Properties
- end_line
- 2033
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:41:20.744Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1981
- text
- 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
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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.
12
The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed his
cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late at night. What
made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it was Saturday night. I
didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl
crossing a street, with their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of
hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at something
you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very
late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I
kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally,
after I was riding a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name
was Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I thought
maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by
Central Park South?"
"The what?"
- title
- Chunk 8