ShmoopTube

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The Catcher in the Rye, a la Shmoop. My name is Holden Caulfield, and I'm going

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to tell you about the worst weekend any teenager has ever had to suffer.

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And I’d just like to start off by saying… none of this stupid stuff ever would have

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happened if it had been me that had gotten leukemia and died, and not my brother Allie.

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Fate is just cruel and stupid sometimes.

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Okay, here goes. On the Saturday before Christmas break, I lost the fencing team's equipment

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on the subway and missed the biggest football game of the year.

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Then I went to chat with my history teacher, but he started reading at me from a paper

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I wrote and I was like, dude, seriously, I know what I wrote, you don't have to read

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it back to me.

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To top everything off, I got into it with my roommate, and he beat me up.

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Have I mentioned that I was also expelled from my super-expensive private school, so

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none of this stuff involving the fencing team and the football game and my history teacher

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and my roommate even matters? Yeah.

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Better buckle up, boys and girls, because it's still Day One of the Worst Weekend Ever.

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I skipped out on ol' Pencey Prep and headed to New York City, thinking I'd spend a few

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days in the Big Apple before having to report to the parental units.

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Trip Adviser recommended I stay at the swanky Edmont Hotel. I think they meant “skanky.”

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I tried to find a lady to spend some quality time with, if you know what I mean, but that

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didn't work out, and I got pimp-punched for my trouble.

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Then it was Sunday. It's a new day, you're thinking. Things will get better. Oh, but

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how wrong you’d be.

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I went on a date with this girl I knew, shot my mouth off, and she ditched me.

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I bought a record for my kid sister, Phoebe, which I promptly broke.

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Then, while my folks were away from home, I went to visit Phoebe. I told her that I

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was the catcher in the rye, the guy who's supposed to save children from falling off

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the cliff and losing their innocence.

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Hey, it totally made sense when I said it. My parents came back, and I escaped from the

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apartment to see my old English teacher, Mr. Antolini, who didn't much care for my whole

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“catcher in the rye” shtick.

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I fell asleep at Mr. Antolini's, but woke up in the middle of the night to find him

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painting his toenails. That kind of weirded me out, so I left.

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I wandered. I wandered. Then, I wandered some more.

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I decided to head out west and live as a deaf-mute, because that makes about as much sense as

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anything else I've done.

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However, after I broke Phoebe's heart by telling her she couldn't come with me...

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...I decided to stay home. I took Phoebe to the zoo and she rode the carousel and… that

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was how I ended the worst weekend ever. Of course, I then went to stay in a mental

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hospital, where I hung around with this guy named Jerry who went on and on about conspiracy

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theories and what an evil jerk Jean-Luc Picard is. He told me I was an inspiration to the

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man who shot John Lennon.

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So hey… things are looking up!

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Oh, and in case you didn’t pick up on it… I’m being sarcastic.

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Life blows.

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