Sep 26, 1998, 1:25pm

I just finished reading a book that most people probably read in High School. I don't quite know why I never read it before now, but after seeing yet another reference to it in mainstream media (I seem to see references to this book all the time), I decided enough was enough, and I went to the library and took it out.

The book is called Catcher in the Rye.

I've been intrigued by the various references I've heard to this book for quite some time now, and after finishing the book last night, I kind of "get it". Holden Caulfield is going through an identity crisis. Simple enough to understand, isn't it?

But I think the book shows its brilliance in a way that fully grown adults just don't get most of the time. The bookjacket mini review sees Holden as an "ancient man" of sixteen. In fact, I feel the person who did the bookjacket review doesn't understand Holden at all, based on her words.

Sure, Holden is ancient, but only in his own mind. Thinking back to my own time as a 16 year old (now long, long ago), I felt my own self as overly mature and way beyond a lot of people around me. I think most people feel that way around that age. But I also think as we get older, we forget that. I know I did: it took me almost the entire book before I identified with Holden - figured out what the heck was going on.

I had my own Catcher in the Rye experience around that age, but I think it was more when I was 17 years old. I'll share some of it with you.

I've often thought of my 17th year as the best year of my life. A lot was going my way - I was finally doing good in school, I was dating a wonderful girl, I was doing well in sports, and I even had a good paying job. I was enjoying my time at school, my social standing, and where I was going in life.

But the more I thought about my 17th year while reading Holden's adventures, the more I realized that my 17th year didn't start off so rosy. I'm trying to find the words to describe it, but its difficult to recall. Maybe a more personal narrative would help (with apologies to Sallinger):

I didn't do so well this term, what with Mr. Conners telling me it was about time I did something with my life. I was sitting in his office listening to him go on and on about career decisions. For cripes' sakes, I just turned 17! Why should I care about jobs, careers, family! I hate it when ancient people try to tell me what's wrong in my life.

It was the middle of March, and my latest report card was sitting on his desk. I was barely floating along with a grade in the low 60% level. Old Conners is telling my I might be transferred to General level classes, and you know what that means, don't you?

"It means, young man, you will not be able to go to University. You need all your classes to be Advanced level, dontcha know?"

I hate it when people call me young man. I really do. Old man Conners probably weighs a good 30 pounds less than me, and he stands about 4 inches lower than me, and here he is, calling me 'young man'. I hate that.

The truth is, I don't know what I want to do with my life. Actually, I don't want to know what I want to do with my life. I'm playing football, and I like that. I'm playing baseball, and I like that. I ride my bike with my friends, and I like that. I'm dating girls and I like that. What's more to it?

See, the deal is, I'm doing bad at my school. Really sucky in fact. I flunked outta math last term, and they are talking about me getting a 50% in Math just so's I can get my diploma one day. I got kicked out of that old fart Richards, Physics class, and I don't think I'll ever be let in. In fact, it was really funny to see the reaction of that old fart the day I got the boot.

Richards was teachin his usual bullshit about this and that, and he was tellin' all of us 'bout hair shampoo. Hair Shampoo! Woo, something real useful and like for us in our immediate and far off future, right?

So anyways, old fart Richards was telling all of us that shampoo, no matter what brand it was, was exactly the same. You cold get a bottle of Pert and a bottle of Studio, and the ingredients would be exactly the same. 'Cept the color of course, he says. That's just different dyes used.

Since I didn't like the old fart much, I took any opportunity I could to dispute him. See, I knew how to get old fart's goat. I specialized in that. I could twist him around my finger, and it was always a riot. It killed me. I made a hobby of it, and it was 'specially funny because he was like 90 or something, and didn't have much time for 'them young'uns'.

So anyways, old fart was telling us about shampoo and all, and how it was all exactly the same, and I piped up.

"What about Head 'n Shoulders?"

"It's all the same, Prince. All the same"

"Yeah but they say they get rid of dandruff. How can it all be the same if they get rid of dandruff and others don't? And what about Johnson's baby shampoo?"

"Prince, are you trying to start me again, because I'm tellin' ya, I'm not in the mood for it today. I'm the damned teacher here, and you know nothing. So shut up."

Yeah but see, Johnson's is the 'no tears' shampoo, which I guess means it doesn't irritate your eyes. We used it on my little brother, and I even tried putting it in my eyes. It stung a bit..."

"Prince, I said shut up!"

"... a bit but not nearly as much as that big bulk no name stuff my Mom buys. So it has to be different, what?

"PRINCE! I said SHUT UP!! It's all the SAME!"

"...An then my Dad, see, he has this condition, and he buys this really expensive shampoo he gets by persciption, and it costs like $50 a bottle and stuff, and if they are all the same..."

"Prince, I'm warning ya...."

".. then it stands to reason that my Dad's bein' ripped off, right? So if they are all the same, then what's the deal with all these different shampoos? Is my Dad bein' ripped off? Should I tell him that?"

I thought the old fart was going to have a heart attack right then and there, but instead he moved pretty fast for an old fart an' he leaped over to my desk. I was sitten with Jeremy Bitters, some goof of a guy from my homeroom, and old Jeremy moved pretty fast to let the old fart get at me. We was sitting at these little lab tables. Each has a sink, two burner gas things and this black top. Old fart Richards leaped over to my lab table and reached over the counter, grabbing my by the collar. I swear he was going to hit me, I really do, but instead he just roughed me up a bit, shaking me a lot.

He was saying stuff, but I couldn't make out what he was sayin'. He was speaking gibberish, all at a high volume, and all with his little spittles flyin' in my face.

All I could do was laugh.

Then he really kinda lost it. He dragged me over the lab table, and I bruised my arm. He pulled me to the doorway, and literally, I swear, threw me out into the hallway.

"Never again in my class, you little prick!!"

Yikes. This guy had a few screws loose, I gots to tell you. Peterson, one of our school's two Veeps, called me over the intercom at lunch that day, so I had to go pay the piper, but you know what? I don't think I did anything really wrong. Still I hated Peterson and his office. He had it set up so's you were always intimidated.

Take his chairs for a minute. See, I was around my full height by this time, about 6 feet tall. But when you sat in one of Peterson's chairs, the ones that face him and his desk, you are looking up at him. He's not much taller than me! I swear the bastard cut the legs on those chairs so you sat like 10 inches above the ground. I bet he's got this complex, working in a High School and all. A complex where he has to feel so much bigger than all the students around him.

So I was in Peterson's office sitting just a few inches above the ground, and he's wailing into me. He's tellin me what a shit disturber I am, in not so many words. He's tellin' me I have no respect for my teachers. He's tellin' me what's all wrong in my life.

I hate that. I hate when old people tell me what to do with my life.

I sat through all of this, but I was getting angry. I was getting a bit perturbed, so to speak. When Peterson was finished, I only said one thing.

"I guess we are not supposed to ask any questions in school right? We're robots who just listen, and never question."

Peterson sat there for like an hour in silence. I could tell he was tryin' to figure how to answer that question without comin' off as a hypocrite. Finally as the sun started to set, he goes, "Mark, of course you ask questions, that is how you learn. But you have a history with Mr. Richards. You like to ask non-sensical questions. You seem to know how to anger him to the point where he's not an effective teacher. That is not right."

I repeated what happened, as far as my view of it was, in the Physics class. Peterson nodded. And nodded. He was the kind of guy who liked you to think he was this big time thinker and all. He nodded all the time, when I bet he was thinkin' about which kid he could intimidate next, or which car he was gonna buy next. He always drove these flash cars, you see.

I was wonderin' where old fart Richards was, but Peterson would only say that he had discussed this with the old fart earlier. Then he was noddin' again. Then he really surprised me.

"This doesn't jive with what Mr. Richards told me, young man, but you've repeated the exact same thing twice in one hour. I'm going to look into this a bit further. For now, you're dismissed."

Ever notice how old people use words like 'jive'? That killed me. But I'm digressin' again. Old Peterson, actually listenin' to me? That's a first! Normally he's yellin' at me like a lot of old farts do, or lookin' at me with this stern look, thinkin' I'm up to no good. Now he's listenin' to me? That is freaky.

To make a really long story short, Peterson asked Jeremy, the guy who sat next to me, his version of the events. I guess Jeremy kinda remembered them like I did, because the next day Peterson called me in again for another meeting. What would happen was this - I would be given a passing grade for Physics, so I could get my diploma, but I would be spendin' the rest of the year in a study hall class during my Physics period. They could tell, he said, I had no aptitude at all for math and sciences, so I would have to concentrate my abilities in stuff I was good at - writing, drawing, sports, and stuff like history and geography.

So that's how I got out of taking Physics.

Boy, I can really get off track, eh? I was talking about sitting in Conners' office with him telling me I had to find this kind of direction in my life. He was askin' me about my interests and stuff, and I was not being too helpful.

...to be continued? Let me know if you want me to make this into a short serial. Otherwise, I'll just finish off this rant (making the point I was trying to make) in the next edition. So lemme goddam know, for chrissakes, whydontcha? :-)

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Mixelania

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