aid.
"--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