第11章
《THE CATCHER IN THE RYE(麦田里的守望者英文版)》章节:第11章,宠文网网友提供全文无弹窗免费在线阅读。!
"I got about a hundred pages to read for history for Monday," he said. "How 'bout
writing a composition for me, for English? I'll be up the creek if I don't get the goddam
thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it?"
It was very ironical. It really was.
"I'm the one that's flunking out of the goddam place, and you're asking me to
write you a goddam composition," I said.
"Yeah, I know. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in. Be a
buddy. Be a buddyroo. Okay?"
I didn't answer him right away. Suspense is good for some bastards like
Stradlater.
"What on?" I said.
"Anything. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once
lived in or something-- you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell." He gave out a
big yawn while he said that. Which is something that gives me a royal pain in the ass. I
mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking you to do them a goddam favor. "Just
don't do it too good, is all," he said. "That sonuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in
English, and he knows you're my roommate. So I mean don't stick all the commas and
stuff in the right place."
That's something else that gives me a royal pain. I mean if you're good at writing
compositions and somebody starts talking about commas. Stradlater was always doing
that. He wanted you to think that the only reason he was lousy at writing compositions
was because he stuck all the commas in the wrong place. He was a little bit like Ackley,
that way. I once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on the
team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor, without even
touching the backboard or anything. Ackley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that
Coyle had a perfect build for basketball. God, how I hate that stuff.
I got bored sitting on that washbowl after a while, so I backed up a few feet and
started doing this tap dance, just for the hell of it. I was just amusing myself. I can't really
tap-dance or anything, but it was a stone floor in the can, and it was good for tap-dancing.
I started imitating one of those guys in the movies. In one of those musicals. I hate the
movies like poison, but I get a bang imitating them. Old Stradlater watched me in the
mirror while he was shaving. All I need's an audience. I'm an exhibitionist. "I'm the
goddarn Governor's son," I said. I was knocking myself out. Tap-dancing all over the
place. "He doesn't want me to be a tap dancer. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in
my goddam blood, tap-dancing." Old Stradlater laughed. He didn't have too bad a sense
of humor. "It's the opening night of the Ziegfeld Follies." I was getting out of breath. I
have hardly any wind at all. "The leading man can't go on. He's drunk as a bastard. So
who do they get to take his place? Me, that's who. The little ole goddam Governor's son."
"Where'dja get that hat?" Stradlater said. He meant my hunting hat. He'd never
seen it before.
I was out of breath anyway, so I quit horsing around. I took off my hat and looked
at it for about the ninetieth time. "I got it in New York this morning. For a buck. Ya like
it?"
Stradlater nodded. "Sharp," he said. He was only flattering me, though, because
right away he said, "Listen. Are ya gonna write that composition for me? I have to
know."
"If I get the time, I will. If I don't, I won't," I said. I went over and sat down at the
washbowl next to him again. "Who's your date?"