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- old Ackley snoring. Right through the goddam shower curtains you could hear him. He
had sinus trouble and he couldn't breathe too hot when he was asleep. That guy had just
about everything. Sinus trouble, pimples, lousy teeth, halitosis, crumby fingernails. You
had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.
6
Some things are hard to remember. I'm thinking now of when Stradlater got back
from his date with Jane. I mean I can't remember exactly what I was doing when I heard
his goddam stupid footsteps coming down the corridor. I probably was still looking out
the window, but I swear I can't remember. I was so damn worried, that's why. When I
really worry about something, I don't just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom
when I worry about something. Only, I don't go. I'm too worried to go. I don't want to
interrupt my worrying to go. If you knew Stradlater, you'd have been worried, too. I'd
double-dated with that bastard a couple of times, and I know what I'm talking about. He
was unscrupulous. He really was.
Anyway, the corridor was all linoleum and all, and you could hear his goddam
footsteps coming right towards the room. I don't even remember where I was sitting when
he came in--at the window, or in my chair or his. I swear I can't remember.
He came in griping about how cold it was out. Then he said, "Where the hell is
everybody? It's like a goddam morgue around here." I didn't even bother to answer him.
If he was so goddam stupid not to realize it was Saturday night and everybody was out or
asleep or home for the week end, I wasn't going to break my neck telling him. He started
getting undressed. He didn't say one goddam word about Jane. Not one. Neither did I. I
just watched him. All he did was thank me for letting him wear my hound's-tooth. He
hung it up on a hanger and put it in the closet.
Then when he was taking off his tie, he asked me if I'd written his goddam
composition for him. I told him it was over on his goddam bed. He walked over and read
it while he was unbuttoning his shirt. He stood there, reading it, and sort of stroking his
bare chest and stomach, with this very stupid expression on his face. He was always
stroking his stomach or his chest. He was mad about himself.
All of a sudden, he said, "For Chrissake, Holden. This is about a goddam baseball
glove."
"So what?" I said. Cold as hell.
"Wuddaya mean so what? I told ya it had to be about a goddam room or a house
or something."
"You said it had to be descriptive. What the hell's the difference if it's about a
baseball glove?"
"God damn it." He was sore as hell. He was really furious. "You always do
everything backasswards." He looked at me. "No wonder you're flunking the hell out of
here," he said. "You don't do one damn thing the way you're supposed to. I mean it. Not
one damn thing."
"All right, give it back to me, then," I said. I went over and pulled it right out of
his goddam hand. Then I tore it up.
"What the hellja do that for?" he said.
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