Merry Little Christmas
A/N: This was an English assignment. I was supposed to replace chapter 15 of the book just after Maurice handled him. It's written in first person, and it's written as a stream of consciousness, so it's a bit more awkward and different than my regular writing...Nevertheless, enjoy and review; I actually think this was a decent story after my hiatus in writing. Happy Valentine's Day as well :)
I heard soft Christmas music buzz faintly across the dim hallway. The sultry, low pitch of the singer's voice made me very languid and I began to wonder why I walked a cumbersome twelve flights of stairs up. I saw his name on the check-in roster after returning from a day out at Broadway. Holden Caulfield, who was a former elementary school friend of mine. I tore myself from the comforts of my heated room through my stubborn curiosity. I walked the entire twelve flights up his room, contemplating his reaction. Did he remember me? How was he?
It was late night. Although the Christmas music gave the place a cheerful, commercial aria, I still felt pretty sad for some incomprehensible reason. The hallway almost had a spooky feel to it, and the frigid chill of winter still lurked in every corner. It wasn't exactly shoddy at the Edmont Hotel; in fact everything looked tidy and in place. The conformity of everything disconcerted me. Each door was green and had a blue doormat in front of it, though you'd expect the appropriate tacky red-and-white decorations for Christmas. There was nothing too Christmassy about the place, to be honest. I stopped at the second to last green door down the dim-lit pathway. I knocked. There was no answer, but I did hear a faucet turn. I heard the sound of water run and then stop. The dawdling Christmas music stopped as well. I knocked again.
"Who is it?" The replying voice sounded slurred. I assumed it was Holden.
"It's me, Casey. I saw your name on the check-in register. Third grade?" I spoke quietly, my eyes averting to the beige-coloured wall to my side. I don't think he heard me. I spoke louder. "Is this Holden Caulfield? I'm Casey from third grade…"
"What the, I don't even…I don't even know who you are, lady," a low raspy voice replied. I heard the person behind the door let out a sluggish, pain-filled grunt. "Goddam headache…"
"Really now? You don't know me?" I questioned softly. I slouched against the green door and placed my hands in the pockets of my coat. Impatience suffocated me, and I waited for a response. After a long a long stretch of silence and a crude grunt, the voice responded gruffly.
"Casey…Casey…Third grade? Mr. Parsons?" And then, there it was, hope. I felt an irrational feeling of relief when he said that name. Mr. Parsons, bless him, was our third grade teacher. He had a funny personality. The old guy enjoyed making his students laugh, though his humor often came off as overdone and vehement. We were both in his class, and I remembered sitting next to Holden and exchanging odd looks. "Casey, who gave her Barbie a crew cut?"
"Yes," I chuckled, reminiscing my rather unscrupulous childhood. "How are you?" I felt eager to continue the light conversation. Perhaps my tone of cheeriness sounded a little rehearsed. I drifted, "You don't have to open the door. I just want to talk. It gets a little lonely in the my hotel room." To be honest, my room looked unpleasant inside and out. The loneliness nipped at you after a while.
"I feel like a million bucks." I noticed a hint of sarcasm. I heard an unpleasant gagging sound from Holden. He didn't sound too hot. "What do you think I feel like? For Chrissake, don't go vomiting sunshine here. You always did that, you know." I tried to think of a viable rebuttal, but my mind failed me. I was worried he would ask me to leave, as I had taken the hint of disapproval in his tone. He knew I feared displeasing people, that old sport. My unintentional sanguinity probably seemed like a blinding ray of sunshine to his cloudy disposition. Deep down, I felt a bit of empathy for Holden.
"Do you remember old Parsons?" I asked, attempting to dodge his emotional curveball. Thinking about his snotty, sarcastic reply made me cringe. But to my surprise, his tone of voice softened a bit. I listened, positioning myself so close that I could smell his awful cigar smoke.
"The old guy always had something funny to say. Always talking about his sons and wife. Seemed to live a pretty complacent life. Seemed pretty happy when his son came in and all." His voice had a bit of a rambling quality to it, and his breathing sounded rather heavy and lethargic. After pausing for a bit, he added, "I think he liked both of us."
"Yeah…you know, in third grade, I was a bit jealous of you." I felt a bit cathartic and bold after admitting that to him. A small fragment inside of me deciphered a hint of despair and pain in Holden's voice. I really wanted to help.
"Jealous," Holden reiterated hollowly. He scoffed soon afterwards, " I was a loser even back then." My back began to hurt, so I sat on the beige doormat. It took me by surprise to hear Holden with such an abrasive, snarky tone. He always seemed polite and quiet as a child, never daring to rub anyone the wrong way. And yes, he was quite a loser even in elementary school, but I found him likable. I envied his supreme reading skills, although he read mostly Calvin and Hobbes comics during quiet reading time.
"Well, I always had this silent respect for you…" my voice began to mimic the rambling quality of my companion's voice. It killed me. "Even though you were really quiet and bizarre, you were kind of smart." An awkward silence befittingly followed the awkward blunder.
"Thank you," he responded. I smiled to myself. But out of nowhere, Holden re-ignited his wry, bitter tone. "Respect. I never respected most people. I respected Jane, but now I don't even know. I respect Phoebe and Allie, but now…"
"How are they?" I asked with an indication of interest. A crevice of my soul wanted to assuage the hint of pain in his voice. I didn't remember his sister too well; she was probably around four when his family moved and everything. His younger brother intrigued me though. He loved poetry and baseball. The ladies would have fallen hard for him if he were older.
"Allie's passed away. Dead," Holden croaked. It sounded difficult for him to say, almost as if those words never escaped his lips before. Before I could sincerely give my condolences for his loss, he interjected me. "Don't you miss the third grade?" he asked, his voice disappearing into the dim lights of the hallway. He sounded sad, so I gave him a genuine reply.
"Sometimes. I definitely wouldn't go back. Change is vital. People always look at the big picture, but they hate the boring little details. And I know it sounds cliché, and saying it sounds cliché sounds cliché, but we really only remember the boring, difficult stuff." I allowed my mind to meander for bit before continuing my fairly sanctimonious reply. " I don't know what's wrong with you, but you know why I act so optimistic and gag sunshine everywhere? I got tired of letting the small details bring me down. Now, wanna open the door and get something to eat?"
It was anticlimactic to see Holden open the door. He looked fragile and badly bruised, but he was no more than a stranger to me, an acquaintance at the closest. A moment ago, I made it my personal mission to cheer him up, since I could tell he felt like rubbish. I expected him to at least grim, but his facial expression remained indifferent. I guess real endings aren't always happy, but they always end with an optimistic tone. Something good always come out of everything that gives the ending a subtle uplifting feeling. He looked beaten and destitute, and I could tell he felt like the crummiest boy in the world, but he'd be okay.
I guess it wasn't completely anticlimactic when Holden opened the door. Although it was the last time I ever saw him, I felt a bit enlightened when that door creaked open. I felt as if he had opened up a part of his world to me, even if he only showed me a very narrow entrance in.
"Have a merry little Christmas."