Saturday Show #94: Last Day of the Last Furlough by J.D. Salinger (+ New School Lecture)

Summary: Technical Sergeant John F. Gladwaller, Jr., ASN 32325200, had on a pair of gray-flannel slacks, a white shirt with the collar open, Argyle socks, brown brogues and a dark brown hat with a black band. He had his feet up on his desk, a pack of cigarettes within reach, and any minute his mother was coming in with a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. Books were all over the floor—opened books, closed books, best sellers, worst sellers, classic books, dated books, Christmas-present books, library books, borrowed books. At the moment, the sergeant was at the studio of Mihailov, the painter, with Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky. A few minutes ago he had stood with Father Zossima and Alyosha Karamazov on the portico below the monastery. An hour ago he had crossed the great sad lawns belonging to Jay Gatsby, born James Gatz. Now the sergeant tried to go through Mihailov’s studio quickly, to make time to stop at the corner of Fifth and 46th Street. He and a big cop named Ben Collins were expecting a girl named Edith Dole to drive by. . . .There were so many people the sergeant wanted to see again, so many places worth— “Here we are!” said his mother, coming in with the cake and milk. Too late, he thought. Time’s up. Maybe I can take them with me. Sir, I’ve brought my books. I won’t shoot anybody just yet. You fellas go ahead. I’ll wait here with the books. “Oh, thanks, Mother,” he said, coming out of Mihailov’s studio. “That looks swell.” His mother set down the tray on his desk. “The milk is ice cold,” she said, giving it a build-up, which always amused him. Then she sat down on the foot-stool by his chair, watching her son’s face, watching his thin, familiar hand pick up the fork—watching, watching, loving. He took a bite of the cake and washed it down with milk. It was ice cold. Not bad. “Not bad,” he commented. “It’s been on the ice since this morning,” his mother said, happy with the negative compliment. “Dear, what time is the Corfield boy coming?” “Caulfield. He’s not a boy, Mother. He’s twenty-nine. I’m going to meet the six-o’clock train. Do we have any gas?” “No, don’t believe so, but your father said to tell you that the coupons are in the compartment. There’s enough for six gallons of gas, he said.” Mrs. Gladwaller suddenly discovered the condition of the floor. “Babe, you will pick up those books before you go out, won’t you?” “M’m’m,” said Babe unenthusiastically, with a mouthful of cake. He swallowed it and took another drink of milk—boy, it was cold. “What time’s Mattie get out of school?” he asked. “About three o’clock, I think. Oh, Babe, please call for her! She’ll get such a kick out of it. In your uniform and all.” “Can’t wear the uniform,” Babe said, munching. “Gonna take the sled.” “The sled?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, goodness gracious! A twenty-four-year-old boy.” Babe stood up, picked up his glass and drank the last of the milk—the stuff was really cold. Then he side-stepped through his books on the floor, like a halfback in pseudo-slow motion, and went to his window. He raised it high. “Babe, you’ll catch your death of cold.” “Naa.” He scooped up a handful of snow from the sill and packed it into a ball; it was the right kind for packing, not too dry. “You’ve been so sweet to Mattie,” his mother remarked thoughtfully. “Good kid,” Babe said. “What did the Corfield boy do before he was in the Army?” “Caulfield. He directed three radio programs: I Am Lydia Moore, Quest for Life, and Marcia Steele, M.D.” “I listen to I Am Lydia Moore all the time,” said Mrs. Gladwaller excitedly. “She’s a girl veterinarian.” “He’s a writer too.” “Oh, a writer! That’s nice for you. Is he awfully sophisticated?” The snowball in his hands was beginning to drip. Babe tossed it out the window. “He’s a fine guy,” he said. "He has a kid brother in the Army who flunked out of a lot of schools. He talks about him a lot.