J.
D. Salinger
Slight Rebellion Off Madison
The
New Yorker 22, December 1946, 76-79 or 82-86
ON vacation from
Pencey Preparatory School for Boys (“An Instructor for Every
Ten Students”), Holden Morrisey Caulfield usually wore his
chesterfield and a hat with a cutting edge at the “V” in
the crown. While riding in Fifth Avenue buses, girls who knew Holden
often thought they saw him walking past Saks’ or Altman’s
or Lord & Taylor’s, but it was usually somebody else.
This year,
Holden’s Christmas vacation from Pencey Prep broke at the same
time as Sally Hayes’ from the Mary A. Woodruff School for Girls
(“Special Attention to Those Interested in Dramatics”).
On vacation from Mary A. Woodruff, Sally usually went hatless and
wore her new silverblu muskrat coat. While riding in Fifth Avenue,
boys who knew Sally often thought they saw her walking past Saks’
or Altman’s or Lord & Taylor’s. It was usually
somebody else.
As soon as Holden
got into New York, he took a cab home, dropped his Gladstone in the
foyer, kissed his mother, lumped his hat and coat into a convenient
chair, and dialled Sally’s number.
“Hey!”
he said into the mouthpiece. “Sally?”
“Yes. Who’s
that?”
“Holden
Caulfield. How are ya?”
“Holden!
I’m fine! How are you?”
“Swell,”
said Holden. “Listen. How are ya, anyway? I mean how’s
school?”
“Fine,”
said Sally. “I mean—you know.”
“Swell,”
said Holden. “Well, listen. What are you doing tonight?”
Holden took her to
the Wedgwood Room that night, and they both dressed, Sally wearing
her new turquoise job. They danced a lot. Holden’s style was
long, slow side steps back and forth, as though he were dancing over
an open manhole. They danced cheek to cheek, and when their faces got
sticky from contact, neither of them minded. It was a long time
between vacations.
They made a
wonderful thing out of the taxi ride home. Twice, when the cab
stopped short in traffic, Holden fell off the seat.
“I love
you,” he swore to Sally, removing his mouth from hers.
“Oh,
darling, I love you, too,” Sally said, and added, less
passionately, “Promise me you’ll let your hair grow out.
Crew cuts are corny.”
The next day was a
Thursday and Holden took Sally to the matinee of “O Mistress
Mine,” which neither of them had seen. During the first
intermission, they smoked in the lobby and vehemently agreed with
each other that the Lunts were marvellous. George Harrison, of
Andover, also was smoking in the lobby and he recognized Sally, as
she hoped he would. They had been introduced once at a party and had
never seen each other since. Now, in the lobby of the Empire, they
greeted each other with the gusto of two who might frequently have
taken baths together as small children. Sally asked George if he
didn’t think the show was marvellous. George gave himself some
room for his reply, bearing down on the foot of the woman behind him.
He said that the play itself certainly was no masterpiece, but that
the Lunts, of course, were absolute angels.
“Angels,”
Holden thought. “Angels. For Chrissake. Angels.”
After the matinee,
Sally told Holden that she had a marvellous idea. “Let’s
go ice skating at Radio City tonight.”
“All right,”
Holden said. “Sure.”
“Do
you mean it?” Sally said. “Don’t just say
it unless you mean it. I mean I don’t give a darn, one
way or the other.”
“No,”
said Holden. “Let’s go. It might be fun.”
SALLY and Holden
were both terrible ice skaters. Sally’s ankles had a painful,
unbecoming way of collapsing towards each other and Holden’s
weren’t much better. That night there were at least a hundred
people who had nothing better to do than watch the skaters.
“Let’s
get a table and have a drink,” Holden suggested suddenly.
“That’s
the most marvellous idea I’ve heard all day,” Sally said.
They removed their
skates and sat down at a table in the warm inside lounge. Sally took
off her red woollen mittens. Holden began to light matches. He let
them burn down until he couldn’t hold them, then he dropped
what was left into an ashtray.
“Look,”
Sally said, “I have to know—are you or aren’t you
going to help me trim the tree Christmas Eve?”
“Sure,”
said Holden, without enthusiasm.
“I mean I
have to know,” Sally said.
Holden
suddenly stopped lighting matches. He leaned forward over the table.
“Sally, did you ever get fed up? I mean did you ever get
scared that everything was gonna go lousy unless you did something?”
“Sure,”
said Sally.
“Do
you like school?” Holden inquired.
“It’s
a terrific bore.”
“Do you hate
it, I mean?”
“Well, I
don’t hate it.”
“Well,
I hate it,” said Holden. “Boy, do I hate it!
But it isn’t just that. It’s everything. I hate living in
New York. I hate Fifth Avenue buses and Madison Avenue buses and
getting out at the center doors. I hate the Seventy-second Street
movie, with those fake clouds on the ceiling, and being introduced to
guys like George Harrison, and going down in elevators when you wanna
go out, and guys fitting your pants all the time at Brooks.”
His voice got more excited. “Stuff like that. Know what I
mean? You know something? You’re the only reason I
came home this vacation.”
“You’re
sweet,” said Sally, wishing he’d change the subject.
“Boy,
I hate school! You oughta go to a boys’ school sometime.
All you do is study, and make believe you give a damn if the football
team wins, and talk about girls and clothes and liquor, and—”
“Now,
listen,” Sally interrupted. “Lots of boys get more
out of school than that.”
“I
agree,” said Holden. “But that’s all I get
out of it. See? That’s what I mean. I don’t get
anything out of anything. I’m in bad shape. I’m in lousy
shape. Look, Sally. How would you like to just beat it? Here’s
my idea. I’ll borrow Fred Halsey’s car and tomorrow
morning we’ll drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont and around
there, see? It’s beautiful. I mean it’s wonderful
up there, honest to God. We’ll stay in these cabin camps and
stuff like that till my money runs out. I have a hundred and twelve
dollars with me. Then, when the money runs out, I’ll get a job
and we’ll live somewhere with a brook and stuff. Know what I
mean? Honest to God, Sally, we’ll have a swell time.
Then, later on, we’ll get married or something. Wuddaya say?
C’mon! Wuddaya say? C’mon! Let’s
do it, huh?”
“You can’t
just do something like that,” Sally said.
“Why
not?” Holden asked shrilly. “Why the hell not?”
“Because you
can’t,” Sally said. “You just can’t, that’s
all. Supposing your money ran out and you didn’t get a job—then
what?”
“I’d
get a job. Don’t worry about that. You don’t have to
worry about that part of it. What’s the matter? Don’t
you wanna go with me?”
“It isn’t
that,” Sally said. “It’s not that at all. Holden,
we’ll have lots of time to do those things—all
those things. After you go to college and we get married and all.
There’ll be oodles of marvellous places to go to.”
“No, there
wouldn’t be,” Holden said. “It’d be entirely
different.”
Sally looked at
him, he had contradicted her so quietly.
“It
wouldn’t be the same at all. We’d have to go downstairs
in elevators with suitcases and stuff. We’d have to call up
everyone and tell ‘em goodbye and send ‘em postcards. And
I’d have to work at my father’s and ride in Madison
Avenue buses and read newspapers. We’d have to go to the
Seventy-second Street all the time and see newsreels. Newsreels!
There’s always a dumb horse race and some dame breaking a
bottle over a ship. You don’t see what I mean at all.”
“Maybe I
don’t. Maybe you don’t, either,” Sally said.
Holden stood up,
with his skates swung over one shoulder. “You give me a royal
pain,” he announced quite dispassionately.
A LITTLE after
midnight, Holden and a fat, unattractive boy named Carl Luce sat at
the Wadsworth Bar, drinking Scotch-and-sodas and eating potato chips.
Carl was at Pencey Prep, too, and led his class.
“Hey, Carl,”
Holden said, “you’re one of these intellectual guys. Tell
me something. Supposing you were fed up. Supposing you were going
stark, staring mad. Supposing you wanted to quit school and
everything and get the hell out of New York. What would you do?”
“Drink up,”
Carl said. “The hell with that.”
“No, I’m
serious,” Holden pleaded.
“You’ve
always got a bug,” Carl said, and got up and left.
Holden went on
drinking. He drank up nine dollars’ worth of Scotch-and-sodas
and at 2 A.M. made his way from the bar into the little anteroom,
where there was a telephone. He dialled three numbers before he got
the proper one.
“Hullo!”
Holden shouted into the phone.
“Who
is this?” inquired a cold voice.
“This is me,
Holden Caulfield. Can I speak to Sally, please?”
“Sally’s
asleep. This is Mrs. Hayes. Why are you calling up at this hour,
Holden?”
“Wanna talk
Sally, Mis’ Hayes. Very ‘portant. Put her on.”
“Sally’s
asleep, Holden. Call tomorrow. Good night.”
“Wake
‘er up. Wake ‘er up, huh? Wake ‘er up, Mis’
Hayes.”
“Holden,”
Sally said, from the other end of the wire. “This is me. What’s
the idea?”
“Sally?
Sally, that you?”
“Yes. You’re
drunk.”
“Sally,
I’ll come over Christmas Eve. Trim the tree for ya. Huh?
Wuddaya say? Huh?”
“Yes.
Go to bed now. Where are you? Who’s with you?”
“I’ll
trim the tree for ya. Huh? Wuddaya say? Huh?”
“Yes.
Go to bed now. Where are you? Who’s with you?”
“I’ll
trim the tree for ya. Huh? O.K.?”
“Yes!
Good night!”
“G’night.
G’night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart, darling.”
Holden hung up and
stood by the phone for nearly fifteen minutes. Then he put another
nickel in the slot and dialled the same number again.
“Hullo!”
he yelled into the mouthpiece. “Speak
to Sally, please.”
There was a sharp
click as the phone was hung up, and Holden hung up, too. He stood
swaying for a moment. Then he made his way into the men’s room
and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. He immersed his head
to the ears, after which he walked, dripping, to the radiator and sat
down on it. He sat there counting the squares in the tile floor while
the water dripped down his face and the back of his neck, soaking his
shirt collar and necktie. Twenty minutes later the barroom piano
player came in to comb his wavy hair.
“Hiya,
boy!” Holden greeted him from the radiator. “I’m
on the hot seat. They pulled the switch on me. I’m getting
fried.”
The piano player
smiled.
“Boy,
you can play!” Holden said. “You really can play
the piano. You oughta go on the radio. You know that? You’re
damned good, boy.”
“You
wanna towel, fella?” asked the piano player.
“Not me,”
said Holden.
“Why don’t
you go home, kid?”
Holden shook his
head. “Not me,” he said. “Not me.”
The piano player
shrugged and replaced the lady’s comb in his inside pocket.
When he left the room, Holden stood up from the radiator and blinked
several times to let the tears out of his eyes. Then he went to the
checkroom. He put on his chesterfield without buttoning it and jammed
his hat on the back of his soaking-wet head.
His teeth
chattering violently, Holden stood on the corner and waited for a
Madison Avenue bus. It was a long wait.
