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.
14
AFTER OLD SUNNY WAS GONE, I sat in the chair for a while and smoked a couple of cigarettes. It was getting daylight outside. Boy, I felt miserable. I felt so depressed, you can’t imagine. What I did, I started talking, sort of out loud, to Allie. I do that sometimes when I get very depressed. I keep telling him to go home and get his bike and meet me in front of Bobby Fallon’s house. Bobby Fallon used to live quite near us in Maine—this is, years ago. Anyway, what happened was, one day Bobby and I were going over to Lake Sedebego on our bikes. We were going to take our lunches and all, and our BB guns—we were kids and all, and we thought we could shoot something with our BB guns. Anyway, Allie heard us talking about it, and he wanted to go, and I wouldn’t let him. I told him he was a child. So once in a while, now, when I get very depressed, I keep saying to him, “Okay. Go home and get your bike and meet me in front of Bobby’s house. Hurry up.” It wasn’t that I didn’t use to take him with me when I went somewhere. I did. But that one day, I didn’t. He didn’t get sore about it—he never got sore about anything—but I keep thinking about it anyway, when I get very depressed.
Finally, though, I got undressed and got in bed. I felt like praying or something, when I was in bed, but I couldn’t do it. I can’t always pray when I feel like it. In the first place, I’m sort of an atheist. I like Jesus and all, but I don’t care too much for most of the other stuff in the Bible. Take the Disciples, for instance. They annoy the hell out of me, if you want to know the truth. They were all right after Jesus was dead and all, but while He was alive, they were about as much use to Him as a hole in the head. All they did was keep letting Him down. I like almost anybody in the Bible better than the Disciples. If you want to know the truth, the guy I like best in the Bible, next to Jesus, was that lunatic and all, that lived in the tombs and kept cutting himself with stones. I like him ten times as much as the Disciples, that poor bastard. I used to get in quite a few arguments about it, when I was at the Whooton School, with this boy that lived down the corridor, Arthur Childs. Old Childs was a Quaker and all, and he read the Bible all the time. He was a very nice kid, and I liked him, but I could never see eye to eye with him on a lot of stuff in the Bible, especially the Disciples. He kept telling me if I didn’t like the Disciples, then I didn’t like Jesus and all. He said that because Jesus picked the Disciples, you were supposed to like them. I said I knew He picked them, but that He picked them at random. I said He didn’t have time to go around analyzing everybody. I said I wasn’t blaming Jesus or anything. It wasn’t His fault that He didn’t have any time. I remember I asked old Childs if he thought Judas, the one that betrayed Jesus and all, went to Hell after he committed suicide. Childs said certainly. That’s exactly where I disagreed with him. I said I’d bet a thousand bucks that Jesus never sent old Judas to Hell. I still would, too, if I had a thousand bucks. I think any one of the Disciples would’ve sent him to Hell and all—and fast, too—but I’ll bet anything Jesus didn’t do it. Old Childs said the trouble with me was that I didn’t go to church or anything. He was right about that, in a way. I don’t. In the first place, my parents are different religions, and all the children in our family are atheists. If you want to know the truth, I can’t even stand ministers. The ones they’ve had at every school I’ve gone to, they all have these Holy Joe voices when they start giving their sermons. God, I hate that. I don’t see why the hell they can’t talk in their natural voice. They sound so phony when they talk.
Anyway, when I was in bed, I couldn’t pray worth a damn. Every time I got started, I kept picturing old Sunny calling me a crumb-bum. Finally, I sat up in bed and smoked another cigarette. It tasted lousy. I must’ve smoked around two packs since I left Pencey.
All of a sudden, while I was laying there smoking, somebody knocked on the door. I kept hoping it wasn’t my door they were knocking on, but I knew damn well it was. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew who it was, too. I’m psychic.
“Who’s there?” I said. I was pretty scared. I’m very yellow about those things.
They just knocked again, though. Louder.
Finally I got out of bed, with just my pajamas on, and opened the door. I didn’t even have to turn the light on in the room, because it was already daylight. Old Sunny and Maurice, the pimpy elevator guy, were standing there.
“What’s the matter? Wuddaya want?” I said. Boy, my voice was shaking like hell.
“Nothin’ much,” old Maurice said. “Just five bucks.” He did all the talking for the two of them. Old Sunny just stood there next to him, with her mouth open and all.
“I paid her already. I gave her five bucks. Ask her,” I said. Boy, was my voice shaking.
“It’s ten bucks, chief. I tole ya that. Ten bucks for a throw, fifteen bucks till noon. I tole ya that.”
“You did not tell me that. You said five bucks a throw. You said fifteen bucks till noon, all right, but I distinctly heard you—”
“Open up, chief.”
“What for?” I said. God, my old heart was damn near beating me out of the room. I wished I was dressed at least. It’s terrible to be just in your pajamas when something like that happens.
“Let’s go, chief,” old Maurice said. Then he gave me a big shove with his crumby hand. I damn near fell over on my can—he was a huge sonuvabitch. The next thing I knew, he and old Sunny were both in the room. They acted like they owned the damn place. Old Sunny sat down on the window sill. Old Maurice sat down in the big chair and loosened his collar and all—he wearing this elevator operator’s uniform. Boy, was I nervous.
“All right, chief, let’s have it. I gotta get back to work.”
“I told you about ten times, I don’t owe you a cent. I already gave her the five—”
“Cut the crap, now. Let’s have it.”
“Why should I give her another five bucks?” I said. My voice was cracking all over the place. “You’re trying to chisel me.”
Old Maurice unbuttoned his whole uni
form coat. All he had on underneath was a phony shirt collar, but no shirt or anything. He had a big fat hairy stomach. “Nobody’s tryna chisel nobody,” he said. “Let’s have it, chief.”
The Catcher in the Rye Page 10