The Catcher in the Rye Page 3

  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 you 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 bru
shed 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, that’s 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 to 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 themself, 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 goddam 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 on 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.