I’m not mean by nature. I mean, I hope I’m not. I don’t usually mess up other people’s stuff, but I couldn’t just accept what that guy had done to me. It’s hard standing around near a counter for eight hours everyday bagging other people’s groceries, standing around smiling and saying, "Have a good day" a hundred times over while they toss you a little coin for "your troubles." What about my troubles? I wouldn’t have any troubles if people would just bag their own groceries. That’s what’s wrong with people nowadays. No one does anything for themselves. You have a mechanic to fix your car, a lawyer to write your will, like you can’t write your own will, some phony bum who wears a hat to drive your car, and even a goddamn person to bag your food for chrissakes. I mean, can you blame me for taking a nap sometimes. It’s ridiculous. When I take a nap, the boss – I think his name is Bill or Bob or some phony name like that that a boss gives you to sound friendly and caring – yells at me. Of course, he doesn’t call it yelling. He calls it "encouragement," but if that’s considered encouragement, I don’t know what the hell is punishment.

Anyway, it was Monday – first day of the week back at work – and business was kind of slow. After all, all those hotshot businessmen who wear suits and take a train to work think their wives are going to shop, and all the wives think that their husbands are going to shop, so no one goes to the little corner store on Madison and 5^th save a few drunks who need to fill up on something other than booze. So I was just taking a little nap. It was a small thing, and the clerk could have just nudged me lightly in the arm, but no. She had to look all-proper for Bob or Bill and give a shout. He came running over with a pencil over his ear like he had just finished signing something important. Next thing I knew I was in his office and he was yelling at me.

"Kid, I found you out on the street," he said. "I took you in. When no one would hire you, I gave you a goddamn chance."

He always said that, like he was some kind of savior that we all had to worship. Employers always say funny stuff like that. He went on and on, but I stopped paying attention after "chance." I began thinking about that old school I went to. I don’t remember the name.

"…stuff like this, but falling asleep on the job," Bill Bob continued, I’m through with you Jack. When I was your age, people had to work hard to hold down a job, what with the war and everything and the goddamn Nazis. Young kids nowadays don’t appreciate what they get."

You can’t blame them. People as old as Bill always say stuff like that – about their generation and everything. When I was little, my brothers D.B. and Allie, my sister Phoebe, and I would always crowd around the table to listen to my dad while he told us what life was like in the "good old days." And we would all stare with our mouths hanging down and our eyes wide open like we were hypnotized or something. "The Good Old Days" – I laugh now but I used to believe it. That is until Mr. Spencer – my old history teacher – taught us what life was really like in the 40s. Then Allie died and I realized that there are no good days. Now, people are worried about this crazy stuff with the Reds. It’s supposed to be a big deal and everything, but it doesn’t bother me. Nothing bothers me anymore - nothing. Except the ducks. Yeah, the ducks by the pond at Central Park. I always wondered where they went during the winter.

Bill Bob said, "You’re fired!" and then told me to get the hell out of his office, if you can call it an office – just a little room with a small desk at the end of the store. Those words were not unfamiliar to me. I had been fired about ten times since I dropped out of college. I didn’t really care. But that day something happened. I don’t know what. It’s kind of like Phoebe’s old jack-in-the-box. You know – you crank and crank the switch and nothing happens until finally the box just pops open. You never expect it and you never know what’s coming - for the first time anyway. And this was the first time that I had done anything like this at work. I was always capable of violence. When Allie died, I spent the night in our garage and broke all the windows with my fist. I haven’t been able to make a good fist with that hand ever since.

Anyway, I was planning on going back to my apartment. I stayed in the store while I was waiting for a cab. But while I stayed, I got angry. I don’t know why. I guess I was thinking about old Bill Bob at the moment and something about the way he described "his generation" made me furious. I guess the same anger that I had when Allie died came back. I began knocking pasta boxes off the shells. I went down the rows, throwing pasta on the floor. The whole scene lasted only a few minutes, but several customers ran out terrified and several more just stood there looking at me. Lucky for me, I saw the cab pull by at that moment and I ran out. I didn’t care what the boss did. I hadn’t even told him my real name.

You probably think I’m a mess and, in truth, I guess I am. It’s not my fault though. I really tried to be a "good citizen," the kind of person those politicians are always bugging you about. They’re always saying, "Be a good citizen, become a member of society." Well, I tried, but everyone in this whole world is a goddamn phony. Society is phony. I guess I don’t want to be a member.

It all started when I finished high school back when I was 18. It was the first school where I actually passed my classes. Before that I went to Pencey Prep. It could’ve been the phoniest school you ever saw. Everyone was always watching football games, sticking to little cliques, and acting like goddamn hotshots. I could tell you all about Pencey and what I did there, how I got into a fight with my roommate, how I failed all my classes except English, and that kind of stuff, but I don’t feel like it right now. After ten years, that stuff doesn’t interest me anymore. All I’m gonna say is that I couldn’t take it. I got the ax.

I can’t say I was too disappointed – I hated everyone at that school except maybe Mr. Spencer, my history teacher – but I did feel sorry for my mom. She was already a wreck at the time because of Allie and every lousy thing I did made her even more vulnerable.

My dad, on the other hand, was fed up with me. He was this big corporation lawyer who always woke up early to go to work and always came home late with a fat check. He was always getting invited to these company parties and was always taking trips to Vermont and stuff like that. He wanted me to be a lawyer like him. That always kills me – when folks want their kids to be exactly like them.

When I finally got home and the news was already in the air, my parents didn’t know what to do with me. I thought that they would just send me to another school. Instead they sent me to a rest home for eight months. I can even remember what they said.

"Holden, darling, you know we love you and its clear that you’re having some problems. So instead of putting you in another school, we’re gonna let you take it easy for the rest of the year."

Yeah, that’s what they said. I was almost glad, that is, until I realized what "taking it easy" meant to them. The actual place wasn’t bad. I had a nice room with blue shades. I could go outside any time. And it was right near Central Park, so I could there anytime to see the ducks as long as someone went with me.

But my parents visited me every week with some psychoanalyst to talk about my future and how I was going to apply myself when I got out. And when they weren’t there, my brother D.B. was. He’s in Hollywood – a big shot screenwriter with a Jaguar. My parents are so proud of him. It kills me. It’s not that I don’t like my brother. It’s just that he talked about the same stuff my parents talked about. He just acted nicer like he knew what I was going through. That kills me – when people pretend they know what you are going through when they really don’t. How could D.B. know about phonies and all that? He was one. Hollywood’s prostitute – that’s what I used to call him after he stopped writing good, regular stories and began writing goddamn scenes for movies.

The worst part of that place, though, was that I never saw old Phoebe. She was my sister and she always killed me. If you knew her, you’d understand. She and I had this special connection. She always knew what I was thinking. My parents never came with her. They always told me that she was at some friend’s house. Later, I learned that the real reason was that they thought I was a bad influence. After all, Phoebe was eleven. Why would she need me?

In the fall, my parents put me in another school. It was a regular school a few miles away from the house. I took a bus there every morning and one back every afternoon. I guess my parents were through with prep schools. This way, they were able to watch me all the time. And they did. And they always visited the principal too to find out how I was progressing. I didn’t do anything interesting that whole year – just school and an occasional trip to the park. Even Phoebe stopped liking me. Don’t ever tell anyone how much you like someone else because that same person might change in a year.

That year, I passed everything. My parents sent me to some college in Brooklyn. My dad hoped that, maybe, he could pull some strings and get me into Princeton University. That’s where he went. I’m sure you all know about it. But Princeton never accepted me. I wouldn’t have gone anyway. It was too much like Pencey from what I had heard.

money that I had in my account and only left me enough to get by with. He said he didn’t want me to worry about money but he probably just didn’t trust me. When I got expelled from Pencey, I spent a whole bunch of money in only three days. I always managed to get some extra money from my grandmother though. She was loaded. I felt bad taking advantage of her but I needed the cash. I really did.

I spent two years in college studying literature and writing. It was the only subject I was really good at. My parents thought that, after college, I could move to Hollywood and work with D.B. My first year was all right, although I hated all those extra subjects that I had to take. By my second year, I was fed up. My creative writing teacher was an idiot. He was some old guy from Jersey who always spoke the kind of English that no one can understand. He talked a lot too and, when we had to go over work, I was always the one he picked on. The kids in class were also idiots. Half the class yawned all day long and the other people were always paying attention with these serious expressions - like they gave a damn about what was going on.

I made the decision to quit halfway into the year. I couldn’t take it. I really couldn’t. And the idea of working with D.B. didn’t sound too good either. I sent a letter to my parents that I was dropping out of college. Before I did that, though, I withdrew all the money left in my account and sold off my books. It all came out to around 40 dollars – not big, but enough to get by with. My parents called me a week later. My mom was heartbroken. My dad was furious. He told me that if I didn’t stay in school, he wouldn’t send me any money. I kind of told him that if there was anything worse than being a lawyer, it was talking to one. That was the last time I spoke to my parents. They sent me a few postcards throughout the years, telling me that they still loved me, and that I could always come home if there was in trouble. But I never listened to them. I just wrote a casual "Thanks, I’m fine."

Anyway, I talked to the dean and did everything needed to leave. He said it was a shame to see such a "bright mind leave." That killed me. He didn’t even know me. I told him that I was going through a difficult stage in my life, and that I was hoping to come back next year – a very typical, phony reply. I also told the dean to tell my writing teacher that I learned a lot from him. But he probably didn’t give him the message. People never give your message to anyone.

And for the next seven or so years - I forget - I stayed in the city and worked. I rented a little apartment near the school with some student of my age. His name was Sam and he was clearly one of those guys who are only interested in having fun and are only going to school for their parents. He was a pretty cool guy. He had a good personality and was always making jokes. Sometimes, I went out with him to parties and things like that. And he fixed me up with some good-looking girls as well. Looking back, I kind of miss him now. He left after two years, when he had finished college.

My first job was working in some classy French restaurant. Only the owner was German. That killed me. It was my job to take reservations and keep track of tables and dates and that kind of stuff. All the men in the restaurant were rich and always came dressed in suits, and the women were always snobby and wore diamond necklaces. One time, this man came in with a good-looking girl. He wasn’t poor or anything but he wasn’t wearing a suit. The owner made me tell him that the room was full even though more than half the tables were empty. The poor man just gave a smile and left. I can’t stand it when stuff like that happens. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t care about being rich. I don’t want to be some guy who walks around in a suit and pretends that he can do whatever he wants because the rich have to follow their own rules. Just look at my dad. He hates going to company parties. He really does. But he always goes anyway. "Good for the firm," he says.

The job was easy and everything and the pay was alright aside from the fact that I had to buy a suit. But I couldn’t take it after a while. I was so fed up with taking names and answering phones and waving to people. I wish people would just be able to walk in, find their own table, eat, and leave. I quit after four months.

After that, I became a waiter at some bar called "Big C’s". I brought drinks to people. It didn’t pay too well, but it was a great job. I got to talk to a lot of people. And when a minor wanted a drink, I gave it to them. And when some poor old guy asked for me to deliver a message, I delivered it. After two months, the boss realized how much I knew about making drinks. After all, I had spent every weekend of the past two years, not to mention my time at Pencey, sipping. I guess it came in handy because I became a junior bartender. I was still a waiter, but when the bartender wanted to take a break, I filled in for him. It was the best time of my life. I was socializing. I got a raise and tips. After a year, the bar became increasingly popular and I got even more money. That year, I bought myself a TV.

I worked there for five years. By that time, I had become a full bartender and a quarter percent owner of the bar, which had become a club by then. Everything was good. My reputation was established. My apartment was never better. I had a few friends and girls. The bar was doing extremely well. It was being advertised in newspapers. I had even brought myself a car – a silver Ford Thunderbird. Those were good times.

I don’t know exactly what happened. One minute, I was doing the best that I had ever been doing, and the next minute, I had lost everything. I guess my mother’s death started it. She was 53. She died in her sleep one night. It was totally unexpected. The doctors said something about low blood pressure, but I don’t believe it. I think she was just fed up with life. I guess there was a lot more to my mother than I knew. Looking back, I guess I kind of regret not visiting her these past seven years. I should have spent more time with her.

Her funeral was the first time that my family and I had been in the same area since I left for college. It was kind of awkward. Everyone was crying. There was D.B. Nothing had changed about him. There was Phoebe. She had grown up so much. She was 18. I wish that I had spent more time with her too. And then there was my dad. He hadn’t changed. He was still angry with me and I felt like he blamed me for my mother’s death. I didn’t even try to make peace with him. Other people at the funeral included aunts, cousins, and a lot of people that I had never even seen before. It was very sad being there. I had just gotten over Allie’s death.

After that, everything just fell apart. Apparently, Big C, the main owner of the club, had been involved with the Mafia. A few months back, he had come into some heavy debts. He loaned money from the Mafia and, apparently, never repaid it. He was leaving the club one night – a week after the funeral – and suddenly a black car emerged from nowhere. A drive-by and two shots, and Big C was dead – right there, near the entrance to the club. I came to work the next day and the whole place was sealed off. The police were there. The media was there. Everyone was asking questions. I saw C’s body lying in an ambulance. There were no witnesses. With no owner and rumors flying around like birds, the club shut down. The windows were all boarded up. All the stuff was taken out. I lost my car a month later – a T-Bird’s not easy to pay for. It was just like the movies. One thing happens, and everything else follows. It’s kind of unclear when I think about it now.

I tried to find another club to work in. But with all the publicity surrounding Big C, no club owner would hire me. I thought about going home. My dad certainly would have let me, considering the circumstances. But I kept thinking about the time when I had gone home after Pencey expelled me, and how I ended up in a rest home with annoying visits from my parents. I wasn’t going to go through with that again.

So, I went to work in stores for lousy pennies. For the next two years, I went through seven jobs, seven different stores, and always got fired. I couldn’t concentrate. Now that you know about everything that happened, can you blame me? This was the society that people wanted me to fit into. After being fired from Bill Bob’s store, I couldn’t get another job. My employment record was horrible. Even I knew that. I had one option. I had to go back to school.

Well, it’s been two months now since Bill Bob fired me. I’m standing outside in the street, waiting for the light to turn so I can cross the damn street. It’s rush hour. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s running to work. If you’ve never been in the city during rush hour, you really should go. You might never want to go back there again. The building across the street from me is small. The sign is small. It says "U.S. Army Recruitment" on it in red letters. That’s where I’m going – the U.S. Army. I guess I had made the decision a few weeks ago. I was broke – no money, no nothing. Plus, I need a change. I’m tired of the city. I’ll work in the army for a few years and then, with all these goddamn benefits people are always raving about, maybe I’ll go west and finally buy a ranch like I always wanted. Plus, there’s this crazy thing going on in Vietnam right now. Some guys ran out of a forest and began shooting people. Soldiers are being sent there next month. Maybe I’ll go. Can you picture that – me fighting for my country with hundreds of other people? I don’t know. If I don’t want to belong to this crazy society where people have to go to school and be smart and rush to work and die for not paying off debts, then I might as well defend it. In a few years, people are going to look at today as being a "good old day" anyway.