22 Out-of-print J. D. Salinger Stories, Page 2

  Helen horse-laughed. "Go ahead!" she told him. "Go right ahead, wise guy! She knows all about it!"

  Bobby said, "She knows, eh?"

  "Yes, she knows! And don't you call Phil greasy! You wish you were half as good looking as he is!"

  "He's a greaser. A greasy lousy cheat," Bobby pronounced. "Two for a lousy dime. That's your boyfriend."

  "Coming from you that's good."

  "Have you ever seen his wife?" Bobby asked.

  "Yes-I've-seen-his-wife. What about her?"

  "Have you seen her face?"

  "What's so marvelous about her face?"

  "Nothing's so marvelous about it! She hasn't got a glamour kisser like yours. It's just a nice face. Why the hell don't you leave her dumb husband alone?"

  "None of your business why!" snapped Helen.

  The fingers of his right hand suddenly dug into the hollow of her shoulder. She yelled out in pain, turned, and from an awkward position but with all her might, slammed his hand with the flat of her hairbrush. He sucked in his breath, pivoted swiftly so that his back was both to Helen and Elsie, the maid, who had come in with his coffee. Elsie set the tray on the window seat next to the chair where Helen had filed her nails, then slipped out of the room.

  Bobby sat down, and with the use of his other hand, sipped his coffee black. Helen, at the dressing table, had begun to place her hair. She wore it in a heavy old-fashioned bun.

  He had long finished his coffee when the last hairpin was in its place. Then she went over to where he sat smoking and looking out the window. Drawing the lapels of her robe closer to her breast, she sat down with a little oop sound of unbalance on the floor at his feet. She placed a hand on his ankle, stroked it, and addressed him in a different voice.

  "Bobby, I'm sorry. But you made me lose my temper, darling. Did I hurt your hand?"

  "Never mind my hand," he said, keeping it in his pocket.

  "Bobby, I love Phil. On my word of honor. I don't want you to think I'm just playing around. You don't, do you? I mean you don't just think I'm playing around, trying to hurt people?"

  Bobby made no reply.

  "My word of honor, Bob. You don't know Phil. He's really a grand person."

  Bobby looked at her. "You and your goddam grand persons. You know more goddam grand persons. The guy from Cleveland. What the hell was his name? Bothwell. Harry Bothwell. And how 'bout that blond kid used to sing at Bill Cassidy's? Two of the goddamndest grandest persons you ever met." He looked out the window again. "Oh, for Chrissake, Helen," he said finally.

  "Bob," said Helen, "you know how old I was. I was terribly young. You know that. But Bob, this is the real thing. Honestly. I know it is. I've never felt this way before. Bob, you don't really in your heart think I'm taking all this from Phil just for the hell of it?"

  Bobby looked at her again, lifting his eyebrows, thinned his lips. "You know what I hear in Chicago?" he asked her.

  "What, Bob?" Helen asked gently, the tips of her fingers rubbing his ankle.

  "I heard two guys talking. You don't know 'em. They were talking about you. You and this horsey-set guy, Hanson Carpenter. They crummied the thing inside out." He paused. "You with him, too, Helen?"

  "That's a goddam lie, Bob," Helen told him softly. "Bob, I hardly know Hanson Carpenter well enough to say hello to him."

  "Maybe so! But it's a wonderful thing for a brother to have to listen to, isn't it? Everybody in town gives me the horse-laugh when they see me comin' around the corner!"

  "Bobby. If you believe that slop it's your own damn fault. What do you care what they say? You're bigger than they are. You don't have to pay any attention to their dirty minds."

  "I didn't say I believed it. I said it was what I heard. That's bad enough, isn't it?"

  "Well, it's not so," Helen told him. "Toss me a cigarette there, hmm?"

  He flipped the package of the cigarettes into her lap; then matches. She lighted up, inhaled, and removed a piece of tobacco from her tongue with the tips of her fingers.

  "You used to be such a swell kid," Bobby stated briefly.

  "Oh! And I ain't no more?" Helen little-girl'd.

  He was silent.

  "Listen, Helen. I'll tell ya. I had lunch the other day, before I went to Chicago with Phil's wife."

  "Yeah?"

  "She's a swell kid. Class," Bobby told her.

  "Class, huh?" said Helen.

  "Yeah. Listen. Go see Eddie this afternoon. It can't do any harm. Go see him."

  Helen smoked. "I hate Eddie Jackson. He always make a play for me."

  "Listen," said Bobby, standing up. "You know how to turn on the ice when you want to." He stood over her. "I have to go. I haven't gone to the office yet."

  Helen stood up and watched him put on his polo coat.

  "Go see Eddie," Bobby said, putting on his pigskin gloves. "Hear me?" He buttoned his overcoat. "I'll give you a ring soon."

  Helen chided, "Oh, you'll give me a ring soon! When? The fourth of July?"

  "No. Soon. I've been busy as hell lately. Where's my hat? Oh, I didn't have one."

  She walked with him to the front door, stood in the doorway until the elevator came. Then she shut the door and walked quickly back to her room. She went to the telephone and dialed swiftly but precisely.

  "Hello?" she said into the mouthpiece. "Let me speak to Mr. Stone, please. This is Miss Mason." In a moment his voice came through. "Phil?" she said. "Listen. My brother Bobby was just here. And do you know why? Because that adorable little Vassar-faced wife of yours told him about you and I. Yes! Listen, Phil. Listen to me. I don't like it. I don't care if you had anything to do with it or not. I don't like it. I don't care. No, I can't. I have a previous engagement. I can't tonight either. You can call me tomorrow. I'm very upset about all this. I said you can call me tomorrow, Phil. No. I said no. Phil. Goodbye."

  She set down the receiver, crossed her legs, and bit thoughtfully at the cuticle of her thumb. Then she turned and yelled loudly: "Elsie!"

  Elsie moused into the room.

  "Take away Mr. Bobby's tray."

  When Elsie was out of the room, Helen dialed again.

  "Hanson?" she said. "This is me. Us. We. You dog."

  3. The Hang Of It

  This country lost one of the most promising young men ever to tilt a pinball table when my son, Harry, was conscripted into the Army. As his father, I realize Harry wasn't born yesterday, but every time I look at the boy I'd swear it all happened sometime early last week. So offhand I'd say the Army was getting another Bobby Pettit.

  Back in 1917 Bobby Pettit wore the same look that Harry wears so well. Pettit was a skinny kid from Crosby, Vermont, which is in the United States too. Some of the boys in the company figured Pettit had spent his tender years letting that Vermont maple syrup drip slowly on his forehead.

  Also one of the dancing girls in that 1917 company was Sergeant Grogan. The boys in camp had all kinds of ideas about the sarge's origin; good, sound, censorable ideas that I won't bother to repeat.

  Well, on Pettit's first day in the ranks the sarge was drilling the platoon in the manual of arms. Pettit had a clever, original way of handling his rifle. When the sarge hollered "Right shoulder arms!" Bobby Pettit did left shoulder arms. When the sarge requested "Port arms!" Pettit complied with present arms. It was a sure way of attracting the sarge's attention, and he came over to Pettit smiling.

  "Well, dumb guy," greeted the sarge, "what's the matter with you?"

  Pettit laughed. "I get a little mixed up at times," he explained briefly.

  "What's your name, Bud?" asked the sarge.

  "Bobby. Bobby Pettit."

  "Well, Bobby Pettit," said the sarge, "I'll just call ya Bobby. I always call them by their first names. And they all call me Mother. Just like they was at home."

  "Oh," said Pettit.

  Then it went off. Every fuse has two ends: the one that's lighted and the one that's clubby with T.N.T.

  "Listen, Pettit!" boomed the sarg
e. "I ain't running no fifth grade. You're in the Army, dumb guy. You're supposed t'know ya ain't got two left shoulders and that port arms ain't present arms. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

  "I'll get the hang of it," Pettit predicted.

  The next day we had practice in tent pitching and pack making. When the sarge came around to inspect, it developed that Pettit hadn't bothered to hammer the tent pegs slightly below the surface of the ground. Observing the subtle flaw, the sarge, with one yank of his hand, collapsed entirely Bobby Pettit's little canvas home.

  "Pettit," cooed the sarge. "You are...without a doubt...the dumbest...the stoopidest...the clumsiest gink I ever seen. Are ya nuts, Pettit? Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

  Pettit predicted, "I'll get the hang of it."

  Then everybody made up full packs. Pettit made up his like a veteran - just like one of the Boys in the Blue. Then the sarge came around to inspect. It was his cheery custom to pass in the rear of the men, and with a short, blugeon-like stroke or his forearm slam down on the regulation burden on the back of every mother's son.

  He came to Pettit's pack. I'll spare the details. I'll just say that everything came apart save the last five segments in Bobby Pettit's vertebrae. It was a sickening sound. The sarge came around to face Pettit, what was left of him.

  "Pettit. I met lotsa dumb guys in my time," related the sarge. "Lots of 'em. But you, Pettit, you're in a class by yourself. Because you're the dumbest!"

  Pettit stood there on his three feet.

  "I'll get the hang of it," he manage to predict.

  First day of target practice, six men at a time fired at six targets, prone position exclusively. The sarge passed up and down, examining firing positions.

  "Hey, Pettit. Which eye are you lookin' through?"

  "I don't know," said Pettit. "The left, I guess."

  "Look through the right!" bellowed the sarge. "Pettit, you're takin' twenty years offa my life. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

  That was nothing. When, after the men had fired, the targets were rolled in, there was a gay surprise for all. Pettit had fired all his shots at the target of the man on his right.

  The sarge almost had an attack of apoplexy. "Pettit," he said, "you got no place in this man's army. You got six feet. You got six hands. Everybody else only got two!"

  "I'll get the hang of it," said Pettit.

  "Don't say that to me again. Or I'll kill ya. I'll akchally kill ya, Pettit. Because I hatecha, Pettit. You hear me? I hatecha!"

  "Gee," said Pettit. "No kidding?"

  "No kidding, brother," said the sarge.

  "Wait'll I get the hang of it," said Pettit. "You'll see. No kidding. Boy, I like the Army. Someday I'll be a colonel or something. No kidding."

  Naturally I didn't tell my wife that our son, Harry, reminds me of Bob Pettit back in '17. But he does nevertheless. In fact, the boy is even having sergeant trouble at Fort Iroquois. It seems, according to my wife, that Fort Iroquois nurses to its bosom one of the toughest, meanest first sergeants in the country. There is no necessity, declares my wife, in being mean to the boys. Not that Harry's complained. He likes the Army, only he just can't seem to please this terrible first sergeant. Just because he hasn't got the hang of it yet.

  And the colonel of this regiment. He's no help at all, my wife feels. All he does is walk around and look important. A colonel should help the boys, see to it that mean first sergeants don't take advantage of the boys, destroy their spirit. A colonel, my wife feels, should do more than just walk around the place.

  Well, a few Sundays ago the boys at Fort Iroquois put on their first spring parade. My wife and I were there in the reviewing stand, and with a yelp that nearly took my hat off she picked out our Harry as he marched along.

  "He's out of step," I told my wife.

  "Oh, don't be that way," said she.

  "But he is out of step," I said.

  "I suppose that's a crime. I suppose he'll be shot for that. See! He's in step again. He was only out for a minute."

  Then, when the parade was over and the men had been dismissed, First Sergeant Grogan came over to say hello. "How do, Mrs. Pettit."

  "How do you do," said my wife, very chilly.

  "Think there's hope for our boy, sergeant?" I asked.

  "Not a chance," he said. "Not a chance, colonel."

  4. The Heart Of A Broken Story

  EVERY DAY Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-dollar-a-week printer's assistant, saw at close quarters approximately sixty women whom he had never seen before. Of these 75,120 women, roughly 25,000 were under thirty years of age and over fifteen years of age. Of the 25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five and one hundred twenty-five pounds. Of these 5,000 only 1,000 were not ugly. Only 500 were reasonably attractive; only 100 of these were quite attractive; only 25 could have inspired a long, slow whistle. And with only 1 did Horgenschlag fall in love at first sight.

  Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale in every sense of the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word.

  Her name was Shirley Lester. She was twenty-four years old (eleven years younger than Horgenschlag), was five-foot-four (bringing her head to the level of Horgenschlag's eyes), weighed 117 pounds (light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a stenographer, lived with and supported her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan. In reference to Shirley's looks people often put it this way: "Shirley's as pretty as a picture."

  And in the Third Avenue bus early one morning, Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and was a dead duck. All because Shirley's mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was reading a cosmetic advertisement in the wall panel of the bus: and when Shirley read, Shirley relaxed slightly at the jaw. And in that short moment while Shirley's mouth was open, lips were parted, Shirley was probably the most fatal one in all Manhattan. Horgenschlag was her is a positive cure-all for a gigantic monster of loneliness which had been stalking around his heart since he had come to New York. Oh, the agony of it! The agony of standing over Shirley Lester and not being able to bend down and kiss Shirley's parted lips. The inexpressable agony of it!

  That was the beginning of the story I started to write for Collier's. I was going to write a lovely tender boy-meets-girl story. What could be finer, I thought. The world needs boy-meets- girl stories. But to write one, unfortunately, the writer must go about the business of having the boy meet the girl. I couldn't do it with this one. Not and have it make sense. I couldn't get Horgenschlag and Shirley together properly. And here are the reasons:

  Certainly it was impossible for Horgenschlag to bend over and say in all sincerity:

  "I beg your pardon. I love you very much. I'm nuts about you. I know it. I could love you all my life. I'm a printer's assistant and I make thirty dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are you busy tonight?"

  This Horgenschlag may be a goof, but not that big a goof. He may have been born yesterday, but not today. You can't expect Collier's readers to swallow that kind of bilge. A nickel's a nickel, after all.

  I couldn't, of course, all of a sudden give Horgenschlag a suave serum, mixed from William Powell's old cigarette case and Fred Ast-aire's old top hat.

  "Please don't misunderstand me, Miss. I'm a magazine illustrator. My card. I'd like to sketch you more than I've ever wanted to sketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an undertaking would be to a mutual advantage. May I telephone you this evening, or in the very near fut-ure? (Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don't sound too desperate. (Another one.) I suppose I am, really."

  Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a weary, yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only Horgenschlag had delivered them. Shirley, of course, was an old Nelson Eddy fan herself, and an active member of the Keystone Circulating Library.

  Maybe you're beginning to see what I was up against.

  True, Horgenschlag might have said the following:

  "Excuse me, but aren’t y
ou Wilma Pritchard?"

  To which Shirley would have replied coldly, and seeking a neutral point on the other side of the bus:

  "No."

  "That's funny." Horgenschlag could have gone on, "I was willing to swear you were Wilma Pritchard. Uh. You don't by any chance come from Seattle?"

  "No."--More ice where that came from.

  "Seattle's my home town."

  Neutral point.

  "Great little town, Seattle. I mean it's really a great little town. I've only been here--I mean New York--four years. I'm a printer's assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my name."

  "I'm really not inter-ested."

  Oh, Horgenschlag wouldn't have got anywhere with that kind of line. He had neither the looks, personality, or good clothes to gain Shirley's interest under the circumstances. He didn't have a chance. And, as I said before, to write a really good boy-meets-girls story it's wise to have the boy meet the girl.

  Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted, and in doing so grabbed for support: the support being Shirley's ankle. He could have torn the stocking that way, or succeeded in ornamenting it with a fine long run. People would have made room for the stricken Horgenschlag, and he would have got to his feet, mumbling: "I'm all right, thanks," then, "Oh, say! I'm terribly sorry, Miss. I've torn your stocking. You must let me pay for it. I'm short of case right now, but just give me your address."

  Shirley wouldn't have given him her address. She just would have become embarrassed and inarticulate. "It's all right," she would have said, wishing Horgenschlag hadn't been born. And besides, the whole idea is illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle boy, wouldn't have dreamed of clutching at Shirley's ankle. Not in the Third Avenue Bus.

  But what is more logical is the possibility that Horgenschlag might have got desperate. There are still a few men who love desperately. Maybe Horgenschlag was one. He might have snatched Shirley's handbag and run with it toward the rear exit door. Shirley would have screamed. Men would have heard her, and remembered the Alamo or something. Horgenschlag's flight, let's say, is now arrested. The bus is stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who hasn't made a good arrest in a long time, reports on the scene. What's going on here? Officer, this man tried to steal my purse.