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  I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine to come out

  and do their stuff, but they weren't there. A flitty-looking guy with wavy hair came out

  and played the piano, and then this new babe, Valencia, came out and sang. She wasn't

  any good, but she was better than old Tina and Janine, and at least she sang good songs.

  The piano was right next to the bar where I was sitting and all, and old Valencia was

  standing practically right next to me. I sort of gave her the old eye, but she pretended she

  didn't even see me. I probably wouldn't have done it, but I was getting drunk as hell.

  When she was finished, she beat it out of the room so fast I didn't even get a chance to

  invite her to join me for a drink, so I called the headwaiter over. I told him to ask old

  Valencia if she'd care to join me for a drink. He said he would, but he probably didn't

  even give her my message. People never give your message to anybody.

  Boy, I sat at that goddam bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a

  bastard. I could hardly see straight. The one thing I did, though, I was careful as hell not

  to get boisterous or anything. I didn't want anybody to notice me or anything or ask how

  old I was. But, boy, I could hardly see straight. When I was really drunk, I started that

  stupid business with the bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a

  bullet in their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to

  keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn't want anybody to know I was

  even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded sonuvabitch. Finally what

  I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz and see if she was home yet. So I paid my

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  check and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping

  my hand under my jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk.

  But when I got inside this phone booth, I wasn't much in the mood any more to

  give old Jane a buzz. I was too drunk, I guess. So what I did, I gave old Sally Hayes a

  buzz.

  I had to dial about twenty numbers before I got the right one. Boy, was I blind.

  "Hello," I said when somebody answered the goddam phone. I sort of yelled it, I

  was so drunk.

  "Who is this?" this very cold lady's voice said.

  "This is me. Holden Caulfield. Lemme speaka Sally, please."

  "Sally's asleep. This is Sally's grandmother. Why are you calling at this hour,

  Holden? Do you know what time it is?"

  "Yeah. Wanna talka Sally. Very important. Put her on."

  "Sally's asleep, young man. Call her tomorrow. Good night."

  "Wake 'er up! Wake 'er up, hey. Attaboy."

  Then there was a different voice. "Holden, this is me." It was old Sally. "What's

  the big idea?"

  "Sally? That you?"

  "Yes--stop screaming. Are you drunk?"

  "Yeah. Listen. Listen, hey. I'll come over Christmas Eve. Okay? Trimma goddarn

  tree for ya. Okay? Okay, hey, Sally?"

  "Yes. You're drunk. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"

  "Sally? I'll come over and trimma tree for ya, okay? Okay, hey?"

  "Yes. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"

  "Nobody. Me, myself and I." Boy was I drunk! I was even still holding onto my

  guts. "They got me. Rocky's mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know that?"

  "I can't hear you. Go to bed now. I have to go. Call me tomorrow."

  "Hey, Sally! You want me trimma tree for ya? Ya want me to? Huh?"

  "Yes. Good night. Go home and go to bed."

  She hung up on me.

  "G'night. G'night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart darling," I said. Can you imagine

  how drunk I was? I hung up too, then. I figured she probably just came home from a date.

  I pictured her out with the Lunts and all somewhere, and that Andover jerk. All of them

  swimming around in a goddam pot of tea and saying sophisticated stuff to each other and

  being charming and phony. I wished to God I hadn't even phoned her. When I'm drunk,

  I'm a madman.

  I stayed in the damn phone booth for quite a while. I kept holding onto the phone,

  sort of, so I wouldn't pass out. I wasn't feeling too marvelous, to tell you the truth.

  Finally, though, I came out and went in the men's room, staggering around like a moron,

  and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. Then I dunked my head in it, right up to

  the ears. I didn't even bother to dry it or anything. I just let the sonuvabitch drip. Then I

  walked over to this radiator by the window and sat down on it. It was nice and warm. It

  felt good because I was shivering like a bastard. It's a funny thing, I always shiver like

  hell when I'm drunk.

  I didn't have anything else to do, so I kept sitting on the radiator and counting

  these little white squares on the floor. I was getting soaked. About a gallon of water was

  

  dripping down my neck, getting all over my collar and tie and all, but I didn't give a

  damn. I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty soon, the guy that played the piano

  for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitty-looking guy, came in to comb his golden

  locks. We sort of struck up a conversation while he was combing it, except that he wasn't

  too goddam friendly.

  "Hey. You gonna see that Valencia babe when you go back in the bar?" I asked

  him.

  "It's highly probable," he said. Witty bastard. All I ever meet is witty bastards.

  "Listen. Give her my compliments. Ask her if that goddam waiter gave her my

  message, willya?"

  "Why don't you go home, Mac? How old are you, anyway?"

  "Eighty-six. Listen. Give her my compliments. Okay?"

  "Why don't you go home, Mac?"

  "Not me. Boy, you can play that goddam piano." I told him. I was just flattering

  him. He played the piano stinking, if you want to know the truth. "You oughta go on the

  radio," I said. "Handsome chap like you. All those goddam golden locks. Ya need a

  manager?"

  "Go home, Mac, like a good guy. Go home and hit the sack."

  "No home to go to. No kidding--you need a manager?"

  He didn't answer me. He just went out. He was all through combing his hair and

  patting it and all, so he left. Like Stradlater. All these handsome guys are the same. When

  they're done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on you.

  When I finally got down off the radiator and went out to the hat-check room, I

  was crying and all. I don't know why, but I was. I guess it was because I was feeling so

  damn depressed and lonesome. Then, when I went out to the checkroom, I couldn't find

  my goddam check. The hat-check girl was very nice about it, though. She gave me my

  coat anyway. And my "Little Shirley Beans" record--I still had it with me and all. I gave

  her a buck for being so nice, but she wouldn't take it. She kept telling me to go home and

  go to bed. I sort of tried to make a date with her for when she got through working, but

  she wouldn't do it. She said she was old enough to be my mother and all. I showed her

  my goddam gray hair and told her I was forty-two--I was only horsing around, naturally.

  She was nice, though. I showed her my goddam red hunting hat, and she liked it. She

  made me put it on before I went out, because my hair was still pretty wet. She was all

  right.

  I didn't feel too drunk any more when I went outside, but it was getting very cold

  out again, and my teeth started chattering like hell. I couldn't make them stop. I walked

  over to Madison Avenue and started to wait around for a bus because I didn't have hardly

  any money left and I had to start economizing on cabs and all. But I didn't feel like

  getting on a damn bus. And besides, I didn't even know where I was supposed to go. So

  what I did, I started walking over to the park. I figured I'd go by that little lake and see

  what the hell the ducks were doing, see if they were around or not, I still didn't know if

  they were around or not. It wasn't far over to the park, and I didn't have anyplace else

  special to go to--I didn't even know where I was going to sleep yet--so I went. I wasn't

  tired or anything. I just felt blue as hell.

  Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped old Phoebe's

  record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope and all, but it broke

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  anyway. I damn near cried, it made me feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces

  out of the envelope and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything,

  but I didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was it dark.

  I've lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like the back of my

  hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and ride my bike when I was a kid,

  but I had the most terrific trouble finding that lagoon that night. I knew right where it

  was--it was right near Central Park South and all--but I still couldn't find it. I must've

  been drunker than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting darker and

  darker and spookier and spookier. I didn't see one person the whole time I was in the

  park. I'm just as glad. I probably would've jumped about a mile if I had. Then, finally, I

  found it. What it was, it was partly frozen and partly not frozen. But I didn't see any

  ducks around. I walked all around the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in fact-

  -but I didn't see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, they might be

  asleep or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and all. That's how I nearly

  fell in. But I couldn't find any.

  Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark. Boy, I was still

  shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on,

  was sort of full of little hunks of ice. That worried me. I thought probably I'd get

  pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My

  grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you ride

  on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy

  cousins. What a mob'd be there. They all came when Allie died, the whole goddam stupid

  bunch of them. I have this one stupid aunt with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he

  looked lying there, D.B. told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to

  the hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was getting

  pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry

  as hell for my mother and father. Especially my mother, because she still isn't over my

  brother Allie yet. I kept picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and

  athletic equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old Phoebe come

  to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the only good part.

  Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all,

  with my name on this tombstone and all. Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're

  dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to

  just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam

  cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and

  all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

  When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of

  flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the

  first place, I certainly don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead

  guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice--twice--

  we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and

  it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were

  visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove

  me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then

  go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only

  his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I

  

  couldn't stand it anyway. I just wish he wasn't there. You didn't know him. If you'd

  known him, you'd know what I mean. It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only

  comes out when it feels like coming out.

  After a while, just to get my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I took out my

  dough and tried to count it in the lousy light from the street lamp. All I had was three

  singles and five quarters and a nickel left--boy, I spent a fortune since I left Pencey. Then

  what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sort of skipped the quarters and the nickel

  across it, where it wasn't frozen. I don't know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought

  it'd take my mind off getting pneumonia and dying. It didn't, though.

  I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died. It was a

  childish way to think, but I couldn't stop myself. She'd feel pretty bad if something like

  that happened. She likes me a lot. I mean she's quite fond of me. She really is. Anyway, I

  couldn't get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd do, I figured I'd better sneak

  home and see her, in case I died and all. I had my door key with me and all, and I figured

  what I'd do, I'd sneak in the apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat

  with her for a while. The only thing that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a

  bastard. It's a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy bastard, and

  everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might hear me sneaking in. But I

  decided I'd try it anyhow.

  So I got the hell out of the park, and went home. I walked all the way. It wasn't

  too far, and I wasn't tired or even drunk any more. It was just very cold and nobody

  around anywhere.

  

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