An Evening With Holden Caulfield

It was a dark, foggy night. I was walking back to my apartment on 66th street, though hurrying as it was quite late. Some streetlights were even broken, casting parts of the pavement and surrounding underbrush into eerie, quite darkness. Abruptly, I heard a crash from behind me. I spun around, and couldn't believe who I saw. It was Holden, my old roomie from Whooton. Although, I would've rather had met a psychotic serial killer, than him. He was sprawled on a now broken bench, wheezing and muttering about ducks and a lagoon. Even at a cursory glance, I could detect quite a heavy air of depression pervading him. I knew he wasn't hurt, having personally witnessed his resilience when he picked fight after fight in Whooton. I walked over, and ducked down to his level. I greeted him, but the only response I received was a grimace, and a foggy, blank stare. I was as an anonymous person to him.

I tried to converse with him, but he was quite irascible, and even tried to take a sock at me. He was shaking like a tremulous wreck, and still seemed like he was haunted by something. Same old despondent Holden I remember. Always was something profoundly amiss with him.

I abhorred to see him so reclusive, and so I entreated him to go with me to this bar on 61st street. He assented, even though he probably still didn't know who I was, and I gingerly dragged him across 2 blocks, from 59th to 61st. He was so far gone, he probably didn't even notice. I tried to talk to him when we got there, but all his answers were either brusque and concise, or snide and demeaning, whilst he waited for his glass of water.

When he finally did get it, he drank it all down in a second, then he got another one, and another, and another, and so on. If I hadn't found him the poor dehydrated sonuvabitch would've probably dunked his head in that one frozen pond in Central Park. Then started the tirades. First about phonies, then innocence. After that, intellectuals, and then his plans for running away to Canada, or Colorado, or Mexico. He always knew a friend, or had a guy who owed him a favor. His behavior always evoked pity, rather than annoyance.

Holden, being an avid drinker, started ordering scotch and soda, not to be deterred by being underage, or even the waiter flat-out rebuffing him. I was feeling quite conscientious, hanging out with him, and started wondering if it was prudent. For affability's sake, I stayed with him.

In an effort to start intelligent conversation, I started talking to him, of all things, about the weather. It was looking promising, until he did a Holden Caulfied converational pivot, and starting talking about his sister Phoebe. The spontaneity in his disposition was actually quite annoying. My conversations with him were always one sided. After a while, I was instilled with a quite impelling desire to leave. I did just that and walked out. I don't think Holden noticed, he just kept talking.

He was  a quite lonely, slovenly guy. I preferred serenity in solitariness, to chaos with Holden Caulfied. He was quite a despicable human being.