“Oh, God!” old Luce said. “Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conversation? I
want to know right now.”
“No,” I said, “but it isn’t nice anyway. If she was decent and nice enough to let
you–”
“Must we pursue this horrible trend of thought?”
I didn’t say anything. I was sort of afraid he’d get up and leave on me if I didn’t
shut up. So all I did was, I ordered another drink. I felt like getting stinking drunk.
“Who’re you going around with now?” I asked him. “You feel like telling me?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Yeah, but who? I might know her.”
“Girl lives in the Village. Sculptress. If you must know.”
“Yeah? No kidding? How old is she?”
“I’ve never asked her, for God’s sake.”
“Well, around how old?”
“I should imagine she’s in her late thirties,” old Luce said.
“In her late thirties? Yeah? You like that?” I asked him. “You like ’em that old?”
The reason I was asking was because he really knew quite a bit about sex and all. He was
one of the few guys I knew that did. He lost his virginity when he was only fourteen, in
Nantucket. He really did.
“I like a mature person, if that’s what you mean. Certainly.”
“You do? Why? No kidding, they better for sex and all?”
“Listen. Let’s get one thing straight. I refuse to answer any typical Caulfield
questions tonight. When in hell are you going to grow up?”
I didn’t say anything for a while. I let it drop for a while. Then old Luce ordered
another Martini and told the bartender to make it a lot dryer.
“Listen. How long you been going around with her, this sculpture babe?” I asked
him. I was really interested. “Did you know her when you were at Whooton?”
“Hardly. She just arrived in this country a few months ago.”
“She did? Where’s she from?”
“She happens to be from Shanghai.”
“No kidding! She Chinese, for Chrissake?”
“Obviously.”
“No kidding! Do you like that? Her being Chinese?”
“Obviously.”
“Why? I’d be interested to know–I really would.”
“I simply happen to find Eastern philosophy more satisfactory than Western.
Since you ask.”
“You do? Wuddaya mean ‘philosophy’? Ya mean sex and all? You mean it’s better
in China? That what you mean?”
“Not necessarily in China, for God’s sake. The East I said. Must we go on with
this inane conversation?”
“Listen, I’m serious,” I said. “No kidding. Why’s it better in the East?”
“It’s too involved to go into, for God’s sake,” old Luce said. “They simply happen
to regard sex as both a physical and a spiritual experience. If you think I’m–“
“So do I! So do I regard it as a wuddayacallit–a physical and spiritual experience
and all. I really do. But it depends on who the hell I’m doing it with. If I’m doing it with
somebody I don’t even–”
“Not so loud, for God’s sake, Caulfield. If you can’t manage to keep your voice
down, let’s drop the whole–”
“All right, but listen,” I said. I was getting excited and I was talking a little too
loud. Sometimes I talk a little loud when I get excited. “This is what I mean, though,” I
said. “I know it’s supposed to be physical and spiritual, and artistic and all. But what I
mean is, you can’t do it with everybody–every girl you neck with and all–and make it
come out that way. Can you?”
“Let’s drop it,” old Luce said. “Do you mind?”
“All right, but listen. Take you and this Chinese babe. What’s so good about you
two?”
“Drop it, I said.”
I was getting a little too personal. I realize that. But that was one of the annoying
things about Luce. When we were at Whooton, he’d make you describe the most personal
stuff that happened to you, but if you started asking him questions about himself, he got
sore. These intellectual guys don’t like to have an intellectual conversation with you
unless they’re running the whole thing. They always want you to shut up when they shut
up, and go back to your room when they go back to their room. When I was at Whooton
old Luce used to hate it–you really could tell he did–when after he was finished giving
his sex talk to a bunch of us in his room we stuck around and chewed the fat by ourselves
for a while. I mean the other guys and myself. In somebody else’s room. Old Luce hated
that. He always wanted everybody to go back to their own room and shut up when he was
finished being the big shot. The thing he was afraid of, he was afraid somebody’d say
something smarter than he had. He really amused me.
“Maybe I’ll go to China. My sex life is lousy,” I said.
“Naturally. Your mind is immature.”
“It is. It really is. I know it,” I said. “You know what the trouble with me is? I can
never get really sexy–I mean really sexy–with a girl I don’t like a lot. I mean I have to
like her a lot. If I don’t, I sort of lose my goddam desire for her and all. Boy, it really
screws up my sex life something awful. My sex life stinks.”
“Naturally it does, for God’s sake. I told you the last time I saw you what you
need.”
“You mean to go to a psychoanalyst and all?” I said. That’s what he’d told me I
ought to do. His father was a psychoanalyst and all.
“It’s up to you, for God’s sake. It’s none of my goddam business what you do with
your life.”
I didn’t say anything for a while. I was thinking.
“Supposing I went to your father and had him psychoanalyze me and all,” I said.
“What would he do to me? I mean what would he do to me?”
“He wouldn’t do a goddam thing to you. He’d simply talk to you, and you’d talk to
him, for God’s sake. For one thing, he’d help you to recognize the patterns of your mind.”
“The what?”
“The patterns of your mind. Your mind runs in– Listen. I’m not giving an
elementary course in psychoanalysis. If you’re interested, call him up and make an
appointment. If you’re not, don’t. I couldn’t care less, frankly.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. Boy, he amused me. “You’re a real friendly
bastard,” I told him. “You know that?”
He was looking at his wrist watch. “I have to tear,” he said, and stood up. “Nice
seeing you.” He got the bartender and told him to bring him his check.
“Hey,” I said, just before he beat it. “Did your father ever psychoanalyze you?”
“Me? Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Did he, though? Has he?”
“Not exactly. He’s helped me to adjust myself to a certain extent, but an extensive
analysis hasn’t been necessary. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I was just wondering.”
“Well. Take it easy,” he said. He was leaving his tip and all and he was starting to
go.
“Have just one more drink,” I told him. “Please. I’m lonesome as hell. No
kidding.”
He said he couldn’t do it, though. He said he was late now, and then he left.
Old Luce. He was strictly a pain in the ass, but he certainly had a good
vocabulary. He had the largest vocabulary of any boy at Whooton when I was there. They
gave us a test. I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine to come out
and do their stuff, but they weren’t there. A flitty-looking guy with wavy hair came out
and played the piano, and then this new babe, Valencia, came out and sang. She wasn’t
any good, but she was better than old Tina and Janine, and at least she sang good songs.
The piano was right next to the bar where I was sitting and all, and old Valencia was
standing practically right next to me. I sort of gave her the old eye, but she pretended she
didn’t even see me. I probably wouldn’t have done it, but I was getting drunk as hell.
When she was finished, she beat it out of the room so fast I didn’t even get a chance to
invite her to join me for a drink, so I called the headwaiter over. I told him to ask old
Valencia if she’d care to join me for a drink. He said he would, but he probably didn’t
even give her my message. People never give your message to anybody.
Boy, I sat at that goddam bar till around one o’clock or so, getting drunk as a
bastard. I could hardly see straight. The one thing I did, though, I was careful as hell not
to get boisterous or anything. I didn’t want anybody to notice me or anything or ask how
old I was. But, boy, I could hardly see straight. When I was really drunk, I started that
stupid business with the bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a
bullet in their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to
keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn’t want anybody to know I was
even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded sonuvabitch. Finally what
I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz and see if she was home yet. So I paid my
check and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping
my hand under my jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk.
But when I got inside this phone booth, I wasn’t much in the mood any more to
give old Jane a buzz. I was too drunk, I guess. So what I did, I gave old Sally Hayes a
buzz.
I had to dial about twenty numbers before I got the right one. Boy, was I blind.
“Hello,” I said when somebody answered the goddam phone. I sort of yelled it, I
was so drunk.
“Who is this?” this very cold lady’s voice said.
“This is me. Holden Caulfield. Lemme speaka Sally, please.”
“Sally’s asleep. This is Sally’s grandmother. Why are you calling at this hour,
Holden? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah. Wanna talka Sally. Very important. Put her on.”
“Sally’s asleep, young man. Call her tomorrow. Good night.”
“Wake ‘er up! Wake ‘er up, hey. Attaboy.”
Then there was a different voice. “Holden, this is me.” It was old Sally. “What’s
the big idea?”
“Sally? That you?”
“Yes–stop screaming. Are you drunk?”
“Yeah. Listen. Listen, hey. I’ll come over Christmas Eve. Okay? Trimma goddarn
tree for ya. Okay? Okay, hey, Sally?”
“Yes. You’re drunk. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who’s with you?”
“Sally? I’ll come over and trimma tree for ya, okay? Okay, hey?”
“Yes. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who’s with you?”
“Nobody. Me, myself and I.” Boy was I drunk! I was even still holding onto my
guts. “They got me. Rocky’s mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know that?”
“I can’t hear you. Go to bed now. I have to go. Call me tomorrow.”
“Hey, Sally! You want me trimma tree for ya? Ya want me to? Huh?”
“Yes. Good night. Go home and go to bed.”
She hung up on me.
“G’night. G’night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart darling,” I said. Can you imagine
how drunk I was? I hung up too, then. I figured she probably just came home from a date.
I pictured her out with the Lunts and all somewhere, and that Andover jerk. All of them
swimming around in a goddam pot of tea and saying sophisticated stuff to each other and
being charming and phony. I wished to God I hadn’t even phoned her. When I’m drunk,
I’m a madman.
I stayed in the damn phone booth for quite a while. I kept holding onto the phone,
sort of, so I wouldn’t pass out. I wasn’t feeling too marvelous, to tell you the truth.
Finally, though, I came out and went in the men’s room, staggering around like a moron,
and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. Then I dunked my head in it, right up to
the ears. I didn’t even bother to dry it or anything. I just let the sonuvabitch drip. Then I
walked over to this radiator by the window and sat down on it. It was nice and warm. It
felt good because I was shivering like a bastard. It’s a funny thing, I always shiver like
hell when I’m drunk.
I didn’t have anything else to do, so I kept sitting on the radiator and counting
these little white squares on the floor. I was getting soaked. About a gallon of water was
dripping down my neck, getting all over my collar and tie and all, but I didn’t give a
damn. I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty soon, the guy that played the piano
for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitty-looking guy, came in to comb his golden
locks. We sort of struck up a conversation while he was combing it, except that he wasn’t
too goddam friendly.
“Hey. You gonna see that Valencia babe when you go back in the bar?” I asked
him.
“It’s highly probable,” he said. Witty bastard. All I ever meet is witty bastards.
“Listen. Give her my compliments. Ask her if that goddam waiter gave her my
message, willya?”
“Why don’t you go home, Mac? How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighty-six. Listen. Give her my compliments. Okay?”
“Why don’t you go home, Mac?”
“Not me. Boy, you can play that goddam piano.” I told him. I was just flattering
him. He played the piano stinking, if you want to know the truth. “You oughta go on the
radio,” I said. “Handsome chap like you. All those goddam golden locks. Ya need a
manager?”
“Go home, Mac, like a good guy. Go home and hit the sack.”
“No home to go to. No kidding–you need a manager?”
He didn’t answer me. He just went out. He was all through combing his hair and
patting it and all, so he left. Like Stradlater. All these handsome guys are the same. When
they’re done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on you.
When I finally got down off the radiator and went out to the hat-check room, I
was crying and all. I don’t know why, but I was. I guess it was because I was feeling so
damn depressed and lonesome. Then, when I went out to the checkroom, I couldn’t find
my goddam check. The hat-check girl was very nice about it, though. She gave me my
coat anyway. And my “Little Shirley Beans” record–I still had it with me and all. I gave
her a buck for being so nice, but she wouldn’t take it. She kept telling me to go home and
go to bed. I sort of tried to make a date with her for when she got through working, but
she wouldn’t do it. She said she was old enough to be my mother and all. I showed her
my goddam gray hair and told her I was forty-two–I was only horsing around, naturally.
She was nice, though. I showed her my goddam red hunting hat, and she liked it. She
made me put it on before I went out, because my hair was still pretty wet. She was all
right.
I didn’t feel too drunk any more when I went outside, but it was getting very cold
out again, and my teeth started chattering like hell. I couldn’t make them stop. I walked
over to Madison Avenue and started to wait around for a bus because I didn’t have hardly
any money left and I had to start economizing on cabs and all. But I didn’t feel like
getting on a damn bus. And besides, I didn’t even know where I was supposed to go. So
what I did, I started walking over to the park. I figured I’d go by that little lake and see
what the hell the ducks were doing, see if they were around or not, I still didn’t know if
they were around or not. It wasn’t far over to the park, and I didn’t have anyplace else
special to go to–I didn’t even know where I was going to sleep yet–so I went. I wasn’t
tired or anything. I just felt blue as hell.
Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped old Phoebe’s
record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope and all, but it broke
anyway. I damn near cried, it made me feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces
out of the envelope and put them in my coat pocket. They weren’t any good for anything,
but I didn’t feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was it dark.
I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like the back of my
hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and ride my bike when I was a kid,
but I had the most terrific trouble finding that lagoon that night. I knew right where it
was–it was right near Central Park South and all–but I still couldn’t find it. I must’ve
been drunker than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting darker and
darker and spookier and spookier. I didn’t see one person the whole time I was in the
park. I’m just as glad. I probably would’ve jumped about a mile if I had. Then, finally, I
found it. What it was, it was partly frozen and partly not frozen. But I didn’t see any
ducks around. I walked all around the whole damn lake–I damn near fell in once, in fact-
-but I didn’t see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, they might be
asleep or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and all. That’s how I nearly
fell in. But I couldn’t find any.
Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn’t so goddam dark. Boy, I was still
shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on,
was sort of full of little hunks of ice. That worried me. I thought probably I’d get
pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My
grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you ride
on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts–I have about fifty aunts–and all my lousy
cousins. What a mob’d be there. They all came when Allie died, the whole goddam stupid
bunch of them. I have this one stupid aunt with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he
looked lying there, D.B. told me. I wasn’t there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to
the hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was getting
pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry
as hell for my mother and father. Especially my mother, because she still isn’t over my
brother Allie yet. I kept picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and
athletic equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn’t let old Phoebe come
to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the only good part.
Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all,
with my name on this tombstone and all. Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you’re
dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to
just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam
cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and
all that crap. Who wants flowers when you’re dead? Nobody.
When the weather’s nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of
flowers on old Allie’s grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the
first place, I certainly don’t enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead
guys and tombstones and all. It wasn’t too bad when the sun was out, but twice–twice–
we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and
it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were
visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That’s what nearly drove
me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then
go someplace nice for dinner–everybody except Allie. I couldn’t stand it. I know it’s only
his body and all that’s in the cemetery, and his soul’s in Heaven and all that crap, but I
couldn’t stand it anyway. I just wish he wasn’t there. You didn’t know him. If you’d
known him, you’d know what I mean. It’s not too bad when the sun’s out, but the sun only
comes out when it feels like coming out.
After a while, just to get my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I took out my
dough and tried to count it in the lousy light from the street lamp. All I had was three
singles and five quarters and a nickel left–boy, I spent a fortune since I left Pencey. Then
what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sort of skipped the quarters and the nickel
across it, where it wasn’t frozen. I don’t know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought
it’d take my mind off getting pneumonia and dying. It didn’t, though.
I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died. It was a
childish way to think, but I couldn’t stop myself. She’d feel pretty bad if something like
that happened. She likes me a lot. I mean she’s quite fond of me. She really is. Anyway, I
couldn’t get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I’d do, I figured I’d better sneak
home and see her, in case I died and all. I had my door key with me and all, and I figured
what I’d do, I’d sneak in the apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat
with her for a while. The only thing that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a
bastard. It’s a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent’s a lazy bastard, and
everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might hear me sneaking in. But I
decided I’d try it anyhow.
So I got the hell out of the park, and went home. I walked all the way. It wasn’t
too far, and I wasn’t tired or even drunk any more. It was just very cold and nobody
around anywhere.