no crook.”
All of a sudden I started to cry. I’d give anything if I hadn’t, but I did. “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 owes 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 it, 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 years you’ll be one of those scraggy guys that come up to you on the street and ask for a dime for coffee. You’ll have snot all over your dirty filthy overcoat, and you’ll be—”
Then he smacked me. I didn’t even try to get out of the way or duck or anything. 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 on the floor a fairly long time, sort of the way I did with Stradlater. Only, this time I thought I was dying. I really did. I thought I was drowning or something. 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 sort 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 the 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 automatic in my hand and he’d start screaming at me, in this very high-pitched, yellow-belly voice, to leave him alone. But I’d plug him anyway. Six shots right through 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 room 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 years ago. The phone was right next to me, and I started to call down and have them send up some breakfast, but I was sort of afraid they might send it up with old Maurice. If you think I was dying to see him again, you’re crazy. So I just laid around in bed for a while and smoked another cigarette. I thought of giving old 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. Woodruff, and I knew she was home because I’d had this letter from her a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t too crazy about her, but I’d known her for years. I used to think 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 necked 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. Then 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 Sunday, but there’s always one or two matinees going on Sunday. Benefits and that stuff. 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 second, 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, because 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 and packed my bag. I took a look out the window before I left the room, though, to 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 checked out. I didn’t see old Maurice around anywhere. I didn’t break my neck looking 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 home till Wednesday — or Tuesday the soonest. And I certainly didn’t feel like going to another hotel and getting my brains beat out. So what I did, I told the driver 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 of 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 counted my money. I don’t remember exactly what I had left, but it was no fortune or anything. 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 of even forget to pick up my change, at restaurants and night clubs and all. It drives 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. Another 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 had breakfast. I had quite a large breakfast, for me — orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Usually I just drink some orange juice. I’m a very light eater. I really am. That’s why I’m so damn skinny. 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 generally 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 guessed they were moving to another convent or something and were waiting for a train — came in and sat down next to me at the counter. They didn’t
