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- Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excuse me,
but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my suitcases, up on the rack.
"Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker on one of
my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice telephone
voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to
Pencey."
"Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pencey, in the whole
crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he'd had a
shower, snapping his soggy old wet towel at people's asses. That's exactly the kind of a
guy he was.
"Oh, how nice!" the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice and all. "I must
tell Ernest we met," she said. "May I ask your name, dear?"
"Rudolf Schmidt," I told her. I didn't feel like giving her my whole life history.
Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our dorm.
"Do you like Pencey?" she asked me.
"Pencey? It's not too bad. It's not paradise or anything, but it's as good as most
schools. Some of the faculty are pretty conscientious."
"Ernest just adores it."
"I know he does," I said. Then I started shooting the old crap around a little bit.
"He adapts himself very well to things. He really does. I mean he really knows how to
adapt himself."
"Do you think so?" she asked me. She sounded interested as hell.
"Ernest? Sure," I said. Then I watched her take off her gloves. Boy, was she lousy
with rocks.
"I just broke a nail, getting out of a cab," she said. She looked up at me and sort of
smiled. She had a terrifically nice smile. She really did. Most people have hardly any
smile at all, or a lousy one. "Ernest's father and I sometimes worry about him," she said.
"We sometimes feel he's not a terribly good mixer."
"How do you mean?"
"Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a terribly good mixer with
other boys. Perhaps he takes things a little more seriously than he should at his age."
Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a goddam
toilet seat.
I gave her a good look. She didn't look like any dope to me. She looked like she
might have a pretty damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of. But you can't
always tell--with somebody's mother, I mean. Mothers are all slightly insane. The thing
is, though, I liked old Morrow's mother. She was all right. "Would you care for a
cigarette?" I asked her.
She looked all around. "I don't believe this is a smoker, Rudolf," she said. Rudolf.
That killed me.
"That's all right. We can smoke till they start screaming at us," I said. She took a
cigarette off me, and I gave her a light.
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