We always had steak on a Saturday night for dinner. I'd bet anything it was because on Sunday if anybodys parents visited, and they asked what their child had for dinner last night, they could say steak. Ha. You couldnt even call it steak. It was one of those little dry jobs you could hardly even cut. They would serve it with very lumpy mashed potatoes, with Brown Betty for dessert, which nobody evet ate. Except the younger ones in lower school, oh and guys like old Ackley kid that ate anything.
The whole place was covered with 3 inches of snow when we came out of the dining room, so we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the goddam place. One of my friends, Mal Brossard decided we'd take a bus into Agerstown and get a burger and maybe go see a film. I asked whether he minded Ackley coming, he never did much on Saturday nights. Mal wasnt to crazy aboutt he idea but he said yes anyway.
When we was back later on in the evening, Ackley sat in my room, just for a change. All he did was keep talking in this very monotonous voice about some babe he was supposed to have had the summer before. This was about the 100th time i'd heard this. I told him he'd have to go because I was going to write a composition for Stradlater, and I needed to concentrate. He finally went. I put my pajamas and bathrobe on and my old hunting hat, and strated to write. The thing was, I couldnt seem to think of anything to write about. So, I though i'd write about Allies baseball mitt, I had alot to say about that. It was a very descriptive subject
. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielders mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that I could really describe was the poems he had written all over it, in green ink. He wrote them on so he wouldnt get bored when he was in the field and nobody was up to bat. He's dead now though, he had leukemia and died when we were up in Maine on July 18, 1946.
He was two years younger than me, but about 50 times as intelligent, we would always get letters home from his school saying what a pleasure it was having him in their class. He never got mad, even though people with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily, Allie never did, and he had very red hair.
I was only 13 when he died. They were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I dont blame them. I really dont. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke them all with my goddam fist, just for the hell of it. I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know Allie. My hand still hurts, when it rains and all, and I can't make a real fist anymore- not a tight one. I don't care much. I mean I'm not going to be a goddam surgeon or a violinists or anything anyway.
It took me about an hour to write it because of Stradlaters lousy typewrite, it kept jamming. I wouldnt have took me that long if I used mine instead of lending it to a guy a few doors down. I looked outta the window for a while when i'd done. It wasnt really snowing anymore but every once in a while you could still hear a car not being able to get started. I could hear old Ackley snoring. Boy, that guy had just about everything wrong with him, Sinus trouble, pimples, lousy teeth, halitosis, crumby fingernails. You had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.
The whole place was covered with 3 inches of snow when we came out of the dining room, so we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the goddam place. One of my friends, Mal Brossard decided we'd take a bus into Agerstown and get a burger and maybe go see a film. I asked whether he minded Ackley coming, he never did much on Saturday nights. Mal wasnt to crazy aboutt he idea but he said yes anyway.
When we was back later on in the evening, Ackley sat in my room, just for a change. All he did was keep talking in this very monotonous voice about some babe he was supposed to have had the summer before. This was about the 100th time i'd heard this. I told him he'd have to go because I was going to write a composition for Stradlater, and I needed to concentrate. He finally went. I put my pajamas and bathrobe on and my old hunting hat, and strated to write. The thing was, I couldnt seem to think of anything to write about. So, I though i'd write about Allies baseball mitt, I had alot to say about that. It was a very descriptive subject
. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielders mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that I could really describe was the poems he had written all over it, in green ink. He wrote them on so he wouldnt get bored when he was in the field and nobody was up to bat. He's dead now though, he had leukemia and died when we were up in Maine on July 18, 1946.He was two years younger than me, but about 50 times as intelligent, we would always get letters home from his school saying what a pleasure it was having him in their class. He never got mad, even though people with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily, Allie never did, and he had very red hair.
I was only 13 when he died. They were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I dont blame them. I really dont. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke them all with my goddam fist, just for the hell of it. I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know Allie. My hand still hurts, when it rains and all, and I can't make a real fist anymore- not a tight one. I don't care much. I mean I'm not going to be a goddam surgeon or a violinists or anything anyway.
It took me about an hour to write it because of Stradlaters lousy typewrite, it kept jamming. I wouldnt have took me that long if I used mine instead of lending it to a guy a few doors down. I looked outta the window for a while when i'd done. It wasnt really snowing anymore but every once in a while you could still hear a car not being able to get started. I could hear old Ackley snoring. Boy, that guy had just about everything wrong with him, Sinus trouble, pimples, lousy teeth, halitosis, crumby fingernails. You had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.
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