The Catcher in the Rye | Page 4

note. Thanks a lot." He'd written me this note asking me to
stop by and say good-by before vacation started, on account of I wasn't coming back.
"You didn't have to do all that. I'd have come over to say good-by anyway."
"Have a seat there, boy," old Spencer said. He meant the bed.
I sat down on it. "How's your grippe, sir?"
"M'boy, if I felt any better I'd have to send for the doctor," old Spencer said. That
knocked him out. He started chuckling like a madman. Then he finally straightened
himself out and said, "Why aren't you down at the game? I thought this was the day of the
big game."
"It is. I was. Only, I just got back from New York with the fencing team," I said.
Boy, his bed was like a rock.
He started getting serious as hell. I knew he would. "So you're leaving us, eh?" he
said.
"Yes, sir. I guess I am."
He started going into this nodding routine. You never saw anybody nod as\
much
in your life as old Spencer did. You never knew if he was nodding a lot \
because he was
thinking and all, or just because he was a nice old guy that didn't know his ass from his
elbow.

"What did Dr. Thurmer say to you, boy? I understand you had quite a little chat."
"Yes, we did. We really did. I was in his office for around two hours, I guess."
"What'd he say to you?"
"Oh. . . well, about Life being a game and all. And how you should play it
according to the rules. He was pretty nice about it. I mean he didn't hit the ceiling or
anything. He just kept talking about Life being a game and all. You know."
"Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules."
"Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it."
Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then
it's a game, all right--I'll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren't
any hot-shots, then what's a game about it? Nothing. No game. "Has Dr. Thurmer written
to your parents yet?" old Spencer asked me.
"He said he was going to write them Monday."
"Have you yourself communicated with them?"
"No, sir, I haven't communicated with them, because I'll probably see them
Wednesday night when I get home."
"And how do you think they'll take the news?"
"Well. . . they'll be pretty irritated about it," I said. "They really will. This is abo\
ut
the fourth school I've gone to." I shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. "Boy!" I
said. I also say "Boy!" quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocab\
ulary and partly
because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen
now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. It's really ironical, because I'm six foot
two and a half and I have gray hair. I really do. The one side of my head--the right side--
is full of millions of gray hairs. I've had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act
sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It's
partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true. I don't give a
damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I
act a lot older than I am--I really do--but people never notice it. People never notice
anything.
Old Spencer started nodding again. He also started picking his nose. He made out
like he was only pinching it, but he was really getting the old thumb right in there. I guess
he thought it was all right to do because it was only me that was in the room. I didn't care,
except that it's pretty disgusting to watch somebody pick their nose.
Then he said, "I had the privilege of meeting your mother and dad when they had
their little chat with Dr. Thurmer some weeks ago. They're grand people."
"Yes, they are. They're very nice."
Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.
Then all of a sudden old Spencer looked like he had something very good,
something sharp as a tack,