Speedreed

THE

CATCHER

IN

THE

RYE

by

J.D.

Salinger

TO

MY

MOTHER

1

If

you

really

want

to

hear

about

it,

the

first

thing

you'll

probably

want

to

know

is

where

I

was

born,

an

what

my

lousy

childhood

was

like,

and

how

my

parents

were

occupied

and

all

before

they

had

me,

and

all

that

David

Copperfield

kind

of

crap,

but

I

don't

feel

like

going

into

it,

if

you

want

to

know

the

truth.

In

the

first

place,

that

stuff

bores

me,

and

in

the

second

place,

my

parents

would

have

about

two

hemorrhages

apiece

if

I

told

anything

pretty

personal

about

them.

They're

quite

touchy

about

anything

like

that,

especially

my

father.

They're

nice

and

all--I'm

not

saying

that--but

they're

also

touchy

as

hell.

Besides,

I'm

not

going

to

tell

you

my

whole

goddam

autobiography

or

anything.

I'll

just

tell

you

about

this

madman

stuff

that

happened

to

me

around

last

Christmas

just

before

I

got

pretty

run-down

and

had

to

come

out

here

and

take

it

easy.

I

mean

that's

all

I

told

D.B.

about,

and

he's

my

brother

and

all.

He's

in

Hollywood.

That

isn't

too

far

from

this

crumby

place,

and

he

comes

over

and

visits

me

practically

every

week

end.

He's

going

to

drive

me

home

when

I

go

home

next

month

maybe.

He

just

got

a

Jaguar.

One

of

those

little

English

jobs

that

can

do

around

two

hundred

miles

an

hour.

It

cost

him

damn

near

four

thousand

bucks.

He's

got

a

lot

of

dough,

now.

He

didn't

use

to.

He

used

to

be

just

a

regular

writer,

when

he

was

home.

He

wrote

this

terrific

book

of

short

stories,

The

Secret

Goldfish,

in

case

you

never

heard

of

him.

The

best

one

in

it

was

"The

Secret

Goldfish."

It

was

about

this

little

kid

that

wouldn't

let

anybody

look

at

his

goldfish

because

he'd

bought

it

with

his

own

money.

It

killed

me.

Now

he's

out

in

Hollywood,

D.B.,

being

a

prostitute.

If

there's

one

thing

I

hate,

it's

the

movies.

Don't

even

mention

them

to

me.

Where

I

want

to

start

telling

is

the

day

I

left

Pencey

Prep.

Pencey

Prep

is

this

school

that's

in

Agerstown,

Pennsylvania.

You

probably

heard

of

it.

You've

probably

seen

the

ads,

anyway.

They

advertise

in

about

a

thousand

magazines,

always

showing

some

hotshot

guy

on

a

horse

jumping

over

a

fence.

Like

as

if

all

you

ever

did

at

Pencey

was

play

polo

all

the

time.

I

never

even

once

saw

a

horse

anywhere

near

the

place.

And

underneath

the

guy

on

the

horse's

picture,

it

always

says:

"Since

1888

we

have

been

molding

boys

into

splendid,

clear-thinking

young

men."

Strictly

for

the

birds.

They

don't

do

any

damn

more

molding

at

Pencey

than

they

do

at

any

other

school.

And

I

didn't

know

anybody

there

that

was

splendid

and

clear-thinking

and

all.

Maybe

two

guys.

If

that

many.

And

they

probably

came

to

Pencey

that

way.

Anyway,

it

was

the

Saturday

of

the

football

game

with

Saxon

Hall.

The

game

with

Saxon

Hall

was

supposed

to

be

a

very

big

deal

around

Pencey.

It

was

the

last

game

of

the

year,

and

you

were

supposed

to

commit

suicide

or

something

if

old

Pencey

didn't

win.

I

remember

around

three

o'clock

that

afternoon

I

was

standing

way

the

hell

up

on

top

of

Thomsen

Hill,

right

next

to

this

crazy

cannon

that

was

in

the

Revolutionary

War

and

all.

You

could

see

the

whole

field

from

there,

and

you

could

see

the

two

teams

bashing

each

other

all

over

the

place.

You

couldn't

see

the

grandstand

too

hot,

but

you

could

hear

them

all

yelling,

deep

and

terrific

on

the

Pencey

side,

because

practically

the

whole

school

except

me

was

there,

and

scrawny

and

faggy

on

the

Saxon

Hall

side,

because

the

visiting

team

hardly

ever

brought

many

people

with

them.

There

were

never

many

girls

at

all

at

the

football

games.

Only

seniors

were

allowed

to

bring

girls

with

them.

It

was

a

terrible

school,

no

matter

how

you

looked

at

it.

I

like

to

be

somewhere

at

least

where

you

can

see

a

few

girls

around

once

in

a

while,

even

if

they're

only

scratching

their

arms

or

blowing

their

noses

or

even

just

giggling

or

something.

Old

Selma

Thurmer--she

was

the

headmaster's

daughter--showed

up

at

the

games

quite

often,

but

she

wasn't

exactly

the

type

that

drove

you

mad

with

desire.

She

was

a

pretty

nice

girl,

though.

I

sat

next

to

her

once

in

the

bus

from

Agerstown

and

we

sort

of

struck

up

a

conversation.

I

liked

her.

She

had

a

big

nose

and

her

nails

were

all

bitten

down

and

bleedy-looking

and

she

had

on

those

damn

falsies

that

point

all

over

the

place,

but

you

felt

sort

of

sorry

for

her.

What

I

liked

about

her,

she

didn't

give

you

a

lot

of

horse

manure

about

what

a

great

guy

her

father

was.

She

probably

knew

what

a

phony

slob

he

was.

The

reason

I

was

standing

way

up

on

Thomsen

Hill,

instead

of

down

at

the

game,

was

because

I'd

just

got

back

from

New

York

with

the

fencing

team.

I

was

the

goddam

manager

of

the

fencing

team.

Very

big

deal.

We'd

gone

in

to

New

York

that

morning

for

this

fencing

meet

with

McBurney

School.

Only,

we

didn't

have

the

meet.

I

left

all

the

foils

and

equipment

and

stuff

on

the

goddam

subway.

It

wasn't

all

my

fault.

I

had

to

keep

getting

up

to

look

at

this

map,

so

we'd

know

where

to

get

off.

So

we

got

back

to

Pencey

around

two-thirty

instead

of

around

dinnertime.

The

whole

team

ostracized

me

the

whole

way

back

on

the

train.

It

was

pretty

funny,

in

a

way.

The

other

reason

I

wasn't

down

at

the

game

was

because

I

was

on

my

way

to

say

good-by

to

old

Spencer,

my

history

teacher.

He

had

the

grippe,

and

I

figured

I

probably

wouldn't

see

him

again

till

Christmas

vacation

started.

He

wrote

me

this

note

saying

he

wanted

to

see

me

before

I

went

home.

He

knew

I

wasn't

coming

back

to

Pencey.

I

forgot

to

tell

you

about

that.

They

kicked

me

out.

I

wasn't

supposed

to

come

back

after

Christmas

vacation

on

account

of

I

was

flunking

four

subjects

and

not

applying

myself

and

all.

They

gave

me

frequent

warning

to

start

applying

myself--especially

around

midterms,

when

my

parents

came

up

for

a

conference

with

old

Thurmer--but

I

didn't

do

it.

So

I

got

the

ax.

They

give

guys

the

ax

quite

frequently

at

Pencey.

It

has

a

very

good

academic

rating,

Pencey.

It

really

does.

Anyway,

it

was

December

and

all,

and

it

was

cold

as

a

witch's

teat,

especially

on

top

of

that

stupid

hill.

I

only

had

on

my

reversible

and

no

gloves

or

anything.

The

week

before

that,

somebody'd

stolen

my

camel's-hair

coat

right

out

of

my

room,

with

my

furlined

gloves

right

in

the

pocket

and

all.

Pencey

was

full

of

crooks.

Quite

a

few

guys

came

from

these

very

wealthy

families,

but

it

was

full

of

crooks

anyway.

The

more

expensive

a

school

is,

the

more

crooks

it

has--I'm

not

kidding.

Anyway,

I

kept

standing

next

to

that

crazy

cannon,

looking

down

at

the

game

and

freezing

my

ass

off.

Only,

I

wasn't

watching

the

game

too

much.

What

I

was

really

hanging

around

for,

I

was

trying

to

feel

some

kind

of

a

good-by.

I

mean

I've

left

schools

and

places

I

didn't

even

know

I

was

leaving

them.

I

hate

that.

I

don't

care

if

it's

a

sad

good-by

or

a

bad

goodby,

but

when

I

leave

a

place

I

like

to

know

I'm

leaving

it.

If

you

don't,

you

feel

even

worse.

I

was

lucky.

All

of

a

sudden

I

thought

of

something

that

helped

make

me

know

I

was

getting

the

hell

out.

I

suddenly

remembered

this

time,

in

around

October,

that

I

and

Robert

Tichener

and

Paul

Campbell

were

chucking

a

football

around,

in

front

of

the

academic

building.

They

were

nice

guys,

especially

Tichener.

It

was

just

before

dinner

and

it

was

getting

pretty

dark

out,

but

we

kept

chucking

the

ball

around

anyway.

It

kept

getting

darker

and

darker,

and

we

could

hardly

see

the

ball

any

more,

but

we

didn't

want

to

stop

doing

what

we

were

doing.

Finally

we

had

to.

This

teacher

that

taught

biology,

Mr.

Zambesi,

stuck

his

head

out

of

this

window

in

the

academic

building

and

told

us

to

go

back

to

the

dorm

and

get

ready

for

dinner.

If

I

get

a

chance

to

remember

that

kind

of

stuff,

I

can

get

a

good-by

when

I

need

one--at

least,

most

of

the

time

I

can.

As

soon

as

I

got

it,

I

turned

around

and

started

running

down

the

other

side

of

the

hill,

toward

old

Spencer's

house.

He

didn't

live

on

the

campus.

He

lived

on

Anthony

Wayne

Avenue.

I

ran

all

the

way

to

the

main

gate,

and

then

I

waited

a

second

till

I

got

my

breath.

I

have

no

wind,

if

you

want

to

know

the

truth.

I'm

quite

a

heavy

smoker,

for

one

thing--that

is,

I

used

to

be.

They

made

me

cut

it

out.

Another

thing,

I

grew

six

and

a

half

inches

last

year.

That's

also

how

I

practically

got

t.b.

and

came

out

here

for

all

these

goddam

checkups

and

stuff.

I'm

pretty

healthy,

though.

Anyway,

as

soon

as

I

got

my

breath

back

I

ran

across

Route

204.

It

was

icy

as

hell

and

I

damn

near

fell

down.

I

don't

even

know

what

I

was

running

for--I

guess

I

just

felt

like

it.

After

I

got

across

the

road,

I

felt

like

I

was

sort

of

disappearing.

It

was

that

kind

of

a

crazy

afternoon,

terrifically

cold,

and

no

sun

out

or

anything,

and

you

felt

like

you

were

disappearing

every

time

you

crossed

a

road.

Boy,

I

rang

that

doorbell

fast

when

I

got

to

old

Spencer's

house.

I

was

really

frozen.

My

ears

were

hurting

and

I

could

hardly

move

my

fingers

at

all.

"C'mon,

c'mon,"

I

said

right

out

loud,

almost,

"somebody

open

the

door."

Finally

old

Mrs.

Spencer

opened.

it.

They

didn't

have

a

maid

or

anything,

and

they

always

opened

the

door

themselves.

They

didn't

have

too

much

dough.

"Holden!"

Mrs.

Spencer

said.

"How

lovely

to

see

you!

Come

in,

dear!

Are

you

frozen

to

death?"

I

think

she

was

glad

to

see

me.

She

liked

me.

At

least,

I

think

she

did.

Boy,

did

I

get

in

that

house

fast.

"How

are

you,

Mrs.

Spencer?"

I

said.

"How's

Mr.

Spencer?"

"Let

me

take

your

coat,

dear,"

she

said.

She

didn't

hear

me

ask

her

how

Mr.

Spencer

was.

She

was

sort

of

deaf.

She

hung

up

my

coat

in

the

hall

closet,

and

I

sort

of

brushed

my

hair

back

with

my

hand.

I

wear

a

crew

cut

quite

frequently

and

I

never

have

to

comb

it

much.

"How've

you

been,

Mrs.

Spencer?"

I

said

again,

only

louder,

so

she'd

hear

me.

"I've

been

just

fine,

Holden."

She

closed

the

closet

door.

"How

have

you

been?"

The

way

she

asked

me,

I

knew

right

away

old

Spencer'd

told

her

I'd

been

kicked

out.

"Fine,"

I

said.

"How's

Mr.

Spencer?

He

over

his

grippe

yet?"

"Over

it!

Holden,

he's

behaving

like

a

perfect--I

don't

know

what.

.

.

He's

in

his

room,

dear.

Go

right

in."

2

They

each

had

their

own

room

and

all.

They

were

both

around

seventy

years

old,

or

even

more

than

that.

They

got

a

bang

out

of

things,

though--in

a

haif-assed

way,

of

course.

I

know

that

sounds

mean

to

say,

but

I

don't

mean

it

mean.

I

just

mean

that

I

used

to

think

about

old

Spencer

quite

a

lot,

and

if

you

thought

about

him

too

much,

you

wondered

what

the

heck

he

was

still

living

for.

I

mean

he

was

all

stooped

over,

and

he

had

very

terrible

posture,

and

in

class,

whenever

he

dropped

a

piece

of

chalk

at

the

blackboard,

some

guy

in

the

first

row

always

had

to

get

up

and

pick

it

up

and

hand

it

to

him.

That's

awful,

in

my

opinion.

But

if

you

thought

about

him

just

enough

and

not

too

much,

you

could

figure

it

out

that

he

wasn't

doing

too

bad

for

himself.

For

instance,

one

Sunday

when

some

other

guys

and

I

were

over

there

for

hot

chocolate,

he

showed

us

this

old

beat-up

Navajo

blanket

that

he

and

Mrs.

Spencer'd

bought

off

some

Indian

in

Yellowstone

Park.

You

could

tell

old

Spencer'd

got

a

big

bang

out

of

buying

it.

That's

what

I

mean.

You

take

somebody

old

as

hell,

like

old

Spencer,

and

they

can

get

a

big

bang

out

of

buying

a

blanket.

His

door

was

open,

but

I

sort

of

knocked

on

it

anyway,

just

to

be

polite

and

all.

I

could

see

where

he

was

sitting.

He

was

sitting

in

a

big

leather

chair,

all

wrapped

up

in

that

blanket

I

just

told

you

about.

He

looked

over

at

me

when

I

knocked.

"Who's

that?"

he

yelled.

"Caulfield?

Come

in,

boy."

He

was

always

yelling,

outside

class.

It

got

on

your

nerves

sometimes.

The

minute

I

went

in,

I

was

sort

of

sorry

I'd

come.

He

was

reading

the

Atlantic

Monthly,

and

there

were

pills

and

medicine

all

over

the

place,

and

everything

smelled

like

Vicks

Nose

Drops.

It

was

pretty

depressing.

I'm

not

too

crazy

about

sick

people,

anyway.

What

made

it

even

more

depressing,

old

Spencer

had

on

this

very

sad,

ratty

old

bathrobe

that

he

was

probably

born

in

or

something.

I

don't

much

like

to

see

old

guys

in

their

pajamas

and

bathrobes

anyway.

Their

bumpy

old

chests

are

always

showing.

And

their

legs.

Old

guys'

legs,

at

beaches

and

places,

always

look

so

white

and

unhairy.

"Hello,

sir,"

I

said.

"I

got

your

note.

Thanks

a

lot."

He'd

written

me

this

note

asking

me

to

stop

by

and

say

good-by

before

vacation

started,

on

account

of

I

wasn't

coming

back.

"You

didn't

have

to

do

all

that.

I'd

have

come

over

to

say

good-by

anyway."

"Have

a

seat

there,

boy,"

old

Spencer

said.

He

meant

the

bed.

I

sat

down

on

it.

"How's

your

grippe,

sir?"

"M'boy,

if

I

felt

any

better

I'd

have

to

send

for

the

doctor,"

old

Spencer

said.

That

knocked

him

out.

He

started

chuckling

like

a

madman.

Then

he

finally

straightened

himself

out

and

said,

"Why

aren't

you

down

at

the

game?

I

thought

this

was

the

day

of

the

big

game."

"It

is.

I

was.

Only,

I

just

got

back

from

New

York

with

the

fencing

team,"

I

said.

Boy,

his

bed

was

like

a

rock.

He

started

getting

serious

as

hell.

I

knew

he

would.

"So

you're

leaving

us,

eh?"

he

said.

"Yes,

sir.

I

guess

I

am."

He

started

going

into

this

nodding

routine.

You

never

saw

anybody

nod

as

much

in

your

life

as

old

Spencer

did.

You

never

knew

if

he

was

nodding

a

lot

because

he

was

thinking

and

all,

or

just

because

he

was

a

nice

old

guy

that

didn't

know

his

ass

from

his

elbow.

"What

did

Dr.

Thurmer

say

to

you,

boy?

I

understand

you

had

quite

a

little

chat."

"Yes,

we

did.

We

really

did.

I

was

in

his

office

for

around

two

hours,

I

guess."

"What'd

he

say

to

you?"

"Oh.

.

.

well,

about

Life

being

a

game

and

all.

And

how

you

should

play

it

according

to

the

rules.

He

was

pretty

nice

about

it.

I

mean

he

didn't

hit

the

ceiling

or

anything.

He

just

kept

talking

about

Life

being

a

game

and

all.

You

know."

"Life

is

a

game,

boy.

Life

is

a

game

that

one

plays

according

to

the

rules."

"Yes,

sir.

I

know

it

is.

I

know

it."

Game,

my

ass.

Some

game.

If

you

get

on

the

side

where

all

the

hot-shots

are,

then

it's

a

game,

all

right--I'll

admit

that.

But

if

you

get

on

the

other

side,

where

there

aren't

any

hot-shots,

then

what's

a

game

about

it?

Nothing.

No

game.

"Has

Dr.

Thurmer

written

to

your

parents

yet?"

old

Spencer

asked

me.

"He

said

he

was

going

to

write

them

Monday."

"Have

you

yourself

communicated

with

them?"

"No,

sir,

I

haven't

communicated

with

them,

because

I'll

probably

see

them

Wednesday

night

when

I

get

home."

"And

how

do

you

think

they'll

take

the

news?"

"Well.

.

.

they'll

be

pretty

irritated

about

it,"

I

said.

"They

really

will.

This

is

about

the

fourth

school

I've

gone

to."

I

shook

my

head.

I

shake

my

head

quite

a

lot.

"Boy!"

I

said.

I

also

say

"Boy!"

quite

a

lot.

Partly

because

I

have

a

lousy

vocabulary

and

partly

because

I

act

quite

young

for

my

age

sometimes.

I

was

sixteen

then,

and

I'm

seventeen

now,

and

sometimes

I

act

like

I'm

about

thirteen.

It's

really

ironical,

because

I'm

six

foot

two

and

a

half

and

I

have

gray

hair.

I

really

do.

The

one

side

of

my

head--the

right

side--

is

full

of

millions

of

gray

hairs.

I've

had

them

ever

since

I

was

a

kid.

And

yet

I

still

act

sometimes

like

I

was

only

about

twelve.

Everybody

says

that,

especially

my

father.

It's

partly

true,

too,

but

it

isn't

all

true.

People

always

think

something's

all

true.

I

don't

give

a

damn,

except

that

I

get

bored

sometimes

when

people

tell

me

to

act

my

age.

Sometimes

I

act

a

lot

older

than

I

am--I

really

do--but

people

never

notice

it.

People

never

notice

anything.

Old

Spencer

started

nodding

again.

He

also

started

picking

his

nose.

He

made

out

like

he

was

only

pinching

it,

but

he

was

really

getting

the

old

thumb

right

in

there.

I

guess

he

thought

it

was

all

right

to

do

because

it

was

only

me

that

was

in

the

room.

I

didn't

care,

except

that

it's

pretty

disgusting

to

watch

somebody

pick

their

nose.

Then

he

said,

"I

had

the

privilege

of

meeting

your

mother

and

dad

when

they

had

their

little

chat

with

Dr.

Thurmer

some

weeks

ago.

They're

grand

people."

"Yes,

they

are.

They're

very

nice."

Grand.

There's

a

word

I

really

hate.

It's

a

phony.

I

could

puke

every

time

I

hear

it.

Then

all

of

a

sudden

old

Spencer

looked

like

he

had

something

very

good,

something

sharp

as

a

tack,

to

say

to

me.

He

sat

up

more

in

his

chair

and

sort

of

moved

around.

It

was

a

false

alarm,

though.

All

he

did

was

lift

the

Atlantic

Monthly

off

his

lap

and

try

to

chuck

it

on

the

bed,

next

to

me.

He

missed.

It

was

only

about

two

inches

away,

but

he

missed

anyway.

I

got

up

and

picked

it

up

and

put

it

down

on

the

bed.

All

of

a

sudden

then,

I

wanted

to

get

the

hell

out

of

the

room.

I

could

feel

a

terrific

lecture

coming

on.

I

didn't

mind

the

idea

so

much,

but

I

didn't

feel

like

being

lectured

to

and

smell

Vicks

Nose

Drops

and

look

at

old

Spencer

in

his

pajamas

and

bathrobe

all

at

the

same

time.

I

really

didn't.

It

started,

all

right.

"What's

the

matter

with

you,

boy?"

old

Spencer

said.

He

said

it

pretty

tough,

too,

for

him.

"How

many

subjects

did

you

carry

this

term?"

"Five,

sir."

"Five.

And

how

many

are

you

failing

in?"

"Four."

I

moved

my

ass

a

little

bit

on

the

bed.

It

was

the

hardest

bed

I

ever

sat

on.

"I

passed

English

all

right,"

I

said,

"because

I

had

all

that

Beowulf

and

Lord

Randal

My

Son

stuff

when

I

was

at

the

Whooton

School.

I

mean

I

didn't

have

to

do

any

work

in

English

at

all

hardly,

except

write

compositions

once

in

a

while."

He

wasn't

even

listening.

He

hardly

ever

listened

to

you

when

you

said

something.

"I

flunked

you

in

history

because

you

knew

absolutely

nothing."

"I

know

that,

sir.

Boy,

I

know

it.

You

couldn't

help

it."

"Absolutely

nothing,"

he

said

over

again.

That's

something

that

drives

me

crazy.

When

people

say

something

twice

that

way,

after

you

admit

it

the

first

time.

Then

he

said

it

three

times.

"But

absolutely

nothing.

I

doubt

very

much

if

you

opened

your

textbook

even

once

the

whole

term.

Did

you?

Tell

the

truth,

boy."

"Well,

I

sort

of

glanced

through

it

a

couple

of

times,"

I

told

him.

I

didn't

want

to

hurt

his

feelings.

He

was

mad

about

history.

"You

glanced

through

it,

eh?"

he

said--very

sarcastic.

"Your,

ah,

exam

paper

is

over

there

on

top

of

my

chiffonier.

On

top

of

the

pile.

Bring

it

here,

please."

It

was

a

very

dirty

trick,

but

I

went

over

and

brought

it

over

to

him--I

didn't

have

any

alternative

or

anything.

Then

I

sat

down

on

his

cement

bed

again.

Boy,

you

can't

imagine

how

sorry

I

was

getting

that

I'd

stopped

by

to

say

good-by

to

him.

He

started

handling

my

exam

paper

like

it

was

a

turd

or

something.

"We

studied

the

Egyptians

from

November

4th

to

December

2nd,"

he

said.

"You

chose

to

write

about

them

for

the

optional

essay

question.

Would

you

care

to

hear

what

you

had

to

say?"

"No,

sir,

not

very

much,"

I

said.

He

read

it

anyway,

though.

You

can't

stop

a

teacher

when

they

want

to

do

something.

They

just

do

it.

The

Egyptians

were

an

ancient

race

of

Caucasians

residing

in

one

of

the

northern

sections

of

Africa.

The

latter

as

we

all

know

is

the

largest

continent

in

the

Eastern

Hemisphere.

I

had

to

sit

there

and

listen

to

that

crap.

It

certainly

was

a

dirty

trick.

The

Egyptians

are

extremely

interesting

to

us

today

for

various

reasons.

Modern

science

would

still

like

to

know

what

the

secret

ingredients

were

that

the

Egyptians

used

when

they

wrapped

up

dead

people

so

that

their

faces

would

not

rot

for

innumerable

centuries.

This

interesting

riddle

is

still

quite

a

challenge

to

modern

science

in

the

twentieth

century.

He

stopped

reading

and

put

my

paper

down.

I

was

beginning

to

sort

of

hate

him.

"Your

essay,

shall

we

say,

ends

there,"

he

said

in

this

very

sarcastic

voice.

You

wouldn't

think

such

an

old

guy

would

be

so

sarcastic

and

all.

"However,

you

dropped

me

a

little

note,

at

the

bottom

of

the

page,"

he

said.

"I

know

I

did,"

I

said.

I

said

it

very

fast

because

I

wanted

to

stop

him

before

he

started

reading

that

out

loud.

But

you

couldn't

stop

him.

He

was

hot

as

a

firecracker.

DEAR

MR.

SPENCER

[he

read

out

loud].

That

is

all

I

know

about

the

Egyptians.

I

can't

seem

to

get

very

interested

in

them

although

your

lectures

are

very

interesting.

It

is

all

right

with

me

if

you

flunk

me

though

as

I

am

flunking

everything

else

except

English

anyway.

Respectfully

yours,

HOLDEN

CAULFIELD.

He

put

my

goddam

paper

down

then

and

looked

at

me

like

he'd

just

beaten

hell

out

of

me

in

ping-pong

or

something.

I

don't

think

I'll

ever

forgive

him

for

reading

me

that

crap

out

loud.

I

wouldn't've

read

it

out

loud

to

him

if

he'd

written

it--I

really

wouldn't.

In

the

first

place,

I'd

only

written

that

damn

note

so

that

he

wouldn't

feel

too

bad

about

flunking

me.

"Do

you

blame

me

for

flunking

you,

boy?"

he

said.

"No,

sir!

I

certainly

don't,"

I

said.

I

wished

to

hell

he'd

stop

calling

me

"boy"

all

the

time.

He

tried

chucking

my

exam

paper

on

the

bed

when

he

was

through

with

it.

Only,

he

missed

again,

naturally.

I

had

to

get

up

again

and

pick

it

up

and

put

it

on

top

of

the

Atlantic

Monthly.

It's

boring

to

do

that

every

two

minutes.

"What

would

you

have

done

in

my

place?"

he

said.

"Tell

the

truth,

boy."

Well,

you

could

see

he

really

felt

pretty

lousy

about

flunking

me.

So

I

shot

the

bull

for

a

while.

I

told

him

I

was

a

real

moron,

and

all

that

stuff.

I

told

him

how

I

would've

done

exactly

the

same

thing

if

I'd

been

in

his

place,

and

how

most

people

didn't

appreciate

how

tough

it

is

being

a

teacher.

That

kind

of

stuff.

The

old

bull.

The

funny

thing

is,

though,

I

was

sort

of

thinking

of

something

else

while

I

shot

the

bull.

I

live

in

New

York,

and

I

was

thinking

about

the

lagoon

in

Central

Park,

down

near

Central

Park

South.

I

was

wondering

if

it

would

be

frozen

over

when

I

got

home,

and

if

it

was,

where

did

the

ducks

go.

I

was

wondering

where

the

ducks

went

when

the

lagoon

got

all

icy

and

frozen

over.

I

wondered

if

some

guy

came

in

a

truck

and

took

them

away

to

a

zoo

or

something.

Or

if

they

just

flew

away.

I'm

lucky,

though.

I

mean

I

could

shoot

the

old

bull

to

old

Spencer

and

think

about

those

ducks

at

the

same

time.

It's

funny.

You

don't

have

to

think

too

hard

when

you

talk

to

a

teacher.

All

of

a

sudden,

though,

he

interrupted

me

while

I

was

shooting

the

bull.

He

was

always

interrupting

you.

"How

do

you

feel

about

all

this,

boy?

I'd

be

very

interested

to

know.

Very

interested."

"You

mean

about

my

flunking

out

of

Pencey

and

all?"

I

said.

I

sort

of

wished

he'd

cover

up

his

bumpy

chest.

It

wasn't

such

a

beautiful

view.

"If

I'm

not

mistaken,

I

believe

you

also

had

some

difficulty

at

the

Whooton

School

and

at

Elkton

Hills."

He

didn't

say

it

just

sarcastic,

but

sort

of

nasty,

too.

"I

didn't

have

too

much

difficulty

at

Elkton

Hills,"

I

told

him.

"I

didn't

exactly

flunk

out

or

anything.

I

just

quit,

sort

of."

"Why,

may

I

ask?"

"Why?

Oh,

well

it's

a

long

story,

sir.

I

mean

it's

pretty

complicated."

I

didn't

feel

like

going

into

the

whole

thing

with

him.

He

wouldn't

have

understood

it

anyway.

It

wasn't

up

his

alley

at

all.

One

of

the

biggest

reasons

I

left

Elkton

Hills

was

because

I

was

surrounded

by

phonies.

That's

all.

They

were

coming

in

the

goddam

window.

For

instance,

they

had

this

headmaster,

Mr.

Haas,

that

was

the

phoniest

bastard

I

ever

met

in

my

life.

Ten

times

worse

than

old

Thurmer.

On

Sundays,

for

instance,

old

Haas

went

around

shaking

hands

with

everybody's

parents

when

they

drove

up

to

school.

He'd

be

charming

as

hell

and

all.

Except

if

some

boy

had

little

old

funny-looking

parents.

You

should've

seen

the

way

he

did

with

my

roommate's

parents.

I

mean

if

a

boy's

mother

was

sort

of

fat

or

corny-looking

or

something,

and

if

somebody's

father

was

one

of

those

guys

that

wear

those

suits

with

very

big

shoulders

and

corny

black-and-white

shoes,

then

old

Hans

would

just

shake

hands

with

them

and

give

them

a

phony

smile

and

then

he'd

go

talk,

for

maybe

a

half

an

hour,

with

somebody

else's

parents.

I

can't

stand

that

stuff.

It

drives

me

crazy.

It

makes

me

so

depressed

I

go

crazy.

I

hated

that

goddam

Elkton

Hills.

Old

Spencer

asked

me

something

then,

but

I

didn't

hear

him.

I

was

thinking

about

old

Haas.

"What,

sir?"

I

said.

"Do

you

have

any

particular

qualms

about

leaving

Pencey?"

"Oh,

I

have

a

few

qualms,

all

right.

Sure.

.

.

but

not

too

many.

Not

yet,

anyway.

I

guess

it

hasn't

really

hit

me

yet.

It

takes

things

a

while

to

hit

me.

All

I'm

doing

right

now

is

thinking

about

going

home

Wednesday.

I'm

a

moron."

"Do

you

feel

absolutely

no

concern

for

your

future,

boy?"

"Oh,

I

feel

some

concern

for

my

future,

all

right.

Sure.

Sure,

I

do."

I

thought

about

it

for

a

minute.

"But

not

too

much,

I

guess.

Not

too

much,

I

guess."

"You

will,"

old

Spencer

said.

"You

will,

boy.

You

will

when

it's

too

late."

I

didn't

like

hearing

him

say

that.

It

made

me

sound

dead

or

something.

It

was

very

depressing.

"I

guess

I

will,"

I

said.

"I'd

like

to

put

some

sense

in

that

head

of

yours,

boy.

I'm

trying

to

help

you.

I'm

trying

to

help

you,

if

I

can."

He

really

was,

too.

You

could

see

that.

But

it

was

just

that

we

were

too

much

on

opposite

sides

ot

the

pole,

that's

all.

"I

know

you

are,

sir,"

I

said.

"Thanks

a

lot.

No

kidding.

I

appreciate

it.

I

really

do."

I

got

up

from

the

bed

then.

Boy,

I

couldn't've

sat

there

another

ten

minutes

to

save

my

life.

"The

thing

is,

though,

I

have

to

get

going

now.

I

have

quite

a

bit

of

equipment

at

the

gym

I

have

to

get

to

take

home

with

me.

I

really

do."

He

looked

up

at

me

and

started

nodding

again,

with

this

very

serious

look

on

his

face.

I

felt

sorry

as

hell

for

him,

all

of

a

sudden.

But

I

just

couldn't

hang

around

there

any

longer,

the

way

we

were

on

opposite

sides

of

the

pole,

and

the

way

he

kept

missing

the

bed

whenever

he

chucked

something

at

it,

and

his

sad

old

bathrobe

with

his

chest

showing,

and

that

grippy

smell

of

Vicks

Nose

Drops

all

over

the

place.

"Look,

sir.

Don't

worry

about

me,"

I

said.

"I

mean

it.

I'll

be

all

right.

I'm

just

going

through

a

phase

right

now.

Everybody

goes

through

phases

and

all,

don't

they?"

"I

don't

know,

boy.

I

don't

know."

I

hate

it

when

somebody

answers

that

way.

"Sure.

Sure,

they

do,"

I

said.

"I

mean

it,

sir.

Please

don't

worry

about

me."

I

sort

of

put

my

hand

on

his

shoulder.

"Okay?"

I

said.

"Wouldn't

you

like

a

cup

of

hot

chocolate

before

you

go?

Mrs.

Spencer

would

be-

-"

"I

would,

I

really

would,

but

the

thing

is,

I

have

to

get

going.

I

have

to

go

right

to

the

gym.

Thanks,

though.

Thanks

a

lot,

sir."

Then

we

shook

hands.

And

all

that

crap.

It

made

me

feel

sad

as

hell,

though.

"I'll

drop

you

a

line,

sir.

Take

care

of

your

grippe,

now."

"Good-by,

boy."

After

I

shut

the

door

and

started

back

to

the

living

room,

he

yelled

something

at

me,

but

I

couldn't

exactly

hear

him.

I'm

pretty

sure

he

yelled

"Good

luck!"

at

me,

I

hope

to

hell

not.

I'd

never

yell

"Good

luck!"

at

anybody.

It

sounds

terrible,

when

you

think

about

it.

3

I'm

the

most

terrific

liar

you

ever

saw

in

your

life.

It's

awful.

If

I'm

on

my

way

to

the

store

to

buy

a

magazine,

even,

and

somebody

asks

me

where

I'm

going,

I'm

liable

to

say

I'm

going

to

the

opera.

It's

terrible.

So

when

I

told

old

Spencer

I

had

to

go

to

the

gym

and

get

my

equipment

and

stuff,

that

was

a

sheer

lie.

I

don't

even

keep

my

goddam

equipment

in

the

gym.

Where

I

lived

at

Pencey,

I

lived

in

the

Ossenburger

Memorial

Wing

of

the

new

dorms.

It

was

only

for

juniors

and

seniors.

I

was

a

junior.

My

roommate

was

a

senior.

It

was

named

after

this

guy

Ossenburger

that

went

to

Pencey.

He

made

a

pot

of

dough

in

the

undertaking

business

after

he

got

out

of

Pencey.

What

he

did,

he

started

these

undertaking

parlors

all

over

the

country

that

you

could

get

members

of

your

family

buried

for

about

five

bucks

apiece.

You

should

see

old

Ossenburger.

He

probably

just

shoves

them

in

a

sack

and

dumps

them

in

the

river.

Anyway,

he

gave

Pencey

a

pile

of

dough,

and

they

named

our

wing

alter

him.

The

first

football

game

of

the

year,

he

came

up

to

school

in

this

big

goddam

Cadillac,

and

we

all

had

to

stand

up

in

the

grandstand

and

give

him

a

locomotive--that's

a

cheer.

Then,

the

next

morning,

in

chapel,

be

made

a

speech

that

lasted

about

ten

hours.

He

started

off

with

about

fifty

corny

jokes,

just

to

show

us

what

a

regular

guy

he

was.

Very

big

deal.

Then

he

started

telling

us

how

he

was

never

ashamed,

when

he

was

in

some

kind

of

trouble

or

something,

to

get

right

down

his

knees

and

pray

to

God.

He

told

us

we

should

always

pray

to

God--talk

to

Him

and

all--

wherever

we

were.

He

told

us

we

ought

to

think

of

Jesus

as

our

buddy

and

all.

He

said

he

talked

to

Jesus

all

the

time.

Even

when

he

was

driving

his

car.

That

killed

me.

I

just

see

the

big

phony

bastard

shifting

into

first

gear

and

asking

Jesus

to

send

him

a

few

more

stiffs.

The

only

good

part

of

his

speech

was

right

in

the

middle

of

it.

He

was

telling

us

all

about

what

a

swell

guy

he

was,

what

a

hot-shot

and

all,

then

all

of

a

sudden

this

guy

sitting

in

the

row

in

front

of

me,

Edgar

Marsalla,

laid

this

terrific

fart.

It

was

a

very

crude

thing

to

do,

in

chapel

and

all,

but

it

was

also

quite

amusing.

Old

Marsalla.

He

damn

near

blew

the

roof

off.

Hardly

anybody

laughed

out

loud,

and

old

Ossenburger

made

out

like

he

didn't

even

hear

it,

but

old

Thurmer,

the

headmaster,

was

sitting

right

next

to

him

on

the

rostrum

and

all,

and

you

could

tell

he

heard

it.

Boy,

was

he

sore.

He

didn't

say

anything

then,

but

the

next

night

he

made

us

have

compulsory

study

hall

in

the

academic

building

and

he

came

up

and

made

a

speech.

He

said

that

the

boy

that

had

created

the

disturbance

in

chapel

wasn't

fit

to

go

to

Pencey.

We

tried

to

get

old

Marsalla

to

rip

off

another

one,

right

while

old

Thurmer

was

making

his

speech,

but

be

wasn't

in

the

right

mood.

Anyway,

that's

where

I

lived

at

Pencey.

Old

Ossenburger

Memorial

Wing,

in

the

new

dorms.

It

was

pretty

nice

to

get

back

to

my

room,

after

I

left

old

Spencer,

because

everybody

was

down

at

the

game,

and

the

heat

was

on

in

our

room,

for

a

change.

It

felt

sort

of

cosy.

I

took

off

my

coat

and

my

tie

and

unbuttoned

my

shirt

collar;

and

then

I

put

on

this

hat

that

I'd

bought

in

New

York

that

morning.

It

was

this

red

hunting

hat,

with

one

of

those

very,

very

long

peaks.

I

saw

it

in

the

window

of

this

sports

store

when

we

got

out

of

the

subway,

just

after

I

noticed

I'd

lost

all

the

goddam

foils.

It

only

cost

me

a

buck.

The

way

I

wore

it,

I

swung

the

old

peak

way

around

to

the

back--very

corny,

I'll

admit,

but

I

liked

it

that

way.

I

looked

good

in

it

that

way.

Then

I

got

this

book

I

was

reading

and

sat

down

in

my

chair.

There

were

two

chairs

in

every

room.

I

had

one

and

my

roommate,

Ward

Stradlater,

had

one.

The

arms

were

in

sad

shape,

because

everybody

was

always

sitting

on

them,

but

they

were

pretty

comfortable

chairs.

The

book

I

was

reading

was

this

book

I

took

out

of

the

library

by

mistake.

They

gave

me

the

wrong

book,

and

I

didn't

notice

it

till

I

got

back

to

my

room.

They

gave

me

Out

of

Africa,

by

Isak

Dinesen.

I

thought

it

was

going

to

stink,

but

it

didn't.

It

was

a

very

good

book.

I'm

quite

illiterate,

but

I

read

a

lot.

My

favorite

author

is

my

brother

D.B.,

and

my

next

favorite

is

Ring

Lardner.

My

brother

gave

me

a

book

by

Ring

Lardner

for

my

birthday,

just

before

I

went

to

Pencey.

It

had

these

very

funny,

crazy

plays

in

it,

and

then

it

had

this

one

story

about

a

traffic

cop

that

falls

in

love

with

this

very

cute

girl

that's

always

speeding.

Only,

he's

married,

the

cop,

so

be

can't

marry

her

or

anything.

Then

this

girl

gets

killed,

because

she's

always

speeding.

That

story

just

about

killed

me.

What

I

like

best

is

a

book

that's

at

least

funny

once

in

a

while.

I

read

a

lot

of

classical

books,

like

The

Return

of

the

Native

and

all,

and

I

like

them,

and

I

read

a

lot

of

war

books

and

mysteries

and

all,

but

they

don't

knock

me

out

too

much.

What

really

knocks

me

out

is

a

book

that,

when

you're

all

done

reading

it,

you

wish

the

author

that

wrote

it

was

a

terrific

friend

of

yours

and

you

could

call

him

up

on

the

phone

whenever

you

felt

like

it.

That

doesn't

happen

much,

though.

I

wouldn't

mind

calling

this

Isak

Dinesen

up.

And

Ring

Lardner,

except

that

D.B.

told

me

he's

dead.

You

take

that

book

Of

Human

Bondage,

by

Somerset

Maugham,

though.

I

read

it

last

summer.

It's

a

pretty

good

book

and

all,

but

I

wouldn't

want

to

call

Somerset

Maugham

up.

I

don't

know,

He

just

isn't

the

kind

of

guy

I'd

want

to

call

up,

that's

all.

I'd

rather

call

old

Thomas

Hardy

up.

I

like

that

Eustacia

Vye.

Anyway,

I

put

on

my

new

hat

and

sat

down

and

started

reading

that

book

Out

of

Africa.

I'd

read

it

already,

but

I

wanted

to

read

certain

parts

over

again.

I'd

only

read

about

three

pages,

though,

when

I

heard

somebody

coming

through

the

shower

curtains.

Even

without

looking

up,

I

knew

right

away

who

it

was.

It

was

Robert

Ackley,

this

guy

that

roomed

right

next

to

me.

There

was

a

shower

right

between

every

two

rooms

in

our

wing,

and

about

eighty-five

times

a

day

old

Ackley

barged

in

on

me.

He

was

probably

the

only

guy

in

the

whole

dorm,

besides

me,

that

wasn't

down

at

the

game.

He

hardly

ever

went

anywhere.

He

was

a

very

peculiar

guy.

He

was

a

senior,

and

he'd

been

at

Pencey

the

whole

four

years

and

all,

but

nobody

ever

called

him

anything

except

"Ackley."

Not

even

Herb

Gale,

his

own

roommate,

ever

called

him

"Bob"

or

even

"Ack."

If

he

ever

gets

married,

his

own

wife'll

probably

call

him

"Ackley."

He

was

one

of

these

very,

very

tall,

round-shouldered

guys--he

was

about

six

four--with

lousy

teeth.

The

whole

time

he

roomed

next

to

me,

I

never

even

once

saw

him

brush

his

teeth.

They

always

looked

mossy

and

awful,

and

he

damn

near

made

you

sick

if

you

saw

him

in

the

dining

room

with

his

mouth

full

of

mashed

potatoes

and

peas

or

something.

Besides

that,

he

had

a

lot

of

pimples.

Not

just

on

his

forehead

or

his

chin,

like

most

guys,

but

all

over

his

whole

face.

And

not

only

that,

he

had

a

terrible

personality.

He

was

also

sort

of

a

nasty

guy.

I

wasn't

too

crazy

about

him,

to

tell

you

the

truth.

I

could

feel

him

standing

on

the

shower

ledge,

right

behind

my

chair,

taking

a

look

to

see

if

Stradlater

was

around.

He

hated

Stradlater's

guts

and

he

never

came

in

the

room

if

Stradlater

was

around.

He

hated

everybody's

guts,

damn

near.

He

came

down

off

the

shower

ledge

and

came

in

the

room.

"Hi,"

he

said.

He

always

said

it

like

he

was

terrifically

bored

or

terrifically

tired.

He

didn't

want

you

to

think

he

was

visiting

you

or

anything.

He

wanted

you

to

think

he'd

come

in

by

mistake,

for

God's

sake.

"Hi,"

I

said,

but

I

didn't

look

up

from

my

book.

With

a

guy

like

Ackley,

if

you

looked

up

from

your

book

you

were

a

goner.

You

were

a

goner

anyway,

but

not

as

quick

if

you

didn't

look

up

right

away.

He

started

walking

around

the

room,

very

slow

and

all,

the

way

he

always

did,

picking

up

your

personal

stuff

off

your

desk

and

chiffonier.

He

always

picked

up

your

personal

stuff

and

looked

at

it.

Boy,

could

he

get

on

your

nerves

sometimes.

"How

was

the

fencing?"

he

said.

He

just

wanted

me

to

quit

reading

and

enjoying

myself.

He

didn't

give

a

damn

about

the

fencing.

"We

win,

or

what?"

he

said.

"Nobody

won,"

I

said.

Without

looking

up,

though.

"What?"

he

said.

He

always

made

you

say

everything

twice.

"Nobody

won,"

I

said.

I

sneaked

a

look

to

see

what

he

was

fiddling

around

with

on

my

chiffonier.

He

was

looking

at

this

picture

of

this

girl

I

used

to

go

around

with

in

New

York,

Sally

Hayes.

He

must've

picked

up

that

goddam

picture

and

looked

at

it

at

least

five

thousand

times

since

I

got

it.

He

always

put

it

back

in

the

wrong

place,

too,

when

he

was

finished.

He

did

it

on

purpose.

You

could

tell.

"Nobody

won,"

he

said.

"How

come?"

"I

left

the

goddam

foils

and

stuff

on

the

subway."

I

still

didn't

look

up

at

him.

"On

the

subway,

for

Chrissake!

Ya

lost

them,

ya

mean?"

"We

got

on

the

wrong

subway.

I

had

to

keep

getting

up

to

look

at

a

goddam

map

on

the

wall."

He

came

over

and

stood

right

in

my

light.

"Hey,"

I

said.

"I've

read

this

same

sentence

about

twenty

times

since

you

came

in."

Anybody

else

except

Ackley

would've

taken

the

goddam

hint.

Not

him,

though.

"Think

they'll

make

ya

pay

for

em?"

he

said.

"I

don't

know,

and

I

don't

give

a

damn.

How

'bout

sitting

down

or

something,

Ackley

kid?

You're

right

in

my

goddam

light."

He

didn't

like

it

when

you

called

him

"Ackley

kid."

He

was

always

telling

me

I

was

a

goddam

kid,

because

I

was

sixteen

and

he

was

eighteen.

It

drove

him

mad

when

I

called

him

"Ackley

kid."

He

kept

standing

there.

He

was

exactly

the

kind

of

a

guy

that

wouldn't

get

out

of

your

light

when

you

asked

him

to.

He'd

do

it,

finally,

but

it

took

him

a

lot

longer

if

you

asked

him

to.

"What

the

hellya

reading?"

he

said.

"Goddam

book."

He

shoved

my

book

back

with

his

hand

so

that

he

could

see

the

name

of

it.

"Any

good?"

he

said.

"This

sentence

I'm

reading

is

terrific."

I

can

be

quite

sarcastic

when

I'm

in

the

mood.

He

didn't

get

It,

though.

He

started

walking

around

the

room

again,

picking

up

all

my

personal

stuff,

and

Stradlater's.

Finally,

I

put

my

book

down

on

the

floor.

You

couldn't

read

anything

with

a

guy

like

Ackley

around.

It

was

impossible.

I

slid

way

the

hell

down

in

my

chair

and

watched

old

Ackley

making

himself

at

home.

I

was

feeling

sort

of

tired

from

the

trip

to

New

York

and

all,

and

I

started

yawning.

Then

I

started

horsing

around

a

little

bit.

Sometimes

I

horse

around

quite

a

lot,

just

to

keep

from

getting

bored.

What

I

did

was,

I

pulled

the

old

peak

of

my

hunting

hat

around

to

the

front,

then

pulled

it

way

down

over

my

eyes.

That

way,

I

couldn't

see

a

goddam

thing.

"I

think

I'm

going

blind,"

I

said

in

this

very

hoarse

voice.

"Mother

darling,

everything's

getting

so

dark

in

here."

"You're

nuts.

I

swear

to

God,"

Ackley

said.

"Mother

darling,

give

me

your

hand,

Why

won't

you

give

me

your

hand?"

"For

Chrissake,

grow

up."

I

started

groping

around

in

front

of

me,

like

a

blind

guy,

but

without

getting

up

or

anything.

I

kept

saying,

"Mother

darling,

why

won't

you

give

me

your

hand?"

I

was

only

horsing

around,

naturally.

That

stuff

gives

me

a

bang

sometimes.

Besides,

I

know

it

annoyed

hell

out

of

old

Ackley.

He

always

brought

out

the

old

sadist

in

me.

I

was

pretty

sadistic

with

him

quite

often.

Finally,

I

quit,

though.

I

pulled

the

peak

around

to

the

back

again,

and

relaxed.

"Who

belongsa

this?"

Ackley

said.

He

was