The Catcher in the Rye

by Jerome David Salinger

  Old Horwitz turned around again. “What the hellaya mean what do they do?” he yelled at me. “They stay right where they are, for Chrissake.”

  “They can’t just ignore the ice. They can’t just ignore it.”

  “Who’s ignoring it? Nobody’s ignoring it!” Horwitz said. He got so damn excited and all, I was afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something. “They live right in the goddam ice. It’s their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right in one position for the whole winter.”

  “Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean if they’re frozen solid, they can’t swim around looking for food and all.”

  “Their bodies, for Chrissake—what’sa matter with ya? Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that’s in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That’s their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?” He turned way the hell around again to look at me.

  “Oh,” I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going to crack the damn taxi up or something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn’t any pleasure discussing anything with him. “Would you care to stop off and have a drink with me somewhere?” I said.

  He didn’t answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all.

  “I ain’t got no time for no liquor, bud,” he said. “How the hell old are you, anyways? Why ain’tcha home in bed?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  When I got out in front of Ernie’s and paid the fare, old Horwitz brought up the fish again. He certainly had it on his mind. “Listen,” he said. “If you was a fish, Mother Nature’d take care of you, wouldn’t she? Right? You don’t think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?”

  “No, but—”

  “You’re goddam right they don’t,” Horwitz said, and drove off like a bat out of hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever met. Everything you said made him sore.

  Even though it was so late, old Ernie’s was jampacked. Mostly with prep school jerks and college jerks. Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for Christmas vacation than the schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God’s sake, when he sat down at the piano. Nobody’s that good. About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his face while he played. You couldn’t see his fingers while he played—just his big old face. Big deal. I’m not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should’ve heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would’ve puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn’t funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I’d hate it. I wouldn’t even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I’d play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano player. It was very phony—I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don’t even think he knows any more when he’s playing right or not. It isn’t all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes that clap their heads off—they’d foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance. Anyway, it made me feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back and went back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn’t feel much like being all alone.

  They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall and behind a goddam post, where you couldn’t see anything. It was one of those tiny little tables that if the people at the next table don’t get up to let you by—and they never do, the bastards—you practically have to climb into your chair. I ordered a Scotch and soda, which is my favorite drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. If you were only around six years old, you could get liquor at Ernie’s, the place was so dark and all, and besides, nobody cared how old you were. You could even be a dope fiend and nobody’d care.

  I was surrounded by jerks. I’m not kidding. At this other tiny table, right to my left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy and this funny-looking girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little older. It was funny. You could see they were being careful as hell not to drink up the minimum too fast. I listened to their conversation for a while, because I didn’t have anything else to do. He was telling her about some pro football game he’d seen that afternoon. He gave her every single goddam play in the whole game—I’m not kidding. He was the most boring guy I ever listened to. And you could tell his date wasn’t even interested in the goddam game, but she was even funnier-looking than he was, so I guess she had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them sometimes. Sometimes I can’t even look at them, especially if they’re with some dopey guy that’s telling them all about a goddam football game. On my right, the conversation was even worse, though. On my right there was this very Joe Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those flitty-looking Tattersall vests. All those Ivy League bastards look alike. My father wants me to go to Yale, or maybe Princeton, but I swear, I wouldn’t go to one of those Ivy League colleges, if I was dying, for God’s sake. Anyway, this Joe Yale-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with him. Boy, she was good-looking. But you should’ve heard the conversation they were having. In the first place, they were both slightly crocked. What he was doing, he was giving her a feel under the table, and at the same time telling her all about some guy in his dorm that had eaten a whole bottle of aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying to him, “How horrible… Don’t, darling. Please, don’t. Not here.” Imagine giving somebody a feel and telling them about a guy committing suicide at the same time! They killed me.

  I certainly began to feel like a prize horse’s ass, though, sitting there all by myself. There wasn’t anything to do except smoke and drink. What I did do, though, I told the waiter to ask old Ernie if he’d care to join me for a drink. I told him to tell him I was D.B.’s brother. I don’t think he ever even gave him my message, though. Those bastards never give your message to anybody.

  All of a sudden, this girl came up to me and said, “Holden Caulfield!” Her name was Lillian Simmons. My brother D.B. used to go around with her for a while. She had very big knockers.

  “Hi,” I said. I tried to get up, naturally, but it was some job getting up, in a place like that. She had some Navy officer with her that looked like he had a poker up his ass.

  “How marvelous to see you!” old Lillian Simmons said. Strictly a phony. “How’s your big brother?” That’s all she really wanted to know.

  “He’s fine. He’s in Hollywood.”

  “In Hollywood! How marvelous! What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know. Writing,” I said. I didn’t feel like discussing it. You could tell she thought it was a big deal, his being in Hollywood. Almost everybody does. Mostly people who’ve never read any of his stories. It drives me crazy, though.

  “How exciting,” old Lillian said. Then she introduced me to the Navy guy. His name was Commander Blop or something. He was one of those guys that think they’re being a pansy if they don’t break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you. God, I hate that stuff. “Are you all alone, baby?” old Lillian asked me. She was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tel
l she liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move out of the way, but she didn’t even notice him. It was funny. You could tell the waiter didn’t like her much, you could tell even the Navy guy didn’t like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn’t like her much. Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way. “Don’t you have a date, baby?” she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn’t even tell me to sit down. She was the type that keeps you standing up for hours. “Isn’t he handsome?” she said to the Navy guy. “Holden, you’re getting handsomer by the minute.” The Navy guy told her to come on. He told her they were blocking up the whole aisle. “Holden, come join us,” old Lillian said. “Bring your drink.”

  “I was just leaving,” I told her. “I have to meet somebody.” You could tell she was just trying to get in good with me. So that I’d tell old D.B. about it.

  “Well, you little so-and-so. All right for you. Tell your big brother I hate him, when you see him.”

  Then she left. The Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to’ve met each other. Which always kills me. I’m always saying “Glad to’ve met you” to somebody I’m not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

  After I’d told her I had to meet somebody, I didn’t have any goddam choice except to leave. I couldn’t even stick around to hear old Ernie play something halfway decent. But I certainly wasn’t going to sit down at a table with old Lillian Simmons and that Navy guy and be bored to death. So I left. It made me mad, though, when I was getting my coat. People are always ruining things for you.

  13

  I walked all the way back to the hotel. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. I didn’t do it because I felt like walking or anything. It was more because I didn’t feel like getting in and out of another taxicab. Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up. When I was a kid, I used to walk all the way up to our apartment very frequently. Twelve stories.

  You wouldn’t even have known it had snowed at all. There was hardly any snow on the sidewalks. But it was freezing cold, and I took my red hunting hat out of my pocket and put it on—I didn’t give a damn how I looked. I even put the earlaps down. I wished I knew who’d swiped my gloves at Pencey, because my hands were freezing. Not that I’d have done much about it even if I had known. I’m one of these very yellow guys. I try not to show it, but I am. For instance, if I’d found out at Pencey who’d stolen my gloves, I probably would’ve gone down to the crook’s room and said, “Okay. How ’bout handing over those gloves?” Then the crook that had stolen them probably would’ve said, his voice very innocent and all, “What gloves?” Then what I probably would’ve done, I’d have gone in his closet and found the gloves somewhere. Hidden in his goddam galoshes or something, for instance. I’d have taken them out and showed them to the guy and said, “I suppose these are your goddam gloves?” Then the crook probably would’ve given me this very phony, innocent look, and said, “I never saw those gloves before in my life. If they’re yours, take ’em. I don’t want the goddam things.” Then I probably would’ve just stood there for about five minutes. I’d have the damn gloves right in my hand and all, but I’d feel I ought to sock the guy in the jaw or something—break his goddam jaw. Only, I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. I’d just stand there, trying to look tough. What I might do, I might say something very cutting and snotty, to rile him up—instead of socking him in the jaw. Anyway if I did say something very cutting and snotty, he’d probably get up and come over to me and say, “Listen, Caulfield. Are you calling me a crook?” Then, instead of saying, “You’re goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!” all I probably would’ve said would be, “All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshes.” Right away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn’t going to take a sock at him, and he probably would’ve said, “Listen. Let’s get this straight. Are you calling me a thief?” Then I probably would’ve said, “Nobody’s calling anybody a thief. All I know is my gloves were in your goddam galoshes.” It could go on like that for hours. Finally, though, I’d leave his room without even taking a sock at him. I’d probably go down to the can and sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror. Anyway, that’s what I thought about the whole way back to the hotel. It’s no fun to be yellow. Maybe I’m not all yellow. I don’t know. I think maybe I’m just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn’t give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something—it used to drive my mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I’d care too much. Maybe that’s why I’m partly yellow. It’s no excuse, though. It really isn’t. What you should be is not yellow at all. If you’re supposed to sock somebody in the jaw, and you sort of feel like doing it, you should do it. I’m just no good at it, though. I’d rather push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock him in the jaw. I hate fist fights. I don’t mind getting hit so much—although I’m not crazy about it, naturally—but what scares me most in a fist fight is the guy’s face. I can’t stand looking at the other guy’s face, is my trouble. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could both be blindfolded or something. It’s a funny kind of yellowness, when you come to think of it, but it’s yellowness, all right. I’m not kidding myself.

  The more I thought about my gloves and my yellowness, the more depressed I got, and I decided, while I was walking and all, to stop off and have a drink somewhere. I’d only had three drinks at Ernie’s, and I didn’t even finish the last one. One thing I have, it’s a terrific capacity. I can drink all night and not even show it, if I’m in the mood. Once, at the Whooton School, this other boy, Raymond Goldfarb, and I bought a pint of Scotch and drank it in the chapel one Saturday night, where nobody’d see us. He got stinking, but I hardly didn’t even show it. I just got very cool and nonchalant. I puked before I went to bed, but I didn’t really have to—I forced myself.

  Anyway, before I got to the hotel, I started to go in this dumpy-looking bar, but two guys came out, drunk as hell, and wanted to know where the subway was. One of them was this very Cuban-looking guy, and he kept breathing his stinking breath in my face while I gave him directions. I ended up not even going in the damn bar. I just went back to the hotel.

  The whole lobby was empty. It smelled like fifty million dead cigars. It really did. I wasn’t sleepy or anything, but I was feeling sort of lousy. Depressed and all. I almost wished I was dead.

  Then, all of a sudden, I got in this big mess.

  The first thing when I got in the elevator, the elevator guy said to me, “Innarested in having a good time, fella? Or is it too late for you?”

  “How do you mean?” I said. I didn’t know what he was driving at or anything.

  “Innarested in a little tail t’night?”

  “Me?” I said. Which was a very dumb answer, but it’s quite embarrassing when somebody comes right up and asks you a question like that.

  “How old are you, chief?” the elevator guy said.

  “Why?” I said. “Twenty-two.”

  “Uh huh. Well, how ’bout it? Y’innarested? Five bucks a throw. Fifteen bucks the whole night.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Till noon. Five bucks a throw, fifteen bucks till noon.”

  “Okay,” I said. It was against my principles and all, but I was feeling so depressed I didn’t even think. That’s the whole trouble. When you’re feeling very depressed, you can’t even think.

  “Okay what? A throw, or till noon? I gotta know.”

  “Just a throw.”

  “Okay, what room ya in?”

  I looked at the red thing with my number on it, on my key. “Twelve twenty-two,” I said. I was already sort of sorry I’d let the thing start rolling, but it was too late now.

  “Okay. I’ll send a g
irl up in about fifteen minutes.” He opened the doors and I got out.

  “Hey, is she good-looking?” I asked him. “I don’t want any old bag.”

  “No old bag. Don’t worry about it, chief.”

  “Who do I pay?”

  “Her,” he said. “Let’s go, chief.” He shut the doors, practically right in my face.

  I went to my room and put some water on my hair, but you can’t really comb a crew cut or anything. Then I tested to see if my breath stank from so many cigarettes and the Scotch and sodas I drank at Ernie’s. All you do is hold your hand under your mouth and blow your breath up toward the old nostrils. It didn’t seem to stink much, but I brushed my teeth anyway. Then I put on another clean shirt. I knew I didn’t have to get all dolled up for a prostitute or anything, but it sort of gave me something to do. I was a little nervous. I was starting to feel pretty sexy and all, but I was a little nervous anyway. If you want to know the truth, I’m a virgin. I really am. I’ve had quite a few opportunities to lose my virginity and all, but I’ve never got around to it yet. Something always happens. For instance, if you’re at a girl’s house, her parents always come home at the wrong time—or you’re afraid they will. Or if you’re in the back seat of somebody’s car, there’s always somebody’s date in the front seat—some girl, I mean—that always wants to know what’s going on all over the whole goddam car. I mean some girl in front keeps turning around to see what the hell’s going on. Anyway, something always happens. I came quite close to doing it a couple of times, though. One time in particular, I remember. Something went wrong, though —I don’t even remember what any more. The thing is, most of the time when you’re coming pretty close to doing it with a girl—a girl that isn’t a prostitute or anything, I mean—she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Most guys don’t. I can’t help it. You never know whether they really want you to stop, or whether they’re just scared as hell, or whether they’re just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame’ll be on you, not them. Anyway, I keep stopping. The trouble is, I get to feeling sorry for them. I mean most girls are so dumb and all. After you neck them for a while, you can really watch them losing their brains. You take a girl when she really gets passionate, she just hasn’t any brains. I don’t know. They tell me to stop, so I stop. I always wish I hadn’t, after I take them home, but I keep doing it anyway.