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 forg