e 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 blasé 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