The Catcher in the Rye - 02

the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more
stiffs. The only good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all
about what a swell guy he was, what a hot-shot and all, then all of a sudden this guy
sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart. It was a very crude
thing to do, in chapel and all, but it was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla. He damn near
blew the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like
he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on
the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it. Boy, was he sore. He didn't say
anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory study hall in the academic
building and he came up and made a speech. He said that the boy that had created the
disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to go to Pencey. We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off
another one, right while old Thurmer was making his speech, but be wasn't in the right
mood. Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in the
new dorms.
It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old Spencer, because
everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a change. It felt
sort of cosy. I took off my coat and my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar; and then I put
on this hat that I'd bought in New York that morning. It was this red hunting hat, with one
of those very, very long peaks. I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out
of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only cost me a buck.
The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the back--very corny, I'll admit,
but I liked it that way. I looked good in it that way. Then I got this book I was reading
and sat down in my chair. There were two chairs in every room. I had one and my
roommate, Ward Stradlater, had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody
was always sitting on them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs.
The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They
gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me
Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen. I thought it was going to stink, but it didn't. It was a very
good book. I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite author is my brother D.B., and
my next favorite is Ring Lardner. My brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my
birthday, just before I went to Pencey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then
it had this one story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's
always speeding. Only, he's married, the cop, so be can't marry her or anything. Then this
girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about killed me. What I
like best is a book that's at least funny once in a while. I read a lot of classical books, like
The Return of the Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and
mysteries and all, but they don't knock me out too much. What really knocks me out is a
book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific
friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That
doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring
Lardner, except that D.B. told me he's dead. You take that book Of Human Bondage, by
Somerset Maugham, though. I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I
wouldn't want to call Somerset Maugham up. I don't know, He just isn't the kind of guy
I'd want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye.
Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book Out of
Africa. I'd read it already, but I wanted to read certain parts over again. I'd only read
about three pages, though, when I heard somebody coming through the shower curtains.
Even without looking up, I knew right away who it was. It was Robert Ackley, this guy
that roomed right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our
wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me. He was probably the
only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn't down at the game. He hardly ever
went anywhere. He was a very peculiar guy. He was a senior, and he'd been at Pencey the
whole four years and all, but nobody ever called him anything except "Ackley." Not even
Herb Gale, his own roommate, ever called him "Bob" or even "Ack." If he ever gets
married, his own wife'll probably call him "Ackley." He was one of these very, very tall,
round-shouldered guys--he was about six four--with lousy teeth. The whole time he
roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked
mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room
with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something. Besides that, he had a lot
of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole
face. And not only that, he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy. I
wasn't too crazy about him, to tell you the truth.
I could feel him standing on the shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a
look to see if Stradlater was around. He hated Stradlater's guts and he never came in the
room if Stradlater was around. He hated everybody's guts, damn near.
He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room. "Hi," he said. He
always said it like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn't want you to
think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he'd come in by mistake,
for God's sake.
"Hi," I said, but I didn't look up from my book. With a guy like Ackley, if you
looked up from your book you were a goner. You were a goner anyway, but not as quick
if you didn't look up right away.
He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always did,
picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier. He always picked up your
personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your nerves sometimes. "How was
the fencing?" he said. He just wanted me to quit reading and enjoying myself. He didn't
give a damn about the fencing. "We win, or what?" he said.
"Nobody won," I said. Without looking up, though.
"What?" he said. He always made you say everything twice.
"Nobody won," I said. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with
on my chiffonier. He was looking at this picture of this girl I used to go around with in
New York, Sally Hayes. He must've picked up that goddam picture and looked at it at
least five thousand times since I got it. He always put it back in the wrong place, too,
when he was finished. He did it on purpose. You could tell.
"Nobody won," he said. "How come?"
"I left the goddam foils and stuff on the subway." I still didn't look up at him.
"On the subway, for Chrissake! Ya lost them, ya mean?"
"We got on the wrong subway. I had to keep getting up to look at a goddam map
on the wall."
He came over and stood right in my light. "Hey," I said. "I've read this same
sentence about twenty times since you came in."
Anybody else except Ackley would've taken the goddam hint. Not him, though.
"Think they'll make ya pay for em?" he said.
"I don't know, and I don't give a damn. How 'bout sitting down or something,
Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light." He didn't like it when you called him
"Ackley kid." He was always telling me I was a goddam kid, because I was sixteen and
he was eighteen. It drove him mad when I called him "Ackley kid."
He kept standing there. He was exactly the kind of a guy that wouldn't get out of
your light when you asked him to. He'd do it, finally, but it took him a lot longer if you
asked him to. "What the hellya reading?" he said.
"Goddam book."
He shoved my book back with his hand so that he could see the name of it. "Any
good?" he said.
"This sentence I'm reading is terrific." I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the
mood. He didn't get It, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up all
my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. You
couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was impossible.
I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at
home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning.
Then I started horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to
keep from getting bored. What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around
to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes. That way, I couldn't see a goddam
thing. "I think I'm going blind," I said in this very hoarse voice. "Mother darling,
everything's getting so dark in here."
"You're nuts. I swear to God," Ackley said.
"Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won't you give me your hand?"
"For Chrissake, grow up."
I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or
anything. I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand?" I was only
horsing around, naturally. That stuff gives me a bang sometimes. Besides, I know it
annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me. I was pretty
sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I pulled the peak around to the back
again, and relaxed.
"Who belongsa this?" Ackley said. He was holding my roommate's knee
supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd even pick up your
jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater's. So he chucked it on Stradlater's
bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed.
He came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down in
a chair. Just always on the arm. "Where the hellja get that hat?" he said.
"New York."
"How much?"
"A buck."
"You got robbed." He started cleaning his goddam fingernails with the end of a
match. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were
always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning
his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy. He took another look at
my hat while he was cleaning them. "Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in,
for Chrissake," he said. "That's a deer shooting hat."
"Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was
taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat."
"Your folks know you got kicked out yet?"
"Nope."
"Where the hell's Stradlater at, anyway?"
"Down at the game. He's got a date." I yawned. I was yawning all over the place.
For one thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either
froze to death or died of the heat.
"The great Stradlater," Ackley said. "--Hey. Lend me your scissors a second,
willya? Ya got 'em handy?"
"No. I packed them already. They're way in the top of the closet."
"Get 'em a second, willya?" Ackley said, "I got this hangnail I want to cut off."
He didn't care if you'd packed something or not and had it way in the top of the
closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too. The second I opened
the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket--in its wooden press and all--fell right on my
head. It made a big clunk, and it hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He
started laughing in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was
taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him. Something like that--a guy
getting hit on the head with a rock or something--tickled the pants off Ackley. "You have
a damn good sense of humor, Ackley kid," I told him. "You know that?" I handed him the
scissors. "Lemme be your manager. I'll get you on the goddam radio." I sat down in my
chair again, and he started cutting his big horny-looking nails. "How 'bout using the table
or something?" I said. "Cut 'em over the table, willya? I don't feel like walking on your
crumby nails in my bare feet tonight." He kept right on cutting them over the floor,
though. What lousy manners. I mean it.
"Who's Stradlater's date?" he said. He was always keeping tabs on who Stradlater
was dating, even though he hated Stradlater's guts.
"I don't know. Why?"
"No reason. Boy, I can't stand that sonuvabitch. He's one sonuvabitch I really can't
stand."
"He's crazy about you. He told me he thinks you're a goddam prince," I said. I call
people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing around. It keeps me from getting bored or
something.
"He's got this superior attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I just can't stand the
sonuvabitch. You'd think he--"
"Do you mind cutting your nails over the table, hey?" I said. "I've asked you about
fifty--"
"He's got this goddam superior attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I don't even
think the sonuvabitch is intelligent. He thinks he is. He thinks he's about the most--"
"Ackley! For Chrissake. Willya please cut your crumby nails over the table? I've
asked you fifty times."
He started cutting his nails over the table, for a change. The only way he ever did
anything was if you yelled at him.
I watched him for a while. Then I said, "The reason you're sore at Stradlater is
because he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while. He didn't mean to
insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anything, but he didn't mean
anything insulting. All he meant was you'd look better and feel better if you sort of
brushed your teeth once in a while."
"I brush my teeth. Don't gimme that."
"No, you don't. I've seen you, and you don't," I said. I didn't say it nasty, though. I
felt sort of sorry for him, in a way. I mean it isn't too nice, naturally, if somebody tells
you you don't brush your teeth. "Stradlater's all right He's not too bad," I said. "You don't
know him, thats the trouble."
"I still say he's a sonuvabitch. He's a conceited sonuvabitch."
"He's conceited, but he's very generous in some things. He really is," I said.
"Look. Suppose, for instance, Stradlater was wearing a tie or something that you liked.
Say he had a tie on that you liked a helluva lot--I'm just giving you an example, now.
You know what he'd do? He'd probably take it off and give it ta you. He really would.
Or--you know what he'd do? He'd leave it on your bed or something. But he'd give you
the goddam tie. Most guys would probably just--"
"Hell," Ackley said. "If I had his dough, I would, too."
"No, you wouldn't." I shook my head. "No, you wouldn't, Ackley kid. If you had
his dough, you'd be one of the biggest--"
"Stop calling me 'Ackley kid,' God damn it. I'm old enough to be your lousy
father."
"No, you're not." Boy, he could really be aggravating sometimes. He never missed
a chance to let you know you were sixteen and he was eighteen. "In the first place, I
wouldn't let you in my goddam family," I said.
"Well, just cut out calling me--"
All of a sudden the door opened, and old Stradlater barged in, in a big hurry. He
was always in a big hurry. Everything was a very big deal. He came over to me and gave
me these two playful as hell slaps on both cheeks--which is something that can be very
annoying. 'Listen," he said. "You going out anywheres special tonight?"
"I don't know. I might. What the hell's it doing out--snowing?" He had snow all
over his coat.
"Yeah. Listen. If you're not going out anyplace special, how 'bout lending me
your hound's-tooth jacket?"
"Who won the game?" I said.
"It's only the half. We're leaving," Stradlater said. "No kidding, you gonna use
your hound's-tooth tonight or not? I spilled some crap all over my gray flannel."
"No, but I don't want you stretching it with your goddam shoulders and all," I
said. We were practically the same heighth, but he weighed about twice as much as I did.
He had these very broad shoulders.
"I won't stretch it." He went over to the closet in a big hurry. "How'sa boy,
Ackley?" he said to Ackley. He was at least a pretty friendly guy, Stradlater. It was partly
a phony kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello to Ackley and all.
Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy?" He wouldn't answer him,
but he didn't have guts enough not to at least grunt. Then he said to me, "I think I'll get
going. See ya later."
"Okay," I said. He never exactly broke your heart when he went back to his own
room.
Old Stradlater started taking off his coat and tie and all. "I think maybe I'll take a
fast shave," he said. He had a pretty heavy beard. He really did.
"Where's your date?" I asked him.
"She's waiting in the Annex." He went out of the room with his toilet kit and
towel under his arm. No shirt on or anything. He always walked around in his bare torso
because he thought he had a damn good build. He did, too. I have to admit it.
4
I didn't have anything special to do, so I went down to the can and chewed the rag
with him while he was shaving. We were the only ones in the can, because everybody
was still down at the game. It was hot as hell and the windows were all steamy. There
were about ten washbowls, all right against the wall. Stradlater had the middle one. I sat
down on the one right next to him and started turning the cold water on and off--this
nervous habit I have. Stradlater kept whistling 'Song of India" while he shaved. He had
one of those very piercing whistles that are practically never in tune, and he always
picked out some song that's hard to whistle even if you're a good whistler, like "Song of
India" or "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue." He could really mess a song up.
You remember I said before that Ackley was a slob in his personal habits? Well,
so was Stradlater, but in a different way. Stradlater was more of a secret slob. He always
looked all right, Stradlater, but for instance, you should've seen the razor he shaved
himself with. It was always rusty as hell and full of lather and hairs and crap. He never
cleaned it or anything. He always looked good when he was finished fixing himself up,
but he was a secret slob anyway, if you knew him the way I did. The reason he fixed
himself up to look good was because he was madly in love with himself. He thought he
was the handsomest guy in the Western Hemisphere. He was pretty handsome, too--I'll
admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his
picture in your Year Book, they'd right away say, "Who's this boy?" I mean he was
mostly a Year Book kind of handsome guy. I knew a lot of guys at Pencey I thought were
a lot handsomer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw their
pictures in the Year Book. They'd look like they had big noses or their ears stuck out. I've
had that experience frequently.
Anyway, I was sitting on the washbowl next to where Stradlater was shaving, sort
of turning the water on and off. I still had my red hunting hat on, with the peak around to
the back and all. I really got a bang out of that hat.
"Hey," Stradlater said. "Wanna do me a big favor?"
"What?" I said. Not too enthusiastic. He was always asking you to do him a big
favor. You take a very handsome guy, or a guy that thinks he's a real hot-shot, and they're
always asking you to do them a big favor. Just because they're crazy about themseif, they
think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor. It's sort
of funny, in a way.
"You goin' out tonight?" he said.
"I might. I might not. I don't know. Why?"
"I got about a hundred pages to read for history for Monday," he said. "How 'bout
writing a composition for me, for English? I'll be up the creek if I don't get the goddam
thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it?"
It was very ironical. It really was.
"I'm the one that's flunking out of the goddam place, and you're asking me to
write you a goddam composition," I said.
"Yeah, I know. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in. Be a
buddy. Be a buddyroo. Okay?"
I didn't answer him right away. Suspense is good for some bastards like
Stradlater.
"What on?" I said.
"Anything. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once
lived in or something-- you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell." He gave out a
big yawn while he said that. Which is something that gives me a royal pain in the ass. I
mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking you to do them a goddam favor. "Just
don't do it too good, is all," he said. "That sonuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in
English, and he knows you're my roommate. So I mean don't stick all the commas and
stuff in the right place."
That's something else that gives me a royal pain. I mean if you're good at writing
compositions and somebody starts talking about commas. Stradlater was always doing
that. He wanted you to think that the only reason he was lousy at writing compositions
was because he stuck all the commas in the wrong place. He was a little bit like Ackley,
that way. I once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on the
team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor, without even
touching the backboard or anything. Ackley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that
Coyle had a perfect build for basketball. God, how I hate that stuff.
I got bored sitting on that washbowl after a while, so I backed up a few feet and
started doing this tap dance, just for the hell of it. I was just amusing myself. I can't really
tap-dance or anything, but it was a stone floor in the can, and it was good for tap-dancing.
I started imitating one of those guys in the movies. In one of those musicals. I hate the
movies like poison, but I get a bang imitating them. Old Stradlater watched me in the
mirror while he was shaving. All I need's an audience. I'm an exhibitionist. "I'm the
goddarn Governor's son," I said. I was knocking myself out. Tap-dancing all over the
place. "He doesn't want me to be a tap dancer. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in
my goddam blood, tap-dancing." Old Stradlater laughed. He didn't have too bad a sense
of humor. "It's the opening night of the Ziegfeld Follies." I was getting out of breath. I
have hardly any wind at all. "The leading man can't go on. He's drunk as a bastard. So
who do they get to take his place? Me, that's who. The little ole goddam Governor's son."
"Where'dja get that hat?" Stradlater said. He meant my hunting hat. He'd never
seen it before.
I was out of breath anyway, so I quit horsing around. I took off my hat and looked
at it for about the ninetieth time. "I got it in New York this morning. For a buck. Ya like
it?"
Stradlater nodded. "Sharp," he said. He was only flattering me, though, because
right away he said, "Listen. Are ya gonna write that composition for me? I have to
know."
"If I get the time, I will. If I don't, I won't," I said. I went over and sat down at the
washbowl next to him again. "Who's your date?" I asked him. "Fitzgerald?"
"Hell, no! I told ya. I'm through with that pig."
"Yeah? Give her to me, boy. No kidding. She's my type."
"Take her . . . She's too old for you."
All of a sudden--for no good reason, really, except that I was sort of in the mood
for horsing around--I felt like jumping off the washbowl and getting old Stradlater in a
half nelson. That's a wrestling hold, in case you don't know, where you get the other guy
around the neck and choke him to death, if you feel like it. So I did it. I landed on him
like a goddam panther.
"Cut it out, Holden, for Chrissake!" Stradlater said. He didn't feel like horsing
around. He was shaving and all. "Wuddaya wanna make me do--cut my goddam head
off?"
I didn't let go, though. I had a pretty good half nelson on him. "Liberate yourself
from my viselike grip." I said.
"Je-sus Christ." He put down his razor, and all of a sudden jerked his arms up and
sort of broke my hold on him. He was a very strong guy. I'm a very weak guy. "Now, cut
out the crap," he said. He started shaving himself all over again. He always shaved
himself twice, to look gorgeous. With his crumby old razor.
"Who is your date if it isn't Fitzgerald?" I asked him. I sat down on the washbowl
next to him again. "That Phyllis Smith babe?"
"No. It was supposed to he, but the arrangements got all screwed up. I got Bud
Thaw's girl's roommate now . . . Hey. I almost forgot. She knows you."
"Who does?" I said.
"My date."
"Yeah?" I said. "What's her name?" I was pretty interested.
"I'm thinking . . . Uh. Jean Gallagher."
Boy, I nearly dropped dead when he said that.
"Jane Gallagher," I said. I even got up from the washbowl when he said that. I
damn near dropped dead. "You're damn right I know her. She practically lived right next
door to me, the summer before last. She had this big damn Doberman pinscher. That's
how I met her. Her dog used to keep coming over in our--"
"You're right in my light, Holden, for Chrissake," Stradlater said. "Ya have to
stand right there?"
Boy, was I excited, though. I really was.
"Where is she?" I asked him. "I oughta go down and say hello to her or
something. Where is she? In the Annex?"
"Yeah."
"How'd she happen to mention me? Does she go to B.M. now? She said she might
go there. She said she might go to Shipley, too. I thought she went to Shipley. How'd she
happen to mention me?" I was pretty excited. I really was.
"I don't know, for Chrissake. Lift up, willya? You're on my towel," Stradlater
said. I was sitting on his stupid towel.
"Jane Gallagher," I said. I couldn't get over it. "Jesus H. Christ."
Old Stradlater was putting Vitalis on his hair. My Vitalis.
"She's a dancer," I said. "Ballet and all. She used to practice about two hours
every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all. She was worried that it might
make her legs lousy--all thick and all. I used to play checkers with her all the time."
"You used to play what with her all the time?"
"Checkers."
"Checkers, for Chrissake!"
"Yeah. She wouldn't move any of her kings. What she'd do, when she'd get a king,
she wouldn't move it. She'd just leave it in the back row. She'd get them all lined up in the
back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the way they looked when they were
all in the back row."
Stradlater didn't say anything. That kind of stuff doesn't interest most people.
"Her mother belonged to the same club we did," I said. "I used to caddy once in a
while, just to make some dough. I caddy'd for her mother a couple of times. She went
around in about a hundred and seventy, for nine holes."
Stradlater wasn't hardly listening. He was combing his gorgeous locks.
"I oughta go down and at least say hello to her," I said.
"Why don'tcha?"
"I will, in a minute."
He started parting his hair all over again. It took him about an hour to comb his
hair.
"Her mother and father were divorced. Her mother was married again to some
booze hound," I said. "Skinny guy with hairy legs. I remember him. He wore shorts all
the time. Jane said he was supposed to be a playwright or some goddam thing, but all I
ever saw him do was booze all the time and listen to every single goddam mystery
program on the radio. And run around the goddam house, naked. With Jane around, and
all."
"Yeah?" Stradlater said. That really interested him. About the booze hound
running around the house naked, with Jane around. Stradlater was a very sexy bastard.
"She had a lousy childhood. I'm not kidding."
That didn't interest Stradlater, though. Only very sexy stuff interested him.
"Jane Gallagher. Jesus . . . I couldn't get her off my mind. I really couldn't. "I
oughta go down and say hello to her, at least."
"Why the hell don'tcha, instead of keep saying it?" Stradlater said.
I walked over to the window, but you couldn't see out of it, it was so steamy from
all the heat in the can.. "I'm not in the mood right now," I said. I wasn't, either. You have
to be in the mood for those things. "I thought she went to Shipley. I could've sworn she
went to Shipley." I walked around the can for a little while. I didn't have anything else to