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  All of a sudden, on my way out to the lobby, I got old Jane Gallagher on the brain

  again. I got her on, and I couldn't get her off. I sat down in this vomity-looking chair in

  the lobby and thought about her and Stradlater sitting in that goddam Ed Banky's car, and

  though I was pretty damn sure old Stradlater hadn't given her the time--I know old Jane

  like a book--I still couldn't get her off my brain. I knew her like a book. I really did. I

  mean, besides checkers, she was quite fond of all athletic sports, and after I got to know

  her, the whole summer long we played tennis together almost every morning and golf

  almost every afternoon. I really got to know her quite intimately. I don't mean it was

  anything physical or anything--it wasn't--but we saw each other all the time. You don't

  always have to get too sexy to get to know a girl.

  

  The way I met her, this Doberman pinscher she had used to come over and relieve

  himself on our lawn, and my mother got very irritated about it. She called up Jane's

  mother and made a big stink about it. My mother can make a very big stink about that

  kind of stuff. Then what happened, a couple of days later I saw Jane laying on her

  stomach next to the swimming pool, at the club, and I said hello to her. I knew she lived

  in the house next to ours, but I'd never conversed with her before or anything. She gave

  me the big freeze when I said hello that day, though. I had a helluva time convincing her

  that I didn't give a good goddam where her dog relieved himself. He could do it in the

  living room, for all I cared. Anyway, after that, Jane and I got to be friends and all. I

  played golf with her that same afternoon. She lost eight balls, I remember. Eight. I had a

  terrible time getting her to at least open her eyes when she took a swing at the ball. I

  improved her game immensely, though. I'm a very good golfer. If I told you what I go

  around in, you probably wouldn't believe me. I almost was once in a movie short, but I

  changed my mind at the last minute. I figured that anybody that hates the movies as much

  as I do, I'd be a phony if I let them stick me in a movie short.

  She was a funny girl, old Jane. I wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful.

  She knocked me out, though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mean when she was

  talking and she got excited about something, her mouth sort of went in about fifty

  directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never really closed it all the way, her

  mouth. It was always just a little bit open, especially when she got in her golf stance, or

  when she was reading a book. She was always reading, and she read very good books.

  She read a lot of poetry and all. She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever

  showed Allie's baseball mitt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or

  anything, because that was her first summer in Maine--before that, she went to Cape Cod-

  -but I told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in that kind of stuff.

  My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother always thought Jane and

  her mother were sort of snubbing her or something when they didn't say hello. My

  mother saw them in the village a lot, because Jane used to drive to market with her

  mother in this LaSalle convertible they had. My mother didn't think Jane was pretty,

  even. I did, though. I just liked the way she looked, that's all.

  I remember this one afternoon. It was the only time old Jane and I ever got close

  to necking, even. It was a Saturday and it was raining like a bastard out, and I was over at

  her house, on the porch--they had this big screened-in porch. We were playing checkers. I

  used to kid her once in a while because she wouldn't take her kings out of the back row.

  But I didn't kid her much, though. You never wanted to kid Jane too much. I think I really

  like it best when you can kid the pants off a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a

  funny thing. The girls I like best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I

  think they'd like it if you kidded them--in fact, I know they would--but it's hard to get

  started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them. Anyway, I

  was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to necking. It was raining like

  hell and we were out on her porch, and all of a sudden this booze hound her mother was

  married to came out on the porch and asked Jane if there were any cigarettes in the house.

  I didn't know him too well or anything, but he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't

  talk to you much unless he wanted something off you. He had a lousy personality.

  Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answer him when he asked her if she knew where there was

  any cigarettes. So the guy asked her again, but she still wouldn't answer him. She didn't

  www.en8848.com

  

  even look up from the game. Finally the guy went inside the house. When he did, I asked

  Jane what the hell was going on. She wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like

  she was concentrating on her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, this

  tear plopped down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares--boy, I can still see it.

  She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know why, but it bothered hell

  out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her move over on the glider so that I

  could sit down next to her--I practically sat down in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she

  really started to cry, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over--anywhere--her

  eyes, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears--her whole face except her

  mouth and all. She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it was the closest

  we ever got to necking. After a while, she got up and went in and put on this red and

  white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and we went to a goddam movie. I asked

  her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy--that was the booze hound's name--had ever tried to get

  wise with her. She was pretty young, but she had this terrific figure, and I wouldn't've put

  it past that Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never did find out what the hell was the

  matter. Some girls you practically never find out what's the matter.

  I don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, just

  because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with her all

  the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but she was terrific to hold

  hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or

  else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid

  they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or

  something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie

  was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never

  even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you

  were happy. You really were.

  One other thing I just thought of. One time, in this movie, Jane did something that

  just about knocked me out. The newsreel was on or something, and all of a sudden I felt

  this hand on the back of my neck, and it was Jane's. It was a funny thing to do. I mean

  she was quite young and all, and most girls if you see them putting their hand on the back

  of somebody's neck, they're around twenty-five or thirty and usually they're doing it to

  their husband or their little kid--I do it to my kid sister Phoebe once in a while, for

  instance. But if a girl's quite young and all and she does it, it's so pretty it just about kills

  you.

  Anyway, that's what I was thinking about while I sat in that vomity-looking chair

  in the lobby. Old Jane. Every time I got to the part about her out with Stradlater in that

  damn Ed Banky's car, it almost drove me crazy. I knew she wouldn't let him get to first

  base with her, but it drove me crazy anyway. I don't even like to talk about it, if you want

  to know the truth.

  There was hardly anybody in the lobby any more. Even all the whory-looking

  blondes weren't around any more, and all of a sudden I felt like getting the hell out of the

  place. It was too depressing. And I wasn't tired or anything. So I went up to my room and

  put on my coat. I also took a look out the window to see if all the perverts were still in

  action, but the lights and all were out now. I went down in the elevator again and got a

  cab and told the driver to take me down to Ernie's. Ernie's is this night club in Greenwich

  Village that my brother D.B. used to go to quite frequently before he went out to

  

  Hollywood and prostituted himself. He used to take me with him once in a while. Ernie's

  a big fat colored guy that plays the piano. He's a terrific snob and he won't hardly even

  talk to you unless you're a big shot or a celebrity or something, but he can really play the

  piano. He's so good he's almost corny, in fact. I don't exactly know what I mean by that,

  but I mean it. I certainly like to hear him play, but sometimes you feel like turning his

  goddam piano over. I think it's because sometimes when he plays, he sounds like the kind

  of guy that won't talk to you unless you're a big shot.

  

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