They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall and behind a goddam post, where you couldn’t see anything. It was one of those tiny little tables that if the people at the next table don’t get up to let you by—and they never do, the bastards—you practically have to climb into your chair. I ordered a Scotch and soda, which is my favorite drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. If you were only around six years old, you could get liquor at Ernie’s, the place was so dark and all, and besides, nobody cared how old you were. You could even be a dope fiend and nobody’d care.

I was surrounded by jerks. I’m not kidding. At this other tiny table, right to my left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy and this funny-looking girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little older. It was funny. You could see they were being careful as hell not to drink up the minimum too fast. I listened to their conversation for a while, because I didn’t have anything else to do. He was telling her about some pro football game he’d seen that afternoon. He gave her every single goddam play in the whole game—I’m not kidding. He was the most boring guy I ever listened to. And you could tell his date wasn’t even interested in the goddam game, but she was even funnier-looking than he was, so I guess she had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them sometimes. Sometimes I can’t even look at them, especially if they’re with some dopey guy that’s telling them all about a goddam football game. On my right, the conversation was even worse, though. On my right there was this very Joe Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those flitty-looking Tattersall vests. All those Ivy League bastards look alike. My father wants me to go to Yale, or maybe Princeton, but I swear, I wouldn’t go to one of those Ivy League colleges, if I was dying, for God’s sake. Anyway, this Joe Yale-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with him. Boy, she was good-looking. But you should’ve heard the conversation they were having. In the first place, they were both slightly crocked. What he was doing, he was giving her a feel under the table, and at the same time telling her all about some guy in his dorm that had eaten a whole bottle of aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying to him, “How horrible… Don’t, darling. Please, don’t. Not here.” Imagine giving somebody a feel and telling them about a guy committing suicide at the same time! They killed me.

I certainly began to feel like a prize horse’s ass, though, sitting there all by myself. There wasn’t anything to do except smoke and drink. What I did do, though, I told the waiter to ask old Ernie if he’d care to join me for a drink. I told him to tell him I was

D.B.’s brother. I don’t think he ever even gave him my message, though. Those bastards never give your message to anybody.

All of a sudden, this girl came up to me and said, “Holden Caulfield!” Her name was Lillian Simmons. My brother D.B. used to go around with her for a while. She had very big knockers.

“Hi,” I said. I tried to get up, naturally, but it was some job getting up, in a place like that. She had some Navy officer with her that looked like he had a poker up his ass.

“How marvelous to see you!” old Lillian Simmons said. Strictly a phony. “How’s your big brother?” That’s all she really wanted to know.

“He’s fine. He’s in Hollywood.”

“In Hollywood! How marvelous! What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. Writing,” I said. I didn’t feel like discussing it. You could tell she thought it was a big deal, his being in Hollywood. Almost everybody does. Mostly people who’ve never read any of his stories. It drives me crazy, though.

“How exciting,” old Lillian said. Then she introduced me to the Navy guy. His name was Commander Blop or something. He was one of those guys that think they’re being a pansy if they don’t break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you. God, I hate that stuff. “Are you all alone, baby?” old Lillian asked me. She was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tell she liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move out of the way, but she didn’t even notice him. It was funny. You could tell the waiter didn’t like her much, you could tell even the Navy guy didn’t like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn’t like her much. Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way. “Don’t you have a date, baby?” she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn’t even tell me to sit down. She was the type that keeps you standing up for hours. “Isn’t he handsome?” she said to the Navy guy. “Holden, you’re getting handsomer by the minute.” The Navy guy told her to come on. He told her they were blocking up the whole aisle. “Holden, come join us,” old Lillian said. “Bring your drink.”

“I was just leaving,” I told her. “I have to meet somebody.” You could tell she was just trying to get in good with me. So that I’d tell old D.B. about it.

“Well, you little so-and-so. All right for you. Tell your big brother I hate him, when you see him.”

Then she left. The Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to’ve met each other. Which always kills me. I’m always saying “Glad to’ve met you” to somebody I’m not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

After I’d told her I had to meet somebody, I didn’t have any goddam choice except to leave. I couldn’t even stick around to hear old Ernie play something halfway decent. But I certainly wasn’t going to sit down at a table with old Lillian Simmons and that Navy guy and be bored to death. So I left. It made me mad, though, when I was getting my coat. People are always ruining things for you.

I walked all the way back to the hotel. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. I didn’t do it because I felt like walking or anything. It was more because I didn’t feel like getting in and out of another taxicab. Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up. When I was a kid, I used to walk all the way up to our apartment very frequently. Twelve stories.

You wouldn’t even have known it had snowed at all. There was hardly any snow on the sidewalks. But it was freezing cold, and I took my red hunting hat out of my pocket and put it on—I didn’t give a damn how I looked. I even put the earlaps down. I wished I knew who’d swiped my gloves at Pencey, because my hands were freezing. Not that I’d have done much about it even if I had known. I’m one of these very yellow guys. I try not to show it, but I am. For instance, if I’d found out at Pencey who’d stolen my gloves, I probably would’ve gone down to the crook’s room and said, “Okay. How ‘bout handing over those gloves?” Then the crook that had stolen them probably would’ve said, his voice very innocent and all, “What gloves?” Then what I probably would’ve done, I’d have gone in his closet and found the gloves somewhere. Hidden in his goddam galoshes or something, for instance. I’d have taken them out and showed them to the guy and said, “I suppose these are your goddam gloves?” Then the crook probably would’ve given me this very phony, innocent look, and said, “I never saw those gloves before in my life. If they’re yours, take ‘em. I don’t want the goddam things.” Then I probably would’ve just stood there for about five minutes. I’d have the damn gloves right in my hand and all, but I’d feel I ought to sock the guy in the jaw or something—break his goddam jaw. Only, I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. I’d just stand there, trying to look tough. What I might do, I might say something very cutting and snotty, to rile him up—instead of socking him in the jaw. Anyway if I did say something very cutting and snotty, he’d probably get up and come over to me and say, “Listen, Caulfield. Are you calling me a crook?” Then, instead of saying, “You’re goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!” all I probably would’ve said would be, “All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshes.” Right away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn’t going to take a sock at him, and he probably would’ve said, “Listen. Let’s get this straight. Are you calling me a thief?” Then I probably would’ve said, “Nobody’s calling anybody a thief. All I know is my gloves were in your goddam galoshes.” It could go on like that for hours. Finally, though, I’d leave his room without even taking a sock at him. I’d probably go down to the can and sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror. Anyway, that’s what I thought about the whole way back to the hotel. It’s no fun to he yellow. Maybe I’m not all yellow. I don’t know. I think maybe I’m just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn’t give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something—it used to drive my mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I’d care too much. Maybe that’s why I’m partly yellow. It’s no excuse, though. It 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.