Jerome Salinger - The Catcher in the Rye

I kept sitting there on the floor till I heard old Stradlater close the door and go down the corridor to the can. Then I got up. I couldn’t find my goddam hunting hat anywhere. Finally I found it. It was under the bed. I put it on, and turned the old peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I went over and took a look at my stupid face in the mirror. You never saw such gore in your life. I had blood all over my mouth and chin and even on my pajamas and bath robe. It partly scared me and it partly fascinated me. All that blood and all sort of made me look tough. I’d only been in about two fights in my life, and I lost both of them. I’m not too tough. I’m a pacifist, if you want to know the truth.

I had a feeling old Ackley’d probably heard all the racket and was awake. So I went through the shower curtains into his room, just to see what the hell he was doing. I hardly ever went over to his room. It always had a funny stink in it, because he was so crumby in his personal habits.

A tiny bit of light came through the shower curtains and all from our room, and I could see him lying in bed. I knew damn well he was wide awake. “Ackley?” I said. “Y’awake?”

“Yeah.”

It was pretty dark, and I stepped on somebody’s shoe on the floor and damn near fell on my head. Ackley sort of sat up in bed and leaned on his arm. He had a lot of white stuff on his face, for his pimples. He looked sort of spooky in the dark. “What the hellya doing, anyway?” I said.

“Wuddaya mean what the hell am I doing? I was tryna sleep before you guys started making all that noise. What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?”

“Where’s the light?” I couldn’t find the light. I was sliding my hand all over the wall.

“Wuddaya want the light for?… Right next to your hand.”

I finally found the switch and turned it on. Old Ackley put his hand up so the light wouldn’t hurt his eyes.

“Jesus!” he said. “What the hell happened to you?” He meant all the blood and all.

“I had a little goddam tiff with Stradlater,” I said. Then I sat down on the floor. They never had any chairs in their room. I don’t know what the hell they did with their chairs. “Listen,” I said, “do you feel like playing a little Canasta?” He was a Canasta fiend.

“You’re still bleeding, for Chrissake. You better put something on it.”

“It’ll stop. Listen. Ya wanna play a little Canasta or don’tcha?”

“Canasta, for Chrissake. Do you know what time it is, by any chance?”

“It isn’t late. It’s only around eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“Only around!” Ackley said. “Listen. I gotta get up and go to Mass in the morning, for Chrissake. You guys start hollering and fighting in the middle of the goddam—What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?”

“It’s a long story. I don’t wanna bore ya, Ackley. I’m thinking of your welfare,” I told him. I never discussed my personal life with him. In the first place, he was even more stupid than Stradlater. Stradlater was a goddam genius next to Ackley. “Hey,” I said, “is it okay if I sleep in Ely’s bed tonight? He won’t be back till tomorrow night, will he?” I knew damn well he wouldn’t. Ely went home damn near every week end.

“I don’t know when the hell he’s coming back,” Ackley said.

Boy, did that annoy me. “What the hell do you mean you don’t know when he’s coming back? He never comes back till Sunday night, does he?”

“No, but for Chrissake, I can’t just tell somebody they can sleep in his goddam bed if they want to.”

That killed me. I reached up from where I was sitting on the floor and patted him on the goddam shoulder. “You’re a prince, Ackley kid,” I said. “You know that?”

“No, I mean it—I can’t just tell somebody they can sleep in—”

“You’re a real prince. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, kid,” I said. He really was, too. “Do you happen to have any cigarettes, by any chance?—Say ‘no’ or I’ll drop dead.”

“No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Listen, what the hell was the fight about?”

I didn’t answer him. All I did was, I got up and went over and looked out the window. I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.

“What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?” Ackley said, for about the fiftieth time. He certainly was a bore about that.

“About you,” I said.

“About me, for Chrissake?”

“Yeah. I was defending your goddam honor. Stradlater said you had a lousy personality. I couldn’t let him get away with that stuff.”

That got him excited. “He did? No kidding? He did?”

I told him I was only kidding, and then I went over and laid down on Ely’s bed. Boy, did I feel rotten. I felt so damn lonesome.

“This room stinks,” I said. “I can smell your socks from way over here. Don’tcha ever send them to the laundry?”

“If you don’t like it, you know what you can do,” Ackley said. What a witty guy. “How ’bout turning off the goddam light?”

I didn’t turn it off right away, though. I just kept laying there on Ely’s bed, thinking about Jane and all. It just drove me stark staring mad when I thought about her and Stradlater parked somewhere in that fat-assed Ed Banky’s car. Every time I thought about it, I felt like jumping out the window. The thing is, you didn’t know Stradlater. I knew him. Most guys at Pencey just talked about having sexual intercourse with girls all the time—like Ackley, for instance—but old Stradlater really did it. I was personally acquainted with at least two girls he gave the time to. That’s the truth.

“Tell me the story of your fascinating life, Ackley kid,” I said.

“How ’bout turning off the goddam light? I gotta get up for Mass in the morning.”

I got up and turned it off, if it made him happy. Then I laid down on Ely’s bed again.

“What’re ya gonna do—sleep in Ely’s bed?” Ackley said. He was the perfect host, boy.

“I may. I may not. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it. Only, I’d hate like hell if Ely came in all of a sudden and found some guy—”

“Relax. I’m not gonna sleep here. I wouldn’t abuse your goddam hospitality.”

A couple of minutes later, he was snoring like mad. I kept laying there in the dark anyway, though, trying not to think about old Jane and Stradlater in that goddam Ed Banky’s car. But it was almost impossible. The trouble was, I knew that guy Stradlater’s technique. That made it even worse. We once double-dated, in Ed Banky’s car, and Stradlater was in the back, with his date, and I was in the front with mine. What a technique that guy had. What he’d do was, he’d start snowing his date in this very quiet, sincere voice—like as if he wasn’t only a very handsome guy but a nice, sincere guy, too. I damn near puked, listening to him. His date kept saying, “No—please. Please, don’t. Please.” But old Stradlater kept snowing her in this Abraham Lincoln, sincere voice, and finally there’d be this terrific silence in the back of the car. It was really embarrassing. I don’t think he gave that girl the time that night—but damn near. Damn near.

While I was laying there trying not to think, I heard old Stradlater come back from the can and go in our room. You could hear him putting away his crumby toilet articles and all, and opening the window. He was a fresh-air fiend. Then, a little while later, he turned off the light. He didn’t even look around to see where I was at.

It was even depressing out in the street. You couldn’t even hear any cars any more. I got feeling so lonesome and rotten, I even felt like waking Ackley up.

“Hey, Ackley,” I said, in sort of a whisper, so Stradlater couldn’t hear me through the shower curtain.