She said, "Keep your hands to yourself, if
you don't mind." She was still sore at me. But not as sore as she was
before. Anyway, we kept getting closer and closer to the carrousel and you
could start to hear that nutty music it always plays. It was playing "Oh,
Marie!" It played that same song about fifty years ago when I was a little
kid. That's one nice thing about carrousels, they always play the same
songs. "I thought the carrousel was closed in the wintertime," old Phoebe
said. It was the first time she practically said anything. She probably
forgot she was supposed to be sore at me. "Maybe because it's around
Christmas," I said. She didn't say anything when I said that. She probably
remembered she was supposed to be sore at me. "Do you want to go for a ride
on it?" I said. I knew she probably did. When she was a tiny little kid, and
Allie and D. B. and I used to go to the park with her, she was mad about the
carrousel. You couldn't get her off the goddam thing. "I'm too big." she
said. I thought she wasn't going to answer me, but she did. "No, you're not.
Go on. I'll wait for ya. Go on," I said. We were right there then. There
were a few kids riding on it, mostly very little kids, and a few parents
were waiting around outside, sitting on the benches and all. What I did was,
I went up to the window where they sell the tickets and bought old Phoebe a
ticket. Then I gave it to her. She was standing right next to me. "Here," I
said. "Wait a second--take the rest of your dough, too." I started giving
her the rest of the dough she'd lent me. "You keep it. Keep it for me," she
said. Then she said right afterward--"Please." That's depressing, when
somebody says "please" to you. I mean if it's Phoebe or somebody. That
depressed the hell out of me. But I put the dough back in my pocket. "Aren't
you gonna ride, too?" she asked me. She was looking at me sort of funny. You
could tell she wasn't too sore at me any more. "Maybe I will the next time.
I'll watch ya," I said. "Got your ticket?" "Yes." "Go ahead, then--I'll be
on this bench right over here. I'll watch ya." I went over and sat down on
this bench, and she went and got on the carrousel. She walked all around it.
I mean she walked once all the way around it. Then she sat down on this big,
brown, beat-up-looking old horse. Then the carrousel started, and I watched
her go around and around. There were only about five or six other kids on
the ride, and the song the carrousel was playing was "Smoke Gets in Your
Eyes." It was playing it very jazzy and funny. All the kids kept trying to
grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid
she'd fall off the goddam horse, but I didn't say anything or do anything.
The thing with kids is, if they want to grab the gold ring, you have to let
them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off they fall off, but it's
bad if you say anything to them. When the ride was over she got off her
horse and came over to me. "You ride once, too, this time," she said. "No,
I'll just watch ya. I think I'll just watch," I said. I gave her some more
of her dough. "Here. Get some more tickets." She took the dough off me. "I'm
not mad at you any more," she said. "I know. Hurry up--the thing's gonna
start again." Then all of a sudden she gave me a kiss. Then she held her
hand out, and said, "It's raining. It's starting to rain." "I know." Then
what she did--it damn near killed me--she reached in my coat pocket and took
out my red hunting hat and put it on my head. "Don't you want it?" I said.
"You can wear it a while." "Okay. Hurry up, though, now. You're gonna miss
your ride. You won't get your own horse or anything." She kept hanging
around, though. "Did you mean it what you said? You really aren't going away
anywhere? Are you really going home afterwards?" she asked me. "Yeah," I
said. I meant it, too. I wasn't lying to her. I really did go home
afterwards. "Hurry up, now," I said. "The thing's starting." She ran and
bought her ticket and got back on the goddam carrousel just in time. Then
she walked all the way around it till she got her own horse back. Then she
got on it. She waved to me and I waved back. Boy, it began to rain like a
bastard. In buckets, I swear to God. All the parents and mothers and
everybody went over and stood right under the roof of the carrousel, so they
wouldn't get soaked to the skin or anything, but I stuck around on the bench
for quite a while. I got pretty soaking wet, especially my neck and my
pants. My hunting hat really gave me quite a lot of protection, in a way;
but I got soaked anyway. I didn't care, though. I felt so damn happy all of
sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near
bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know
why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around
and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could've been there.
26
That's all I'm going to tell about. I could probably tell you what I
did after I went home, and how I got sick and all, and what school I'm
supposed to go to next fall, after I get out of here, but I don't feel like
it. I really don't. That stuff doesn't interest me too much right now. A lot
of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps
asking me if I'm going apply myself when I go back to school next September.
It's such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean how do you know what
you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am,
but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question. D. B. isn't as bad as the
rest of them, but he keeps asking me a lot of questions, too. He drove over
last Saturday with this English babe that's in this new picture he's
writing. She was pretty affected, but very good-looking. Anyway, one time
when she went to the ladies' room way the hell down in the other wing D. B.
asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you
about. I didn't know what the hell to say. If you want to know the truth, I
don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it.
About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old
Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam
Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start
missing everybody.
Библиотека "Артефакт" -- http://andrey.tsx.org/
Last-modified: Tue, 04 Feb 2003 11:43:38 GMT