マイケル・グリーン（Michael Green）

東京地検の頂点に君臨し
小沢一郎への攻撃を仕掛けた人物

、

オルタがネタにしそうな話しだよなー。

CSIS日本部長様だからね。髭ダルマ情報タレコミきぼｎ

マイケル・シファーも忘れずに

本来、正義である筈の検察や警察等の組織が
どれ程米国のＣＩＡによって傀儡・奴隷にされてるか
今回の出来事ではっきりしましたね。

悪のＣＩＡのスパイ

グリーンだﾖ

全員集合ｗ

副島氏が名指ししてた人だっけ。

しょっちゅう目にする名前だ。胸に輝く星条旗な健全なるアメリカン・ヒーロー風の
名前で、CSISなのは見落としてたよ。

日本にいる悪の枢軸　　

　　　ＣＩＡの干渉を民主党はもっとＴＶでしゃべれ！

与党ならば　グリーンを国外追放にしろ！

もっとＣＩＡの悪事を国民に伝えろ！
マスコミがいくらアメリカ寄りだろうが、生放送でどんどん喋ればいいことだ！

　　　　　　☆ ﾁﾝ　　　　　ﾏﾁｸﾀﾋﾞﾚﾀ〜
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ﾏﾁｸﾀﾋﾞﾚﾀ〜
　　 　 　 ☆　ﾁﾝ　　〃　 ∧＿∧　　　／￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣
　 　 　 　　ヽ　＿＿_＼（・∀・）　＜　清和会関係の逮捕まだ〜？
　 　 　 　 　 　 ＼＿／⊂　⊂＿ )　　 ＼＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿
　 　 　 　 　 ／￣￣￣￣￣￣ ／|
　　　　　　　|￣￣￣￣￣￣￣|　 |
　　　　　　　|　　愛媛みかん　|／

ごろつき！

リー・ハーヴェイ・オズワルドと同じ

ケネディ殺した奴と一緒かよｗｗ

アメリカの貴族委員会＞軍産複合体＞アンリかＣＩＡ＞経団連

敵を分裂させ、敵の無防備を攻める。
敵を分裂させ、敵の無防備を攻める。
敵を分裂させ、敵の無防備を攻める。
敵を分裂させ、敵の無防備を攻める。

公務員・官僚・役人
選挙で選ばれたわけでもない
記憶力重視・暗記問題を問われたペーパーテストに合格しただけの
検察が日本を操つるのは許されないだろ
彼らは、責任を負わない立場なのだから
小沢は選挙で責任を負う
検察は身分が保障されてる
小沢一郎にダメ出しできるのは有権者の国民なんだよ
小沢が違法行為して国益を損なってると判断したら
選挙で民意を問い責任を負うことになる
検察の横暴を許したら民主主義じゃない
国民は自民党を選挙で裁いたのだから
現政権の亀井大臣に従って
かつての与党・自民党(清和会・小泉竹中のインサイダー)を捜査すべきなんだよ
選挙で民意として自民党をダメ出ししたのだから

>>19
難しい事ではない。
自分が悪徳独裁権力の側に立ったら自分がその立場でどうするか？と
言う事を考えれば良く分かるさ。

http://csis.org/expert/michael-j-green

http://csis.org/files/imagecache/100w-scale/media/csis/experts/5green.jpg

マイケル・J・グリーン
2005 年12 月、CSIS 上級顧問兼ジャパン・チェアー、及びジョージタウン大学国際関係学部准教授に就任。
国家安全保障会議（NSC）上級アジア部長兼アジア担当大統領特別補佐官
（2004 年1 月−2005 年12 月）、同アジア部長（日本・朝鮮半島・オーストラリア・ニュー
ジランド担当、2001 年4 月−2003 年12 月）を歴任。
外交問題評議会では、アジア安全保障担当上級研究員（1997 年−2000 年）として、
韓国問題に関するタスク・フォースや日本及びアジア安全保障政策に関する
スタディ・グループを指揮。また、国防総省アジア太平洋問題オフィスの上級顧問、同コンサルタント（1997 年−2000 年）、
防衛分析研究所（IDA）研究員（1995 年−1997 年）、ジョンズ・ホプキンス大学高等国際問題研究大学院（SAIS）
助教授、同講師（1994 年−2001 年）、同外交政策研究所アソシエイト・エグゼクティブ・
ディレクター（1992 年−1994 年）、同ライシャワーセンター所長代理（1999 年−2000 年）
を歴任。
5 年間日本に滞在、日本語に堪能。日本滞在中に、国会議員秘書を始め、
日系及び米国系新聞のジャーナリスト、米国企業向けのコンサルタントを経験。
『Japan’s Reluctant Realism』（Palgrave/St. Martin’s, 2001 年）、
『The U.S.-Japan Alliance』(Council on Foreign Relations, 1999)、
『Arming Japan』 (Columbia University Press, 1995)など、著書多数。
1983年、ケニヨン大学史学部を最優等で卒業。ジョンズ・ホプキンス大学SAIS にて、
1987年に国際関係論修士号、1994 年に同博士号を取得。フルブライト奨学生として
東京大学大学院、またマサチューセッツ工科大学（MIT）日本プログラムの研究員として
同大学院にて学ぶ。外交問題評議会、英国国際戦略研究所、アスペン研究所
ストラテジー・グループのメンバー、日米友好基金副委員長、新米国安全保障
センター（CNAS）及び米豪リーダーシップ・ダイアローグの顧問を務める。

子鼠馬鹿息子の教育係

子ネズミかｗ

秘伝奥義とか伝授したのかな？

http://www.defense.gov/bios/biographydetail.aspx?biographyid=207
マイケル・シファー
Michael Schiffer

小澤はロックフェラーの手先だよ。
なんでこんな、むちゃくちゃなスレ立てるんだ？

マイケルは両方ともジョージタウン大学だね

小泉進痔郎
森幽鬼
河野太郎
もジョージタウン大学の関係者だね
最近の対日工作拠点はここなの？

also managed a bed and breakfast inn in Hawaii.
なんか違うんじゃね？

　　　　　　☆ ﾁﾝ　　　　　ﾏﾁｸﾀﾋﾞﾚﾀ〜
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ﾏﾁｸﾀﾋﾞﾚﾀ〜
　　 　 　 ☆　ﾁﾝ　　〃　 ∧＿∧　　　／￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣
　 　 　 　　ヽ　＿＿_＼（・∀・）　＜　ＣＩＡ付属検察の粛清人事まだ〜？
　 　 　 　 　 　 ＼＿／⊂　⊂＿ )　　 ＼＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿
　 　 　 　 　 ／￣￣￣￣￣￣ ／|
　　　　　　　|￣￣￣￣￣￣￣|　 |
　　　　　　　|　　愛媛みかん　|／

こいつって、以前から小沢に粘着してたんだな

マイケル・グリーン（米戦略国際問題研究所日本部長）が10月29日「ウールストリート・ジャーナル」（WSJ）に「東京の撤退」（Tokyo Retreat）と題し、テロ特指法に対する小沢民主党代表の議論や姿勢を批判している。

　グリーン氏は、小沢代表の見解は、「国際的に全く理解されていない」。
http://tamtam.livedoor.biz/archives/50761327.html

http://www.japantoday.com/category/national/view/japanese-troops-arrive-in-haiti-to-support-post-quake-reconstruction#show_all_comments

これが在日アメリカ人の正体
日本に対する罵倒ばかり

天皇陛下万歳！！大日本国万歳！！

テロとの闘いなんて自作自演だと子供でもわかるのだから
小沢を非難するのもちょっと無理があるんでないの？
ぐりんちゃん

山内よ福井から国政に立候補しろよ。そろそろ時期だ。
スケールの違いを見せつけろ。付き合う勝ちあるのは私欲が薄い舟橋家の
貴之さんぐらいだな。福井人全員を背負って見せろ。友人　細川秀邦より。
縁があれば山一同期の松平を紹介したい。（いちおう定信の末裔）
こずるい政治家などなるな。現在の所在地　富山県射水市　ほんりゅう寺　母と同居中
一応法華宗の寺で本山は信長が死んだ本能寺。正直仏道は２０まで約十年励んだが興味なし。

グリーンだﾖ

征倭会

降伏の科学

>>40
東大法学部の人が宗教的な境地に目覚めて
自分を大霊とか名乗って布教してるんだよな。
鬼に金棒って奴かな？

>>39
シーファーとグリーンで「ダブル・マイケル」とかってコンビ
組ませて漫才仕込んだら面白そうだな。何となくだが。

アメリカ人と見たらテロリストと思った方が良い。

俺は「良いアメリカ人」と「悪いアメリカ人」だなんてヌルい区別をする程オメデタいヴァカじゃねえぞ。

アメリカ人に知り合いなんかいねえぜ。

俺は自由だ！

シファーは違うだろ

んまぁ、副島教授ＧＪって所だな。

基軸通貨が刷り放題っておかしいだろwww
アンフェアすぐるwww

http://www.asyura2.com/10/senkyo79/msg/352.html

■イスラエル：国の後ろ盾で行われた暗殺の歴史
（Israel's history of state-sponsored assassination）

　▼以下より関連記事をご覧ください
　　『イスラエルの暗殺の歴史』
　　　http://blog.livedoor.jp/abu_mustafa/archives/2249420.html
　　　[中東の窓]

>>48
ごもっとも！！

知能の高さでみた人類


シロ　　＞＞　　イエロー　　　＞＞　　クロ


　　　　　　　　科学的根拠あり

>>52
優生学ってのはナルシストな白人が粋がってでっち上げた妄想だからな。
例え部分だけ在ってる所が在っても、調子に乗るのが過ぎて自滅して
破綻する運命だよ。

>>53
新自由主義は世界の潮流だが。

>>52
んじゃ根拠だせ

グリーンって　こいつもユダヤ？

かもね

オレだったら小沢なんてほっといて
地検にニイウスの粉飾事件を追わせるね
架空循環取引に関わった３０社とI社とN社を槍玉にあげて
金融機関の情報システムに打撃を与え
その隙にクラウドにして掻っ攫うけどなぁ

ぐりんちゃん

珍痔瘻が元気がないというか、ややこわばったような雰囲気だった。
何かあったんだろうか？

グリーンだﾖ

小鼠珍痔瘻は自分の一族が笹川や中曽根のように
公文書公開されるのを恐れてるのさ

　　　 _ 　∩
　　(　ﾟ∀ﾟ)彡　green逮捕!
　　(　 ⊂彡
　 　|　　　|　
　 　し ⌒Ｊ

　そ　君　 （__　　　　　　　　 　┌―‐―┐　　　　　）　き
　ん　！　　(_　　　　 　 　 　 　 |`l TT了|　　　　　 ｝　 ゃ
　な　　　　 (_　　　　　　　　　　 j .| .|:| .l |　　　　　 /　 あ
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　こ　 た　 （　　,,-''"　　　　　　"'‐､ |! |　／　　 　　/　！
　う　 ま　　.／　,,. .ノ''ﾉ "''ノ"''ノ,,.. ヽ　/..:::::＼≧,,,､:::７___
　で　え　　 / ノ　　　 　 　 　 　 　 　 （:::::::＞'´ ==　＼::⌒l＾⌒
_　　　　　(⌒,' )　　　　　　　　　　　　　ﾉ く彡///　∪,ﾉ　　　;|
.ﾚ⌒Y^'⌒｀ |. 　iiillllllii　　　 iilllllliii　　 く:::::∧　'_,. -､ く／::::::::/
　　 |:::|　＼ | 　-=・=- ヽ　/ -=・=- 　| ＼:::::l､ヽ ,ノ　 ＼,,∠,,__
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　　| 　 ',|::|/　!　 ,ゝ-＜ (　　　/ 　　.|　|/　　　　 ∧　＼|
　　 l　　.Ｙ。 .|　 |`　 〃￣￣⌒　　/　〈　　　　 /!　', __,,....::-‐
　　.∧.　 |。 ｛　　ﾞ爪｀ ' ‐- ､..,,,...イ　　　'、 　 / .|　 ｀|:::::::::::::::::
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:::::＼::::..... ￣｀|　　 ｌ　|　 鬱鬱　　.l:l/／　　　 l|　∨:::/::::::::::::::::::

外資で損失計上したのに
海外旅行の休暇をもらってる会社なんて
過去の粉飾を損失でゴマかせた褒美なんだろうな

小沢問題は　たかがどッかの糞建設会社の5000万の問題

小泉・竹中がやった『りそな銀行　国策インサイダー事件』の方がずっと罪が重い！
国民の血税２兆円をユダヤの金融資本家に献上したのだから！！

情報弱者　小沢信者

マイケル・グリーンって現代ヒモ理論の第一人者？

新任で来たマイケル・シファーも注意しろって副島さんが言ってたじゃん。

そうなんだ

ハワイで素泊まり+朝食付きの宿を経営してたなんて
絶対違うだろ

特捜に ひどい目に会い パワー出し 佐藤元知事 宗男、植草

マッカーサーが連れてきたニューディーラーの正体

日本の戦後は、アメリカの政界の最も悪質な部分である「ニューディーラー」にたちによってつくられた。
彼らニューディーラーたちは、１９３０年代のアメリカのリベラル勢力である。彼らの代表がフランクリン・
ルーズベルト大統領であった。この一部が敗戦直後にマッカーサー元師の取り巻きとして日本にも上陸した。
この者たちによって私たち日本人は、敗戦直後から現在までずっと管理・教育されてきた。この事を英文で書くと
次のようになる。
The‘New Dealers'(i.e the prototypical globalists)brought int japan with their ideeas that brainwashed
the japanese people duringt the Occupation years.As a result,japan has led a sheltered existence for the
past half-century from the rest of the world in terms of prevailing political thoughts,thus creating a
one- domineted ruling class. This ruling class then intentionally isolated the country from the outside,
in order to maintain control over the japanese people.
上の英文の訳
「ニューディーラー（すなわち、グローバリストの初期の形態）が、占領時代に日本に彼らの思想を植えつけた。
その後、それらの意図的な思想が、日本国民の思考の中に根づいた。だから日本は、この半世紀の間ずっと、
世界中で通用している本物の政治思想や考え方から壁を作られて遮られてきた。そして国内に専制的なひとつの
支配階級をつくった。この支配層は日本国内の支配を維持するために、日本を外側世界と意思が通じない状態に
置く原因をつくった。」
この英文を、自分の友人や知人のアメリカ人やイギリス人その他の英語圏国民に見せてみとよい。 政治問題に
関心のある少し知的な英米人であれば、必ずそれなりの興味深い反応を示すだろう。もし、本当に頭の良い賢明な
アメリカ人であったら、「どうして、お前は、このことを知っているのだ？」と驚かれたあとに、さらに多くの
恐るべき真実をあれこれ語ってくれるだろう。
引用は副島隆彦「日本の危機の本質」Ｐ３３〜３４

JETプログラムで来たのか　そりゃ日本の事下に見るわ　特に日本の女ｗ

こんな奴日本から締め出せ！

【JET】外国人語学指導助手 (ALT)【Programme】
http://academy6.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/english/1124552925/

【マレー統治】
白人
↓
華僑
↓
マレー人

【日本統治】
白人
↓
在日朝鮮人
↓
日本人

グリーン　心の中はブラックｗ

日本IBMへガサ入れで反撃

演説の上手い小泉新次郎にアジらせて徴兵制を復活させ、日本と中国を戦争させるのがこいつの野望か？
・・・と、そんな妄想をした。

こいつか！日本最悪の覚醒剤中毒は！

マイケル・シーファーをかなり警戒すべき凶暴な破壊工作員って聞いて
じっとメガネと顔の輪郭を見てると、何だかダークサイドに堕ちた
ハリー・ポッターにでも見えてくるんだなｗ

アメリカ産牛肉の「糖蜜飼育（鶏のフンを餌とした飼育法）」に関する海外報道

国会議事録抜粋　平成17年02月24日　衆議院　農林水産委員会　2号

ショートプレートというのは、通称吉野家カットといって、牛丼になる部分です、これは。
そこに何と書かれておったかというと、糖みつ飼育の若姫牛と書かれておった。糖みつ飼育の若姫牛。
糖みつ飼育というのは、大臣わからないかもしれない。これは、鶏ふんを牛に食べさせる。
アメリカで行われているんです。
そのときに、鶏ふんを牛がなかなか食べないから、もう臭いし、おいしくないし。
どうして食べさせるかというと、糖みつをかけて食べさせているんです。
これはアメリカで行われています。

グリーンだﾖ

マイケル・グリーン（Michael Green） CSIS (シー・エス・アイ・エス、ジョージタウン大学戦略国際問題研究所研究員)

マイケル・シファー（Michael Schiffer）東アジア担当　米国防省次官補代理

ウォレス・グレグソン 米国防次官補（アジア・太平洋安全保障問題担当）

　グリーンの暗躍と謀議は、すでに目に余る。彼が、今の「小沢攻撃、小沢を排除せよ」の東京の
あらゆる権力者共同謀議（コンスピラシー）の頂点に居る謀略人間である。駐日アメリカ大使館の、
日本政治担当の外交官（国務省のキャリア職員、外交官）たちの多くも、今のグリーンの凶暴な
動き方に眉（まゆ）を顰（ひそ）めている。

　今は、外交官たちに力がない。　米国務省の一部局なのに、ＣＩＡ（米中央情報局）と軍事部門
の情報部が一体化して、政治謀略を仕組む部署が青山と横田（横田基地内と外）あって、そこの
１００名ぐらいの部隊が、マイケル・グリーンの配下として、暴走している。

>>83
2010/03/10(水) 00:00:00 すごいね

グリーン　腹の中はブラック

2010/03/12 22:00〜23:30 の放送内容 ＮＨＫ総合
日本の、これから「いま考えよう日米同盟」
普天間基地移設問題で、当たり前と思われていた日米同盟に、改めて光が当たっている。これからの日米同盟はどうあるべきか、
日米の有識者が市民を交えて議論する。
米戦略国際問題研究所日本部長…マイケル・グリーン，ジャーナリスト…櫻井よしこ，元外務審議官…田中均，
東京大学大学院教授…姜尚中，元防衛大学校教授…孫崎享，早稲田大学大学院教授…植木千可子，【キャスター】三宅民夫，住吉美紀
出演
【出演】米戦略国際問題研究所日本部長…マイケル・グリーン，ジャーナリスト…櫻井よしこ，元外務審議官…田中均，
東京大学大学院教授…姜尚中，元防衛大学校教授…孫崎享，早稲田大学大学院教授…植木千可子ほか

おおおお、悪のスパイ　グリーンがＮＨＫに出ているぞーーー

悪人面見てくれーー

メディアはアメリカの味方

ネットでは追及しろ

実は2chも既に統一協会系

書き込みはアメリカにも筒抜けだよ

統合失調症男マイケルグリーン

NHK解説委員・長谷川浩氏の変死事件
http://www.rui.jp/ruinet.html?i=200&c=400&m=157514
彼は、９・１１事件の謎を追っているうちに、
世界貿易センターで犠牲となった被害者の国籍別人数を調べていた。
そこで、この事件の本質とその謀略の本質を察知して、
本来は勤務していた筈のイスラエル国籍をも有するユダヤ人がいないということを知ってしまったのである。

>>86
CSIS仕込みの凄腕なんじゃねえの？

グリーンさんとセックスしたい。ホモの素質あるかな？

進次郎くんの師匠だお

戦中の日本アニメ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH1v4vkUBt8

勝手にホモれｗ

マイケル緑さん萌え。

緑ちゃんってば、表舞台に登場した途端に自民党が割れちゃって（笑

持ち上げといて一気に落とすいつものマスゴミ糞すぎwwwwwwwwwwwwww

緑　とか省略すんなよｗ

変な愛情沸いて来ない？

フライングタイガース
援蒋ルート

ｗ

ファンです・・・ガチホモですが・・

ホモさんとふっついてくれｗｗ

政治とは別世界に誘ってくれｗ

この人、電気カミソリでひげ剃る音が気になるみたいだよ

金融危機と共に自民党は下野した
カネの切れ目が縁の切れ目
みんなCIAに騙された振りをしてたのさ

ブタ野郎早く死ね

日本の広島と長崎が共同でオリンピックを誘致する計画だという。まさに日本国民の過去の
歴史に対する反省の足りなさを如実に見せる仕業（しわざ）と言えよう。自分たちが地球上で唯
一の被爆国であることを全世界に知らせようという下心が見え隠れする。

　すなわち自分たちが人類に対してぞっとする加害者だったことから目を逸らし、被害者のフリ
をしたいがための歴史歪曲の一環であり、日本国民の歴史認識に対する意識の下劣さがよく
分かる。日本という国および日本国民は、間違いなく厚顔無恥と言えるだろう。

　自分たちがなぜ世界唯一の核兵器被爆国にならざるを得なかったのかに対する痛烈な反省
もなく、自己弁護と同情心を買うことだけに奔走するのは、まさに恥知らずな蛮族だけにしかで
きないことだ。あたかも残酷な殺人を犯した犯罪者が、自身の犯罪行為に対する反省や謝罪の
言葉もなく、死刑制度の廃止を主張するようなものだ。

　日本人というものが、自分たちが人類に対して犯した犯罪を隠蔽し、歪曲された歴史を正そう
としないばかりか、反省も謝罪もしない種族だということは、8月15日を敗戦日でなく終戦日と呼
ぶことからも明らかだ。わが国と同じ空の下に日本という国とその種族が存在することは想像だ
にしたくない。

　そのような意味で、広島・長崎オリンピック誘致運動には絶対反対しなければならない。いくら
国力と経済力が左右するのが国際スポーツ界の現実であるといっても、加害者が被害者になる
ようなことがあってはならない。日本が過去に犯し、現在でも歴史歪曲という形で人類に対して犯
し続けている残酷な犯罪の歴史は、二度と繰り返させてはいけない。過去を反省しない日本と日
本国民には、平和の祭典オリンピックを云々（うんぬん）する資格さえない。
　
Peter Victor Ueberroth
米国オリンピック委員会　元会長　ピーター・ユベロス

やっぱり、グリーンはゲイだったか・・・。

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おいおい　ホモるなよ

超不都合な背後関係

CFR（外交問題評議会） 　アメリカの経団連　ロックフェラー配下
理事長（当時）　モーリス・グリーンバーグ
　||　会長
AIG　アメリカ最大の保険会社
　||　出資、筆頭株主
KROLL　ASSOCIATES　＝　CIA傘下の民間警備会社
　配下　SECURACOM　＝　ブッシュ大統領の実弟が経営関与
　その他KROLLの関連会社あわせてWTCや空港の警備を担当
　　911直前にWTCではナゾの工事が行われていた

CIA
　||　支援育成 1978年からソ連に対抗する勢力にするためにイスラム原理主義者の育成を開始
ISI（パキスタンの諜報機関：アメリカベッタリ、CIAの配下）
　||　支援育成
アルカイダ　中核メンバーはアメリカ国内では麻薬ディーラーや暴力団として生活していた。
　　　　　　　　その他の航空テロ実行犯としてあげられた１７名中
　　　　　　　　１０名が９１１後も生存していたという異常さ。

ブッシュ一族　＝　ビン・ラディン一族　長年のビジネスパートナー

じゃあオバマは？？
　ヘンリー・キッシンジャーの愛弟子にして、「人民寺院事件」を指揮した殺人鬼ズビグニュー・ブレジンスキーが背後にいる。
　閣僚は大手金融機関出身者ばかり。オバマも完全なCFRの犬です。

※産経は在日を攻撃する以外のことについては、嘘しか言うことを許されていないとても可愛そうな新聞です。
　みんなで産経を購読して、CIAからのお小遣いがなくても記者さんたちが生活できるように更正させてあげましょう。

※CFR、CIAを攻撃するのは「反米」ではありません。アメリカの一般人の多くが「乗っ取られたアメリカ」を嘆いています。
　アメリカが1日も早く更正できるように、産経をはじめとする「インボウロンガー」に騙されるのはやめましょう。
　しかし、政府関係者が公然と911批判を行うのは、外交上失礼なので許されません。

アメリカ市民も反ＣＩＡデモとかやらないの？

>>113
何度見ても惚れ惚れする。

週刊エコノミスト [ 2010年03月30日号]
◇World Watch
・ワシントンDC　「不信と対立」の増長　米国を覆う陰謀論　　小松健一（毎日新聞北米総局長）
http://mainichi.jp/enta/book/economist/news/20100319org00m020024000c.html

　トヨタ自動車の米国での大規模リコール（回収・無償修理）問題を巡り、さまざまな「陰謀論」が
くすぶっている。
　米自動車産業復興のために米政府が仕掛けたという話から、問題となったアクセルペダルを
製造した米業者とホワイトハウスとの特別な関係を指摘するものなどもある。
　米海軍や国家安全保障局（ＮＳＡ）などで情報を扱う仕事に携わり、その後、調査報道専門の
ジャーナリストになったウェイン・マドセンさん（55歳）は「陰謀」という言葉を避けながらも、
リコール問題について「トヨタ叩き」「日本叩き」が底流にあったとの見方を示す。トヨタ問題では、
メジャー系ではないテレビのコメンテーターとして「陰謀論の背景」を説明し、そこそこ人気のある
ジャーナリストである。
　実際に陰謀があったのかどうかは確認のしようもない。ただ、大きな問題の背後に、何かが
隠されているという疑念がおおっぴらに語られることは多い。2001年の米同時多発テロは
テロリストの仕業ではなかった、という陰謀論も世界中で有名になっている。

ジャニーズ事務所にぐりんちゃんの接待させる
問題が好転するかしらね

【政治】「中国や朝鮮半島の植民地化、歴史の必然」-枝野行政刷新相
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1269690663/

マイケルの指令っぽいね。
民主の地雷だな。
典型的なアジア分断工作。

埼玉は韓国化しすぎている。

右翼的な発言をさせられるなんて、CIAから委託された統一の名無し工作員部隊みたいだな。
奴らも親韓国なのに嫌韓の書き込みしまくって分断工作やってる。

【民主党】デーブ「ばかげてる」　フィフィ「まともな外国人ほど、申し訳ない気持ち」　「子ども手当」、外国人タレントから疑問続々★３
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1269685007/

CIAでも上級の工作員だと、このように正論を言うことが出来るようだ。

指令は枝野でなく、読売と朝日と2chの運営と書き込みに出てるのかもしれない。
両方かもしれないけど。

極悪マイケル

国松警察庁長官銃撃事件は時効を迎えました

小沢逮捕よりこっちの方が重要な作戦だったりして

>>125
アメリカに関係あるの？
詳しく！

【社会】自らが公判を担当する事件の被害者だった女性と交際　検事（35）懲戒処分　依願退職　東京地検　立川支部
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1270034977/

『米国人は「残酷ネタ」で笑う』

（例えば）米国の有名アニメ「サウスパーク」
若干ネタバレとなるが、なにしろパパラッチたちに追い回されたブリトニーが、
絶望のあまり銃を自分に向けて自殺を図る。病院に運ばれ、
一命を取り留めたと思ったら、なんと頭の半分が吹き飛んでいる。
これで「一命をとりとめた」はずはないのだが、そこはアニメの世界のこと、
ブリトニーは頭が半分ない状態でステージでダンスを踊ったりする。
「彼女はLip Sync（口パク）しているよ」「というか、唇（Lip）なんて
吹き飛んでいてないよ」というギャグが飛び交うのである。

ある3Dシューティングゲーム。
講師が、ちゃめっ気たっぷりに「チェーンソーで敵を殺すと、すごいよー」
と言う。その後、実際に敵をおびき寄せ、チェーンソー攻撃を発動すると
画面には、なんと敵兵士がチェーンソーでぶった切りにされ、真っ赤な
血しぶきをあげながら崩れ落ちるグラフィックが表示された。

米国で大人気のゲーム「Grand Theft Auto」（米国Rockstar Games）
これはその暴力性が一部で問題視され、日本での発売時にも話題に
なっていたゲーム。実にシリーズ数千万本の売上げを誇る、日本で
いうとドラクエ・FFクラスのお化けタイトルだ。
講師によれば、アジアよりも欧米での売上げが凄まじいらしい。
主人公は街のチンピラで、
一般市民を無差別殺人に巻き込んだりすることも可能だから、
親が幼い子供にプレイさせたくないゲームであることは理解できる。
改造キットを使えばセックスミニゲームがプレイ可能、わいせつシーンは
元からゲームに組み込まれていたなど、とにかくお騒がせなゲーム。

「ポスタル」
主人公がひたすら街中で人々を無残に殺害するアクションゲーム。
無辜の市民に火をつけて焼き殺したりもできる。
「自殺」コマンドを選択すると、主人公は銃を口にくわえて自殺する。
↑この残酷な娯楽商品が子供たちに与える悪影響は？
規制を掛けるとしたら、どういう規制が必要ですか？
〔ある３Dシューティングゲーム〕の項が参考になりそうですが……

マイケル グリーンは、米国下院での日本の慰安婦制度非難決議に賛成してい
たなあ。

日本を辱めたいバカ野朗なんだな

マイケル・グリーン

　グリーンの暗躍と謀議は、すでに目に余る。彼が、今の「小沢攻撃、小沢を排除せよ」の東京のあらゆる権力者共同謀議（コンスピラシー）の頂点に居る謀略人間である。
駐日アメリカ大使館の、日本政治担当の外交官（国務省のキャリア職員、外交官）たちの多くも、今のグリーンの凶暴な動き方に眉（まゆ）を顰（ひそ）めている。
　今は、外交官たちに力がない。
　米国務省の一部局なのに、ＣＩＡ（米中央情報局）と軍事部門の情報部が一体化して、政治謀略を仕組む部署が青山と横田（横田基地内と外）あって、そこの１００名ぐらいの部隊が、マイケル・グリーンの配下として、暴走している。

　それを、温厚な、ジョン・ルース大使は、止めることが出来ない。どっちつかずでやってきた、ジム・（ジェーズム）・ズムワルド代理大使（筆頭公使）も、グリーンらの謀略行動に、見て見ぬ振りをしている。
　
　このグリーンの、忠実な子分が、数人いるが、その筆頭が民主党の現職の若手の議員で、東京の２１区（立川市他）から出ている　長島昭久（ながしまあきひさ）である。
http://www.asyura2.com/10/senkyo79/msg/352.html

■Ex-Italian President: Intel Agencies Know 9/11 An Inside Job
http://www.prisonplanet.com/articles/december2007/120407_common_knowledge.htm
イタリアのコシガ元大統領（在任1983〜1992)が、イタリア最大の新聞コリエレ・デラ・セラで、
米国ブッシュ政権への爆弾発言をした。
彼は、米国と欧州のすべての国の諜報機関は、９１１の例のテロ事件が、米ＣＩＡとイスラエルの
諜報機関モサドによって実行されたことを知っている、と言明した。
そして彼は、今ではこの情報は、地球全体の諜報機関に共有されている、と指摘した。

■Terrorist attacks in US - Intelligence memo points to Mossad link
http://frontierpost.com.pk/main.asp?id=8&date1=9/16/2001
ロンドン発――米国の軍事諜報筋が、世界貿易センタービルとペンタゴンに対する攻撃に
イスラエルの諜報機関モサドが関係していることを指摘する部内諜報メモの詳細を暴露した。

329 ：可愛い奥様：2009/06/25(木) 18:49:39 ID:flBxfT9w0
母子加算を復活　生活保護法改正案が委員会で可決

330 ：可愛い奥様：2009/06/25(木) 18:52:54 ID:gsPnWeZl0
>>329
これは自民党ＧＪだね。
うちの周りにも母子家庭いるけどさ、本当たいへんそうなんだよね。

332 ：可愛い奥様：2009/06/25(木) 18:53:56 ID:gsPnWeZl0
>>329
あ、民主が決めたのかこれｗ
それじゃダメだ。
財源はどうするんだって話。
無限に金が湧いてくるわけじゃないんだからさｗ

943 ：名無しさん＠お腹いっぱい。：2009/10/27(火) 20:18:01 ID:domXiRhg
アメリカン・ヒストリー
　　1898年12月、フィリピンはスペインからアメリカに２千万ドルで売却され、アメリカ
の植民地となる。既に宗主国への独立運動が起きていたが、その戦いはスペインから
アメリカに変わっただけであった。
　翌年２月、サン・ジュアン橋を警護していたアメリカ兵がフィリピン人に発砲したことから
戦いは表面化する。
アーサー・マッカーサー将軍(来日したのは彼の息子)は軍を率い、マニラから北部に
攻め入り、本国からも援軍が来る。アメリカ軍はゲリラを掃討するため、各種の手段も
用いたが、当然拷問もその１つだった。
　特に頻繁に行われたのは水責めだった。捕虜を仰向けに寝かせ、その上に椅子を置き、
口の中に棒や剣をねじ込んで口を開かせ、塩水や泥水を大量に流し込む。そして腫上が
った腹の上に椅子に飛び乗り揺する。すると食べた物ばかりか胃液までが水と一緒に
吐き出されるが、これを何度も繰り返したそうだ。処刑の場合は耳を削ぎ、目をくりぬき、
腕を切り落とした。捕虜が女である場合は乳房を切り落とし、銃剣をゆっくりと性器の奥
に突き刺した。
　1901年、サマール島のゲリラを鎮圧するためジェイク・スミス率いる部隊がバランギガ
の街に宿営した時、ゲリラの反撃に遭い多数のアメリカ兵が殺害された。この報告を受けた
セオドア・ルーズベルトはゲリラの鎮圧を命じる。
これを受けたスミスはこう部下を叱咤激励する。「焼き尽くし殺し尽くす。これが多けれ
ば多いほどよい」。兵士たちは任務に邁進した。一連の弾圧で20万ものフィリピン人が
犠牲となったが、アメリカは本国でのインディアン掃討作戦を再現したに過ぎない。
　フィリピン人で過去の歴史でアメリカを憎む者は、まず少ないだろう。
「人間というものは軽度の侮蔑には復讐の気持ちも起こるが、大きな危害を加えられると
復讐の気さえ失ってしまうものだからだ」　−マキアヴェッリ

グリーンだﾖ

小泉進二郎は
久々の失敗作だね
もっと教育しないと
一般大衆がついて来ないし
支離滅裂なディベートも逆効果

ＣＩＡの仕事をしていても、必ずしもアメリカに亡命できるとは限りません

核科学者が米国亡命、ＣＩＡの働きかけで
http://headlines.yahoo.co.jp/hl?a=20100331-00000978-yom-int

　【ワシントン＝黒瀬悦成】米ＡＢＣテレビは３月３０日、昨年６月に謎の失跡を遂げていたイランの核科学者が米中央情報局（ＣＩＡ）の働きかけで米国に亡命していたと報じた。

　当局者は、イランの核開発計画の阻止に向けた「情報戦での劇的な成果だ」と話している。

　ＡＢＣによると、亡命したのは革命防衛隊と関係の深いテヘランの大学に勤務するシャハラム・アミリ氏。昨年６月、聖地メッカ巡礼のためサウジアラビアに到着後に行方が分からなくなり、イランのモッタキ外相は「米国が誘拐した」と非難していた。

　アミリ氏は亡命後、イランの核計画に関して米情報当局が把握している内容の真偽の確認などに協力しているという。

　ＡＢＣはイラン発の情報として、アミリ氏が亡命前、米英仏が昨年９月に存在を暴露した第２のウラン濃縮施設で勤務していたと報じており、米政府がアミリ氏を通じてこの施設についての情報を入手している可能性もある。

【京都】「男のぬくもりが欲しかった」 男性に痴漢をした性同一性障害の元男性が供述
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1270776401/
【社会】 "２０代の女が、電車で男の下半身触って逮捕"、女と見られていたのは実は男と判明。女装して戸籍も女性名に変更…京都
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1270717678/
【東京・池袋】男子トイレ盗撮…被害者は刑事　容疑の男、その場で逮捕
http://tsushima.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/newsplus/1270715028/

元死刑囚は逮捕後、「定年退職して金に困っていた」と供述し、日本国内で密輸を持ちかけられ、報酬20万〜30万円で請け負ったことを認めた。裁判では、日本に逃亡した共犯者に「監視されていた」と主張した。

【邦人死刑】中身知らずに『預かっただけ』で死刑…今後、日本大使館中国人スタッフに傍聴させる方針 [10/04/10]
http://yutori7.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/news4plus/1270827005/1-100


敏腕弁護士でもつけてやれよ

>>140
雇った連中こそ捕まえるべきだよな
つか、押収された覚せい剤が横流しされて
また運び込まれるんじゃね？
今度は中国人の手で

ｗｗ

321 ：名無しさん＠十周年：2010/04/10(土) 12:20:17 ID:rhV7tQ9/O
CIAは他国の主権を侵害する単なる犯罪組織なんだがなｗ
堂々と暗殺指令を出すところがアメリカらしい。

455 ：名無しさん＠十周年：2010/04/11(日) 17:53:28 ID:WO66KweD0
CIAはアメリカ国外での作戦はアメリカの法律でOKって事になってる。
でも、国外にいるアメリカ人をターゲットにした作戦は微妙。
盗聴とか電子メールの監視は問題ないけど、殺害はどうなんだろ？
司法長官は、どういう理屈をつけたのか知りたいところだ。

67 ：名無しさん＠十周年：2010/04/13(火) 13:08:01 ID:Pjt++cWf0
層化には気をつけろ
漏れみたいに怪しい金融業者の娘のソープでバイトしてんのと
結婚させられそうになるぞ

921 ：名刺は切らしておりまして：2010/04/13(火) 09:47:35 ID:2fLlKOeQ
公務員がメンヘラになるメカニズムを教えて

922 ：名刺は切らしておりまして：2010/04/13(火) 09:58:45 ID:+U14DBFo
>>921
本人が忘れているような子供の頃の話をいいがかりに、２０年くらい嫌がらせを続ける
ちょっと海に出て日焼けしただけで大騒ぎ、５人ぐらいの　えった　が　一人　の人間を
ずっとおいかけまわす

法律の抜け穴をつかった犯罪

問題は、東京の警視はこれを全部見てて見ないふりをして
あとで、えったを全部殺してまわるの
生き残るのは数人と最初から決まってるのさ

★ポーランド首脳事故死
まず偶然は考えにくい。
しかしこれでポーランド国民に反露機運が盛り上がれば露が得をするとも考えにくい。
ポ国内の権力闘争、あるいは第三国の工作のせんもありえるが
西側世界は第三国の破壊工作はするばあいCIAにすべて話を通さないといけない
黙ってうごいたばあい、米の制裁がある。したがって米露以外の工作の線はない。

ここで問題はポーランド銀総裁も死んでることだ。経済がらみも考えられる。

そもそも共産主義は米国からロシアに移植され、
ジョン・Ｄ・ロックフェラーがこれを利用してさらに莫大な
利益を手に入れたというのが真相である。

考えられる限りのあらゆる盗みを行い、
支配者以外の人間すべてを奴隷にすることが
共産主義の現状の姿なのだと気づけば、
精神病的犯罪者集団のロックフェラー一族が
なぜ、共産主義に帰依したのかすぐに理解できるはずだ。

精神病的犯罪者集団のロックフェラー一族ww

伝統的に好戦的で、領土に入りこむ異民族を襲撃した。
南西部での彼らの抵抗による入植者数人の死者は、
東部では情報操作されて数百人の死者となって大げさに伝えられ、
白人達を怖れさせた。

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slFLPC_Xtt4

緑め

　　　　　　　／　　　　大麻王　　　 　＼
　　　　　 ／　　　　　　　　　　　　 　　　＼
　　　　／　　　／・＼　　　　　／・＼　　　＼
　　 ／　　　／　　　 ＼　　 ／　　　 ＼　　　＼
　　|　　　　　￣￣￣￣　　　￣￣￣￣　　　　 |
　　|　　　　　　　　 （＿＿人＿＿）　　　　　 　 |　
　　|　　　　　 　 　　　 ＼　　　　|　　 　 　　　　|　
　　 ＼　　　　　　　　　　＼　　　|　　　　　　 ／　　
　　　　＼　　　　　　　　　　＼＿|　　　　　／

日本から国外追放せよ！！

マイケル・グリーンって、芝にマンション一棟もっていて２フロアーのペントハウス
に住んでいる、奥さんが背の高い日本人のあの人なのかな？

　　　⊂二⊃
　　 / へ￣ヽ　　/に二ヽ
　　6/ 、 )_ヽゞ　ｲ _､ ,_　3
　　 ヽ ﾟ,_ゝﾟ/　　 ヽ・ ノ
　 　/ <V>ヽ　　 /<V> ヽ
＿_（＿]つ__|＿_（_(S)＿ﾉ＿＿
　　　＿_　　　　　　＿〜〜
　　　､__ﾉﾌ　　　　ヽ__ﾉﾌ

尖閣がロックフェラーにやられる 沖縄がダメリカに盗られる

グリーンを国外追放せよ！

ライブドア関連の沖縄カプセルホテルで友愛された人も、
沖縄におびき寄せられたときには、甘い言葉で誘われて、
それを信じて、油断して沖縄いっちゃったんだろうな。
そして、結局友愛れちまった。

悪人を最後まで信じたゆえの悲劇は繰り返されうる。
雪子ちゃん、あんまり悪人を信じちゃ友愛が・・・・

（沖縄って、米軍基地もあるし、CIAやロックフェラー工作のメッカだよな）

売国して日本を破壊したことへのロックフェラーからの報酬
↓
ありえない記者の高給

からくり

日曜やってたミヤネと滝川クリステルが出てくるニュース番組に
マイケル・シーファーにとても似た奴が短い間出て来てたぞ。
３秒くらいだったけど。最初辺りに。

たった1人の人種差別記者の記事を、アメリカの総意と解釈するなよｗ
アメリカ人が鳩山をみて、日本人の総意と勘違いするのと等しいぐらいの愚行

>イギリス人のえらい人の言葉
>
>「日本人が我々のように悪に染まれば、容易に世界を支配できるであろうに」

日本語なんか学習して、奥さんまで日本人なんだって！？
日本人になって世界を支配しようとしているんだな。
でもそれは悪に染まった日本人。

新聞などマスコミの世論調査結果を
まいど捏造してはりますやろ

７月に選挙がありますけんど
そのとき投票数改竄なさって
CIA自民党を勝たせるための伏線じゃおまへんか

突然自民党が圧勝されては、ほんまに不自然ですわいな。

ぐりんちゃん

グリーンはみんなの党支持じゃないの？

サダム・フセインのホモセックステープ流出計画を企てていたCIA
http://hideyoshi.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/dqnplus/1275400467/l50

10代の青年と性行為をしている様子
自分のゲイ・セックスを自慢する様子
出演は全てCIA職員で、かなりの自信作

サダム・フセインのホモセックステープ流出計画を企てていた名目で
自分の趣味に走っていたぐりんちゃん

管って何者？
↓
http://www.google.co.jp/search?hl=ja&source=hp&q=%E8%8F%85%E3%81%AF%E3%83%AD%E3%83%83%E3%82%AF%E3%83%95%E3%82%A7%E3%83%A9%E3%83%BC%E3%81%AE%E3%82%B9%E3%83%91%E3%82%A4&btnG=Google+%E6%A4%9C%E7%B4%A2&lr=&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=

ネトウヨの皆さ〜んw 　ちみらに伝言があるそうですおww
ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JzYJwv8nJ0E

生き物を殺したり削減することは白人文化起源のスポーツ

貧乏な白人じゃな

＞タバコはウイルス感染を抑制する効果があるから嫌煙ロビー活動を支援している
＞統一政府は人口削減したいからね
＞至急慧眼ワクチンは不妊ワクチンだから最近になってやたら摂取を勧めだしたwww
＞世も末よ


ありえる

　　　　

　　　　　　　　　これマジなの？
　　　　　　　　　　　　↓
-------------
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
＜アメリカ帝国＞　　　　　　　　　　　　　＜欧州＞
　　　ユダヤ　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ユダヤ
　ロックフェラー←―――――――→ロスチャイルド，ハプスブルク貴族、その他の金持ち
　　　↓　　　　　　　　(対立)
　民主党＝＝＝＝＝＝＝ハリウッド，リディアグループ，KLA　　　　　　　　　　　
　　　↓　　　(癒着関係)
　　　↓　　　　　　　　　　　　　モルモン教
　　　↓(奴隷化)　　　　　 ↓（信徒俳優を通じ宣教)　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　　　↓　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　↓
　　　↓　　　　　　　　　　　　　＜日本＞←←←←←←←←←統一教会
　　　↓　　　　(→情報操作)　　　　　(トライ等を通じ宣教)＜ｋ組織，巨大宗教団体＞
自民党(＋日本政府)＝＝＝バーニング(周防郁雄)＝＝＝＝創価学会(池田大作)　　　　
(野中)　　　　 (←脱税隠蔽依頼)　↑↑　　　　　　　　　　　　(公明党 )↓　　　　　　　　　
　　↑　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　｜(山口組、ｋヤクザ)　　　　　↑　 ↓　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　　｜　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　｜　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　|　　↓　　　　　　　　　
　　｜　(バーニング、野中を介し3人は連合) 　　　　　　　　　　　｜　 ↓(情報操作の為)　　　
　　｜　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　｜　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　|ＮＨＫ(信徒を出しながら)　　
　　　￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣　(乗っ取ろうとしてる)　　　　　

スミソニアンの原爆被害物の展示中止は、自己の正当性が揺らぐ事になる
軍関係者の妨害によるものと聞きますね。

彼ら軍人は命令に従っただけ、命令を下した司令官アメリカ合衆国大統領や
アメリカ市民全体が背負うべき問題であって、原爆を使うとどうなるのか
論評無しの事実(証拠)から目を背けている。

無差別殺人大量殺傷兵器の市民への使用は、国際法違反なのにね。
アメリカ合衆国では、当時の日本国民も兵士扱いですよ。(笑)

ビルダバーグ会議がホームページを開設しました。
http://www.bilderbergmeetings.org/governance.html

>>173
いよいよ堂々と露出し始めたんですね。
トモダチみたいですね。

＜＜＜　２ｃｈ運営の工作員が、絶対に読ませたくない記事一覧ｗｗｗ　＞＞＞

●普天間：在沖縄海兵隊「定員」１万８０００人の問題について
【旧政権下で作られた虚構であることが判明】
利権欲しさの小泉政権が捏造した、辺野古残留の１万人の幽霊隊員。
橋本政権下で合意した45�bのヘリポートが、自公政権下の十数年で、3000�bＶ字滑走路へと巨大化した。
http://www.asあyurえa2.com/10/sいenkyo87/msうg/636.html　（ひらがなを消せば、つながる）
普天間のある宜野湾市の調査報告。および、民主党議員による、在日海兵隊基地司令官 （日本のトップ）らへの聞き取り調査。

●「小泉進次郎４代目襲名議員になれますか？ 父とともに稲川会大幹部に挨拶」
http://www.asあyura2.com/10/sいenkyうo87/msg/7え69.html
（フライデー掲載）写真中央が、小泉組４代目進次郎、右端のいかにもその筋の爺さんが、稲川会大幹部で３０数年小泉の地元選対部長として睨みを利かせてきた竹内清元県議会議長。

●（巨大な既得権を手にした新自由主義者に）逆らう政治家は、横田基地のＭＰがヘリコプターで宙づりにして顔を海に何回も浸ける〜『泥棒国家日本と闇の権力構造』徳間書店
http://www.asあyura2.com/10/seいnkyo88/mうsg/133.html

938 ：名無しさん＠十周年：2010/06/03(木) 04:20:05 ID:iu1vKZcAP

>>935
反米というのはアメリカ側からはコントロールし易いんで、
そういう意味では調教済みだな。
是々非々で動く人間が一番コントロールしにくいからな。

岐阜に来いよ
ぐりんちゃん

やっつけるの？

>>176
だからシカト気味に反米してやるべきだよな。

「こっち見んな」ってヤツ。

インディアンはどういう過程を踏んで
白人アメリカ人に滅ぼされたか。

「こっち来るな」だろｗ

誰でも自分たちに関心を持たれたがるはずだなんて、
お目出度く信じられる連中は幸せそうだね。

自分たちは優等人種だから、世界のどこでも歓迎される
はずだって決めつけてるからな。

あの厚かましさは絶対にそう。

小泉真理教の連中みたいに勝手に愛されちゃう奴らって
いるからな。バカとクズの集まりの分際で。

このグリーンて野郎、家族いるんだろうか。
こいつの目の前で、ナイフで首切り落として
やったらどうだろ？

民主党になってから通り魔なくかっちゃったしな。
2�dトラックでど根性ガエルとか。

それで、おまいらも刺激が足りないのだ・・・。

路上の鮮血、転がる人たち。懐かしき魂の景色・・・。

アメリカにはオレンジ計画なる日本との戦争計画が
１９１０年代から策定されていて、
それ以降ずっと、
アメリカは日本を戦争に引き込むために
すべてを綿密に組み立てていたことが、知られているよね。

アメリカってほんと最低な国だよ

日露戦争で満州を日本が独占して以後、日米関係が
悪化して、日本人移民の排訴運動が起きたりしたのな。

左翼の通史に書いてあるよ。

アメのフィリピン支配やイギリスのインド支配を認めるのと
交換に、連中に日本の朝鮮支配を認めさせた。

総体的に考えると、日露戦争における日本の勝利は列強の
アジア支配を強化しこそすれ、アジアの解放には何の力にも
ならなかったと言えるであろう云々

>>190
＞朝鮮支配

ああそれってこれ↓
桂・タフト協定
http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E6%A1%82%E3%83%BB%E3%82%BF%E3%83%95%E3%83%88%E5%8D%94%E5%AE%9A

＞日本の勝利

ユーラシア・ブックレットという冊子のNo.39、No.71にいろいろ書いてある。
当時の戦争用の最新テクノロジーは全部外国製。日本が前面に出たけどね。
日露戦争の黒子というか黒幕というかそんなカンジ。
研究者の間では常識かもねよく分からんけど。

ロックフェラーに近いやつらは
どいつもこいつも糞なのはなぜ？

>>191
そういうコアな本でなくとも岩波くらいなら普通に書いてあるからね。

アメリカの仲裁は、日本の勝ちすぎを畏れた英米資本家の資金の
出し渋りと、ルーズヴェルトがロシア革命の成功を畏れたからとか。

もともと日本人は暗黒の近代史は嫌いなのさ。
最近、流行ってるのは歴史小説で、誰も真面目に
歴史を学んでるわけじゃない。

だからといってうそをついていい、隠蔽していい、という道理はない。
それを続けて成立させようとすれば日本はいずれ外国から全否定されると思うよ。
うそをつかれた、隠蔽された側の気持ちを考えるなり想像するなりしてみればこんなの当たり前の話だ。

ロックフェラーを非難しよう！

米軍の「心理作戦」

ＣＩＡと戦後日本　保守合同・北方領土・再軍備
新書判　232頁　2010.06
http://www.heibonsha.co.jp/catalogue/exec/viewer.cgi?page=browse&code=85_530

2000年代に公開されたCIA文書を基に、保守合同、日ソ国交回復交渉、海上自衛隊や内閣調査室設立の舞台裏を描き、
アメリカがどのように戦後体制形成に関わったのかを解明する。

悪

アメリカから命令すんな！

菅首相の人物評について
「左派だが、プラグマティスト（実践的）で柔軟」
（マイケル・グリーン元ＮＳＣアジア上級部長）との見方

菅首相は十分右派だよ

菅の血液はロックフェラーだよ

最近ヘタクソな日本語であちこち投稿してない？ぐりんちゃん

スパイは日本から追い出せ！

裏切ればロッフェラーに殺されるという恐怖で一生を暗くすごす
マケル・グリーン
こいつも被害者だろ

参院選は民主党「勝利」で菅内閣続投

明らさまな投票数改竄だよな。みんなの党と国民新党入れ替えたでしょ？

ねつ造されたニュースのように印象的な数字が並んでいるな
民主　４４（　＜４５　）
自民　５１（　＞５０　）
公明　９（　＜１０　）
みん　１０（１０以上は予算以外の法案が提出可）
たち　１（石原）
改革　１（桝添）
国新　０（郵貯銀のATM不具合）

みんな＞公明（第３極の力関係）

民主党の議席数は本当は30代だったりして

今日の朝日、毎日に有識者の参院選座談会が載っていた。
>都会の金持ちの見方が並んでいた。
>地方で民主党が負けた理由を理解していない。
>特に毎日に出た山崎正和はまったくダメだ。
>共同の座談会には渡部恒三の長男、恒雄が出ていた。
>外交の専門家だが、民主党に対する見方は割合と的を射ていると思った。

山崎正和なんて菅はよくやったと言ってるし
この世界での将来の予測は、天気予報やエコノミストの予想と違って
これからの予定だからね

一般人「いや〜人間って最強の動物だよな。実は体自体はすげえ弱いのに
　　　　有り得ないほど頭が良くて今や平均寿命は70歳以上だし」
ジャパニーズヤクザ「お前等何言うてんねん。ワシらが人類トップや。なめてなよ」
一般人「あ、ジャパニーズヤクザさん、すいません。」
日本警察「はあ？ヤクザ？警察を完全弾圧してみろよバーカ」
ジャパニーズヤクザ「く、裏ではヤクザとズブズブのクセに…」
中国マフィア「日本警察はザルあるよ。日本で殺人してもバレる前に中国戻ったらもう手も足も出せないヘタレあるよ」
日本警察「クソッ、確かに我々は中国マフィアには手も足も出ない…」
ロックフェラー家「中国マフィア？所詮、金で動く犬だろ」
中国マフィア「ロックフェラー先輩じゃないっすか。ちわっす」
地球「ていうかヤクザうんぬんより人間消えてくれないかな…
　　　お前等は自然を破壊しすぎた。あんま調子こくと震度10の地震を世界じゅうで起こすぞ」
ロックフェラー家「それだけは勘弁して下さい」

太陽「地球小さすぎﾜﾛﾀ。お前なんていてもいなくても支障ねえw
　　　あんま調子こいてるとプロミネンス浴びせるぞ」
地球「ちょwwwww 熱いから勘弁して下さい、太陽様」
銀河「太陽？我々の体のほんの一部に過ぎない。弱いものいじめをするならブラックホールを派遣するぞ」
太陽「本当にすみませんでした、銀河どの」
宇宙「おい、銀河お前なめてんの？勝手に俺の右腕のブラックホール派遣するとか言ってんな。殺すぞ」
銀河「ひいい、すいませんもうしませんので」
地球（すげえ、太陽様すら恐れる銀河様を恫喝してるぜ…さすが宇宙様）
ビッグバン「お前もな。俺がその気になれば宇宙を元に戻せる」
宇宙「ごめんなさい」

こいつ嫌い
大体、日本側から知日派なんていわれてる奴に
ろくな奴はいない

みんなの党が対日工作政党だなんて知らなかったよ
ぐりんちゃん

今回の参院選の投票数操作はすごかったね
やっぱﾌﾞｯｼｭ二期めのときと同じように国民新党とｽﾜｯﾌﾟしたの？

スワップｗ

>>168
鬼畜白人こそ駆除されるべき！

t 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 o
f 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 ble
w the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out li
ke he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right ne
xt to him on the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it. Boy, was he so
re. He didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory s
tudy hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He said tha
t 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 wa
s making his speech, but be wasn't in the right mood. Anyway, that's where I liv
ed 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, bec
ause everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a chan
ge. 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 t
he window of this sports store when we got out of the subway, just after I notic
ed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only cost me a buck. The way I wore it, I s

wung 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 room
mate, Ward Stradlater, had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody wa
s 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 mistak
e. They gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my roo
m. 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 P
encey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one stor
y 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 t
his girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about kille
d 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 ou
t too much. What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done readi
ng 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 mu
ch, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, exce
pt 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 l
ike that Eustacia Vye.
Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book O
ut 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 w
as Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed right next to me. There was a shower righ
t between every two rooms in our wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ack
ley 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 pecul
iar 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 room

ed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked mos
sy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room w
ith his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something. Besides that, he ha
d a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but al
l 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, ta
king a look to see if Stradlater was around. He hated Stradlater's guts and he n
ever 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. H
e 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 pic
ked up your personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your nerves so

metimes. "How was the fencing?" he said. He just wanted me to quit reading and e
njoying myself. He didn't give a damn about the fencing. "We win, or what?" he s
aid.
"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 aroun
d with on my chiffonier. He was looking at this picture of this girl I used to g
o 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 co

uld tell.
"Nobody won," he said. "How come?"
"I left the goddam foils and stuff on the subway." I still didn't look u
p 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 godda
m 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, thou

gh. "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 someth
ing, Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light." He didn't like it when you ca
lled him "Ackley kid." He was always telling me I was a goddam kid, because I wa
s 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 g
et 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 aga
in, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book d
own on the floor. You couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It w
as impossible.
I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himse
lf 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 th

e old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over m
y eyes. That way, I couldn't see a goddam thing. "I think I'm going blind," I sa
id in this very hoarse voice. "Mother darling, everything's getting so dark in h
ere."
"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 g
etting up or anything. I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me you
r hand?" I was only horsing around, naturally. That stuff gives me a bang someti

mes. Besides, I know it annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out th
e 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 supp
orter 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 Str
adlater's bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the be
d.
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 sa

id.
"New York."
"How much?"
"A buck."
"You got robbed." He started cleaning his goddam fingernails with the en
d of a match. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. Hi
s teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but h
e was always cleaning his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very n
eat 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 s

hooting 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 sh
oot 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 th
e 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 sec
ond, 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 to
p of the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too. T
he second I opened the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket--in its wooden pr
ess 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 fa

lsetto 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 go
od sense of humor, Ackley kid," I told him. "You know that?" I handed him the sc
issors. "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 o
n 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 St

radlater 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 s
aid. I call people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing around. It keeps me f
rom 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 aske

d you about fifty--"
"He's got this goddam superior attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I d
on'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 tab
le? 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 Strad
later is because he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while. H

e didn't mean to insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anyt
hing, 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 n
asty, 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 r
ight 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 t
hat 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 y
ou 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 lo

usy father."
"No, you're not." Boy, he could really be aggravating sometimes. He neve
r 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 ove
r to me and gave me these two playful as hell slaps on both cheeks--which is som
ething that can be very annoying. 'Listen," he said. "You going out anywheres sp
ecial tonight?"

"I don't know. I might. What the hell's it doing out--snowing?" He had s
now all over his coat.
"Yeah. Listen. If you're not going out anyplace special, how 'bout lendi
ng 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 g
onna 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 a
ll," 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, Stradla
ter. It was partly a phony kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello t
o Ackley and all.
Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy?" He wouldn't answe
r 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 h
is own room.

Old Stradlater started taking off his coat and tie and all. "I think may
be 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 ki
t and towel under his arm. No shirt on or anything. He always walked around in h
is bare torso because he thought he had a damn good build. He did, too. I have t
o admit it.


4

I didn't have anything special to do, so I went down to the can and chew
ed the rag with him while he was shaving. We were the only ones in the can, beca
use everybody was still down at the game. It was hot as hell and the windows wer
e all steamy. There were about ten washbowls, all right against the wall. Stradl
ater had the middle one. I sat down on the one right next to him and started tur
ning the cold water on and off--this nervous habit I have. Stradlater kept whist
ling '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 h
ard to whistle even if you're a good whistler, like "Song of India" or "Slaughte

r 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 secr
et 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 goo
d when he was finished fixing himself up, but he was a secret slob anyway, if yo
u knew him the way I did. The reason he fixed himself up to look good was becaus
e 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 most

ly 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 handso
mer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw their pictures i
n 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 shavi
ng, sort of turning the water on and off. I still had my red hunting hat on, wit
h 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'r
e 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 d
on'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 on
ce 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 ro
yal 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 sonu
vabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in English, and he knows you're my roo
mmate. 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 basket

ball 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. A
ckley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that Coyle had a perfect build for bas
ketball. 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 amus
ing myself. I can't really tap-dance or anything, but it was a stone floor in th
e 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 shav

ing. 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 do
esn't want me to be a tap dancer. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in my go
ddam 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 o
f breath. I have hardly any wind at all. "The leading man can't go on. He's drun
k 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 mornin
g. 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 an
d sat down at the washbowl next to him again. "Who's your date?" I asked him. "F
itzgerald?"
"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 i
n 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 fee
l 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 lik
e horsing around. He was shaving and all. "Wuddaya wanna make me do--cut my godd
am head off?"

I didn't let go, though. I had a pretty good half nelson on him. "Libera
te yourself from my viselike grip." I said.
"Je-sus Christ." He put down his razor, and all of a sudden jerked his a
rms up and sort of broke my hold on him. He was a very strong guy. I'm a very we
ak guy. "Now, cut out the crap," he said. He started shaving himself all over ag
ain. 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 th
e washbowl next to him again. "That Phyllis Smith babe?"
"No. It was supposed to he, but the arrangements got all screwed up. I g

ot 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 t
hat. I damn near dropped dead. "You're damn right I know her. She practically li
ved right next door to me, the summer before last. She had this big damn Doberma
n 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 s
omething. Where is she? In the Annex?"
"Yeah."
"How'd she happen to mention me? Does she go to B.M. now? She said she m
ight go there. She said she might go to Shipley, too. I thought she went to Ship
ley. 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," Stra

dlater 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 tw
o hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all. She was w
orried that it might make her legs lousy--all thick and all. I used to play chec
kers 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 th
em all lined up in the back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the w
ay 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 t
imes. 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 so
me booze hound," I said. "Skinny guy with hairy legs. I remember him. He wore sh
orts all the time. Jane said he was supposed to be a playwright or some goddam t
hing, but all I ever saw him do was booze all the time and listen to every singl
e goddam mystery program on the radio. And run around the goddam house, naked. W

ith Jane around, and all."
"Yeah?" Stradlater said. That really interested him. About the booze hou
nd 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 co
uldn'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 s
teamy 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 do. "Did she enjoy the game?" I s
aid.
"Yeah, I guess so. I don't know."
"Did she tell you we used to play checkers all the time, or anything?"
"I don't know. For Chrissake, I only just met her," Stradlater said. He
was finished combing his goddam gorgeous hair. He was putting away all his crumb

s all," I said. I said it in this very sincere voice. "You're aces, Ackley kid,"
I said. "You know that?"
"Wise guy. Someday somebody's gonna bash your--"
I didn't even bother to listen to him. I shut the damn door and went out
in the corridor.
Everybody was asleep or out or home for the week end, and it was very, v
ery quiet and depressing in the corridor. There was this empty box of Kolynos to
othpaste outside Leahy and Hoffman's door, and while I walked down towards the s
tairs, I kept giving it a boot with this sheep-lined slipper I had on. What I th
ought I'd do, I thought I might go down and see what old Mal Brossard was doing.

But all of a sudden, I changed my mind. All of a sudden, I decided what I'd rea
lly do, I'd get the hell out of Pencey--right that same night and all. I mean no
t wait till Wednesday or anything. I just didn't want to hang around any more. I
t made me too sad and lonesome. So what I decided to do, I decided I'd take a ro
om in a hotel in New York--some very inexpensive hotel and all--and just take it
easy till Wednesday. Then, on Wednesday, I'd go home all rested up and feeling
swell. I figured my parents probably wouldn't get old Thurmer's letter saying I'
d been given the ax till maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. I didn't want to go home or
anything till they got it and thoroughly digested it and all. I didn't want to
be around when they first got it. My mother gets very hysterical. She's not too

bad after she gets something thoroughly digested, though. Besides, I sort of nee
ded a little vacation. My nerves were shot. They really were.
Anyway, that's what I decided I'd do. So I went back to the room and tur
ned on the light, to start packing and all. I already had quite a few things pac
ked. Old Stradlater didn't even wake up. I lit a cigarette and got all dressed a
nd then I packed these two Gladstones I have. It only took me about two minutes.
I'm a very rapid packer.
One thing about packing depressed me a little. I had to pack these brand
-new ice skates my mother had practically just sent me a couple of days before.
That depressed me. I could see my mother going in Spaulding's and asking the sal

esman a million dopy questions--and here I was getting the ax again. It made me
feel pretty sad. She bought me the wrong kind of skates--I wanted racing skates
and she bought hockey--but it made me sad anyway. Almost every time somebody giv
es me a present, it ends up making me sad.
After I got all packed, I sort of counted my dough. I don't remember exa
ctly how much I had, but I was pretty loaded. My grandmother'd just sent me a wa
d about a week before. I have this grandmother that's quite lavish with her doug
h. She doesn't have all her marbles any more--she's old as hell--and she keeps s
ending me money for my birthday about four times a year. Anyway, even though I w
as pretty loaded, I figured I could always use a few extra bucks. You never know

. So what I did was, I went down the hail and woke up Frederick Woodruff, this g
uy I'd lent my typewriter to. I asked him how much he'd give me for it. He was a
pretty wealthy guy. He said he didn't know. He said he didn't much want to buy
it. Finally he bought it, though. It cost about ninety bucks, and all he bought
it for was twenty. He was sore because I'd woke him up.
When I was all set to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a whil
e next to the stairs and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort o
f crying. I don't know why. I put my red hunting hat on, and turned the peak aro
und to the back, the way I liked it, and then I yelled at the top of my goddam v
oice, "Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole fl

oor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all over
the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck.


8

It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the whole
way to the station. It wasn't too far, but it was cold as hell, and the snow mad
e it hard for walking, and my Gladstones kept banging hell out of my legs. I sor
t of enjoyed the air and all, though. The only trouble was, the cold made my nos

e hurt, and right under my upper lip, where old Stradlater'd laid one on me. He'
d smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty sore. My ears were nice an
d warm, though. That hat I bought had earlaps in it, and I put them on--I didn't
give a damn how I looked. Nobody was around anyway. Everybody was in the sack.
I was quite lucky when I got to the station, because I only had to wait
about ten minutes for a train. While I waited, I got some snow in my hand and wa
shed my face with it. I still had quite a bit of blood on.
Usually I like riding on trains, especially at night, with the lights on
and the windows so black, and one of those guys coming up the aisle selling cof
fee and sandwiches and magazines. I usually buy a ham sandwich and about four ma

gazines. If I'm on a train at night, I can usually even read one of those dumb s
tories in a magazine without puking. You know. One of those stories with a lot o
f phony, lean-jawed guys named David in it, and a lot of phony girls named Linda
or Marcia that are always lighting all the goddam Davids' pipes for them. I can
even read one of those lousy stories on a train at night, usually. But this tim
e, it was different. I just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat and not did
anything. All I did was take off my hunting hat and put it in my pocket.
All of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to me. Pr
actically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and all, but she s
at down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she had this big bag with

her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck the bag right out in the mid
dle of the aisle, where the conductor and everybody could trip over it. She had
these orchids on, like she'd just been to a big party or something. She was arou
nd forty or forty-five, I guess, but she was very good looking. Women kill me. T
hey really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that--although I am q
uite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags ou
t in the middle of the aisle.
Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excu
se me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my suitcases
, up on the rack.

"Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker
on one of my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice teleph
one voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes t
o Pencey."
"Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pencey, in t
he whole crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, af

ter he'd had a shower, snapping his soggy old wet towel at people's asses. That'
s exactly the kind of a guy he was.
"Oh, how nice!" the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice and all.
"I must tell Ernest we met," she said. "May I ask your name, dear?"
"Rudolf Schmidt," I told her. I didn't feel like giving her my whole lif
e history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our dorm.
"Do you like Pencey?" she asked me.
"Pencey? It's not too bad. It's not paradise or anything, but it's as go
od as most schools. Some of the faculty are pretty conscientious."
"Ernest just adores it."

"I know he does," I said. Then I started shooting the old crap around a
little bit. "He adapts himself very well to things. He really does. I mean he re
ally knows how to adapt himself."
"Do you think so?" she asked me. She sounded interested as hell.
"Ernest? Sure," I said. Then I watched her take off her gloves. Boy, was
she lousy with rocks.
"I just broke a nail, getting out of a cab," she said. She looked up at
me and sort of smiled. She had a terrifically nice smile. She really did. Most p
eople have hardly any smile at all, or a lousy one. "Ernest's father and I somet
imes worry about him," she said. "We sometimes feel he's not a terribly good mix

er."
"How do you mean?"
"Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a terribly good
mixer with other boys. Perhaps he takes things a little more seriously than he
should at his age."
Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a g
oddam toilet seat.
I gave her a good look. She didn't look like any dope to me. She looked
like she might have a pretty damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of
. But you can't always tell--with somebody's mother, I mean. Mothers are all sli

ghtly insane. The thing is, though, I liked old Morrow's mother. She was all rig
ht. "Would you care for a cigarette?" I asked her.
She looked all around. "I don't believe this is a smoker, Rudolf," she s
aid. Rudolf. That killed me.
"That's all right. We can smoke till they start screaming at us," I said
. She took a cigarette off me, and I gave her a light.
She looked nice, smoking. She inhaled and all, but she didn't wolf the s
moke down, the way most women around her age do. She had a lot of charm. She had
quite a lot of sex appeal, too, if you really want to know.
She was looking at me sort of funny. I may be wrong but I believe your n

ose is bleeding, dear, she said, all of a sudden.
I nodded and took out my handkerchief. "I got hit with a snowball," I sa
id. "One of those very icy ones." I probably would've told her what really happe
ned, but it would've taken too long. I liked her, though. I was beginning to fee
l sort of sorry I'd told her my name was Rudolf Schmidt. "Old Ernie," I said. "H
e's one of the most popular boys at Pencey. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
I nodded. "It really took everybody quite a long time to get to know him
. He's a funny guy. A strange guy, in lots of ways--know what I mean? Like when
I first met him. When I first met him, I thought he was kind of a snobbish perso

n. That's what I thought. But he isn't. He's just got this very original persona
lity that takes you a little while to get to know him."
Old Mrs. Morrow didn't say anything, but boy, you should've seen her. I
had her glued to her seat. You take somebody's mother, all they want to hear abo
ut is what a hot-shot their son is.
Then I really started chucking the old crap around. "Did he tell you abo
ut the elections?" I asked her. "The class elections?"
She shook her head. I had her in a trance, like. I really did.
"Well, a bunch of us wanted old Ernie to be president of the class. I me
an he was the unanimous choice. I mean he was the only boy that could really han

dle the job," I said--boy, was I chucking it. "But this other boy--Harry Fencer-
-was elected. And the reason he was elected, the simple and obvious reason, was
because Ernie wouldn't let us nominate him. Because he's so darn shy and modest
and all. He refused. . . Boy, he's really shy. You oughta make him try to get ov
er that." I looked at her. "Didn't he tell you about it?"
"No, he didn't."
I nodded. "That's Ernie. He wouldn't. That's the one fault with him--he'
s too shy and modest. You really oughta get him to try to relax occasionally."
Right that minute, the conductor came around for old Mrs. Morrow's ticke
t, and it gave me a chance to quit shooting it. I'm glad I shot it for a while,

though. You take a guy like Morrow that's always snapping their towel at people'
s asses--really trying to hurt somebody with it--they don't just stay a rat whil
e they're a kid. They stay a rat their whole life. But I'll bet, after all the c
rap I shot, Mrs. Morrow'll keep thinking of him now as this very shy, modest guy
that wouldn't let us nominate him for president. She might. You can't tell. Mot
hers aren't too sharp about that stuff.
"Would you care for a cocktail?" I asked her. I was feeling in the mood
for one myself. "We can go in the club car. All right?"
"Dear, are you allowed to order drinks?" she asked me. Not snotty, thoug
h. She was too charming and all to be snotty.

"Well, no, not exactly, but I can usually get them on account of my heig
hth," I said. "And I have quite a bit of gray hair." I turned sideways and showe
d her my gray hair. It fascinated hell out of her. "C'mon, join me, why don't yo
u?" I said. I'd've enjoyed having her.
"I really don't think I'd better. Thank you so much, though, dear," she
said. "Anyway, the club car's most likely closed. It's quite late, you know." Sh
e was right. I'd forgotten all about what time it was.
Then she looked at me and asked me what I was afraid she was going to as
k me. "Ernest wrote that he'd be home on Wednesday, that Christmas vacation woul
d start on Wednesday," she said. "I hope you weren't called home suddenly becaus

e of illness in the family." She really looked worried about it. She wasn't just
being nosy, you could tell.
"No, everybody's fine at home," I said. "It's me. I have to have this op
eration."
"Oh! I'm so sorry," she said. She really was, too. I was right away sorr
y I'd said it, but it was too late.
"It isn't very serious. I have this tiny little tumor on the brain."
"Oh, no!" She put her hand up to her mouth and all. "Oh, I'll be all rig
ht and everything! It's right near the outside. And it's a very tiny one. They c
an take it out in about two minutes."

Then I started reading this timetable I had in my pocket. Just to stop l
ying. Once I get started, I can go on for hours if I feel like it. No kidding. H
ours.
We didn't talk too much after that. She started reading this Vogue she h
ad with her, and I looked out the window for a while. She got off at Newark. She
wished me a lot of luck with the operation and all. She kept calling me Rudolf.
Then she invited me to visit Ernie during the summer, at Gloucester, Massachuse
tts. She said their house was right on the beach, and they had a tennis court an
d all, but I just thanked her and told her I was going to South America with my
grandmother. Which was really a hot one, because my grandmother hardly ever even

goes out of the house, except maybe to go to a goddam matinee or something. But
I wouldn't visit that sonuvabitch Morrow for all the dough in the world, even i
f I was desperate.


9

The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Station, I went into this p
hone booth. I felt like giving somebody a buzz. I left my bags right outside the
booth so that I could watch them, but as soon as I was inside, I couldn't think

of anybody to call up. My brother D.B. was in Hollywood. My kid sister Phoebe g
oes to bed around nine o'clock--so I couldn't call her up. She wouldn't've cared
if I'd woke her up, but the trouble was, she wouldn't've been the one that answ
ered the phone. My parents would be the ones. So that was out. Then I thought of
giving Jane Gallagher's mother a buzz, and find out when Jane's vacation starte
d, but I didn't feel like it. Besides, it was pretty late to call up. Then I tho
ught of calling this girl I used to go around with quite frequently, Sally Hayes
, because I knew her Christmas vacation had started already--she'd written me th
is long, phony letter, inviting me over to help her trim the Christmas tree Chri
stmas Eve and all--but I was afraid her mother'd answer the phone. Her mother kn

ew my mother, and I could picture her breaking a goddam leg to get to the phone
and tell my mother I was in New York. Besides, I wasn't crazy about talking to o
ld Mrs. Hayes on the phone. She once told Sally I was wild. She said I was wild
and that I had no direction in life. Then I thought of calling up this guy that
went to the Whooton School when I was there, Carl Luce, but I didn't like him mu
ch. So I ended up not calling anybody. I came out of the booth, after about twen
ty minutes or so, and got my bags and walked over to that tunnel where the cabs
are and got a cab.
I'm so damn absent-minded, I gave the driver my regular address, just ou
t of habit and all--I mean I completely forgot I was going to shack up in a hote

l for a couple of days and not go home till vacation started. I didn't think of
it till we were halfway through the park. Then I said, "Hey, do you mind turning
around when you get a chance? I gave you the wrong address. I want to go back d
owntown."
The driver was sort of a wise guy. "I can't turn around here, Mac. This
here's a one-way. I'll have to go all the way to Ninedieth Street now."
I didn't want to start an argument. "Okay," I said. Then I thought of so
mething, all of a sudden. "Hey, listen," I said. "You know those ducks in that l
agoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you hap
pen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happe

n to know, by any chance?" I realized it was only one chance in a million.
He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman. "What're ya tryna
do, bud?" he said. "Kid me?"
"No--I was just interested, that's all."
He didn't say anything more, so I didn't either. Until we came out of th
e park at Ninetieth Street. Then he said, "All right, buddy. Where to?"
"Well, the thing is, I don't want to stay at any hotels on the East Side
where I might run into some acquaintances of mine. I'm traveling incognito," I
said. I hate saying corny things like "traveling incognito." But when I'm with s
omebody that's corny, I always act corny too. "Do you happen to know whose band'

s at the Taft or the New Yorker, by any chance?"
"No idear, Mac."
"Well--take me to the Edmont then," I said. "Would you care to stop on t
he way and join me for a cocktail? On me. I'm loaded."
"Can't do it, Mac. Sorry." He certainly was good company. Terrific perso
nality.
We got to the Edmont Hotel, and I checked in. I'd put on my red hunting
cap when I was in the cab, just for the hell of it, but I took it off before I c
hecked in. I didn't want to look like a screwball or something. Which is really
ironic. I didn't know then that the goddam hotel was full of perverts and morons

. Screwballs all over the place.
They gave me this very crumby room, with nothing to look out of the wind
ow at except the other side of the hotel. I didn't care much. I was too depresse
d to care whether I had a good view or not. The bellboy that showed me to the ro
om was this very old guy around sixty-five. He was even more depressing than the
room was. He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the
side to cover up the baldness. I'd rather be bald than do that. Anyway, what a g
orgeous job for a guy around sixty-five years old. Carrying people's suitcases a
nd waiting around for a tip. I suppose he wasn't too intelligent or anything, bu
t it was terrible anyway.

After he left, I looked out the window for a while, with my coat on and
all. I didn't have anything else to do. You'd be surprised what was going on on
the other side of the hotel. They didn't even bother to pull their shades down.
I saw one guy, a gray-haired, very distinguished-looking guy with only his short
s on, do something you wouldn't believe me if I told you. First he put his suitc
ase on the bed. Then he took out all these women's clothes, and put them on. Rea
l women's clothes--silk stockings, high-heeled shoes, brassiere, and one of thos
e corsets with the straps hanging down and all. Then he put on this very tight b
lack evening dress. I swear to God. Then he started walking up and down the room
, taking these very small steps, the way a woman does, and smoking a cigarette a

nd looking at himself in the mirror. He was all alone, too. Unless somebody was
in the bathroom--I couldn't see that much. Then, in the window almost right over
his, I saw a man and a woman squirting water out of their mouths at each other.
It probably was highballs, not water, but I couldn't see what they had in their
glasses. Anyway, first he'd take a swallow and squirt it all over her, then she
did it to him--they took turns, for God's sake. You should've seen them. They w
ere in hysterics the whole time, like it was the funniest thing that ever happen
ed. I'm not kidding, the hotel was lousy with perverts. I was probably the only
normal bastard in the whole place--and that isn't saying much. I damn near sent
a telegram to old Stradlater telling him to take the first train to New York. He

'd have been the king of the hotel.
The trouble was, that kind of junk is sort of fascinating to watch, even
if you don't want it to be. For instance, that girl that was getting water squi
rted all over her face, she was pretty good-looking. I mean that's my big troubl
e. In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw. Sometimes I can
think of very crumby stuff I wouldn't mind doing if the opportunity came up. I
can even see how it might be quite a lot of fun, in a crumby way, and if you wer
e both sort of drunk and all, to get a girl and squirt water or something all ov
er each other's face. The thing is, though, I don't like the idea. It stinks, if
you analyze it. I think if you don't really like a girl, you shouldn't horse ar

ound with her at all, and if you do like her, then you're supposed to like her f
ace, and if you like her face, you ought to be careful about doing crumby stuff
to it, like squirting water all over it. It's really too bad that so much crumby
stuff is a lot of fun sometimes. Girls aren't too much help, either, when you s
tart trying not to get too crumby, when you start trying not to spoil anything r
eally good. I knew this one girl, a couple of years ago, that was even crumbier
than I was. Boy, was she crumby! We had a lot of fun, though, for a while, in a
crumby way. Sex is something I really don't understand too hot. You never know w
here the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I b
reak them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing a

round with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though,
the same week I made it--the same night, as a matter of fact. I spent the whole
night necking with a terrible phony named Anne Louise Sherman. Sex is something
I just don't understand. I swear to God I don't.
I started toying with the idea, while I kept standing there, of giving o
ld Jane a buzz--I mean calling her long distance at B.M., where she went, instea
d of calling up her mother to find out when she was coming home. You weren't sup
posed to call students up late at night, but I had it all figured out. I was goi
ng to tell whoever answered the phone that I was her uncle. I was going to say h
er aunt had just got killed in a car accident and I had to speak to her immediat

ely. It would've worked, too. The only reason I didn't do it was because I wasn'
t in the mood. If you're not in the mood, you can't do that stuff right.
After a while I sat down in a chair and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I
was feeling pretty horny. I have to admit it. Then, all of a sudden, I got this
idea. I took out my wallet and started looking for this address a guy I met at
a party last summer, that went to Princeton, gave me. Finally I found it. It was
all a funny color from my wallet, but you could still read it. It was the addre
ss of this girl that wasn't exactly a whore or anything but that didn't mind doi
ng it once in a while, this Princeton guy told me. He brought her to a dance at
Princeton once, and they nearly kicked him out for bringing her. She used to be

a burlesque stripper or something. Anyway, I went over to the phone and gave her
a buzz. Her name was Faith Cavendish, and she lived at the Stanford Arms Hotel
on Sixty-fifth and Broadway. A dump, no doubt.
For a while, I didn t think she was home or something. Nobody kept answe
ring. Then, finally, somebody picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I said. I made my voice quite deep so that she wouldn't suspect
my age or anything. I have a pretty deep voice anyway.
"Hello," this woman's voice said. None too friendly, either.
"Is this Miss Faith Cavendish?"
"Who's this?" she said. "Who's calling me up at this crazy goddam hour?"

That sort of scared me a little bit. "Well, I know it's quite late," I s
aid, in this very mature voice and all. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I was ver
y anxious to get in touch with you." I said it suave as hell. I really did.
"Who is this?" she said.
"Well, you don't know me, but I'm a friend of Eddie Birdsell's. He sugge
sted that if I were in town sometime, we ought to get together for a cocktail or
two."
"Who? You're a friend of who?" Boy, she was a real tigress over the phon
e. She was damn near yelling at me.
"Edmund Birdsell. Eddie Birdsell," I said. I couldn't remember if his na

me was Edmund or Edward. I only met him once, at a goddam stupid party.
"I don't know anybody by that name, Jack. And if you think I enjoy bein'
woke up in the middle--"
"Eddie Birdsell? From Princeton?" I said.
You could tell she was running the name over in her mind and all.
"Birdsell, Birdsell. . . from Princeton.. . Princeton College?"
"That's right," I said.
"You from Princeton College?"
"Well, approximately."
"Oh. . . How is Eddie?" she said. "This is certainly a peculiar time to

call a person up, though. Jesus Christ."
"He's fine. He asked to be remembered to you."
"Well, thank you. Remember me to him," she said. "He's a grand person. W
hat's he doing now?" She was getting friendly as hell, all of a sudden.
"Oh, you know. Same old stuff," I said. How the hell did I know what he
was doing? I hardly knew the guy. I didn't even know if he was still at Princeto
n. "Look," I said. "Would you be interested in meeting me for a cocktail somewhe
re?"
"By any chance do you have any idea what time it is?" she said. "What's
your name, anyhow, may I ask?" She was getting an English accent, all of a sudde

n. "You sound a little on the young side."
I laughed. "Thank you for the compliment," I said-- suave as hell. "Hold
en Caulfield's my name." I should've given her a phony name, but I didn't think
of it.
"Well, look, Mr. Cawffle. I'm not in the habit of making engagements in
the middle of the night. I'm a working gal."
"Tomorrow's Sunday," I told her.
"Well, anyway. I gotta get my beauty sleep. You know how it is."
"I thought we might have just one cocktail together. It isn't too late."
"Well. You're very sweet," she said. "Where ya callin' from? Where ya at

now, anyways?"
"Me? I'm in a phone booth."
"Oh," she said. Then there was this very long pause. "Well, I'd like awf
ully to get together with you sometime, Mr. Cawffle. You sound very attractive.
You sound like a very attractive person. But it is late."
"I could come up to your place."
"Well, ordinary, I'd say grand. I mean I'd love to have you drop up for
a cocktail, but my roommate happens to be ill. She's been laying here all night
without a wink of sleep. She just this minute closed her eyes and all. I mean."
"Oh. That's too bad."

"Where ya stopping at? Perhaps we could get together for cocktails tomor
row."
"I can't make it tomorrow," I said. "Tonight's the only time I can make
it." What a dope I was. I shouldn't've said that.
"Oh. Well, I'm awfully sorry."
"I'll say hello to Eddie for you."
"Willya do that? I hope you enjoy your stay in New York. It's a grand pl
ace."
"I know it is. Thanks. Good night," I said. Then I hung up.
Boy, I really fouled that up. I should've at least made it for cocktails

or something.


10

It was still pretty early. I'm not sure what time it was, but it wasn't
too late. The one thing I hate to do is go to bed when I'm not even tired. So I
opened my suitcases and took out a clean shirt, and then I went in the bathroom
and washed and changed my shirt. What I thought I'd do, I thought I'd go downsta
irs and see what the hell was going on in the Lavender Room. They had this night

club, the Lavender Room, in the hotel.
While I was changing my shirt, I damn near gave my kid sister Phoebe a b
uzz, though. I certainly felt like talking to her on the phone. Somebody with se
nse and all. But I couldn't take a chance on giving her a buzz, because she was
only a little kid and she wouldn't have been up, let alone anywhere near the pho
ne. I thought of maybe hanging up if my parents answered, but that wouldn't've w
orked, either. They'd know it was me. My mother always knows it's me. She's psyc
hic. But I certainly wouldn't have minded shooting the crap with old Phoebe for
a while.
You should see her. You never saw a little kid so pretty and smart in yo

ur whole life. She's really smart. I mean she's had all A's ever since she start
ed school. As a matter of fact, I'm the only dumb one in the family. My brother
D.B.'s a writer and all, and my brother Allie, the one that died, that I told yo
u about, was a wizard. I'm the only really dumb one. But you ought to see old Ph
oebe. She has this sort of red hair, a little bit like Allie's was, that's very
short in the summertime. In the summertime, she sticks it behind her ears. She h
as nice, pretty little ears. In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though. Someti
mes my mother braids it and sometimes she doesn't. It's really nice, though. She
's only ten. She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny. Roller-skate skinny.
I watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to go

to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny. You'd like her. I mea
n if you tell old Phoebe something, she knows exactly what the hell you're talki
ng about. I mean you can even take her anywhere with you. If you take her to a l
ousy movie, for instance, she knows it's a lousy movie. If you take her to a pre
tty good movie, she knows it's a pretty good movie. D.B. and I took her to see t
his French movie, The Baker's Wife, with Raimu in it. It killed her. Her favorit
e is The 39 Steps, though, with Robert Donat. She knows the whole goddam movie b
y heart, because I've taken her to see it about ten times. When old Donat comes
up to this Scotch farmhouse, for instance, when he's running away from the cops
and all, Phoebe'll say right out loud in the movie--right when the Scotch guy in

the picture says it--"Can you eat the herring?" She knows all the talk by heart
. And when this professor in the picture, that's really a German spy, sticks up
his little finger with part of the middle joint missing, to show Robert Donat, o
ld Phoebe beats him to it--she holds up her little finger at me in the dark, rig
ht in front of my face. She's all right. You'd like her. The only trouble is, sh
e's a little too affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional, for a child. She
really is. Something else she does, she writes books all the time. Only, she doe
sn't finish them. They're all about some kid named Hazel Weatherfield--only old
Phoebe spells it "Hazle." Old Hazle Weatherfield is a girl detective. She's supp
osed to be an orphan, but her old man keeps showing up. Her old man's always a "

tall attractive gentleman about 20 years of age." That kills me. Old Phoebe. I s
wear to God you'd like her. She was smart even when she was a very tiny little k
id. When she was a very tiny little kid, I and Allie used to take her to the par
k with us, especially on Sundays. Allie had this sailboat he used to like to foo
l around with on Sundays, and we used to take old Phoebe with us. She'd wear whi
te gloves and walk right between us, like a lady and all. And when Allie and I w
ere having some conversation about things in general, old Phoebe'd be listening.
Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a little kid, but s
he'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd give Allie or I a pus
h or something, and say, "Who? Who said that? Bobby or the lady?" And we'd tell

her who said it, and she'd say, "Oh," and go right on listening and all. She kil
led Allie, too. I mean he liked her, too. She's ten now, and not such a tiny lit
tle kid any more, but she still kills everybody--everybody with any sense, anywa
y.
Anyway, she was somebody you always felt like talking to on the phone. B
ut I was too afraid my parents would answer, and then they'd find out I was in N
ew York and kicked out of Pencey and all. So I just finished putting on my shirt
. Then I got all ready and went down in the elevator to the lobby to see what wa
s going on.
Except for a few pimpy-looking guys, and a few whory-looking blondes, th

e lobby was pretty empty. But you could hear the band playing in the Lavender Ro
om, and so I went in there. It wasn't very crowded, but they gave me a lousy tab
le anyway--way in the back. I should've waved a buck under the head-waiter's nos
e. In New York, boy, money really talks--I'm not kidding.
The band was putrid. Buddy Singer. Very brassy, but not good brassy--cor
ny brassy. Also, there were very few people around my age in the place. In fact,
nobody was around my age. They were mostly old, show-offy-looking guys with the
ir dates. Except at the table right next to me. At the table right next to me, t
here were these three girls around thirty or so. The whole three of them were pr
etty ugly, and they all had on the kind of hats that you knew they didn't really

live in New York, but one of them, the blonde one, wasn't too bad. She was sort
of cute, the blonde one, and I started giving her the old eye a little bit, but
just then the waiter came up for my order. I ordered a Scotch and soda, and tol
d him not to mix it--I said it fast as hell, because if you hem and haw, they th
ink you're under twenty-one and won't sell you any intoxicating liquor. I had tr
ouble with him anyway, though. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but do you have some
verification of your age? Your driver's license, perhaps?"
I gave him this very cold stare, like he'd insulted the hell out of me,
and asked him, "Do I look like I'm under twenty-one?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we have our--"

"Okay, okay," I said. I figured the hell with it. "Bring me a Coke." He
started to go away, but I called him back. "Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or
something?" I asked him. I asked him very nicely and all. "I can't sit in a cor
ny place like this cold sober. Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or something?"
"I'm very sorry, sir. . ." he said, and beat it on me. I didn't hold it
against him, though. They lose their jobs if they get caught selling to a minor.
I'm a goddam minor.
I started giving the three witches at the next table the eye again. That
is, the blonde one. The other two were strictly from hunger. I didn't do it cru
dely, though. I just gave all three of them this very cool glance and all. What

they did, though, the three of them, when I did it, they started giggling like m
orons. They probably thought I was too young to give anybody the once-over. That
annoyed hell out of me-- you'd've thought I wanted to marry them or something.
I should've given them the freeze, after they did that, but the trouble was, I r
eally felt like dancing. I'm very fond of dancing, sometimes, and that was one o
f the times. So all of a sudden, I sort of leaned over and said, "Would any of y
ou girls care to dance?" I didn't ask them crudely or anything. Very suave, in f
act. But God damn it, they thought that was a panic, too. They started giggling
some more. I'm not kidding, they were three real morons. "C'mon," I said. "I'll
dance with you one at a time. All right? How 'bout it? C'mon!" I really felt lik

e dancing.
Finally, the blonde one got up to dance with me, because you could tell
I was really talking to her, and we walked out to the dance floor. The other two
grools nearly had hysterics when we did. I certainly must've been very hard up
to even bother with any of them.
But it was worth it. The blonde was some dancer. She was one of the best
dancers I ever danced with. I'm not kidding, some of these very stupid girls ca
n really knock you out on a dance floor. You take a really smart girl, and half
the time she's trying to lead you around the dance floor, or else she's such a l
ousy dancer, the best thing to do is stay at the table and just get drunk with h

er.
"You really can dance," I told the blonde one. "You oughta be a pro. I m
ean it. I danced with a pro once, and you're twice as good as she was. Did you e
ver hear of Marco and Miranda?"
"What?" she said. She wasn't even listening to me. She was looking all a
round the place.
"I said did you ever hear of Marco and Miranda?"
"I don't know. No. I don't know."
"Well, they're dancers, she's a dancer. She's not too hot, though. She d
oes everything she's supposed to, but she's not so hot anyway. You know when a g

irl's really a terrific dancer?"
"Wudga say?" she said. She wasn't listening to me, even. Her mind was wa
ndering all over the place.
"I said do you know when a girl's really a terrific dancer?"
"Uh-uh."
"Well--where I have my hand on your back. If I think there isn't anythin
g underneath my hand--no can, no legs, no feet, no anything--then the girl's rea
lly a terrific dancer."
She wasn't listening, though. So I ignored her for a while. We just danc
ed. God, could that dopey girl dance. Buddy Singer and his stinking band was pla

ying "Just One of Those Things" and even they couldn't ruin it entirely. It's a
swell song. I didn't try any trick stuff while we danced--I hate a guy that does
a lot of show-off tricky stuff on the dance floor--but I was moving her around
plenty, and she stayed with me. The funny thing is, I thought she was enjoying i
t, too, till all of a sudden she came out with this very dumb remark. "I and my
girl friends saw Peter Lorre last night," she said. "The movie actor. In person.
He was buyin' a newspaper. He's cute."
"You're lucky," I told her. "You're really lucky. You know that?" She wa
s really a moron. But what a dancer. I could hardly stop myself from sort of giv
ing her a kiss on the top of her dopey head--you know-- right where the part is,

and all. She got sore when I did it.
"Hey! What's the idea?"
"Nothing. No idea. You really can dance," I said. "I have a kid sister t
hat's only in the goddam fourth grade. You're about as good as she is, and she c
an dance better than anybody living or dead."
"Watch your language, if you don't mind."
What a lady, boy. A queen, for Chrissake.
"Where you girls from?" I asked her.
She didn't answer me, though. She was busy looking around for old Peter
Lorre to show up, I guess.

"Where you girls from?" I asked her again.
"What?" she said.
"Where you girls from? Don't answer if you don't feel like it. I don't w
ant you to strain yourself."
"Seattle, Washington," she said. She was doing me a big favor to tell me
.
"You're a very good conversationalist," I told her. "You know that?"
"What?"
I let it drop. It was over her head, anyway. "Do you feel like jitterbug
ging a little bit, if they play a fast one? Not corny jitterbug, not jump or any

thing--just nice and easy. Everybody'll all sit down when they play a fast one,
except the old guys and the fat guys, and we'll have plenty of room. Okay?"
"It's immaterial to me," she said. "Hey--how old are you, anyhow?"
That annoyed me, for some reason. "Oh, Christ. Don't spoil it," I said.
"I'm twelve, for Chrissake. I'm big for my age."
"Listen. I toleja about that. I don't like that type language," she said
. "If you're gonna use that type language, I can go sit down with my girl friend
s, you know."
I apologized like a madman, because the band was starting a fast one. Sh
e started jitterbugging with me-- but just very nice and easy, not corny. She wa

s really good. All you had to do was touch her. And when she turned around, her
pretty little butt twitched so nice and all. She knocked me out. I mean it. I wa
s half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. E
very time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even
if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never
know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They
really can.
They didn't invite me to sit down at their table-- mostly because they w
ere too ignorant--but I sat down anyway. The blonde I'd been dancing with's name
was Bernice something--Crabs or Krebs. The two ugly ones' names were Marty and

Laverne. I told them my name was Jim Steele, just for the hell of it. Then I tri
ed to get them in a little intelligent conversation, but it was practically impo
ssible. You had to twist their arms. You could hardly tell which was the stupide
st of the three of them. And the whole three of them kept looking all around the
goddam room, like as if they expected a flock of goddam movie stars to come in
any minute. They probably thought movie stars always hung out in the Lavender Ro
om when they came to New York, instead of the Stork Club or El Morocco and all.
Anyway, it took me about a half hour to find out where they all worked and all i
n Seattle. They all worked in the same insurance office. I asked them if they li
ked it, but do you think you could get an intelligent answer out of those three

dopes? I thought the two ugly ones, Marty and Laverne, were sisters, but they go
t very insulted when I asked them. You could tell neither one of them wanted to
look like the other one, and you couldn't blame them, but it was very amusing an
yway.
I danced with them all--the whole three of them--one at a time. The one
ugly one, Laverne, wasn't too bad a dancer, but the other one, old Marty, was mu
rder. Old Marty was like dragging the Statue of Liberty around the floor. The on
ly way I could even half enjoy myself dragging her around was if I amused myself
a little. So I told her I just saw Gary Cooper, the movie star, on the other si
de of the floor.

"Where?" she asked me--excited as hell. "Where?"
"Aw, you just missed him. He just went out. Why didn't you look when I t
old you?"
She practically stopped dancing, and started looking over everybody's he
ads to see if she could see him. "Oh, shoot!" she said. I'd just about broken he
r heart-- I really had. I was sorry as hell I'd kidded her. Some people you shou
ldn't kid, even if they deserve it.
Here's what was very funny, though. When we got back to the table, old M
arty told the other two that Gary Cooper had just gone out. Boy, old Laverne and
Bernice nearly committed suicide when they heard that. They got all excited and

asked Marty if she'd seen him and all. Old Mart said she'd only caught a glimps
e of him. That killed me.
The bar was closing up for the night, so I bought them all two drinks ap
iece quick before it closed, and I ordered two more Cokes for myself. The goddam
table was lousy with glasses. The one ugly one, Laverne, kept kidding me becaus
e I was only drinking Cokes. She had a sterling sense of humor. She and old Mart
y were drinking Tom Collinses--in the middle of December, for God's sake. They d
idn't know any better. The blonde one, old Bernice, was drinking bourbon and wat
er. She was really putting it away, too. The whole three of them kept looking fo
r movie stars the whole time. They hardly talked--even to each other. Old Marty

talked more than the other two. She kept saying these very corny, boring things,
like calling the can the "little girls' room," and she thought Buddy Singer's p
oor old beat-up clarinet player was really terrific when he stood up and took a
couple of ice-cold hot licks. She called his clarinet a "licorice stick." Was sh
e corny. The other ugly one, Laverne, thought she was a very witty type. She kep
t asking me to call up my father and ask him what he was doing tonight. She kept
asking me if my father had a date or not. Four times she asked me that--she was
certainly witty. Old Bernice, the blonde one, didn't say hardly anything at all
. Every time I'd ask her something, she said "What?" That can get on your nerves
after a while.

All of a sudden, when they finished their drink, all three of them stood
up on me and said they had to get to bed. They said they were going to get up e
arly to see the first show at Radio City Music Hall. I tried to get them to stic
k around for a while, but they wouldn't. So we said good-by and all. I told them
I'd look them up in Seattle sometime, if I ever got there, but I doubt if I eve
r will. Look them up, I mean.
With cigarettes and all, the check came to about thirteen bucks. I think
they should've at least offered to pay for the drinks they had before I joined
them--I wouldn't've let them, naturally, but they should've at least offered. I
didn't care much, though. They were so ignorant, and they had those sad, fancy h

ats on and all. And that business about getting up early to see the first show a
t Radio City Music Hall depressed me. If somebody, some girl in an awful-looking
hat, for instance, comes all the way to New York--from Seattle, Washington, for
God's sake--and ends up getting up early in the morning to see the goddam first
show at Radio City Music Hall, it makes me so depressed I can't stand it. I'd'v
e bought the whole three of them a hundred drinks if only they hadn't told me th
at.
I left the Lavender Room pretty soon after they did. They were closing i
t up anyway, and the band had quit a long time ago. In the first place, it was o
ne of those places that are very terrible to be in unless you have somebody good

to dance with, or unless the waiter lets you buy real drinks instead of just Co
kes. There isn't any night club in the world you can sit in for a long time unle
ss you can at least buy some liquor and get drunk. Or unless you're with some gi
rl that really knocks you out.


11

All of a sudden, on my way out to the lobby, I got old Jane Gallagher on
the brain again. I got her on, and I couldn't get her off. I sat down in this v

omity-looking chair in the lobby and thought about her and Stradlater sitting in
that goddam Ed Banky's car, and though I was pretty damn sure old Stradlater ha
dn't given her the time--I know old Jane like a book--I still couldn't get her o
ff my brain. I knew her like a book. I really did. I mean, besides checkers, she
was quite fond of all athletic sports, and after I got to know her, the whole s
ummer long we played tennis together almost every morning and golf almost every
afternoon. I really got to know her quite intimately. I don't mean it was anythi
ng physical or anything--it wasn't--but we saw each other all the time. You don'
t always have to get too sexy to get to know a girl.
The way I met her, this Doberman pinscher she had used to come over and

relieve himself on our lawn, and my mother got very irritated about it. She call
ed up Jane's mother and made a big stink about it. My mother can make a very big
stink about that kind of stuff. Then what happened, a couple of days later I sa
w Jane laying on her stomach next to the swimming pool, at the club, and I said
hello to her. I knew she lived in the house next to ours, but I'd never converse
d with her before or anything. She gave me the big freeze when I said hello that
day, though. I had a helluva time convincing her that I didn't give a good godd
am where her dog relieved himself. He could do it in the living room, for all I
cared. Anyway, after that, Jane and I got to be friends and all. I played golf w
ith her that same afternoon. She lost eight balls, I remember. Eight. I had a te

rrible time getting her to at least open her eyes when she took a swing at the b
all. I improved her game immensely, though. I'm a very good golfer. If I told yo
u what I go around in, you probably wouldn't believe me. I almost was once in a
movie short, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I figured that anybody th
at hates the movies as much as I do, I'd be a phony if I let them stick me in a
movie short.
She was a funny girl, old Jane. I wouldn't exactly describe her as stric
tly beautiful. She knocked me out, though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mea
n when she was talking and she got excited about something, her mouth sort of we
nt in about fifty directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never re

ally closed it all the way, her mouth. It was always just a little bit open, esp
ecially when she got in her golf stance, or when she was reading a book. She was
always reading, and she read very good books. She read a lot of poetry and all.
She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever showed Allie's baseball mi
tt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or anything, beca
use that was her first summer in Maine--before that, she went to Cape Cod--but I
told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in that kind of stuff.
My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother always thought Jane
and her mother were sort of snubbing her or something when they didn't say hell
o. My mother saw them in the village a lot, because Jane used to drive to market

with her mother in this LaSalle convertible they had. My mother didn't think Ja
ne was pretty, even. I did, though. I just liked the way she looked, that's all.
I remember this one afternoon. It was the only time old Jane and I ever
got close to necking, even. It was a Saturday and it was raining like a bastard
out, and I was over at her house, on the porch--they had this big screened-in po
rch. We were playing checkers. I used to kid her once in a while because she wou
ldn't take her kings out of the back row. But I didn't kid her much, though. You
never wanted to kid Jane too much. I think I really like it best when you can k
id the pants off a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a funny thing. The
girls I like best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I thin

k they'd like it if you kidded them--in fact, I know they would--but it's hard t
o get started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them.
Anyway, I was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to necking.
It was raining like hell and we were out on her porch, and all of a sudden this
booze hound her mother was married to came out on the porch and asked Jane if t
here were any cigarettes in the house. I didn't know him too well or anything, b
ut he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't talk to you much unless he wante
d something off you. He had a lousy personality. Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answe
r him when he asked her if she knew where there was any cigarettes. So the guy a
sked her again, but she still wouldn't answer him. She didn't even look up from

the game. Finally the guy went inside the house. When he did, I asked Jane what
the hell was going on. She wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like she
was concentrating on her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, th
is tear plopped down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares--boy, I can
still see it. She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know wh
y, but it bothered hell out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her m
ove over on the glider so that I could sit down next to her--I practically sat d
own in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she really started to cry, and the nex
t thing I knew, I was kissing her all over--anywhere--her eyes, her nose, her fo
rehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears--her whole face except her mouth and all.

She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it was the closest we eve
r got to necking. After a while, she got up and went in and put on this red and
white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and we went to a goddam movie. I ask
ed her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy--that was the booze hound's name--had ever tri
ed to get wise with her. She was pretty young, but she had this terrific figure,
and I wouldn't've put it past that Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never
did find out what the hell was the matter. Some girls you practically never fin
d out what's the matter.
I don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, j
ust because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with

her all the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but sh
e was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their
goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hand
all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or something. Jane was dif
ferent. We'd get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we'd start hol
ding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie was over. And without changing t
he position or making a big deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, w
hether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really
were.
One other thing I just thought of. One time, in this movie, Jane did som

ething that just about knocked me out. The newsreel was on or something, and all
of a sudden I felt this hand on the back of my neck, and it was Jane's. It was
a funny thing to do. I mean she was quite young and all, and most girls if you s
ee them putting their hand on the back of somebody's neck, they're around twenty
-five or thirty and usually they're doing it to their husband or their little ki
d--I do it to my kid sister Phoebe once in a while, for instance. But if a girl'
s quite young and all and she does it, it's so pretty it just about kills you.
Anyway, that's what I was thinking about while I sat in that vomity-look
ing chair in the lobby. Old Jane. Every time I got to the part about her out wit
h Stradlater in that damn Ed Banky's car, it almost drove me crazy. I knew she w

ouldn't let him get to first base with her, but it drove me crazy anyway. I don'
t even like to talk about it, if you want to know the truth.
There was hardly anybody in the lobby any more. Even all the whory-looki
ng blondes weren't around any more, and all of a sudden I felt like getting the
hell out of the place. It was too depressing. And I wasn't tired or anything. So
I went up to my room and put on my coat. I also took a look out the window to s
ee if all the perverts were still in action, but the lights and all were out now
. I went down in the elevator again and got a cab and told the driver to take me
down to Ernie's. Ernie's is this night club in Greenwich Village that my brothe
r D.B. used to go to quite frequently before he went out to Hollywood and prosti

tuted himself. He used to take me with him once in a while. Ernie's a big fat co
lored guy that plays the piano. He's a terrific snob and he won't hardly even ta
lk to you unless you're a big shot or a celebrity or something, but he can reall
y play the piano. He's so good he's almost corny, in fact. I don't exactly know
what I mean by that, but I mean it. I certainly like to hear him play, but somet
imes you feel like turning his goddam piano over. I think it's because sometimes
when he plays, he sounds like the kind of guy that won't talk to you unless you
're a big shot.

12

The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed
his cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late
at night. What made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it
was Saturday night. I didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you
just saw a man and a girl crossing a street, with their arms around each other's
waists and all, or a bunch of hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of the
m laughing like hyenas at something you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terri
ble when somebody laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for m

iles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go hom
e and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally, after I was ridin
g a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name was H
orwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I though
t maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Do
wn by Central Park South?"
"The what?"
"The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You kno
w."

"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and
all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?"
"Where who goes?"
"The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around
in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves--
go south or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very im
patient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I know?" he
said. "How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"

"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or somethi
ng.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore."
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was going to get so damn
touchy about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way arou
nd again, and said, "The fish don't go no place. They stay right where they are,
the fish. Right in the goddam lake."
"The fish--that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about th
e ducks," I said.
"What's different about it? Nothin's different about it," Horwitz said.

Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's tougher for the fish,
the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for
Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute. Then I said, "All right. What
do they do, the fish and all, when that whole little lake's a solid block of ice
, people skating on it and all?"
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 lamppos
t or something. "They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chris
sake. 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 ic
e. 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 brough
t 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 th
ink 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 mad
e 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 e
arlier for Christmas vacation than the schools I go to. You could hardly check y
our coat, it was so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was play

ing 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 wa
iting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a loo
k 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, wh

en he was finished. You would've puked. They went mad. They were exactly the sam
e 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 t
hought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. Pe
ople 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 thei
r heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humb
le bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano p
layer. It was very phony--I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny w
ay, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don't even thin

k he knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't all his fault. I pa
rtly 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 an
d I didn't feel much like being all alone.
They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall and beh
ind a goddam post, where you couldn't see anything. It was one of those tiny lit
tle 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 or
dered a Scotch and soda, which is my favorite drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. I

f 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, ri
ght to my left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy and t
his funny-looking girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little older. I
t was funny. You could see they were being careful as hell not to drink up the m
inimum 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 s
een 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 h
is date wasn't even interested in the goddam game, but she was even funnier-look
ing 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, especiall
y 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 w
as this very Joe Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those flitt
y-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 Yal

e-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with him. Boy, she was good-looking. B
ut you should've heard the conversation they were having. In the first place, th
ey 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." Im
agine 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 ther
e 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 dri
nk. 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!" H
er name was Lillian Simmons. My brother D.B. used to go around with her for a wh
ile. 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 c
ould tell she thought it was a big deal, his being in Hollywood. Almost everybod
y 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 Li
llian asked me. She was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You c
ould tell she liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for he
r to move out of the way, but she didn't even notice him. It was funny. You coul
d 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, b
aby?" she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn't even tell me to sit do
wn. 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 t
ell 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 so
mebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say tha

t stuff, though.
After I'd told her I had to meet somebody, I didn't have any goddam choi
ce except to leave. I couldn't even stick around to hear old Ernie play somethin
g halfway decent. But I certainly wasn't going to sit down at a table with old L
illian Simmons and that Navy guy and be bored to death. So I left. It made me ma
d, 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 did
n'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 ridi
ng 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 o
ut 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 hand

s were freezing. Not that I'd have done much about it even if I had known. I'm o
ne 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 clo
set 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 su
ppose these are your goddam gloves?" Then the crook probably would've given me t
his 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 probab
ly would've just stood there for about five minutes. I'd have the damn gloves ri
ght in my hand and all, but I'd feel I ought to sock the guy in the jaw or somet
hing--break his goddam jaw. Only, I wouldn't have the guts to do it. I'd just st
and there, trying to look tough. What I might do, I might say something very cut
ting 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 s
aying, "You're goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!" all I probably wou
ld've said would be, "All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshe

s." Right away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn't going to take a s
ock 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 anybo
dy a thief. All I know is my gloves were in your goddam galoshes." It could go o
n 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 my
self getting tough in the mirror. Anyway, that's what I thought about the whole
way back to the hotel. It's no fun to he 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 g
ive much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never car

e 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 a
ll. If you're supposed to sock somebody in the jaw, and you sort of feel like do
ing 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 st
and 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 y
ou 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 l
ast one. One thing I have, it's a terrific capacity. I can drink all night and n
ot 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 eve
n show it. I just got very cool and nonchalant. I puked before I went to bed, bu

t 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 stin
king 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. Depre
ssed and all. I almost wished I was dead.
Then, all of a sudden, I got in this big mess.

ロックフェラーの事言えば良いのに。あいつが元凶なんだから。それと日本のメディアはあいつのこと流せ。

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 anyth
ing.
"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 b

ucks the whole night." He looked at his wrist watch. "Till noon. Five bucks a th
row, 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 twent
y-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 girl up in about fifteen minutes." He opened the door
s 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 co
mb 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, b
ut 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 kno
w the truth, I'm a virgin. I really am. I've had quite a few opportunities to lo
se my virginity and all, but I've never got around to it yet. Something always h
appens. 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

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, b
ut 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 kno
w the truth, I'm a virgin. I really am. I've had quite a few opportunities to lo
se my virginity and all, but I've never got around to it yet. Something always h
appens. 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 m
ean--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. An
yway, 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 d
on't even remember what any more. The thing is, most of the time when you're com
ing pretty close to doing it with a girl--a girl that isn't a prostitute or anyt
hing, I mean--she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Mos
t guys don't. I can't help it. You never know whether they really want you to st
op, 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 a
lways wish I hadn't, after I take them home, but I keep doing it anyway.
Anyway, while I was putting on another clean shirt, I sort of figured th
is was my big chance, in a way. I figured if she was a prostitute and all, I cou
ld get in some practice on her, in case I ever get married or anything. I worry
about that stuff sometimes. I read this book once, at the Whooton School, that h

ad this very sophisticated, suave, sexy guy in it. Monsieur Blanchard was his na
me, I can still remember. It was a lousy book, but this Blanchard guy was pretty
good. He had this big ch?teau and all on the Riviera, in Europe, and all he did
in his spare time was beat women off with a club. He was a real rake and all, b
ut he knocked women out. He said, in this one part, that a woman's body is like
a violin and all, and that it takes a terrific musician to play it right. It was
a very corny book--I realize that--but I couldn't get that violin stuff out of
my mind anyway. In a way, that's why I sort of wanted to get some practice in, i
n case I ever get married. Caulfield and his Magic Violin, boy. It's corny, I re
alize, but it isn't too corny. I wouldn't mind being pretty good at that stuff.

Half the time, if you really want to know the truth, when I'm horsing around wit
h a girl, I have a helluva lot of trouble just finding what I'm looking for, for
God's sake, if you know what I mean. Take this girl that I just missed having s
exual intercourse with, that I told you about. It took me about an hour to just
get her goddam brassiere off. By the time I did get it off, she was about ready
to spit in my eye.
Anyway, I kept walking around the room, waiting for this prostitute to s
how up. I kept hoping she'd be good-looking. I didn't care too much, though. I s
ort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked on the door, a
nd when I went to open it, I had my suitcase right in the way and I fell over it

and damn near broke my knee. I always pick a gorgeous time to fall over a suitc
ase or something.
When I opened the door, this prostitute was standing there. She had a po
lo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of a blonde, but you could tell she dyed he
r hair. She wasn't any old bag, though. "How do you do," I said. Suave as hell,
boy.
"You the guy Maurice said?" she asked me. She didn't seem too goddam fri
endly.
"Is he the elevator boy?"
"Yeah," she said.

"Yes, I am. Come in, won't you?" I said. I was getting more and more non
chalant as it went along. I really was.
She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on t
he bed. She had on a green dress underneath. Then she sort of sat down sideways
on the chair that went with the desk in the room and started jiggling her foot u
p and down. She crossed her legs and started jiggling this one foot up and down.
She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was because
she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in the big chair, next
to her, and offered her a cigarette. "I don't smoke," she said. She had a tiny l
ittle wheeny-whiny voice. You could hardly hear her. She never said thank you, e

ither, when you offered her something. She just didn't know any better.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele," I said.
"Ya got a watch on ya?" she said. She didn't care what the hell my name
was, naturally. "Hey, how old are you, anyways?"
"Me? Twenty-two."
"Like fun you are."
It was a funny thing to say. It sounded like a real kid. You'd think a p
rostitute and all would say "Like hell you are" or "Cut the crap" instead of "Li
ke fun you are."
"How old are you?" I asked her.

"Old enough to know better," she said. She was really witty. "Ya got a w
atch on ya?" she asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her dress over
her head.
I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden
and all. I know you're supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and p
ulls their dress over their head, but I didn't. Sexy was about the last thing I
was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.
"Ya got a watch on ya, hey?"
"No. No, I don't," I said. Boy, was I feeling peculiar. "What's your nam
e?" I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarras

sing. It really was.
"Sunny," she said. "Let's go, hey."
"Don't you feel like talking for a while?" I asked her. It was a childis
h thing to say, but I was feeling so damn peculiar. "Are you in a very big hurry
?"
She looked at me like I was a madman. "What the heck ya wanna talk about
?" she said.
"I don't know. Nothing special. I just thought perhaps you might care to
chat for a while."
She sat down in the chair next to the desk again. She didn't like it, th

ough, you could tell. She started jiggling her foot again--boy, she was a nervou
s girl.
"Would you care for a cigarette now?" I said. I forgot she didn't smoke.
"I don't smoke. Listen, if you're gonna talk, do it. I got things to do.
"
I couldn't think of anything to talk about, though. I thought of asking
her how she got to be a prostitute and all, but I was scared to ask her. She pro
bably wouldn't've told me anyway.
"You don't come from New York, do you?" I said finally. That's all I cou
ld think of.

"Hollywood," she said. Then she got up and went over to where she'd put
her dress down, on the bed. "Ya got a hanger? I don't want to get my dress all w
rinkly. It's brand-clean."
"Sure," I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do somethin
g. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It
made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store an
d buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The s
alesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made
me feel sad as hell--I don't know why exactly.
I sat down again and tried to keep the old conversation going. She was a

lousy conversationalist. "Do you work every night?" I asked her--it sounded sor
t of awful, after I'd said it.
"Yeah." She was walking all around the room. She picked up the menu off
the desk and read it.
"What do you do during the day?"
She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. "Sleep. Go to
the show." She put down the menu and looked at me. "Let's go, hey. I haven't go
t all--"
"Look," I said. "I don't feel very much like myself tonight. I've had a
rough night. Honest to God. I'll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if w

e don't do it? Do you mind very much?" The trouble was, I just didn't want to do
it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was dep
ressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all. And besides, I don't thi
nk I could ever do it with somebody that sits in a stupid movie all day long. I
really don't think I could.
She came over to me, with this funny look on her face, like as if she di
dn't believe me. "What'sa matter?" she said.
"Nothing's the matter." Boy, was I getting nervous. "The thing is, I had
an operation very recently."
"Yeah? Where?"

"On my wuddayacallit--my clavichord."
"Yeah? Where the hell's that?"
"The clavichord?" I said. "Well, actually, it's in the spinal canal. I m
ean it's quite a ways down in the spinal canal."
"Yeah?" she said. "That's tough." Then she sat down on my goddam lap. "Y
ou're cute."
She made me so nervous, I just kept on lying my head off. "I'm still rec
uperating," I told her.
"You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Whosis. You know who I mea
n. What the heck's his name?"

"I don't know," I said. She wouldn't get off my goddam lap.
"Sure you know. He was in that pitcher with Mel-vine Douglas? The one th
at was Mel-vine Douglas's kid brother? That falls off this boat? You know who I
mean."
"No, I don't. I go to the movies as seldom as I can."
Then she started getting funny. Crude and all.
"Do you mind cutting it out?" I said. "I'm not in the mood, I just told
you. I just had an operation."
She didn't get up from my lap or anything, but she gave me this terrific
ally dirty look. "Listen," she said. "I was sleepin' when that crazy Maurice wok

e me up. If you think I'm--"
"I said I'd pay you for coming and all. I really will. I have plenty of
dough. It's just that I'm practically just recovering from a very serious--"
"What the heck did you tell that crazy Maurice you wanted a girl for, th
en? If you just had a goddam operation on your goddam wuddayacallit. Huh?"
"I thought I'd be feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little prematu
re in my calculations. No kidding. I'm sorry. If you'll just get up a second, I'
ll get my wallet. I mean it."
She was sore as hell, but she got up off my goddam lap so that I could g
o over and get my wallet off the chiffonier. I took out a five-dollar bill and h

anded it to her. "Thanks a lot," I told her. "Thanks a million."
"This is a five. It costs ten."
She was getting funny, you could tell. I was afraid something like that
would happen--I really was.
"Maurice said five," I told her. "He said fifteen till noon and only fiv
e for a throw."
"Ten for a throw."
"He said five. I'm sorry--I really am--but that's all I'm gonna shell ou
t."
She sort of shrugged her shoulders, the way she did before, and then she

said, very cold, "Do you mind getting me my frock? Or would it be too much trou
ble?" She was a pretty spooky kid. Even with that little bitty voice she had, sh
e could sort of scare you a little bit. If she'd been a big old prostitute, with
a lot of makeup on her face and all, she wouldn't have been half as spooky.
I went and got her dress for her. She put it on and all, and then she pi
cked up her polo coat off the bed. "So long, crumb-bum," she said.
"So long," I said. I didn't thank her or anything. I'm glad I didn't.


14

After Old Sunny was gone, I sat in the chair for a while and smoked a co
uple of cigarettes. It was getting daylight outside. Boy, I felt miserable. I fe
lt so depressed, you can't imagine. What I did, I started talking, sort of out l
oud, to Allie. I do that sometimes when I get very depressed. I keep telling him
to go home and get his bike and meet me in front of Bobby Fallon's house. Bobby
Fallon used to live quite near us in Maine--this is, years ago. Anyway, what ha
ppened was, one day Bobby and I were going over to Lake Sedebego on our bikes. W
e were going to take our lunches and all, and our BB guns--we were kids and all,
and we thought we could shoot something with our BB guns. Anyway, Allie heard u

s talking about it, and he wanted to go, and I wouldn't let him. I told him he w
as a child. So once in a while, now, when I get very depressed, I keep saying to
him, "Okay. Go home and get your bike and meet me in front of Bobby's house. Hu
rry up." It wasn't that I didn't use to take him with me when I went somewhere.
I did. But that one day, I didn't. He didn't get sore about it--he never got sor
e about anything-- but I keep thinking about it anyway, when I get very depresse
d.
Finally, though, I got undressed and got in bed. I felt like praying or
something, when I was in bed, but I couldn't do it. I can't always pray when I f
eel like it. In the first place, I'm sort of an atheist. I like Jesus and all, b

ut I don't care too much for most of the other stuff in the Bible. Take the Disc
iples, for instance. They annoy the hell out of me, if you want to know the trut
h. They were all right after Jesus was dead and all, but while He was alive, the
y were about as much use to Him as a hole in the head. All they did was keep let
ting Him down. I like almost anybody in the Bible better than the Disciples. If
you want to know the truth, the guy I like best in the Bible, next to Jesus, was
that lunatic and all, that lived in the tombs and kept cutting himself with sto
nes. I like him ten times as much as the Disciples, that poor bastard. I used to
get in quite a few arguments about it, when I was at Whooton School, with this
boy that lived down the corridor, Arthur Childs. Old Childs was a Quaker and all

, and he read the Bible all the time. He was a very nice kid, and I liked him, b
ut I could never see eye to eye with him on a lot of stuff in the Bible, especia
lly the Disciples. He kept telling me if I didn't like the Disciples, then I did
n't like Jesus and all. He said that because Jesus picked the Disciples, you wer
e supposed to like them. I said I knew He picked them, but that He picked them a
t random. I said He didn't have time to go around analyzing everybody. I said I
wasn't blaming Jesus or anything. It wasn't His fault that He didn't have any ti
me. I remember I asked old Childs if he thought Judas, the one that betrayed Jes
us and all, went to Hell after he committed suicide. Childs said certainly. That
's exactly where I disagreed with him. I said I'd bet a thousand bucks that Jesu

s never sent old Judas to Hell. I still would, too, if I had a thousand bucks. I
think any one of the Disciples would've sent him to Hell and all--and fast, too
--but I'll bet anything Jesus didn't do it. Old Childs said the trouble with me
was that I didn't go to church or anything. He was right about that, in a way. I
don't. In the first place, my parents are different religions, and all the chil
dren in our family are atheists. If you want to know the truth, I can't even sta
nd ministers. The ones they've had at every school I've gone to, they all have t
hese Holy Joe voices when they start giving their sermons. God, I hate that. I d
on't see why the hell they can't talk in their natural voice. They sound so phon
y when they talk.

Anyway, when I was in bed, I couldn't pray worth a damn. Every time I go
t started, I kept picturing old Sunny calling me a crumb-bum. Finally, I sat up
in bed and smoked another cigarette. It tasted lousy. I must've smoked around tw
o packs since I left Pencey.
All of a sudden, while I was laying there smoking, somebody knocked on t
he door. I kept hoping it wasn't my door they were knocking on, but I knew damn
well it was. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I knew who it was, too. I'm ps
ychic.
"Who's there?" I said. I was pretty scared. I'm very yellow about those
things.

They just knocked again, though. Louder.
Finally I got out of bed, with just my pajamas on, and opened the door.
I didn't even have to turn the light on in the room, because it was already dayl
ight. Old Sunny and Maurice, the pimpy elevator guy, were standing there.
"What's the matter? Wuddaya want?" I said. Boy, my voice was shaking lik
e hell.
"Nothin' much," old Maurice said. "Just five bucks." He did all the talk
ing for the two of them. Old Sunny just stood there next to him, with her mouth
open and all.
"I paid her already. I gave her five bucks. Ask her," I said. Boy, was m

y voice shaking.
"It's ten bucks, chief. I tole ya that. Ten bucks for a throw, fifteen b
ucks till noon. I tole ya that."
"You did not tell me that. You said five bucks a throw. You said fifteen
bucks till noon, all right, but I distinctly heard you--"
"Open up, chief."
"What for?" I said. God, my old heart was damn near beating me out of th
e room. I wished I was dressed at least. It's terrible to be just in your pajama
s when something like that happens.
"Let's go, chief," old Maurice said. Then he gave me a big shove with hi

s crumby hand. I damn near fell over on my can--he was a huge sonuvabitch. The n
ext thing I knew, he and old Sunny were both in the room. They acted like they o
wned the damn place. Old Sunny sat down on the window sill. Old Maurice sat down
in the big chair and loosened his collar and all--he was wearing this elevator
operator's uniform. Boy, was I nervous.
"All right, chief, let's have it. I gotta get back to work."
"I told you about ten times, I don't owe you a cent. I already gave her
the five--"
"Cut the crap, now. Let's have it."
"Why should I give her another five bucks?" I said. My voice was crackin

g all over the place. "You're trying to chisel me."
Old Maurice unbuttoned his whole uniform coat. All he had on underneath
was a phony shirt collar, but no shirt or anything. He had a big fat hairy stoma
ch. "Nobody's tryna chisel nobody," he said. "Let's have it, chief."
"No."
When I said that, he got up from his chair and started walking towards m
e and all. He looked like he was very, very tired or very, very bored. God, was
I scared. I sort of had my arms folded, I remember. It wouldn't have been so bad
, I don't think, if I hadn't had just my goddam pajamas on.
"Let's have it, chief." He came right up to where I was standing. That's

all he could say. "Let's have it, chief." He was a real moron.
"No."
"Chief, you're gonna force me inna roughin' ya up a little bit. I don't
wanna do it, but that's the way it looks," he said. "You owe us five bucks."
"I don't owe you five bucks," I said. "If you rough me up, I'll yell lik
e hell. I'll wake up everybody in the hotel. The police and all." My voice was s
haking like a bastard.
"Go ahead. Yell your goddam head off. Fine," old Maurice said. "Want you
r parents to know you spent the night with a whore? High-class kid like you?" He
was pretty sharp, in his crumby way. He really was.

"Leave me alone. If you'd said ten, it'd be different. But you distinctl
y--"
"Are ya gonna let us have it?" He had me right up against the damn door.
He was almost standing on top of me, his crumby old hairy stomach and all.
"Leave me alone. Get the hell out of my room," I said. I still had my ar
ms folded and all. God, what a jerk I was.
Then Sunny said something for the first time. "Hey, Maurice. Want me to
get his wallet?" she said. "It's right on the wutchamacallit."
"Yeah, get it."
"Leave my wallet alone!"

"I awreddy got it," Sunny said. She waved five bucks at me. "See? All I'
m takin' is the five you owe me. I'm no crook."
All of a sudden I started to cry. I'd give anything if I hadn't, but I d
id. "No, you're no crooks," I said. "You're just stealing five--"
"Shut up," old Maurice said, and gave me a shove.
"Leave him alone, hey," Sunny said. "C'mon, hey. We got the dough he owe
s us. Let's go. C'mon, hey."
"I'm comin'," old Maurice said. But he didn't.
"I mean it, Maurice, hey. Leave him alone."
"Who's hurtin' anybody?" he said, innocent as hell. Then what he did, he

snapped his finger very hard on my pajamas. I won't tell you where he snapped i
t, but it hurt like hell. I told him he was a goddam dirty moron. "What's that?"
he said. He put his hand behind his ear, like a deaf guy. "What's that? What am
I?"
I was still sort of crying. I was so damn mad and nervous and all. "You'
re a dirty moron," I said. "You're a stupid chiseling moron, and in about two ye
ars you'll be one of those scraggy guys that come up to you on the street and as
k for a dime for coffee. You'll have snot all over your dirty filthy overcoat, a
nd you'll be--"
Then he smacked me. I didn't even try to get out of the way or duck or a

nything. All I felt was this terrific punch in my stomach.
I wasn't knocked out or anything, though, because I remember looking up
from the floor and seeing them both go out the door and shut it. Then I stayed o
n the floor a fairly long time, sort of the way I did with Stradlater. Only, thi
s time I thought I was dying. I really did. I thought I was drowning or somethin
g. The trouble was, I could hardly breathe. When I did finally get up, I had to
walk to the bathroom all doubled up and holding onto my stomach and all.
But I'm crazy. I swear to God I am. About halfway to the bathroom, I sor
t of started pretending I had a bullet in my guts. Old 'Maurice had plugged me.
Now I was on the way to the bathroom to get a good shot of bourbon or something

to steady my nerves and help me really go into action. I pictured myself coming
out of the goddam bathroom, dressed and all, with my automatic in my pocket, and
staggering around a little bit. Then I'd walk downstairs, instead of using the
elevator. I'd hold onto the banister and all, with this blood trickling out of t
he side of my mouth a little at a time. What I'd do, I'd walk down a few floors-
-holding onto my guts, blood leaking all over the place-- and then I'd ring the
elevator bell. As soon as old Maurice opened the doors, he'd see me with the aut
omatic in my hand and he'd start screaming at me, in this very high-pitched, yel
low-belly voice, to leave him alone. But I'd plug him anyway. Six shots right th
rough his fat hairy belly. Then I'd throw my automatic down the elevator shaft--

after I'd wiped off all the finger prints and all. Then I'd crawl back to my roo
m and call up Jane and have her come over and bandage up my guts. I pictured her
holding a cigarette for me to smoke while I was bleeding and all.
The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I'm not kidding.
I stayed in the bathroom for about an hour, taking a bath and all. Then
I got back in bed. It took me quite a while to get to sleep--I wasn't even tired
--but finally I did. What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I
felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been
sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid
rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

15

I didn't sleep too long, because I think it was only around ten o'clock
when I woke up. I felt pretty hungry as soon as I had a cigarette. The last time
I'd eaten was those two hamburgers I had with Brossard and Ackley when we went
in to Agerstown to the movies. That was a long time ago. It seemed like fifty ye
ars ago. The phone was right next to me, and I started to call down and have the
m send up some breakfast, but I was sort of afraid they might send it up with ol

d Maurice. If you think I was dying to see him again, you're crazy. So I just la
id around in bed for a while and smoked another cigarette. I thought of giving o
ld Jane a buzz, to see if she was home yet and all, but I wasn't in the mood.
What I did do, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz. She went to Mary A. Woodru
ff, and I knew she was home because I'd had this letter from her a couple of wee
ks ago. I wasn't too crazy about her, but I'd known her for years. I used to thi
nk she was quite intelligent, in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she
knew quite a lot about the theater and plays and literature and all that stuff.
If somebody knows quite a lot about those things, it takes you quite a while to
find out whether they're really stupid or not. It took me years to find it out,

in old Sally's case. I think I'd have found it out a lot sooner if we hadn't nec
ked so damn much. My big trouble is, I always sort of think whoever I'm necking
is a pretty intelligent person. It hasn't got a goddam thing to do with it, but
I keep thinking it anyway.
Anyway, I gave her a buzz. First the maid answered. Then her father. The
n she got on. "Sally?" I said.
"Yes--who is this?" she said. She was quite a little phony. I'd already
told her father who it was.
"Holden Caulfield. How are ya?"
"Holden! I'm fine! How are you?"

"Swell. Listen. How are ya, anyway? I mean how's school?"
"Fine," she said. "I mean--you know."
"Swell. Well, listen. I was wondering if you were busy today. It's Sunda
y, but there's always one or two matinees going on Sunday. Benefits and that stu
ff. Would you care to go?"
"I'd love to. Grand."
Grand. If there's one word I hate, it's grand. It's so phony. For a seco
nd, I was tempted to tell her to forget about the matinee. But we chewed the fat
for a while. That is, she chewed it. You couldn't get a word in edgewise. First
she told me about some Harvard guy-- it probably was a freshman, but she didn't

say, naturally--that was rushing hell out of her. Calling her up night and day.
Night and day--that killed me. Then she told me about some other guy, some West
Point cadet, that was cutting his throat over her too. Big deal. I told her to
meet me under the clock at the Biltmore at two o'clock, and not to be late, beca
use the show probably started at two-thirty. She was always late. Then I hung up
. She gave me a pain in the ass, but she was very good-looking.
After I made the date with old Sally, I got out of bed and got dressed a
nd packed my bag. I took a look out the window before I left the room, though, t
o see how all the perverts were doing, but they all had their shades down. They
were the heighth of modesty in the morning. Then I went down in the elevator and

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checked out. I didn't see old Maurice around anywhere. I didn't break my neck l
ooking for him, naturally, the bastard.
I got a cab outside the hotel, but I didn't have the faintest damn idea
where I was going. I had no place to go. It was only Sunday, and I couldn't go h
ome till Wednesday--or Tuesday the soonest. And I certainly didn't feel like goi
ng to another hotel and getting my brains beat out. So what I did, I told the dr
iver to take me to Grand Central Station. It was right near the Biltmore, where
I was meeting Sally later, and I figured what I'd do, I'd check my bags in one o
f those strong boxes that they give you a key to, then get some breakfast. I was
sort of hungry. While I was in the cab, I took out my wallet and sort of counte

d my money. I don't remember exactly what I had left, but it was no fortune or a
nything. I'd spent a king's ransom in about two lousy weeks. I really had. I'm a
goddam spendthrift at heart. What I don't spend, I lose. Half the time I sort o
f even forget to pick up my change, at restaurants and night clubs and all. It d
rives my parents crazy. You can't blame them. My father's quite wealthy, though.
I don't know how much he makes--he's never discussed that stuff with me--but I
imagine quite a lot. He's a corporation lawyer. Those boys really haul it in. An
other reason I know he's quite well off, he's always investing money in shows on
Broadway. They always flop, though, and it drives my mother crazy when he does
it. She hasn't felt too healthy since my brother Allie died. She's very nervous.

That's another reason why I hated like hell for her to know I got the ax again.
After I put my bags in one of those strong boxes at the station, I went
into this little sandwich bar and bad breakfast. I had quite a large breakfast,
for me--orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Usually I just drink som
e orange juice. I'm a very light eater. I really am. That's why I'm so damn skin
ny. I was supposed to be on this diet where you eat a lot of starches and crap,
to gain weight and all, but I didn't ever do it. When I'm out somewhere, I gener
ally just eat a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted milk. It isn't much, but you
get quite a lot of vitamins in the malted milk. H. V. Caulfield. Holden Vitamin
Caulfield.

While I was eating my eggs, these two nuns with suitcases and all--I gue
ssed they were moving to another convent or something and were waiting for a tra
in--came in and sat down next to me at the counter. They didn't seem to know wha
t the hell to do with their suitcases, so I gave them a hand. They were these ve
ry inexpensive-looking suitcases--the ones that aren't genuine leather or anythi
ng. It isn't important, I know, but I hate it when somebody has cheap suitcases.
It sounds terrible to say it, but I can even get to hate somebody, just looking
at them, if they have cheap suitcases with them. Something happened once. For a
while when I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed with this boy, Dick Slagle, that had
these very inexpensive suitcases. He used to keep them under the bed, instead o

f on the rack, so that nobody'd see them standing next to mine. It depressed hol
y hell out of me, and I kept wanting to throw mine out or something, or even tra
de with him. Mine came from Mark Cross, and they were genuine cowhide and all th
at crap, and I guess they cost quite a pretty penny. But it was a funny thing. H
ere's what happened. What I did, I finally put my suitcases under my bed, instea
d of on the rack, so that old Slagle wouldn't get a goddam inferiority complex a
bout it. But here's what he did. The day after I put mine under my bed, he took
them out and put them back on the rack. The reason he did it, it took me a while
to find out, was because he wanted people to think my bags were his. He really
did. He was a very funny guy, that way. He was always saying snotty things about

them, my suitcases, for instance. He kept saying they were too new and bourgeoi
s. That was his favorite goddam word. He read it somewhere or heard it somewhere
. Everything I had was bourgeois as hell. Even my fountain pen was bourgeois. He
borrowed it off me all the time, but it was bourgeois anyway. We only roomed to
gether about two months. Then we both asked to be moved. And the funny thing was
, I sort of missed him after we moved, because he had a helluva good sense of hu
mor and we had a lot of fun sometimes. I wouldn't be surprised if he missed me,
too. At first he only used to be kidding when he called my stuff bourgeois, and
I didn't give a damn--it was sort of funny, in fact. Then, after a while, you co
uld tell he wasn't kidding any more. The thing is, it's really hard to be roomma

tes with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs--if yours are real
ly good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the ot
her person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose su
itcases are better, but they do. They really do. It's one of the reasons why I r
oomed with a stupid bastard like Stradlater. At least his suitcases were as good
as mine.
Anyway, these two nuns were sitting next to me, and we sort of struck up
a conversation. The one right next to me had one of those straw baskets that yo
u see nuns and Salvation Army babes collecting dough with around Christmas time.
You see them standing on corners, especially on Fifth Avenue, in front of the b

ig department stores and all. Anyway, the one next to me dropped hers on the flo
or and I reached down and picked it up for her. I asked her if she was out colle
cting money for charity and all. She said no. She said she couldn't get it in he
r suitcase when she was packing it and she was just carrying it. She had a prett
y nice smile when she looked at you. She had a big nose, and she had on those gl
asses with sort of iron rims that aren't too attractive, but she had a helluva k
ind face. "I thought if you were taking up a collection," I told her, "I could m
ake a small contribution. You could keep the money for when you do take up a col
lection."
"Oh, how very kind of you," she said, and the other one, her friend, loo

ked over at me. The other one was reading a little black book while she drank he
r coffee. It looked like a Bible, but it was too skinny. It was a Bible-type boo
k, though. All the two of them were eating for breakfast was toast and coffee. T
hat depressed me. I hate it if I'm eating bacon and eggs or something and somebo
dy else is only eating toast and coffee.
They let me give them ten bucks as a contribution. They kept asking me i
f I was sure I could afford it and all. I told them I had quite a bit of money w
ith me, but they didn't seem to believe me. They took it, though, finally. The b
oth of them kept thanking me so much it was embarrassing. I swung the conversati
on around to general topics and asked them where they were going. They said they

were schoolteachers and that they'd just come from Chicago and that they were g
oing to start teaching at some convent on 168th Street or 186th Street or one of
those streets way the hell uptown. The one next to me, with the iron glasses, s
aid she taught English and her friend taught history and American government. Th
en I started wondering like a bastard what the one sitting next to me, that taug
ht English, thought about, being a nun and all, when she read certain books for
English. Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy stuff in them, but books with
lovers and all in them. Take old Eustacia Vye, in The Return of the Native by Th
omas Hardy. She wasn't too sexy or anything, but even so you can't help wonderin
g what a nun maybe thinks about when she reads about old Eustacia. I didn't say

anything, though, naturally. All I said was English was my best subject.
"Oh, really? Oh, I'm so glad!" the one with the glasses, that taught Eng
lish, said. "What have you read this year? I'd be very interested to know." She
was really nice.
"Well, most of the time we were on the Anglo-Saxons. Beowulf, and old Gr
endel, and Lord Randal My Son, and all those things. But we had to read outside
books for extra credit once in a while. I read The Return of the Native by Thoma
s Hardy, and Romeo and Juliet and Julius--"
"Oh, Romeo and Juliet! Lovely! Didn't you just love it?" She certainly d
idn't sound much like a nun.

"Yes. I did. I liked it a lot. There were a few things I didn't like abo
ut it, but it was quite moving, on the whole."
"What didn't you like about it? Can you remember?" To tell you the truth
, it was sort of embarrassing, in a way, to be talking about Romeo and Juliet wi
th her. I mean that play gets pretty sexy in some parts, and she was a nun and a
ll, but she asked me, so I discussed it with her for a while. "Well, I'm not too
crazy about Romeo and Juliet," I said. "I mean I like them, but--I don't know.
They get pretty annoying sometimes. I mean I felt much sorrier when old Mercutio
got killed than when Romeo and Juliet did. The think is, I never liked Romeo to
o much after Mercutio gets stabbed by that other man--Juliet's cousin--what's hi

s name?"
"Tybalt."
"That's right. Tybalt," I said--I always forget that guy's name. "It was
Romeo's fault. I mean I liked him the best in the play, old Mercutio. I don't k
now. All those Montagues and Capulets, they're all right--especially Juliet--but
Mercutio, he was--it's hard to explain. He was very smart and entertaining and
all. The thing is, it drives me crazy if somebody gets killed-- especially someb
ody very smart and entertaining and all--and it's somebody else's fault. Romeo a
nd Juliet, at least it was their own fault."
"What school do you go to?" she asked me. She probably wanted to get off

the subject of Romeo and Juliet.
I told her Pencey, and she'd heard of it. She said it was a very good sc
hool. I let it pass, though. Then the other one, the one that taught history and
government, said they'd better be running along. I took their check off them, b
ut they wouldn't let me pay it. The one with the glasses made me give it back to
her.
"You've been more than generous," she said. "You're a very sweet boy." S
he certainly was nice. She reminded me a little bit of old Ernest Morrow's mothe
r, the one I met on the train. When she smiled, mostly. "We've enjoyed talking t
o 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 whol
e time I was talking to them, that they'd all of a sudden try to find out if I w
as 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 peop
le 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 tryi
ng to find out if you're a Catholic even if they don't know your last name. I kn
ew 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 o

utside the goddam infirmary, the day school opened, waiting for our physicals, a
nd 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 eve
ry summer, and I told him I did too, and then we talked about certain hot-shot t
ennis 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 conv
ersation, 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 p
rejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversat

ion about tennis and all, but you could tell he would've enjoyed it more if I wa
s a Catholic and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I'm not saying it ruin
ed 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. I
t wouldn't have spoiled the conversation if they had, but it would've been diffe
rent, 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. Th
at's all I'm saying.
When they got up to go, the two nuns, I did something very stupid and em

barrassing. I was smoking a cigarette, and when I stood up to say good-by to the
m, 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 w
as very embarrassing anyway.
After they left, I started getting sorry that I'd only given them ten bu
cks for their collection. But the thing was, I'd made that date to go to a matin
ee with old Sally Hayes, and I needed to keep some dough for the tickets and stu
ff. 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 baske
t they went around collecting money with when they weren't teaching school. I ke
pt trying to picture my mother or somebody, or my aunt, or Sally Hayes's crazy m
other, standing outside some department store and collecting dough for poor peop
le 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 w
ork and all--but she's very well-dressed and all, and when she does anything cha
ritable 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 Chr
ist. 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 dr
opped 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 an
ywhere 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 tha
t 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 k
id 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 ha

d 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 Di
xieland and whorehouse, and it doesn't sound at all mushy. If a white girl was s
inging 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 figur
ed I'd buy it in some store that was open on Sunday and then I'd take it up to t
he park with me. It was Sunday and Phoebe goes rollerskating in the park on Sund
ays 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 o
f 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 o
ut 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 singin
g. 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 cou
ld tell. The cars zoomed by, brakes screeched all over the place, his parents pa
id 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'cl
ock, but it was mobbed anyway. Everybody was on their way to the movies--the Par
amount or the Astor or the Strand or the Capitol or one of those crazy places. E
verybody 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 co

uldn't stand looking at them. I can understand somebody going to the movies beca
use there's nothing else to do, but when somebody really wants to go, and even w
alks fast so as to get there quicker, then it depresses hell out of me. Especial
ly if I see millions of people standing in one of those long, terrible lines, al
l 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 firs
t 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 ma
de 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 vacati
on 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 invol
ved in a long conversation and all with her. I'm not crazy about talking to girl
s' 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 h
ave to be in the mood for that stuff.
I still had to get those damn theater tickets, so I bought a paper and l
ooked 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 o
rchestra 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, woul
d start drooling all over the place when I told her I had tickets for that, beca
use the Lunts were in it and all. She liked shows that are supposed to be very s
ophisticated 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, bu
t they're certainly nothing to rave about. In the first place, I hate actors. Th
ey 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 real

ly good, you can always tell he knows he's good, and that spoils it. You take Si
r 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 alread
y 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 h
andsome guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or somethi
ng, but he wasn't at all the way D.B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a go
ddam 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 Hamle

t 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 horsi
ng around with her brother, taking his dagger out of the holster, and teasing hi
m and all while he was trying to look interested in the bull his father was shoo
ting. That was nice. I got a big bang out of that. But you don't see that kind o
f 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 o
ut, and there didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap an
d globs of spit and cigar butts from old men, and the benches all looked like th
ey'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 al
l 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 al
l by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and co
uld 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 fourt
h 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 muse

um."
"I know, but the one where the pictures are, or the one where the Indian
s 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 wit
h 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 nic
e 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 a
lways 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 th
rough 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 th
ere 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 a
nd all stuff like that. I get very happy when I think about it. Even now. I reme
mber 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. Nobo

dy 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 s
mell. 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 t
o hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or sweaty or something. The flo
or 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 l
ooking tough, and they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one ver
y 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 y
ou 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 t
han we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doo
rs, 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 u
pstairs, with deer inside them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south f

or 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 we
re really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at the
m 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. No
body'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 thei
r way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with thei
r pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bo
som would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only th

ing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or any
thing. 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 substi
tute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother a
nd father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one o
f those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be di
fferent in some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not s
ure 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 kep
t 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 t
o see, and how she'd be different every time she saw it. It didn't exactly depre
ss 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 impossibl
e, but it's too bad anyway. Anyway, I kept thinking about all that while I walke
d.
I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tin

y 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 m
e 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 m
uch 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 lea
ther couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of s
chools were home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitt
ing and standing around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their leg
s crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls wi
th 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 alwa
ys talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys tha
t get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stup
id game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guy
s that are very boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about callin
g 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. H

e 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 wa
nted to hear in the first place. But he could do one thing. The sonuvabitch coul
d whistle better than anybody I ever heard. He'd be making his bed, or hanging u
p 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 rasp
y voice. He could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whi
stled jazz. He could take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whist
le 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 whis

tler. I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a terrific whistl
er." But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even though he bored me t
ill I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the best I e
ver heard. So I don't know about bores. Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry if yo
u 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 he
ll knows? Not me.
Finally, old Sally started coming up the stairs, and I started down to m
eet her. She looked terrific. She really did. She had on this black coat and sor
t 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 Saturd
ay Evening Post and all, showing guys on street corners looking sore as hell bec
ause 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 s
tarts 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 wa
s 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 go
ddam cab stopped short in traffic, I damn near fell off the seat. Those damn dri
vers 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 lo
ved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I sa
id it. I'm crazy. I swear to God I am.
"Oh, darling, I love you too," she said. Then, right in the same damn br
eath, she said, "Promise me you'll let your hair grow. Crew cuts are getting cor
ny. 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, tho
ugh. 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 he
r 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 a
nd wife were a pretty nice old couple--very witty and all--but I couldn't get to
o 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 c
oming 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. T
hey 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, th
e 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 w

as 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 somethin
g too good, then, after a while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. A
nd 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 ad
mit it.
At the end of the first act we went out with all the other jerks for a c
igarette. 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 co
uld 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 blas? 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 th
e 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 Iv
y League. Big deal. He was standing next to the wall, smoking himself to death a
nd 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 kep
t 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 sor
e 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 nau
seating. The funny part was, they probably met each other just once, at some pho
ny party. Finally, when they were all done slobbering around, old Sally introduc
ed us. His name was George something--I don't even remember--and he went to Ando

ver. 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 the
y answer somebody's question. He stepped back, and stepped right on the lady's f
oot 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 a
bout a lot of people they both knew. It was the phoniest conversation you ever h
eard 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 t
hinking 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 i
n 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 bl
ocks with us, but he had to meet a bunch of phonies for cocktails, he said. I co
uld 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 m
e, 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 ho
me and all--I really was--but she said, "I have a marvelous idea!" She was alway
s 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 h
ome any special time?"
"Me? No. No special time," I said. Truer word was never spoken, boy. "Wh
y?"
"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. "Jea
nnette Cultz did it last week."
That's why she was so hot to go. She wanted to see herself in one of tho
se 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 litt
le blue butt-twitcher of a dress to wear. She really did look damn good in it, t
hough. 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 godda
m rink. I mean the worst. And there were some lulus, too. Old Sally's ankles kep
t 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 killi
ng 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 sai
d to her finally.
"That's the most marvelous idea you've had all day," the said. She was k
illing 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--a

nd 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 Christm
as Eve? I have to know." She was still being snotty on account of her ankles whe
n she was skating.
"I wrote you I would. You've asked me that about twenty times. Sure, I a
m."

"I mean I have to know," she said. She started looking all around the go
ddam room.
All of a sudden I quit lighting matches, and sort of leaned nearer to he
r 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 sc
hool, 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. I
t'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 doo
r, and being introduced to phony guys that call the Lunts angels, and going up a
nd down in elevators when you just want to go outside, and guys fitting your pan
ts all the time at Brooks, and people always--"
"Don't shout, please," old Sally said. Which was very funny, because I w

asn't even shouting.
"Take cars," I said. I said it in this very quiet voice. "Take most peop
le, they're crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, a
nd 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 tha
t'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 hor
se 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 Ne
w 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 ta

lk about girls and liquor and sex all day, and everybody sticks together in thes
e dirty little goddam cliques. The guys that are on the basketball team stick to
gether, the Catholics stick together, the goddam intellectuals stick together, t
he 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 har

dly 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 b
orrow 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 h
ell up there, It really is." I was getting excited as hell, the more I thought o
f 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 t
he bank. I can take it out when it opens in the morning, and then I could go dow
n 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! Wudd
aya say? Will you do it with me? Please!"
"You can't just do something like that," old Sally said. She sounded sor
e 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 practical
ly children. And did you ever stop to think what you'd do if you didn't get a jo
b 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 ha
ve 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 t
o hate her, in a way. "We'll have oodles of time to do those things--all those t
hings. 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 a
ll. 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 th
e next you--"
"I said no, there wouldn't be marvelous places to go to after I went to

college and all. Open your ears. It'd be entirely different. We'd have to go dow
nstairs in elevators with suitcases and stuff. We'd have to phone up everybody a
nd tell 'em good-by and send 'em postcards from hotels and all. And I'd be worki
ng in some office, making a lot of dough, and riding to work in cabs and Madison
Avenue buses, and reading newspapers, and playing bridge all the time, and goin
g to the movies and seeing a lot of stupid shorts and coming attractions and new
sreels. Newsreels. Christ almighty. There's always a dumb horse race, and some d
ame breaking a bottle over a ship, and some chimpanzee riding a goddam bicycle w
ith pants on. It wouldn't be the same at all. You don't see what I mean at all."
"Maybe I don't! Maybe you don't, either," old Sally said. We both hated

each other's guts by that time. You could see there wasn't any sense trying to h
ave an intelligent conversation. I was sorry as hell I'd started it.
"C'mon, let's get outa here," I said. "You give me a royal pain in the a
ss, if you want to know the truth."
Boy, did she hit the ceiling when I said that. I know I shouldn't've sai
d it, and I probably wouldn't've ordinarily, but she was depressing the hell out
of me. Usually I never say crude things like that to girls. Boy, did she hit th
e ceiling. I apologized like a madman, but she wouldn't accept my apology. She w
as even crying. Which scared me a little bit, because I was a little afraid she'
d go home and tell her father I called her a pain in the ass. Her father was one

of those big silent bastards, and he wasn't too crazy about me anyhow. He once
told old Sally I was too goddam noisy.
"No kidding. I'm sorry," I kept telling her.
"You're sorry. You're sorry. That's very funny," she said. She was still
sort of crying, and all of a sudden I did feel sort of sorry I'd said it.
"C'mon, I'll take ya home. No kidding."
"I can go home by myself, thank you. If you think I'd let you take me ho
me, you're mad. No boy ever said that to me in my entire life."
The whole thing was sort of funny, in a way, if you thought about it, an
d all of a sudden I did something I shouldn't have. I laughed. And I have one of

these very loud, stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie o
r something, I'd probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up. It made o
ld Sally madder than ever.
I stuck around for a while, apologizing and trying to get her to excuse
me, but she wouldn't. She kept telling me to go away and leave her alone. So fin
ally I did it. I went inside and got my shoes and stuff, and left without her. I
shouldn't've, but I was pretty goddam fed up by that time.
If you want to know the truth, I don't even know why I started all that
stuff with her. I mean about going away somewhere, to Massachusetts and Vermont
and all. I probably wouldn't've taken her even if she'd wanted to go with me. Sh

e wouldn't have been anybody to go with. The terrible part, though, is that I me
ant it when I asked her. That's the terrible part. I swear to God I'm a madman.


18

When I left the skating rink I felt sort of hungry, so I went in this dr
ugstore and had a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted, and then I went in a phone
booth. I thought maybe I might give old Jane another buzz and see if she was ho
me yet. I mean I had the whole evening free, and I thought I'd give her a buzz a

nd, if she was home yet, take her dancing or something somewhere. I never danced
with her or anything the whole time I knew her. I saw her dancing once, though.
She looked like a very good dancer. It was at this Fourth of July dance at the
club. I didn't know her too well then, and I didn't think I ought to cut in on h
er date. She was dating this terrible guy, Al Pike, that went to Choate. I didn'
t know him too well, but he was always hanging around the swimming pool. He wore
those white Lastex kind of swimming trunks, and he was always going off the hig
h dive. He did the same lousy old half gainer all day long. It was the only dive
he could do, but he thought he was very hot stuff. All muscles and no brains. A
nyway, that's who Jane dated that night. I couldn't understand it. I swear I cou

ldn't. After we started going around together, I asked her how come she could da
te a showoff bastard like Al Pike. Jane said he wasn't a show-off. She said he h
ad an inferiority complex. She acted like she felt sorry for him or something, a
nd she wasn't just putting it on. She meant it. It's a funny thing about girls.
Every time you mention some guy that's strictly a bastard--very mean, or very co
nceited and all--and when you mention it to the girl, she'll tell you he has an
inferiority complex. Maybe he has, but that still doesn't keep him from being a
bastard, in my opinion. Girls. You never know what they're going to think. I onc
e got this girl Roberta Walsh's roommate a date with a friend of mine. His name
was Bob Robinson and he really had an inferiority complex. You could tell he was

very ashamed of his parents and all, because they said "he don't" and "she don'
t" and stuff like that and they weren't very wealthy. But he wasn't a bastard or
anything. He was a very nice guy. But this Roberta Walsh's roommate didn't like
him at all. She told Roberta he was too conceited--and the reason she thought h
e was conceited was because he happened to mention to her that he was captain of
the debating team. A little thing like that, and she thought he was conceited!
The trouble with girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big a bastard he is
, they'll say he has an inferiority complex, and if they don't like him, no matt
er how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority complex he has, they'll say h
e's conceited. Even smart girls do it.

Anyway, I gave old Jane a buzz again, but her phone didn't answer, so I
had to hang up. Then I had to look through my address book to see who the hell m
ight be available for the evening. The trouble was, though, my address book only
has about three people in it. Jane, and this man, Mr. Antolini, that was my tea
cher at Elkton Hills, and my father's office number. I keep forgetting to put pe
ople's names in. So what I did finally, I gave old Carl Luce a buzz. He graduate
d from the Whooton School after I left. He was about three years older than I wa
s, and I didn't like him too much, but he was one of these very intellectual guy
s-- he had the highest I.Q. of any boy at Whooton--and I thought he might want t
o have dinner with me somewhere and have a slightly intellectual conversation. H

e was very enlightening sometimes. So I gave him a buzz. He went to Columbia now
, but he lived on 65th Street and all, and I knew he'd be home. When I got him o
n the phone, he said he couldn't make it for dinner but that he'd meet me for a
drink at ten o'clock at the Wicker Bar, on 54th. I think he was pretty surprised
to hear from me. I once called him a fat-assed phony.
I had quite a bit of time to kill till ten o'clock, so what I did, I wen
t to the movies at Radio City. It was probably the worst thing I could've done,
but it was near, and I couldn't think of anything else.
I came in when the goddam stage show was on. The Rockettes were kicking
their heads off, the way they do when they're all in line with their arms around

each other's waist. The audience applauded like mad, and some guy behind me kep
t saying to his wife, "You know what that is? That's precision." He killed me. T
hen, after the Rockettes, a guy came out in a tuxedo and roller skates on, and s
tarted skating under a bunch of little tables, and telling jokes while he did it
. He was a very good skater and all, but I couldn't enjoy it much because I kept
picturing him practicing to be a guy that roller-skates on the stage. It seemed
so stupid. I guess I just wasn't in the right mood. Then, after him, they had t
his Christmas thing they have at Radio City every year. All these angels start c
oming out of the boxes and everywhere, guys carrying crucifixes and stuff all ov
er the place, and the whole bunch of them--thousands of them--singing "Come All

Ye Faithful!" like mad. Big deal. It's supposed to be religious as hell, I know,
and very pretty and all, but I can't see anything religious or pretty, for God'
s sake, about a bunch of actors carrying crucifixes all over the stage. When the
y were all finished and started going out the boxes again, you could tell they c
ould hardly wait to get a cigarette or something. I saw it with old Sally Hayes
the year before, and she kept saying how beautiful it was, the costumes and all.
I said old Jesus probably would've puked if He could see it--all those fancy co
stumes and all. Sally said I was a sacrilegious atheist. I probably am. The thin
g Jesus really would've liked would be the guy that plays the kettle drums in th
e orchestra. I've watched that guy since I was about eight years old. My brother

Allie and I, if we were with our parents and all, we used to move our seats and
go way down so we could watch him. He's the best drummer I ever saw. He only ge
ts a chance to bang them a couple of times during a whole piece, but he never lo
oks bored when he isn't doing it. Then when he does bang them, he does it so nic
e and sweet, with this nervous expression on his face. One time when we went to
Washington with my father, Allie sent him a postcard, but I'll bet he never got
it. We weren't too sure how to address it.
After the Christmas thing was over, the goddam picture started. It was s
o putrid I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was about this English guy, Alec som
ething, that was in the war and loses his memory in the hospital and all. He com

es out of the hospital carrying a cane and limping all over the place, all over
London, not knowing who the hell he is. He's really a duke, but he doesn't know
it. Then he meets this nice, homey, sincere girl getting on a bus. Her goddam ha
t blows off and he catches it, and then they go upstairs and sit down and start
talking about Charles Dickens. He's both their favorite author and all. He's car
rying this copy of Oliver Twist and so's she. I could've puked. Anyway, they fel
l in love right away, on account of they're both so nuts about Charles Dickens a
nd all, and he helps her run her publishing business. She's a publisher, the gir
l. Only, she's not doing so hot, because her brother's a drunkard and he spends
all their dough. He's a very bitter guy, the brother, because he was a doctor in

the war and now he can't operate any more because his nerves are shot, so he bo
ozes all the time, but he's pretty witty and all. Anyway, old Alec writes a book
, and this girl publishes it, and they both make a hatful of dough on it. They'r
e all set to get married when this other girl, old Marcia, shows up. Marcia was
Alec's fianc?e before he lost his memory, and she recognizes him when he's in th
is store autographing books. She tells old Alec he's really a duke and all, but
he doesn't believe her and doesn't want to go with her to visit his mother and a
ll. His mother's blind as a bat. But the other girl, the homey one, makes him go
. She's very noble and all. So he goes. But he still doesn't get his memory back
, even when his great Dane jumps all over him and his mother sticks her fingers

all over his face and brings him this teddy bear he used to slobber around with
when he was a kid. But then, one day, some kids are playing cricket on the lawn
and he gets smacked in the head with a cricket ball. Then right away he gets his
goddam memory back and he goes in and kisses his mother on the forehead and all
. Then he starts being a regular duke again, and he forgets all about the homey
babe that has the publishing business. I'd tell you the rest of the story, but I
might puke if I did. It isn't that I'd spoil it for you or anything. There isn'
t anything to spoil for Chrissake. Anyway, it ends up with Alec and the homey ba
be getting married, and the brother that's a drunkard gets his nerves back and o
perates on Alec's mother so she can see again, and then the drunken brother and

old Marcia go for each other. It ends up with everybody at this long dinner tabl
e laughing their asses off because the great Dane comes in with a bunch of puppi
es. Everybody thought it was a male, I suppose, or some goddam thing. All I can
say is, don't see it if you don't want to puke all over yourself.
The part that got me was, there was a lady sitting next to me that cried
all through the goddam picture. The phonier it got, the more she cried. You'd h
ave thought she did it because she was kindhearted as hell, but I was sitting ri
ght next to her, and she wasn't. She had this little kid with her that was bored
as hell and had to go to the bathroom, but she wouldn't take him. She kept tell
ing him to sit still and behave himself. She was about as kindhearted as a godda

m wolf. You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phony stuff in t
he movies, and nine times out of ten they're mean bastards at heart. I'm not kid
ding.
After the movie was over, I started walking down to the Wicker Bar, wher
e I was supposed to meet old Carl Luce, and while I walked I sort of thought abo
ut war and all. Those war movies always do that to me. I don't think I could sta
nd it if I had to go to war. I really couldn't. It wouldn't be too bad if they'd
just take you out and shoot you or something, but you have to stay in the Army
so goddam long. That's the whole trouble. My brother D.B. was in the Army for fo
ur goddam years. He was in the war, too--he landed on D-Day and all--but I reall

y think he hated the Army worse than the war. I was practically a child at the t
ime, but I remember when he used to come home on furlough and all, all he did wa
s lie on his bed, practically. He hardly ever even came in the living room. Late
r, when he went overseas and was in the war and all, he didn't get wounded or an
ything and he didn't have to shoot anybody. All he had to do was drive some cowb
oy general around all day in a command car. He once told Allie and I that if he'
d had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've known which direction to shoot in. He sai
d the Army was practically as full of bastards as the Nazis were. I remember All
ie once asked him wasn't it sort of good that he was in the war because he was a
writer and it gave him a lot to write about and all. He made Allie go get his b

aseball mitt and then he asked him who was the best war poet, Rupert Brooke or E
mily Dickinson. Allie said Emily Dickinson. I don't know too much about it mysel
f, because I don't read much poetry, but I do know it'd drive me crazy if I had
to be in the Army and be with a bunch of guys like Ackley and Stradlater and old
Maurice all the time, marching with them and all. I was in the Boy Scouts once,
for about a week, and I couldn't even stand looking at the back of the guy's ne
ck in front of me. They kept telling you to look at the back of the guy's neck i
n front of you. I swear if there's ever another war, they better just take me ou
t and stick me in front of a firing squad. I wouldn't object. What gets me about
D.B., though, he hated the war so much, and yet he got me to read this book A F

arewell to Arms last summer. He said it was so terrific. That's what I can't und
erstand. It had this guy in it named Lieutenant Henry that was supposed to be a
nice guy and all. I don't see how D.B. could hate the Army and war and all so mu
ch and still like a phony like that. I mean, for instance, I don't see how he co
uld like a phony book like that and still like that one by Ring Lardner, or that
other one he's so crazy about, The Great Gatsby. D.B. got sore when I said that
, and said I was too young and all to appreciate it, but I don't think so. I tol
d him I liked Ring Lardner and The Great Gatsby and all. I did, too. I was crazy
about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me. Anyway, I'm sort
of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm

going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God
I will.


19

In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of sw
anky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't any mor
e. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed to be very
sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window. They used to h

ave these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play the piano and sin
g about three times every night. One of them played the piano--strictly lousy--a
nd the other one sang, and most of the songs were either pretty dirty or in Fren
ch. The one that sang, old Janine, was always whispering into the goddam microph
one before she sang. She'd say, "And now we like to geeve you our impression of
Vooly Voo Fransay. Eet ees the story of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg
ceety, just like New York, and falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen.
We hope you like eet." Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as
hell, she'd sing some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive
all the phonies in the place mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough

and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the w
orld, I swear you did. The bartender was a louse, too. He was a big snob. He did
n't talk to you at all hardly unless you were a big shot or a celebrity or somet
hing. If you were a big shot or a celebrity or something, then he was even more
nauseating. He'd go up to you and say, with this big charming smile, like he was
a helluva swell guy if you knew him, "Well! How's Connecticut?" or "How's Flori
da?" It was a terrible place, I'm not kidding. I cut out going there entirely, g
radually.
It was pretty early when I got there. I sat down at the bar--it was pret
ty crowded--and had a couple of Scotch and sodas before old Luce even showed up.

I stood up when I ordered them so they could see how tall I was and all and not
think I was a goddam minor. Then I watched the phonies for a while. Some guy ne
xt to me was snowing hell out of the babe he was with. He kept telling her she h
ad aristocratic hands. That killed me. The other end of the bar was full of flit
s. They weren't too flitty-looking--I mean they didn't have their hair too long
or anything--but you could tell they were flits anyway. Finally old Luce showed
up.
Old Luce. What a guy. He was supposed to be my Student Adviser when I wa
s at Whooton. The only thing he ever did, though, was give these sex talks and a
ll, late at night when there was a bunch of guys in his room. He knew quite a bi

t about sex, especially perverts and all. He was always telling us about a lot o
f creepy guys that go around having affairs with sheep, and guys that go around
with girls' pants sewed in the lining of their hats and all. And flits and Lesbi
ans. Old Luce knew who every flit and Lesbian in the United States was. All you
had to do was mention somebody--anybody--and old Luce'd tell you if he was a fli
t or not. Sometimes it was hard to believe, the people he said were flits and Le
sbians and all, movie actors and like that. Some of the ones he said were flits
were even married, for God's sake. You'd keep saying to him, "You mean Joe Blow'
s a flit? Joe Blow? That big, tough guy that plays gangsters and cowboys all the
time?" Old Luce'd say, "Certainly." He was always saying "Certainly." He said i

t didn't matter if a guy was married or not. He said half the married guys in th
e world were flits and didn't even know it. He said you could turn into one prac
tically overnight, if you had all the traits and all. He used to scare the hell
out of us. I kept waiting to turn into a flit or something. The funny thing abou
t old Luce, I used to think he was sort of flitty himself, in a way. He was alwa
ys saying, "Try this for size," and then he'd goose the hell out of you while yo
u were going down the corridor. And whenever he went to the can, he always left
the goddam door open and talked to you while you were brushing your teeth or som
ething. That stuff's sort of flitty. It really is. I've known quite a few real f
lits, at schools and all, and they're always doing stuff like that, and that's w

hy I always had my doubts about old Luce. He was a pretty intelligent guy, thoug
h. He really was.
He never said hello or anything when he met you. The first thing he said
when he sat down was that he could only stay a couple of minutes. He said he ha
d a date. Then he ordered a dry Martini. He told the bartender to make it very d
ry, and no olive.
"Hey, I got a flit for you," I told him. "At the end of the bar. Don't l
ook now. I been saving him for ya."
"Very funny," he said. "Same old Caulfield. When are you going to grow u
p?"

I bored him a lot. I really did. He amused me, though. He was one of tho
se guys that sort of amuse me a lot.
"How's your sex life?" I asked him. He hated you to ask him stuff like t
hat.
"Relax," he said. "Just sit back and relax, for Chrissake."
"I'm relaxed," I said. "How's Columbia? Ya like it?"
"Certainly I like it. If I didn't like it I wouldn't have gone there," h
e said. He could be pretty boring himself sometimes.
"What're you majoring in?" I asked him. "Perverts?" I was only horsing a
round.

"What're you trying to be--funny?"
"No. I'm only kidding," I said. "Listen, hey, Luce. You're one of these
intellectual guys. I need your advice. I'm in a terrific--"
He let out this big groan on me. "Listen, Caulfield. If you want to sit
here and have a quiet, peaceful drink and a quiet, peaceful conver--"
"All right, all right," I said. "Relax." You could tell he didn't feel l
ike discussing anything serious with me. That's the trouble with these intellect
ual guys. They never want to discuss anything serious unless they feel like it.
So all I did was, I started discussing topics in general with him. "No kidding,
how's your sex life?" I asked him. "You still going around with that same babe y

ou used to at Whooton? The one with the terrffic--"
"Good God, no," he said.
"How come? What happened to her?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. For all I know, since you ask, she's proba
bly the Whore of New Hampshire by this time."
"That isn't nice. If she was decent enough to let you get sexy with her
all the time, you at least shouldn't talk about her that way."
"Oh, God!" old Luce said. "Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conve
rsation? I want to know right now."
"No," I said, "but it isn't nice anyway. If she was decent and nice enou

gh 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 gett
ing 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 w
hen 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 Ca
ulfield 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 L
uce 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 Weste
rn. Since you ask."
"You do? Wuddaya mean 'philosophy'? Ya mean sex and all? You mean it's b
etter in China? That what you mean?"
"Not necessarily in China, for God's sake. The East I said. Must we go o

n 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 sim
ply happen to regard sex as both a physical and a spiritual experience. If you t
hink 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 wi
th. 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 you

r 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--ever
y 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 a
bout 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 que
stions 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 the
y go back to their room. When I was at Whooton old Luce used to hate it--you rea
lly 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 wit
h me is? I can never get really sexy--I mean really sexy--with a girl I don't li
ke 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 w
hat you need."
"You mean to go to a psychoanalyst and all?" I said. That's what he'd to
ld 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 yo
u 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 pat
terns of your mind."
"The what?"
"The patterns of your mind. Your mind runs in-- Listen. I'm not giving a
n elementary course in psychoanalysis. If you're interested, call him up and mak
e 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 friendl
y 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 psychoanaly
ze 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 a
n 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. N

o 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 ther
e. They gave us a test.


20

I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine t
o 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 w
as 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 prob
ably wouldn't have done it, but I was getting drunk as hell. When she was finish
ed, 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 dru
nk 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 not
ice 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 gu
ts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a bullet in their guts. I kept putt
ing my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to keep the blood from dripp
ing 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 che
ck and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept k
eeping 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 mo
re 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 yelle
d 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 thi
s 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 g
oddarn 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 on
to my guts. "They got me. Rocky's mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know tha

t?"
"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 yo
u 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 sop
histicated stuff to each other and being charming and phony. I wished to God I h

adn'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 t
ell you the truth. Finally, though, I came out and went in the men's room, stagg
ering 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 w
as 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 a
nd all, but I didn't give a damn. I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty s
oon, the guy that played the piano for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitt
y-looking guy, came in to comb his golden locks. We sort of struck up a conversa
tion 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 a
sked 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 fl
attering 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 golde
n 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 ha
ir 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 r
oom, 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 checkr
oom, 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 sti

ll 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 sa
id 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 r
ight.
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 c
abs 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 w
ere doing, see if they were around or not, I still didn't know if they were arou
nd or not. It wasn't far over to the park, and I didn't have anyplace else speci
al to go to--I didn't even know where I was going to sleep yet--so I went. I was
n't tired or anything. I just felt blue as hell.
Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped ol

d Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope an
d 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 poc
ket. 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 bac
k 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 walk

ing 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 a
round. I walked all around the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in fac
t--but I didn't see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, the
y might be asleep or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and al
l. 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 t
hought 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 o
ut the numbers of the streets when you ride on a goddam bus with him, and my aun
ts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be there. T
hey 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 th
ere, D.B. told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to t
he hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was get
ting 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, becaus
e she still isn't over my brother Allie yet. I kept picturing her not knowing wh
at 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 onl
y a little kid. That was the only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunc
h of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombsto
ne 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 th
e river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People c
oming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that cra

p. 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 craz
y cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad wh
en 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 s
tomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the ce
metery 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 al

l and then go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except Allie. I couldn't stan
d it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's i
n 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 n
ot too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like com
ing 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 for
tune since I left Pencey. Then what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sor

t of skipped the quarters and the nickel across it, where it wasn't frozen. I do
n't know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought it'd take my mind off get
ting 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 an
d all. I had my door key with me and all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak i
n 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 bas
tard. 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 sneak
ing 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 c
old and nobody around anywhere.


21

The best break I had in years, when I got home the regular night elevato
r boy, Pete, wasn't on the car. Some new guy I'd never seen was on the car, so I
figured that if I didn't bump smack into my parents and all I'd be able to say
hello to old Phoebe and then beat it and nobody'd even know I'd been around. It
was really a terrific break. What made it even better, the new elevator boy was
sort of on the stupid side. I told him, in this very casual voice, to take me up
to the Dicksteins'. The Dicksteins were these people that had the other apartme
nt on our floor. I'd already taken off my hunting hat, so as not to look suspici
ous or anything. I went in the elevator like I was in a terrific hurry.

He had the elevator doors all shut and all, and was all set to take me u
p, and then he turned around and said, "They ain't in. They're at a party on the
fourteenth floor."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm supposed to wait for them. I'm their ne
phew."
He gave me this sort of stupid, suspicious look. "You better wait in the
lobby, fella," he said.
"I'd like to--I really would," I said. "But I have a bad leg. I have to
hold it in a certain position. I think I'd better sit down in the chair outside
their door."

He didn't know what the hell I was talking about, so all he said was "Oh
" and took me up. Not bad, boy. It's funny. All you have to do is say something
nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.
I got off at our floor--limping like a bastard--and started walking over
toward the Dicksteins' side. Then, when I heard the elevator doors shut, I turn
ed around and went over to our side. I was doing all right. I didn't even feel d
runk anymore. Then I took out my door key and opened our door, quiet as hell. Th
en, very, very carefully and all, I went inside and closed the door. I really sh
ould've been a crook.
It was dark as hell in the foyer, naturally, and naturally I couldn't tu

rn on any lights. I had to be careful not to bump into anything and make a racke
t. I certainly knew I was home, though. Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn't
smell like anyplace else. I don't know what the hell it is. It isn't cauliflowe
r and it isn't perfume--I don't know what the hell it is--but you always know yo
u're home. I started to take off my coat and hang it up in the foyer closet, but
that closet's full of hangers that rattle like madmen when you open the door, s
o I left it on. Then I started walking very, very slowly back toward old Phoebe'
s room. I knew the maid wouldn't hear me because she had only one eardrum. She h
ad this brother that stuck a straw down her ear when she was a kid, she once tol
d me. She was pretty deaf and all. But my parents, especially my mother, she has

ears like a goddam bloodhound. So I took it very, very easy when I went past th
eir door. I even held my breath, for God's sake. You can hit my father over the
head with a chair and he won't wake up, but my mother, all you have to do to my
mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she'll hear you. She's nervous as hell.
Half the time she's up all night smoking cigarettes.
Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Phoebe's room. She wasn't the
re, though. I forgot about that. I forgot she always sleeps in D.B.'s room when
he's away in Hollywood or some place. She likes it because it's the biggest room
in the house. Also because it has this big old madman desk in it that D.B. boug
ht off some lady alcoholic in Philadelphia, and this big, gigantic bed that's ab

out ten miles wide and ten miles long. I don't know where he bought that bed. An
yway, old Phoebe likes to sleep in D.B.'s room when he's away, and he lets her.
You ought to see her doing her homework or something at that crazy desk. It's al
most as big as the bed. You can hardly see her when she's doing her homework. Th
at's the kind of stuff she likes, though. She doesn't like her own room because
it's too little, she says. She says she likes to spread out. That kills me. What
's old Phoebe got to spread out? Nothing.
Anyway, I went into D.B.'s room quiet as hell, and turned on the lamp on
the desk. Old Phoebe didn't even wake up. When the light was on and all, I sort
of looked at her for a while. She was laying there asleep, with her face sort o

f on the side of the pillow. She had her mouth way open. It's funny. You take ad
ults, they look lousy when they're asleep and they have their mouths way open, b
ut kids don't. Kids look all right. They can even have spit all over the pillow
and they still look all right.
I went around the room, very quiet and all, looking at stuff for a while
. I felt swell, for a change. I didn't even feel like I was getting pneumonia or
anything any more. I just felt good, for a change. Old Phoebe's clothes were on
this chair right next to the bed. She's very neat, for a child. I mean she does
n't just throw her stuff around, like some kids. She's no slob. She had the jack
et to this tan suit my mother bought her in Canada hung up on the back of the ch

air. Then her blouse and stuff were on the seat. Her shoes and socks were on the
floor, right underneath the chair, right next to each other. I never saw the sh
oes before. They were new. They were these dark brown loafers, sort of like this
pair I have, and they went swell with that suit my mother bought her in Canada.
My mother dresses her nice. She really does. My mother has terrific taste in so
me things. She's no good at buying ice skates or anything like that, but clothes
, she's perfect. I mean Phoebe always has some dress on that can kill you. You t
ake most little kids, even if their parents are wealthy and all, they usually ha
ve some terrible dress on. I wish you could see old Phoebe in that suit my mothe
r bought her in Canada. I'm not kidding.

I sat down on old D.B.'s desk and looked at the stuff on it. It was most
ly Phoebe's stuff, from school and all. Mostly books. The one on top was called
Arithmetic Is Fun! I sort of opened the first page and took a look at it. This i
s what old Phoebe had on it:

PHOEBE WEATHERFIELD CAULFIELD
4B-1

That killed me. Her middle name is Josephine, for God's sake, not Weathe
rfield. She doesn't like it, though. Every time I see her she's got a new middle

name for herself.
The book underneath the arithmetic was a geography, and the book under t
he geography was a speller. She's very good in spelling. She's very good in all
her subjects, but she's best in spelling. Then, under the speller, there were a
bunch of notebooks. She has about five thousand notebooks. You never saw a kid w
ith so many notebooks. I opened the one on top and looked at the first page. It
had on it:

Bernice meet me at recess I have something
very very important to tell you.

That was all there was on that page. The next one had on it:

Why has south eastern Alaska so many caning factories?
Because theres so much salmon
Why has it valuable forests?
because it has the right climate.
What has our government done to make
life easier for the alaskan eskimos?
look it up for tomorrow!!!

Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe W. Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield, Esq.
Please pass to Shirley!!!!
Shirley you said you were sagitarius
but your only taurus bring your skates
when you come over to my house

I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook. It didn't take m
e long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook, Phoebe's or anyb
ody's, all day and all night long. Kid's notebooks kill me. Then I lit another c
igarette--it was my last one. I must've smoked about three cartons that day. The
n, finally, I woke her up. I mean I couldn't sit there on that desk for the rest
of my life, and besides, I was afraid my parents might barge in on me all of a
sudden and I wanted to at least say hello to her before they did. So I woke her
up.
She wakes up very easily. I mean you don't have to yell at her or anythi
ng. All you have to do, practically, is sit down on the bed and say, "Wake up, P

hoeb," and bingo, she's awake.
"Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck and all.
She's very affectionate. I mean she's quite affectionate, for a child. Sometimes
she's even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss, and she said, "Whenja g
et home7' She was glad as hell to see me. You could tell.
"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?"
"I'm fine. Did you get my letter? I wrote you a five-page--"
"Yeah--not so loud. Thanks."
She wrote me this letter. I didn't get a chance to answer it, though. It
was all about this play she was in in school. She told me not to make any dates

or anything for Friday so that I could come see it.
"How's the play?" I asked her. "What'd you say the name of it was?"
"'A Christmas Pageant for Americans.' It stinks, but I'm Benedict Arnold
. I have practically the biggest part," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. She g
ets very excited when she tells you that stuff. "It starts out when I'm dying. T
his ghost comes in on Christmas Eve and asks me if I'm ashamed and everything. Y
ou know. For betraying my country and everything. Are you coming to it?" She was
sitting way the hell up in the bed and all. "That's what I wrote you about. Are
you?"
"Sure I'm coming. Certainly I'm coming."

"Daddy can't come. He has to fly to California," she said. Boy, was she
wide-awake. It only takes her about two seconds to get wide-awake. She was sitti
ng--sort of kneeling--way up in bed, and she was holding my goddam hand. "Listen
. Mother said you'd be home Wednesday," she said. "She said Wednesday."
"I got out early. Not so loud. You'll wake everybody up."
"What time is it? They won't be home till very late, Mother said. They w
ent to a party in Norwalk, Connecticut," old Phoebe said. "Guess what I did this
afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!"
"I don't know--Listen. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"The Doctor," old Phoebe said. "It's a special movie they had at the Lis

ter Foundation. Just this one day they had it--today was the only day. It was al
l about this doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a blanket over this c
hild's face that's a cripple and can't walk. Then they send him to jail and ever
ything. It was excellent."
"Listen a second. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"He feels sorry for it, the doctor. That's why he sticks this blanket ov
er her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they make him go to jai
l for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck the blanket over its head
comes to visit him all the time and thanks him for what he did. He was a mercy k
iller. Only, he knows he deserves to go to jail because a doctor isn't supposed

to take things away from God. This girl in my class's mother took us. Alice Holm
borg, She's my best friend. She's the only girl in the whole--"
"Wait a second, willya?" I said. "I'm asking you a question. Did they sa
y what time they'd be back, or didn't they?"
"No, but not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so they w
ouldn't have to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now! Except that Mothe
r said nobody can play it when the car's in traffic."
I began to relax, sort of. I mean I finally quit worrying about whether
they'd catch me home or not. I figured the hell with it. If they did, they did.
You should've seen old Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with red el

ephants on the collars. Elephants knock her out.
"So it was a good picture, huh?" I said.
"Swell, except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her all the
time if she felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture. Always in the middl
e of something important, her mother'd lean all over me and everything and ask A
lice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves."
Then I told her about the record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I tol
d her. "Only I broke it on the way home." I took the pieces out of my coat pocke
t and showed her. "I was plastered," I said.
"Gimme the pieces," she said. "I'm saving them." She took them right out

of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the night table. She kills me
.
"D.B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.
"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have to stay
in Hollywood and write a picture about Annapolis."
"Annapolis, for God's sake!"
"It's a love story and everything. Guess who's going to be in it! What m
ovie star. Guess!"
"I'm not interested. Annapolis, for God's sake. What's D.B. know about A
nnapolis, for God's sake? What's that got to do with the kind of stories he writ

es?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam Hollywood. "What'd you
do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had this big hunk of adhesive tape
on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her pajamas didn't have any sleeves.
"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class, pushed me while I was g
oing down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna see?" She started taking the
crazy adhesive tape off her arm.
"Leave it alone. Why'd he push you down the stairs?"
"I don't know. I think he hates me," old Phoebe said. "This other girl a
nd me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and stuff all over his windbreaker."
"That isn't nice. What are you--a child, for God's sake?"

"No, but every time I'm in the park, he follows me everywhere. He's alwa
ys following me. He gets on my nerves."
"He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--"
"I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me
funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?"
"What?"
Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's smart,
you're mad.
"How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kick
ed out or anything, did you?"

"I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--"
"You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on t
he leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh,
Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear
to God.
"Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--"
"You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her fist. I
f you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then
she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head.
She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman sometimes.

"Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even-
-C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me."
She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something if she
doesn't want to. All she kept saying was, "Daddy s gonna kill you." You could h
ardly understand her with that goddam pillow over her head.
"Nobody's gonna kill me. Use your head. In the first place, I'm going aw
ay. What I may do, I may get a job on a ranch or something for a while. I know t
his guy whose grandfather's got a ranch in Colorado. I may get a job out there,"
I said. "I'll keep in touch with you and all when I'm gone, if I go. C'mon. Tak
e that off your head. C'mon, hey, Phoeb. Please. Please, willya?'

She wouldn t take it off, though I tried pulling it off, but she's stron
g as hell. You get tired fighting with her. Boy, if she wants to keep a pillow o
ver her head, she keeps it. "Phoebe, please. C'mon outa there," I kept saying. "
C'mon, hey . . . Hey, Weatherfield. C'mon out."
She wouldn't come out, though. You can't even reason with her sometimes.
Finally, I got up and went out in the living room and got some cigarettes out o
f the box on the table and stuck some in my pocket. I was all out.


22

When I came back, she had the pillow off her head all right--I knew she
would--but she still wouldn't look at me, even though she was laying on her back
and all. When I came around the side of the bed and sat down again, she turned
her crazy face the other way. She was ostracizing the hell out of me. Just like
the fencing team at Pencey when I left all the goddam foils on the subway.
"How's old Hazel Weatherfield?" I said. "You write any new stories about
her? I got that one you sent me right in my suitcase. It's down at the station.
It's very good."
"Daddy'll kill you."

Boy, she really gets something on her mind when she gets something on he
r mind.
"No, he won't. The worst he'll do, he'll give me hell again, and then he
'll send me to that goddam military school. That's all he'll do to me. And in th
e first place, I won't even be around. I'll be away. I'll be--I'll probably be i
n Colorado on this ranch."
"Don't make me laugh. You can't even ride a horse."
"Who can't? Sure I can. Certainly I can. They can teach you in about two
minutes," I said. "Stop picking at that." She was picking at that adhesive tape
on her arm. "Who gave you that haircut?" I asked her. I just noticed what a stu

pid haircut somebody gave her. It was way too short.
"None of your business," she said. She can be very snotty sometimes. She
can be quite snotty. "I suppose you failed in every single subject again," she
said--very snotty. It was sort of funny, too, in a way. She sounds like a goddam
schoolteacher sometimes, and she's only a little child.
"No, I didn't," I said. "I passed English." Then, just for the hell of i
t, I gave her a pinch on the behind. It was sticking way out in the breeze, the
way she was laying on her side. She has hardly any behind. I didn't do it hard,
but she tried to hit my hand anyway, but she missed.
Then all of a sudden, she said, "Oh, why did you do it?" She meant why d

id I get the ax again. It made me sort of sad, the way she said it.
"Oh, God, Phoebe, don't ask me. I'm sick of everybody asking me that," I
said. "A million reasons why. It was one of the worst schools I ever went to. I
t was full of phonies. And mean guys. You never saw so many mean guys in your li
fe. For instance, if you were having a bull session in somebody's room, and some
body wanted to come in, nobody'd let them in if they were some dopey, pimply guy
. Everybody was always locking their door when somebody wanted to come in. And t
hey had this goddam secret fraternity that I was too yellow not to join. There w
as this one pimply, boring guy, Robert Ackley, that wanted to get in. He kept tr
ying to join, and they wouldn't let him. Just because he was boring and pimply.

I don't even feel like talking about it. It was a stinking school. Take my word.
"
Old Phoebe didn't say anything, but she was listen ing. I could tell by
the back of her neck that she was listening. She always listens when you tell he
r something. And the funny part is she knows, half the time, what the hell you'r
e talking about. She really does.
I kept talking about old Pencey. I sort of felt like it.
"Even the couple of nice teachers on the faculty, they were phonies, too
," I said. "There was this one old guy, Mr. Spencer. His wife was always giving
you hot chocolate and all that stuff, and they were really pretty nice. But you

should've seen him when the headmaster, old Thurmer, came in the history class a
nd sat down in the back of the room. He was always coming in and sitting down in
the back of the room for about a half an hour. He was supposed to be incognito
or something. After a while, he'd be sitting back there and then he'd start inte
rrupting what old Spencer was saying to crack a lot of corny jokes. Old Spencer'
d practically kill himself chuckling and smiling and all, like as if Thurmer was
a goddam prince or something."
"Don't swear so much."
"It would've made you puke, I swear it would," I said. "Then, on Veteran
s' Day. They have this day, Veterans' Day, that all the jerks that graduated fro

m Pencey around 1776 come back and walk all over the place, with their wives and
children and everybody. You should've seen this one old guy that was about fift
y. What he did was, he came in our room and knocked on the door and asked us if
we'd mind if he used the bathroom. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor--
I don't know why the hell he asked us. You know what he said? He said he wanted
to see if his initials were still in one of the can doors. What he did, he carve
d his goddam stupid sad old initials in one of the can doors about ninety years
ago, and he wanted to see if they were still there. So my roommate and I walked
him down to the bathroom and all, and we had to stand there while he looked for
his initials in all the can doors. He kept talking to us the whole time, telling

us how when he was at Pencey they were the happiest days of his life, and givin
g us a lot of advice for the future and all. Boy, did he depress me! I don't mea
n he was a bad guy--he wasn't. But you don't have to be a bad guy to depress som
ebody--you can be a good guy and do it. All you have to do to depress somebody i
s give them a lot of phony advice while you're looking for your initials in some
can door--that's all you have to do. I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't have been
so bad if he hadn't been all out of breath. He was all out of breath from just c
limbing up the stairs, and the whole time he was looking for his initials he kep
t breathing hard, with his nostrils all funny and sad, while he kept telling Str
adlater and I to get all we could out of Pencey. God, Phoebe! I can't explain. I

just didn't like anything that was happening at Pencey. I can't explain."
Old Phoebe said something then, but I couldn't hear her. She had the sid
e of her mouth right smack on the pillow, and I couldn't hear her.
"What?" I said. "Take your mouth away. I can't hear you with your mouth
that way."
"You don't like anything that's happening."
It made me even more depressed when she said that.
"Yes I do. Yes I do. Sure I do. Don't say that. Why the hell do you say
that?"
"Because you don't. You don't like any schools. You don't like a million

things. You don't."
"I do! That's where you're wrong--that's exactly where you're wrong! Why
the hell do you have to say that?" I said. Boy, was she depressing me.
"Because you don't," she said. "Name one thing."
"One thing? One thing I like?" I said. "Okay."
The trouble was, I couldn't concentrate too hot. Sometimes it's hard to
concentrate.
"One thing I like a lot you mean?" I asked her.
She didn't answer me, though. She was in a cockeyed position way the hel
l over the other side of the bed. She was about a thousand miles away. "C'mon an

swer me," I said. "One thing I like a lot, or one thing I just like?"
"You like a lot."
"All right," I said. But the trouble was, I couldn't concentrate. About
all I could think of were those two nuns that went around collecting dough in th
ose beatup old straw baskets. Especially the one with the glasses with those iro
n rims. And this boy I knew at Elkton Hills. There was this one boy at Elkton Hi
lls, named James Castle, that wouldn't take back something he said about this ve
ry conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy, an
d one of Stabile's lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So Stabile
, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle's room and went

in and locked the goddam door and tried to make him take back what he said, but
he wouldn't do it. So they started in on him. I won't even tell you what they d
id to him--it's too repulsive--but he still wouldn't take it back, old James Cas
tle. And you should've seen him. He was a skinny little weak-looking guy, with w
rists about as big as pencils. Finally, what he did, instead of taking back what
he said, he jumped out the window. I was in the shower and all, and even I coul
d hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a rad
io or a desk or something, not a boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running
through the corridor and down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran dow
nstairs too, and there was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and

all. He was dead, and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody
would even go near him. He had on this turtleneck sweater I'd lent him. All they
did with the guys that were in the room with him was expel them. They didn't ev
en go to jail.
That was about all I could think of, though. Those two nuns I saw at bre
akfast and this boy James Castle I knew at Elkton Hills. The funny part is, I ha
rdly even know James Castle, if you want to know the truth. He was one of these
very quiet guys. He was in my math class, but he was way over on the other side
of the room, and he hardly ever got up to recite or go to the blackboard or anyt
hing. Some guys in school hardly ever get up to recite or go to the blackboard.

I think the only time I ever even had a conversation with him was that time he a
sked me if he could borrow this turtleneck sweater I had. I damn near dropped de
ad when he asked me, I was so surprised and all. I remember I was brushing my te
eth, in the can, when he asked me. He said his cousin was coming in to take him
for a drive and all. I didn't even know he knew I had a turtleneck sweater. All
I knew about him was that his name was always right ahead of me at roll call. Ca
bel, R., Cabel, W., Castle, Caulfield--I can still remember it. If you want to k
now the truth, I almost didn't lend him my sweater. Just because I didn't know h
im too well.
"What?" I said to old Phoebe. She said something to me, but I didn't hea

r her.
"You can't even think of one thing."
"Yes, I can. Yes, I can."
"Well, do it, then."
"I like Allie," I said. "And I like doing what I'm doing right now. Sitt
ing here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and--"
"Allie's dead--You always say that! If somebody's dead and everything, a
nd in Heaven, then it isn't really--"
"I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, th
ough, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, fo

r God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the peop
le you know that're alive and all."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything. When she can't think of anything to say,
she doesn't say a goddam word.
"Anyway, I like it now," I said. "I mean right now. Sitting here with yo
u and just chewing the fat and horsing--"
"That isn't anything really!"
"It is so something really! Certainly it is! Why the hell isn't it? Peop
le never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it,"
"Stop swearing. All right, name something else. Name something you'd lik

e to be. Like a scientist. Or a lawyer or something."
"I couldn't be a scientist. I'm no good in science."
"Well, a lawyer--like Daddy and all."
"Lawyers are all right, I guess--but it doesn't appeal to me," I said. "
I mean they're all right if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the t
ime, and like that, but you don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All
you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and dri
nk Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you did go around sav
ing guys' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wan
ted to save guys' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted t

o do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congr
atulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters and everybo
dy, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren't being a ph
ony? The trouble is, you wouldn't."
I'm not too sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking about. I me
an she's only a little child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebo
dy at least listens, it's not too bad.
"Daddy's going to kill you. He's going to kill you," she said.
I wasn't listening, though. I was thinking about something else--somethi
ng crazy. "You know what I'd like to be?" I said. "You know what I'd like to be?

I mean if I had my goddam choice?"
"What? Stop swearing."
"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd
like--"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said.
"It's a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."
She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the r
ye." I didn't know it then, though.
"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep pic

turing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all.
Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. A
nd I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to ca
tch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and
they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch
them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I k
now it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's cra
zy."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything for a long time. Then, when she said some
thing, all she said was, "Daddy's going to kill you."

"I don't give a damn if he does," I said. I got up from the bed then, be
cause what I wanted to do, I wanted to phone up this guy that was my English tea
cher at Elkton Hills, Mr. Antolini. He lived in New York now. He quit Elkton Hil
ls. He took this job teaching English at N.Y.U. "I have to make a phone call," I
told Phoebe. "I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep." I didn't want her to go t
o sleep while I was in the living room. I knew she wouldn't but I said it anyway
, just to make sure.
While I was walking toward the door, old Phoebe said, "Holden!" and I tu
rned around.
She was sitting way up in bed. She looked so pretty. "I'm taking belchin

g lessons from this girl, Phyllis Margulies," she said. "Listen."
I listened, and I heard something, but it wasn't much. "Good," I said. T
hen I went out in the living room and called up this teacher I had, Mr. Antolini
.


23

I made it very snappy on the phone because I was afraid my parents would
barge in on me right in the middle of it. They didn't, though. Mr. Antolini was

very nice. He said I could come right over if I wanted to. I think I probably w
oke he and his wife up, because it took them a helluva long time to answer the p
hone. The first thing he asked me was if anything was wrong, and I said no. I sa
id I'd flunked out of Pencey, though. I thought I might as well tell him. He sai
d "Good God," when I said that. He had a good sense of humor and all. He told me
to come right over if I felt like it.
He was about the best teacher I ever had, Mr. Antolini. He was a pretty
young guy, not much older than my brother D.B., and you could kid around with hi
m without losing your respect for him. He was the one that finally picked up tha
t boy that jumped out the window I told you about, James Castle. Old Mr. Antolin

i felt his pulse and all, and then he took off his coat and put it over James Ca
stle and carried him all the way over to the infirmary. He didn't even give a da
mn if his coat got all bloody.
When I got back to D.B.'s room, old Phoebe'd turned the radio on. This d
ance music was coming out. She'd turned it on low, though, so the maid wouldn't
hear it. You should've seen her. She was sitting smack in the middle of the bed,
outside the covers, with her legs folded like one of those Yogi guys. She was l
istening to the music. She kills me.
"C'mon," I said. "You feel like dancing?" I taught her how to dance and
all when she was a tiny little kid. She's a very good dancer. I mean I just taug

ht her a few things. She learned it mostly by herself. You can't teach somebody
how to really dance.
"You have shoes on," she said.
"I'll take 'em off. C'mon."
She practically jumped off the bed, and then she waited while I took my
shoes off, and then I danced with her for a while. She's really damn good. I don
't like people that dance with little kids, because most of the time it looks te
rrible. I mean if you're out at a restaurant somewhere and you see some old guy
take his little kid out on the dance floor. Usually they keep yanking the kid's
dress up in the back by mistake, and the kid can't dance worth a damn anyway, an

d it looks terrible, but I don't do it out in public with Phoebe or anything. We
just horse around in the house. It's different with her anyway, because she can
dance. She can follow anything you do. I mean if you hold her in close as hell
so that it doesn't matter that your legs are so much longer. She stays right wit
h you. You can cross over, or do some corny dips, or even jitterbug a little, an
d she stays right with you. You can even tango, for God's sake.
We danced about four numbers. In between numbers she's funny as hell. Sh
e stays right in position. She won't even talk or anything. You both have to sta
y right in position and wait for the orchestra to start playing again. That kill
s me. You're not supposed to laugh or anything, either.

Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned off the radio. O
ld Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers. "I'm improving, aren't I?
" she asked me.
"And how," I said. I sat down next to her on the bed again. I was sort o
f out of breath. I was smoking so damn much, I had hardly any wind. She wasn't e
ven out of breath.
"Feel my forehead," she said all of a sudden.
"Why?"
"Feel it. Just feel it once."
I felt it. I didn't feel anything, though.

"Does it feel very feverish?" she said.
"No. Is it supposed to?"
"Yes--I'm making it. Feel it again."
I felt it again, and I still didn't feel anything, but I said, "I think
it's starting to, now." I didn't want her to get a goddam inferiority complex.
She nodded. "I can make it go up to over the thermoneter."
"Thermometer. Who said so?"
"Alice Holmborg showed me how. You cross your legs and hold your breath
and think of something very, very hot. A radiator or something. Then your whole
forehead gets so hot you can burn somebody's hand."

That killed me. I pulled my hand away from her forehead, like I was in t
errific danger. "Thanks for telling me," I said.
"Oh, I wouldn't've burned your hand. I'd've stopped before it got too--S
hhh!" Then, quick as hell, she sat way the hell up in bed.
She scared hell out of me when she did that. "What's the matter?" I said
.
"The front door!" she said in this loud whisper. "It's them!"
I quick jumped up and ran over and turned off the light over the desk. T
hen I jammed out my cigarette on my shoe and put it in my pocket. Then I fanned
hell out of the air, to get the smoke out--I shouldn't even have been smoking, f

or God's sake. Then I grabbed my shoes and got in the closet and shut the door.
Boy, my heart was beating like a bastard.
I heard my mother come in the room.
"Phoebe?" she said. "Now, stop that. I saw the light, young lady."
"Hello!" I heard old Phoebe say. "I couldn't sleep. Did you have a good
time?"
"Marvelous," my mother said, but you could tell she didn't mean it. She
doesn't enjoy herself much when she goes out. "Why are you awake, may I ask? Wer
e you warm enough?"
"I was warm enough, I just couldn't sleep."

"Phoebe, have you been smoking a cigarette in here? Tell me the truth, p
lease, young lady."
"What?" old Phoebe said.
"You heard me."
"I just lit one for one second. I just took one puff. Then I threw it ou
t the window."
"Why, may I ask?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"I don't like that, Phoebe. I don't like that at all," my mother said. "
Do you want another blanket?"

"No, thanks. G'night!" old Phoebe said. She was trying to get rid of her
, you could tell.
"How was the movie?" my mother said.
"Excellent. Except Alice's mother. She kept leaning over and asking her
if she felt grippy during the whole entire movie. We took a taxi home."
"Let me feel your forehead."
"I didn't catch anything. She didn't have anything. It was just her moth
er."
"Well. Go to sleep now. How was your dinner?"
"Lousy," Phoebe said.

"You heard what your father said about using that word. What was lousy a
bout it? You had a lovely lamb chop. I walked all over Lexington Avenue just to-
-"
"The lamb chop was all right, but Charlene always breathes on me wheneve
r she puts something down. She breathes all over the food and everything. She br
eathes on everything."
"Well. Go to sleep. Give Mother a kiss. Did you say your prayers?"
"I said them in the bathroom. G'night!"
"Good night. Go right to sleep now. I have a splitting headache," my mot
her said. She gets headaches quite frequently. She really does.

"Take a few aspirins," old Phoebe said. "Holden'll be home on Wednesday,
won't he?"
"So far as I know. Get under there, now. Way down."
I heard my mother go out and close the door. I waited a couple of minute
s. Then I came out of the closet. I bumped smack into old Phoebe when I did it,
because it was so dark and she was out of bed and coming to tell me. "I hurt you
?" I said. You had to whisper now, because they were both home. "I gotta get a m
ove on," I said. I found the edge of the bed in the dark and sat down on it and
started putting on my shoes. I was pretty nervous. I admit it.
"Don't go now," Phoebe whispered. "Wait'll they're asleep!"

"No. Now. Now's the best time," I said. "She'll be in the bathroom and D
addy'll turn on the news or something. Now's the best time." I could hardly tie
my shoelaces, I was so damn nervous. Not that they would've killed me or anythin
g if they'd caught me home, but it would've been very unpleasant and all. "Where
the hell are ya?" I said to old Phoebe. It was so dark I couldn't see her.
"Here." She was standing right next to me. I didn't even see her.
"I got my damn bags at the station," I said. "Listen. You got any dough,
Phoeb? I'm practically broke."
"Just my Christmas dough. For presents and all. I haven't done any shopp
ing at all yet."

"Oh." I didn't want to take her Christmas dough.
"You want some?" she said.
"I don't want to take your Christmas dough."
"I can lend you some," she said. Then I heard her over at D.B.'s desk, o
pening a million drawers and feeling around with her hand. It was pitch-black, i
t was so dark in the room. "If you go away, you won't see me in the play," she s
aid. Her voice sounded funny when she said it.
"Yes, I will. I won't go way before that. You think I wanna miss the pla
y?" I said. "What I'll do, I'll probably stay at Mr. Antolini's house till maybe
Tuesday night. Then I'll come home. If I get a chance, I'll phone ya."

"Here," old Phoebe said. She was trying to give me the dough, but she co
uldn't find my hand.
"Where?"
She put the dough in my hand.
"Hey, I don't need all this," I said. "Just give me two bucks, is all. N
o kidding--Here." I tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it.
"You can take it all. You can pay me back. Bring it to the play."
"How much is it, for God's sake?"
"Eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Sixty-five cents. I spent some."
Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry. I couldn't help it. I did it so

nobody could hear me, but I did it. It scared hell out of old Phoebe when I sta
rted doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get sta
rted, you can't just stop on a goddam dime. I was still sitting on the edge of t
he bed when I did it, and she put her old arm around my neck, and I put my arm a
round her, too, but I still couldn't stop for a long time. I thought I was going
to choke to death or something. Boy, I scared hell out of poor old Phoebe. The
damn window was open and everything, and I could feel her shivering and all, bec
ause all she had on was her pajamas. I tried to make her get back in bed, but sh
e wouldn't go. Finally I stopped. But it certainly took me a long, long time. Th
en I finished buttoning my coat and all. I told her I'd keep in touch with her.

She told me I could sleep with her if I wanted to, but I said no, that I'd bette
r beat it, that Mr. Antolini was waiting for me and all. Then I took my hunting
hat out of my coat pocket and gave it to her. She likes those kind of crazy hats
. She didn't want to take it, but I made her. I'll bet she slept with it on. She
really likes those kind of hats. Then I told her again I'd give her a buzz if I
got a chance, and then I left.
It was a helluva lot easier getting out of the house than it was getting
in, for some reason. For one thing, I didn't give much of a damn any more if th
ey caught me. I really didn't. I figured if they caught me, they caught me. I al
most wished they did, in a way.

I walked all the way downstairs, instead of taking the elevator. I went
down the back stairs. I nearly broke my neck on about ten million garbage pails,
but I got out all right. The elevator boy didn't even see me. He probably still
thinks I'm up at the Dicksteins'.


24

Mr. and Mrs. Antolini had this very swanky apartment over on Sutton Plac
e, with two steps that you go down to get in the living room, and a bar and all.

I'd been there quite a few times, because after I left Elkton Hills Mr. Antoiln
i came up to our house for dinner quite frequently to find out how I was getting
along. He wasn't married then. Then when he got married, I used to play tennis
with he and Mrs. Antolini quite frequently, out at the West Side Tennis Club, in
Forest Hills, Long Island. Mrs. Antolini, belonged there. She was lousy with do
ugh. She was about sixty years older than Mr. Antolini, but they seemed to get a
long quite well. For one thing, they were both very intellectual, especially Mr.
Antolini except that he was more witty than intellectual when you were with him
, sort of like D.B. Mrs. Antolini was mostly serious. She had asthma pretty bad.
They both read all D.B.'s stories--Mrs. Antolini, too--and when D.B. went to Ho

llywood, Mr. Antolini phoned him up and told him not to go. He went anyway, thou
gh. Mr. Antolini said that anybody that could write like D.B. had no business go
ing out to Hollywood. That's exactly what I said, practically.
I would have walked down to their house, because I didn't want to spend
any of Phoebe's Christmas dough that I didn't have to, but I felt funny when I g
ot outside. Sort of dizzy. So I took a cab. I didn't want to, but I did. I had a
helluva time even finding a cab.
Old Mr. Antolini answered the door when I rang the bell--after the eleva
tor boy finally let me up, the bastard. He had on his bathrobe and slippers, and
he had a highball in one hand. He was a pretty sophisticated guy, and he was a

pretty heavy drinker. "Holden, m'boy!" he said. "My God, he's grown another twen
ty inches. Fine to see you."
"How are you, Mr. Antolini? How's Mrs. Antolini?"
"We're both just dandy. Let's have that coat." He took my coat off me an
d hung it up. "I expected to see a day-old infant in your arms. Nowhere to turn.
Snowflakes in your eyelashes." He's a very witty guy sometimes. He turned aroun
d and yelled out to the kitchen, "Lillian! How's the coffee coming?" Lillian was
Mrs. Antolini's first name.
"It's all ready," she yelled back. "Is that Holden? Hello, Holden!"
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini!"

You were always yelling when you were there. That's because the both of
them were never in the same room at the same time. It was sort of funny.
"Sit down, Holden," Mr. Antolini said. You could tell he was a little oi
led up. The room looked like they'd just had a party. Glasses were all over the
place, and dishes with peanuts in them. "Excuse the appearance of the place," he
said. "We've been entertaining some Buffalo friends of Mrs. Antolini's . . . So
me buffaloes, as a matter of fact."
I laughed, and Mrs. Antolini yelled something in to me from the kitchen,
but I couldn't hear her. "What'd she say?" I asked Mr. Antolini.
"She said not to look at her when she comes in. She just arose from the

sack. Have a cigarette. Are you smoking now?"
"Thanks," I said. I took a cigarette from the box he offered me. "Just o
nce in a while. I'm a moderate smoker."
"I'll bet you are," he said. He gave me a light from this big lighter of
f the table. "So. You and Pencey are no longer one," he said. He always said thi
ngs that way. Sometimes it amused me a lot and sometimes it didn't. He sort of d
id it a little bit too much. I don't mean he wasn't witty or anything--he was--b
ut sometimes it gets on your nerves when somebody's always saying things like "S
o you and Pencey are no longer one." D.B. does it too much sometimes, too.
"What was the trouble?" Mr. Antolini asked me. "How'd you do in English?

I'll show you the door in short order if you flunked English, you little ace co
mposition writer."
"Oh, I passed English all right. It was mostly literature, though. I onl
y wrote about two compositions the whole term," I said. "I flunked Oral Expressi
on, though. They had this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunke
d."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know." I didn't feel much like going into It. I was still f
eeling sort of dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden.
I really did. But you could tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit

about it. "It's this course where each boy in class has to get up in class and m
ake a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all. And if the boy digresses at all, yo
u're supposed to yell 'Digression!' at him as fast as you can. It just about dro
ve me crazy. I got an F in it."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't kn
ow. The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interes
ting and all."
"You don't care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells you so
mething?"

"Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't li
ke them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it wh
en somebody sticks to the point all the time. The boys that got the best marks i
n Oral Expression were the ones that stuck to the point all the time--I admit it
. But there was this one boy, Richard Kinsella. He didn't stick to the point too
much, and they were always yelling 'Digression!' at him. It was terrible, becau
se in the first place, he was a very nervous guy--I mean he was a very nervous g
uy--and his lips were always shaking whenever it was his time to make a speech,
and you could hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of the room. W
hen his lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches bet

ter than anybody else's. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got
a D plus because they kept yelling 'Digression!' at him all the time. For instan
ce, he made this speech about this farm his father bought in Vermont. They kept
yelling 'Digression!' at him the whole time he was making it, and this teacher,
Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on it because he hadn't told what kind of animals and
vegetables and stuff grew on the farm and all. What he did was, Richard Kinsella
, he'd start telling you all about that stuff--then all of a sudden he'd start t
elling you about this letter his mother got from his uncle, and how his uncle go
t polio and all when he was forty-two years old, and how he wouldn't let anybody
come to see him in the hospital because he didn't want anybody to see him with

a brace on. It didn't have much to do with the farm--I admit it--but it was nice
. It's nice when somebody tells you about their uncle. Especially when they star
t out telling you about their father's farm and then all of a sudden get more in
terested in their uncle. I mean it's dirty to keep yelling 'Digression!' at him
when he's all nice and excited. I don't know. It's hard to explain." I didn't fe
el too much like trying, either. For one thing, I had this terrific headache all
of a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come in with the coffee. T
hat's something that annoys hell out of me--I mean if somebody says the coffee's
all ready and it isn't.
"Holden. . . One short, faintly stuffy, pedagogical question. Don't you

think there's a time and place for everything? Don't you think if someone starts
out to tell you about his father's farm, he should stick to his guns, then get
around to telling you about his uncle's brace? Or, if his uncle's brace is such
a provocative subject, shouldn't he have selected it in the first place as his s
ubject--not the farm?"
I didn't feel much like thinking and answering and all. I had a headache
and I felt lousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache, if you want to know the tr
uth.
"Yes--I don't know. I guess he should. I mean I guess he should've picke
d his uncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if that interested him most. But

what I mean is, lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you sta
rt talking about something that doesn't interest you most. I mean you can't help
it sometimes. What I think is, you're supposed to leave somebody alone if he's
at least being interesting and he's getting all excited about something. I like
it when somebody gets excited about something. It's nice. You just didn't know t
his teacher, Mr. Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, him and the goddam
class. I mean he'd keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time. Some thi
ngs you just can't do that to. I mean you can't hardly ever simplify and unify s
omething just because somebody wants you to. You didn't know this guy, Mr. Vinso
n. I mean he was very intelligent and all, but you could tell he didn't have too

much brains."
"Coffee, gentlemen, finally," Mrs. Antolini said. She came in carrying t
his tray with coffee and cakes and stuff on it. "Holden, don't you even peek at
me. I'm a mess."
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini," I said. I started to get up and all, but Mr. Ant
olini got hold of my jacket and pulled me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini's hair wa
s full of those iron curler jobs, and she didn't have any lipstick or anything o
n. She didn't look too gorgeous. She looked pretty old and all.
"I'll leave this right here. Just dive in, you two," she said. She put t
he tray down on the cigarette table, pushing all these glasses out of the way. "

How's your mother, Holden?"
"She's fine, thanks. I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"
"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet. Th
e top shelf. I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said. She looked it
, too. "Can you boys make up the couch by yourselves?"
"We'll take care of everything. You run along to bed," Mr. Antolini said
. He gave Mrs. Antolini a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroo
m. They were always kissing each other a lot in public.
I had part of a cup of coffee and about half of some cake that was as ha
rd as a rock. All old Mr. Antolini had was another highball, though. He makes th

em strong, too, you could tell. He may get to be an alcoholic if he doesn't watc
h his step.
"I had lunch with your dad a couple of weeks ago," he said all of a sudd
en. "Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"You're aware, of course, that he's terribly concerned about you."
"I know it. I know he is," I said.
"Apparently before he phoned me he'd just had a long, rather harrowing l
etter from your latest headmaster, to the effect that you were making absolutely
no effort at all. Cutting classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In ge

neral, being an all-around--"
"I didn't cut any classes. You weren't allowed to cut any. There were a
couple of them I didn't attend once in a while, like that Oral Expression I told
you about, but I didn't cut any."
I didn't feel at all like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel
a little better, but I still had this awful headache.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said
, "Frankly, I don't know what the hell to say to you, Holden."
"I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that."
"I have a feeling that you're riding for some kind of a terrible, terrib

le fall. But I don't honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
"It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hat
ing everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in colleg
e. Then again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It
's a secret between he and I.' Or you may end up in some business office, throwi
ng paper clips at the nearest stenographer. I just don't know. But do you know w
hat I'm driving at, at all?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. "But you're wrong about that hating bus