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- a cab and go down to the Biltmore. I didn't feel much like going. I'd made that damn date
with Sally, though.
17
I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those leather
couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of schools were
home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitting and standing
around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their
legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell
girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them. It was really nice
sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of depressing, too, because
you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of
school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys.
Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars.
Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid
game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are
very boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I
don't understand boring guys. I really don't. When I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed for
about two months with this boy, Harris Mackim. He was very intelligent and all, but he
was one of the biggest bores I ever met. He had one of these very raspy voices, and he
never stopped talking, practically. He never stopped talking, and what was awful was, he
never said anything you wanted to hear in the first place. But he could do one thing. The
sonuvabitch could whistle better than anybody I ever heard. He'd be making his bed, or
hanging up stuff in the closet--he was always hanging up stuff in the closet--it drove me
crazy--and he'd be whistling while he did it, if he wasn't talking in this raspy voice. He
could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled jazz. He could
take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whistle it so nice and easy--right
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while he was hanging stuff up in the closet--that it could kill you. Naturally, I never told
him I thought he was a terrific whistler. I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say,
"You're a terrific whistler." But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even
though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the
best I ever heard. So I don't know about bores. Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry if you
see some swell girl getting married to them. They don't hurt anybody, most of them, and
maybe they're secretly all terrific whistlers or something. Who the hell knows? Not me.
Finally, old Sally started coming up the stairs, and I started down to meet her. She
looked terrific. She really did. She had on this black coat and sort of a black beret. She
hardly ever wore a hat, but that beret looked nice. The funny part is, I felt like marrying
her the minute I saw her. I'm crazy. I didn't even like her much, and yet all of a sudden I
felt like I was in love with her and wanted to marry her. I swear to God I'm crazy. I admit
it.
"Holden!" she said. "It's marvelous to see you! It's been ages." She had one of
these very loud, embarrassing voices when you met her somewhere. She got away with it
because she was so damn good-looking, but it always gave me a pain in the ass.
"Swell to see you," I said. I meant it, too. "How are ya, anyway?"
"Absolutely marvelous. Am I late?"
I told her no, but she was around ten minutes late, as a matter of fact. I didn't give
a damn, though. All that crap they have in cartoons in the Saturday Evening Post and all,
showing guys on street corners looking sore as hell because their dates are late--that's
bunk. If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late? Nobody.
- title
- Chunk 6