WHERE'S HOLDEN CAULFIELD?

I reread The Catcher in the Rye yesterday.

Relax. No Freudian repression, Marxist alienation, or Kierkegaardian angst; just a couple of thoughts. The last time I read the book I was 30-ish; 20-ish the time before that, etc. It’s always interesting to read a book again when you’re a different person. Catcher at 40. Huh.

One of the scenes that caught my attention, this time around, was Holden’s visit to Ernie’s in Greenwich Village, where a full house was in attendance.

It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God’s sake when he sat down at the piano. Nobody’s that good.[...] I’m not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should’ve heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would’ve puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn’t funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I’d hate it. I wouldn’t even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I’d play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrible piano player. It was very phony—I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don’t think he even knows any more when he’s playing right or not. It isn’t all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes who clap their heads off—they’d foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance.

I guess it reminded me of a new TV show I saw last night—Who Wants to be a Rock Star, or Rock Star Idol, or some such crap. All these young people desperately preening, writhing, and wailing to impress the audience and INXS. Rock and roll sure has changed. It used to give the finger to the machine. Now it's a game show.

Not that pleasing an audience is all bad, but at what point to you become a phony because all you’re doing is playing for the applause?

When do the dopes who clap their heads off become the dope you smoke, the drug you need? When does the music, the painting, the writing, or preaching just become another act of prostitution that scores you round of public approval?

Did I just equate preaching with prostitution? Turn to the scene where Holden is having a pleasant conversation with a couple of nuns, and he’s worried they will ask him if he’s Catholic. “Catholics are always trying to find out if you’re a Catholic.”

He narrates a story about a boy he met at the Whooten School. They discovered they shared an interest in tennis, and started having a meaningful conversation.

Then, after a while, right in the middle of the goddam conversation, he asked me, “Did you happen to notice where the Catholic church is in town, by any chance?” The thing was, you could tell by the way he asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He really was. Not that he was prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversation about tennis and all, but you could tell he would have enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I’m not saying it ruined our conversation or anything—it didn’t—but it sure as hell didn’t do it any good.

Reminded me of a scene from The Big Kahuna, when Phil Cooper (Danny DeVito) is giving a speech to Bob Walker (Peter Facinelli). Phil is telling the young Baptist, Bob, that whenever he starts selling something, whether it's Jesus or industrial lubricants, he ceases to be a human being and becomes a marketing rep.

Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch.

When religion eclipses relationship, it is inevitable that we will become phonies. Our pitch, and making the sale, become more important than the person in front of us.

Maybe it was Holden’s desire for innocence that struck me differently at this point in my life. He keeps dwelling on this lyrical memory he has, until he is corrected by his kid sister.

You know that song, "If a body catch a body comin' through the rye"?...

It's "If a body meet a body coming through the rye"! old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

Here's the part I think I read differently than I had before.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.

I've read this as a teenager and as a teacher of teenagers; but, now that I am the father of teenagers, it hurts more. Our children (collectively, not just mine) are indeed running blindly through the rye, ever closer to the cliffs. The six hours of daily digital recess, combined with our increasing willingness to turn them over to media surrogates and drug-dealing peers makes the rye higher and tighter.

Maybe Holden Caufield helped give us the Beats, Dylan, and the various undulating rhythms of counterculture since. So many rhythms that counterculture has become mainstream and "cool" is entirely coopted by corporate marketing.

Maybe Holden Caulfield isn’t possible anymore. Maybe the closest we can get are trust fund punks who go without bathing for a week and sneer at The Man. Then The Man packages that sneer and sells it back to them on cans of body spray and celebrity-endorsed cigarettes.

Maybe Holden Caufield isn’t what we need. He sure as hell wouldn’t want the job. But we do need a Catcher in the Rye.