Jerome Salinger - Nine Stories

“Arthur, listen, this isn’t–”

“Wait a second—I’ll tell ya, God damn it. I practically have to keep myself from opening every goddam closet door in the apartment—I swear to God. Every night I come home, I half expect to find a bunch of bastards hiding all over the place. Elevator boys. Delivery boys. Cops—”

“All right. All right. Let’s try to take it a little easy, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said. He glanced abruptly to his right, where a cigarette, lighted some time earlier in the evening, was balanced on an ashtray. It obviously had gone out, though, and he didn’t pick it up. “In the first place,” he said into the phone, “I’ve told you many, many times, Arthur, that’s exactly where you make your biggest mistake. You know what you do? Would you like me to tell you what you do? You go out of your way—I mean this, now—you actually go out of your way to torture yourself. As a matter of fact, you actually inspire Joanie-” He broke off. “You’re bloody lucky she’s a wonderful kid. I mean it. You give that kid absolutely no credit for having any good taste—or brains, for Chrissake, for that matter—”

“Brains! Are you kidding? She hasn’t got any goddam brains! She’s an animal!”

The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath. “We’re all animals,” he said. “Basically, we’re all animals.”

“Like hell we are. I’m no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentieth-century son of a bitch, but I’m no animal. Don’t gimme that. I’m no animal.”

“Look, Arthur. This isn’t getting us—”

“Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she’s a goddam intellectual. That’s the funny part, that’s the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical page, and she watches television till she’s practically blind—so she’s an intellectual. You know who I’m married to? You want to know who I’m married to? I’m married to the greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and all-around goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn’t know that, didja? Christ, it’s so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia Extension School. Madame—”

“Who?” asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.

“Madame Bovary takes a course in Television Appreciation. God, if you knew how—”

“All right, all right. You realize this isn’t getting us anyplace,” the gray-haired man said. He turned and gave the girl a sign, with two fingers near his mouth, that he wanted a cigarette. “In the first place,” he said, into the phone, “for a helluvan intelligent guy, you’re about as tactless as it’s humanly possible to be.” He straightened his back so that the girl could reach behind him for the cigarettes. “I mean that. It shows up in your private life, it shows up in your—”

“Brains. Oh, God, that kills me! Christ almightyl Did you ever hear her describe anybody—some man, I mean? Sometime when you haven’t anything to do, do me a favor and get her to describe some man for you. She describes every man she sees as `terribly attractive.’ It can be the oldest, crummiest, greasiest—

“All right, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said sharply. “This is getting us nowhere. But nowhere.” He took a lighted cigarette from the girl. She had lit two. “Just incidentally,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, “how’d you make out today?”

“What?”

“How’d you make out today?” the gray-haired man repeated. “How’d the case go?”

“Oh, Christ! I don’t know. Lousy. About two minutes before I’m all set to start my summation, the attorney for the plaintiff, Lissberg, trots in this crazy chambermaid with a bunch of bedsheets as evidence—bedbug stains all over them. Christ!”

“So what happened? You lose?” asked the grayhaired man, taking another drag on his cigarette.

“You know who was on the bench? Mother Vittorio. What the hell that guy has against me, I’ll never know. I can’t even open my mouth and he jumps all over me. You can’t reason with a guy like that. It’s impossible.”

The gray-haired man turned his head to see what the girl was doing. She had picked up the ashtray and was putting it between them. “You lose, then, or what?” he said into the phone.

“What?”

“I said, Did you lose?”

“Yeah. I was gonna tell you about it. I didn’t get a chance at the party, with all the ruckus. You think Junior’ll hit the ceiling? Not that I give a good goddam, but what do you think? Think he will?”

With his left hand, the gray-haired man shaped the ash of his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray. “I don’t think he’ll necessarily hit the ceiling, Arthur,” he said quietly. “Chances are very much in favor, though, that he’s not going to be overjoyed about it. You know how long we’ve handled those three bloody hotels? Old man Shanley himself started the whole—”

“I know, I know. Junior’s told me about it at least fifty times. It’s one of the most beautiful stories I ever heard in my life. All right, so I lost the goddam case. In the first place, it wasn’t my fault. First, this lunatic Vittorio baits me all through the trial. Then this moron chambermaid starts passing out sheets full of bedbug—”

“Nobody’s saying it’s your fault, Arthur,” the grayhaired man said. “You asked me if I thought Junior would hit the ceiling. I simply gave you an honest—”

“I know—I know that…. I don’t know. What the hell. I may go back in the Army anyway. I tell you about that?”

The gray-haired man turned his head again toward the girl, perhaps to show her how forbearing, even stoic, his countenance was. But the girl missed seeing it. She had just overturned the ashtray with her knee and was rapidly, with her fingers, brushing the spilled ashes into a little pick-up pile; her eyes looked up at him a second too late. “No, you didn’t, Arthur,” he said into the phone.

“Yeah. I may. I don’t know yet. I’m not crazy about the idea, naturally, and I won’t go if I can possibly avoid it. But I may have to. I don’t know. At least, it’s oblivion. If they gimme back my little helmet and my big, fat desk and my nice, big mosquito net it might not—”

“I’d like to beat some sense into that head of yours, boy, that’s what I’d like to do,” the gray-haired man said. “For a helluvan—For a supposedly intelligent guy, you talk like an absolute child. And I say that in all sincerity. You let a bunch of minor little things snowball to an extent that they get so bloody paramount in your mind that you’re absolutely unfit for any—”

“I shoulda left her. You know that? I should’ve gone through with it last summer, when I really had the ball rolling—you know that? You know why I didn’t? You want to know why I didn’t?”

“Arthur. For Chrissake. This is getting us exactly nowhere.”

“Wait a second. Lemme tellya why! You want to know why I didn’t? I can tellya exactly why. Because I felt sorry for her. That’s the whole simple truth. I felt sorry for her.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean that’s out of my jurisdiction,” the gray-haired man said. “It seems to me, though, that the one thing you seem to forget is that Joanie’s a grown woman. I don’t know, but it seems to me—”

“Grown woman! You crazy? She’s a grown child, for Chrissake! Listen, I’ll be shaving—listen to this—I’ll be shaving, and all of a sudden she’ll call me from way the hell the other end of the apartment. I’ll go see what’s the matter—right in the middle of shaving, lather all over my goddam face. You know what she’ll want? She’ll want to ask me if I think she has a good mind. I swear to God. She’s pathetic, I tellya. I watch her when she’s asleep, and I know what I’m talkin’ about. Believe me.”