Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book Out of Africa. I’d read it already, but I wanted to read certain parts over again. I’d only read about three pages, though, when I heard somebody coming through the shower curtains. Even without looking up, I knew right away who it was. It was Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me. He was probably the only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn’t down at the game. He hardly ever went anywhere. He was a very peculiar guy. He was a senior, and he’d been at Pencey the whole four years and all, but nobody ever called him anything except “Ackley.” Not even Herb Gale, his own roommate, ever called him “Bob” or even “Ack.” If he ever gets married, his own wife’ll probably call him “Ackley.” He was one of these very, very tall, round-shouldered guys—he was about six four—with lousy teeth. The whole time he roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something. Besides that, he had a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole face. And not only that, he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy. I wasn’t too crazy about him, to tell you the truth.

I could feel him standing on the shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a look to see if Stradlater was around. He hated Stradlater’s guts and he never came in the room if Stradlater was around. He hated everybody’s guts, damn near.

He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room. “Hi,” he said. He always said it like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn’t want you to think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he’d come in by mistake, for God’s sake.

“Hi,” I said, but I didn’t look up from my book. With a guy like Ackley, if you looked up from your book you were a goner. You were a goner anyway, but not as quick if you didn’t look up right away.

He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always did, picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier. He always picked up your personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your nerves sometimes. “How was the fencing?” he said. He just wanted me to quit reading and enjoying myself. He didn’t give a damn about the fencing. “We win, or what?” he said.

“Nobody won,” I said. Without looking up, though.

“What?” he said. He always made you say everything twice.

“Nobody won,” I said. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with on my chiffonier. He was looking at this picture of this girl I used to go around with in New York, Sally Hayes. He must’ve picked up that goddam picture and looked at it at least five thousand times since I got it. He always put it back in the wrong place, too, when he was finished. He did it on purpose. You could tell.

“Nobody won,” he said. “How come?”

“I left the goddam foils and stuff on the subway.” I still didn’t look up at him.

“On the subway, for Chrissake! Ya lost them, ya mean?”

“We got on the wrong subway. I had to keep getting up to look at a goddam map on the wall.”

He came over and stood right in my light. “Hey,” I said. “I’ve read this same sentence about twenty times since you came in.”

Anybody else except Ackley would’ve taken the goddam hint. Not him, though. “Think they’ll make ya pay for em?” he said.

“I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn. How ‘bout sitting down or something, Ackley kid? You’re right in my goddam light.” He didn’t like it when you called him “Ackley kid.” He was always telling me I was a goddam kid, because I was sixteen and he was eighteen. It drove him mad when I called him “Ackley kid.”

He kept standing there. He was exactly the kind of a guy that wouldn’t get out of your light when you asked him to. He’d do it, finally, but it took him a lot longer if you asked him to. “What the hellya reading?” he said.

“Goddam book.”

He shoved my book back with his hand so that he could see the name of it. “Any good?” he said.

“This sentence I’m reading is terrific.” I can be quite sarcastic when I’m in the mood. He didn’t get It, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater’s. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. You couldn’t read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was impossible.

I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning. Then I started horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored. What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes. That way, I couldn’t see a goddam thing. “I think I’m going blind,” I said in this very hoarse voice. “Mother darling, everything’s getting so dark in here.”

“You’re nuts. I swear to God,” Ackley said.

“Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won’t you give me your hand?”

“For Chrissake, grow up.”

I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything. I kept saying, “Mother darling, why won’t you give me your hand?” I was only horsing around, naturally. That stuff gives me a bang sometimes. Besides, I know it annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me. I was pretty sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed.

“Who belongsa this?” Ackley said. He was holding my roommate’s knee supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley’d pick up anything. He’d even pick up your jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater’s. So he chucked it on Stradlater’s bed. He got it off Stradlater’s chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed.

He came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater’s chair. He never sat down in a chair. Just always on the arm. “Where the hellja get that hat?” he said.

“New York.”

“How much?”

“A buck.”

“You got robbed.” He started cleaning his goddam fingernails with the end of a match. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy. He took another look at my hat while he was cleaning them. “Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake,” he said. “That’s a deer shooting hat.”

“Like hell it is.” I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. “This is a people shooting hat,” I said. “I shoot people in this hat.”

“Your folks know you got kicked out yet?”

“Nope.”

“Where the hell’s Stradlater at, anyway?”

“Down at the game. He’s got a date.” I yawned. I was yawning all over the place. For one thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either froze to death or died of the heat.

“The great Stradlater,” Ackley said. “—Hey. Lend me your scissors a second, willya? Ya got ‘em handy?”

“No. I packed them already. They’re way in the top of the closet.”

“Get ‘em a second, willya?” Ackley said, “I got this hangnail I want to cut off.”

He didn’t care if you’d packed something or not and had it way in the top of the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too. The second I opened the closet door, Stradlater’s tennis racket—in its wooden press and all—fell right on my head. It made a big clunk, and it hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He started laughing in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him. Something like that—a guy getting hit on the head with a rock or something—tickled the pants off Ackley. “You have a damn good sense of humor, Ackley kid,” I told him. “You know that?” I handed him the scissors. “Lemme be your manager. I’ll get you on the goddam radio.” I sat down in my chair again, and he started cutting his big horny-looking nails. “How ‘bout using the table or something?” I said. “Cut ‘em over the table, willya? I don’t feel like walking on your crumby nails in my bare feet tonight.” He kept right on cutting them over the floor, though. What lousy manners. I mean it.