Properties
- end_line
- 2290
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:41:20.744Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2234
- text
- really isn't. What you should be is not yellow at all. If you're supposed to sock somebody
in the jaw, and you sort of feel like doing it, you should do it. I'm just no good at it,
though. I'd rather push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock
him in the jaw. I hate fist fights. I don't mind getting hit so much--although I'm not crazy
about it, naturally--but what scares me most in a fist fight is the guy's face. I can't stand
looking at the other guy's face, is my trouble. It wouldn't be so bad if you could both be
blindfolded or something. It's a funny kind of yellowness, when you come to think of it,
but it's yellowness, all right. I'm not kidding myself.
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The more I thought about my gloves and my yellowness, the more depressed I
got, and I decided, while I was walking and all, to stop off and have a drink somewhere.
I'd only had three drinks at Ernie's, and I didn't even finish the last one. One thing I have,
it's a terrific capacity. I can drink all night and not even show it, if I'm in the mood. Once,
at the Whooton School, this other boy, Raymond Goldfarb, and I bought a pint of Scotch
and drank it in the chapel one Saturday night, where nobody'd see us. He got stinking, but
I hardly didn't even show it. I just got very cool and nonchalant. I puked before I went to
bed, but I didn't really have to--I forced myself.
Anyway, before I got to the hotel, I started to go in this dumpy-looking bar, but
two guys came out, drunk as hell, and wanted to know where the subway was. One of
them was this very Cuban-looking guy, and he kept breathing his stinking breath in my
face while I gave him directions. I ended up not even going in the damn bar. I just went
back to the hotel.
The whole lobby was empty. It smelled like fifty million dead cigars. It really did.
I wasn't sleepy or anything, but I was feeling sort of lousy. Depressed and all. I almost
wished I was dead.
Then, all of a sudden, I got in this big mess.
The first thing when I got in the elevator, the elevator guy said to me, "Innarested
in having a good time, fella? Or is it too late for you?"
"How do you mean?" I said. I didn't know what he was driving at or anything.
"Innarested in a little tail t'night?"
"Me?" I said. Which was a very dumb answer, but it's quite embarrassing when
somebody comes right up and asks you a question like that.
"How old are you, chief?" the elevator guy said.
"Why?" I said. "Twenty-two."
"Uh huh. Well, how 'bout it? Y'innarested? Five bucks a throw. Fifteen bucks the
whole night." He looked at his wrist watch. "Till noon. Five bucks a throw, fifteen bucks
till noon."
"Okay," I said. It was against my principles and all, but I was feeling so depressed
I didn't even think. That's the whole trouble. When you're feeling very depressed, you
can't even think.
"Okay what? A throw, or till noon? I gotta know."
"Just a throw."
"Okay, what room ya in?"
I looked at the red thing with my number on it, on my key. "Twelve twenty-two,"
I said. I was already sort of sorry I'd let the thing start rolling, but it was too late now.
"Okay. I'll send a girl up in about fifteen minutes." He opened the doors and I got
out.
"Hey, is she good-looking?" I asked him. "I don't want any old bag."
"No old bag. Don't worry about it, chief."
"Who do I pay?"
"Her," he said. "Let's go, chief." He shut the doors, practically right in my face.
I went to my room and put some water on my hair, but you can't really comb a
crew cut or anything. Then I tested to see if my breath stank from so many cigarettes and
the Scotch and sodas I drank at Ernie's. All you do is hold your hand under your mouth
and blow your breath up toward the old nostrils. It didn't seem to stink much, but I
- title
- Chunk 2