13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Innarest­ed in a lit­tle tail t’night?”

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

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

“Why?” I said. “Twen­ty-two.”

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

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

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

“Just a throw.”

“Okay, what room ya in?”

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

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

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

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

“Who do I pay?”

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

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

Any­way, while I was putting on anoth­er clean shirt, I sort of fig­ured this was my big chance, in a way. I fig­ured if she was a pros­ti­tute and all, I could 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 had this very sophis­ti­cat­ed, suave, sexy guy in it. Mon­sieur Blan­chard was his name, I can still remem­ber. It was a lousy book, but this Blan­chard guy was pret­ty good. He had this big château 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, but 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, in case I ever get mar­ried. Caulfield and his Mag­ic Vio­lin, boy. It’s corny, I real­ize, 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 with 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 sex­u­al inter­course with, that I told you about. It took me about an hour to just get her god­dam bras­sière 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 show up. I kept hop­ing she’d be good-look­ing. I didn’t care too much, though. I sort of just want­ed to get it over with. Final­ly, some­body knocked on the door, and 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 suit­case or some­thing.

When I opened the door, this pros­ti­tute was stand­ing there. She had a polo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of a blonde, but you could tell she dyed her 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 friend­ly.

“Is he the ele­va­tor boy?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Yes, I am. Come in, won’t you?” I said. I was get­ting more and more non­cha­lant as it went along. I real­ly was.

She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on the 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 up 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 lit­tle whee­ny-whiny voice. You could hard­ly hear her. She nev­er said thank you, either, 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 pros­ti­tute and all would say “Like hell you are” or “Cut the crap” instead of “Like fun you are.”

“How old are you?” I asked her.

“Old enough to know bet­ter,” she said. She was real­ly wit­ty. “Ya got a watch 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 pulls 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 name?” I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was real­ly quite embar­rass­ing. 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 child­ish 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, though, you could tell. She start­ed jig­gling her foot again—boy, she was a ner­vous 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 prob­a­bly wouldn’t’ve told me any­way.

“You don’t come from New York, do you?” I said final­ly. That’s all I could 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 wrinkly. It’s brand-clean.”

“Sure,” I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do some­thing. 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 and buy­ing it, and nobody in the store know­ing she was a pros­ti­tute and all. The sales­man 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 sort 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 got 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 we 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 depress­ing. Her green dress hang­ing in the clos­et and all. And besides, I don’t think 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 didn’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 mean it’s quite a ways down in the spinal canal.”

“Yeah?” she said. “That’s tough.” Then she sat down on my god­dam lap. “You’re cute.”

She made me so ner­vous, I just kept on lying my head off. “I’m still recu­per­at­ing,” I told her.

“You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Who­sis. You know who I mean. 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 that 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 ter­rif­i­cal­ly dirty look. “Lis­ten,” she said. “I was sleepin’ when that crazy Mau­rice woke 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, then? 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 pre­ma­ture 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 go over and get my wal­let off the chif­fonier. I took out a five-dol­lar bill and hand­ed 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 five for a throw.”

“Ten for a throw.”

“He said five. I’m sorry—I real­ly am—but that’s all I’m gonna shell out.”

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 trou­ble?” She was a pret­ty spooky kid. Even with that lit­tle bit­ty voice she had, she 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 picked 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.