The heart of a broken story
-
J. D. Salinger
The Heart of a
Broken Story
Esquire XVI, September
1941, Page 32, 131-133
EVERY day Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-
dollar-a-
week printer’s assistant, saw
at close quarters
approximately sixty
women whom he had never seen before. Thus in the
few years he had
lived in New York,
Horgenschlag had seen at close quarters about
75,120 different women.
Of
these
75,120
women,
roughly
25,000
were
under
thirty
years
of
age
and
over
fifteen
years of age. Of the
25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five
and one hundred
twenty-five
pounds.
Of
these
5,000
only
1,000
were
not
ugly.
Only
500
were
reasonably
attractive; only
100 of these were quite attractive; only 25 could
have inspired a long, slow
whistle. And
with only 1 did Horgenschlag fall in love at first
sight.
Now, there are two
kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale
who is a femme fatale
in every sense of
the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not
a femme fatale in every
sense of the
word.
Her
name
was
Shirley
Lester.
She
was
twenty
years
old
(eleven
years
younger
than
Horgenschlag),
was
five-foot-four
(bringing
her
head
to
the
level
of
Ho
rgenschlag’s
eyes),
weighed117 pounds
(light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a
stenographer, lived with and
supported
her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan.
In reference to Shirley’s looks
people
often put it this way: “Shirley’s as pretty as a
picture.”
And
in the Third Avenue bus early one morning,
Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and
was a dead duck. All because Shirley’s
mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was
reading
a cosmetic advertisement in the
wall panel of the bus; and when Shirley read,
Shirley relaxed
slightly
at
the
jaw.
And
in
that
short
moment
while
Shirley’s
mouth
was
open,
lips
were
parted, Shirley was
probably the most fatal one in all Manhattan.
Horgenschlag saw in her a
positive
cure-all for a gigantic monster of loneliness
which had been stalking around his heart
since
he
had
come
to
New
York.
Oh,
the
agony
of
it!
The
agony
of
standing
over
Shirley
Lester
and
not
being
able
to
bend
down
and
kiss
Shirley’s
parted
lips.
The
inexpressible
agony of it!
* * *
That
was
the
beginning
of
the
story
I
started
to
write
for
Collier’s.
I
was
going
to
write
a
lovely
tender
boy-meets-girl
story.
What
could
be
finer,
I
thought.
The
world
needs
boy-meets-girl
stories.
But
to
write
one,
unfortunately,
the
writer
must
go
about
the
business of having the boy meet the
girl. I couldn’t do it with this one. Not and have
it make
sense. I couldn’t get
Horgenschlag and Shirley together properly. And
here are the reasons:
Certainly it was impossible for
Horgenschlag to bend over and say in all
sincerity:
“I beg your
pardon. I love you very much. I’m nuts about you.
I know it. I could love you all
my
life. I’m a printer’s assistant and I make thirty
dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are
you busy tonight?”
This Horgenschlag may be a
goof, but not that big a goof. He may have been
born yesterday,
but
not
today. You
can’t
expect
Collier’s readers
to swallow
that
kind of
bilge. A nickel’s
a
nickel, after all.
I couldn’t, of course, all
of a sudden give Horgenschlag a suave
seru
m, mixed from William
Powell’s old cigarette case and Fred
Astaire’s old top hat.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss.
I’m a magazine illustrator. My card. I’d like to
sketch
you more than I’ve ever wanted
to sketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an
un
dertaking
would be to a
mutual advantage. May I telephone you this
evening, or in the very near future?
(Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don’t
sound too desperate. (Another one.) I suppose I
am,
really.”
Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a
weary, yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only
Horgenschlag
had
delivered
them.
Shirley,
of
course,
was
an
old
Nelson
Eddy
fan
herself,
and
an
active
member
of the Keystone Circulating Library.
Maybe you’re beginning to see what I
was up against.
True, Horgenschlag might have said the
following:
“Excuse me, but
aren’t you Wilma Pritchard?”
To which Shirley would have
replied coldly, and seeking a neutral point on the
other side of
the bus:
“No.”
“That’s funny,” Horgenschlag
could have gone on, “I was willing to
swear you were Wilma
Pritchard. Uh. You
don’t by any chance come from Seattle?”
“No.”—
More ice
where that came from.
“Seattle’s my home town.”
Neutral point.
“Great little town, Seattle. I mean
it’s really a great little town. I’ve only been
here—
I mean
in New
York
—four years. I’m a printer’s
assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my
name.”
“I’m
really not
inter
-
ested.”
Oh,
Horgenschlag
wouldn’t
have
got
anywhere
with
that
kind
of
line.
He
had
neither
the
looks,
personality,
or
good
clothes
to
gain
Shirley’s
interest
under
the
circumstances.
He
didn’t
have
a chance.
And,
as
I said
before,
to
write
a really
good
boy
-meets-
girl
story
it’s
wise
to have the boy meet the girl.
Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted,
and in doing so grabbed for support: the support
being Shirley’s ankle. He could have
torn the stocking that way, or succeeded in
ornamenting
it with a fine long run.
People would have made room for the stricken
Horgenschlag, and he
would have got to
his f
eet, mumbling: “I’m all right,
thanks,” then, “Oh, say! I’m terribly sorry,
Miss. I’ve torn your stocking. You must
let me pay for it. I’m short of cash right now,
but just
give me your
address.”
Shirley wouldn’t have given him her
address. She just woul
d have become
embarrassed and
inarticulate. “It’s all
right,” she would have said, wishing Horgenschlag
hadn’t been born. And
besides, the
whole idea is illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle
boy, wouldn’t have dreamed of
clutching
at Shirley’s ankle. Not in t
he Third
Avenue Bus.
But what is
more logical is the possibility that Horgenschlag
might have got desperate. There
are
still
a
few
men
who
love
desperately.
Maybe
Horgenschlag
was
one.
He
might
have
snatched
Shirley’s
handbag
and
run
with
it
toward
the
r
ear
exit
door.
Shirley
would
have
screamed.
Men
would
have
heard
her,
and
remembered
the
Alamo
or
something.
Horgenschlag’s
flight, let’s say, is now arrested. The bus is
stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who
hasn’t
made a good arrest in a long time, reports on the
scene. What’s going on here? Officer,
this man tried to steal my purse.
Horgenschlag
is
hauled
into
court.
Shirley,
of
course,
must
attend
session.
They
both
give
their addresses; thereby Horgenschlag
is informed of the location of Shirley’s divine
ab
ode.
Judge
Perkins,
who
can’t
even
get
a
good,
really
good
cup
of
coffee
in
his
own
house,
sentences Horgenschlag to a year in
jail. Shirley bites her lip, but Horgenschlag is
marched
away.
In prison, Horgenschlag writes the
following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I did not really mean to
steal your purse. I just took it because I love
you. You see I only
wanted to get to
know you. Will you please write me a letter
sometime when you get the
time? It gets
pretty lonely here and I love you very much and
maybe even you would come to
see me
some time if you get the time.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley shows the letter to
all her friends. They say, “Ah, it’s cute,
Shirley.” Shirley agrees that
it’s kind
of cute in a way. Maybe she’ll answer it. “Yes!
Answer it. Give’m a break. What’ve ya
got t’lose?” So Shirley answers
Horgenschlag’s letter.
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I
received
your
letter
and
really
feel
very
sorry
about
what
has
happened.
Unfortunately
there is very
little we can do about it at this time, but I do
feel abominable concerning the
turn of
events. However, your sentence is a short one and
soon you will be out. The best of
luck
to you.
Sincerely yours,
Shirley Lester”
“Dear Miss
Lester:
“You
will never know
how
cheered up
you made me
feel
when I received your
letter. You
should not feel
abominable at all. It was all my fault for being
so crazy so don’t feel that way
at all.
We get movies here once a week and it really is
not so bad. I am 31 years of age and
come from Seattle. I have been in New
York 4 years and think it is a great town only
once in a
while you get pretty
lonesome. You are the prettiest girl I have ever
seen even in Seattle. I
wish you would
come to see me some Saturday afternoon during
visiting hours 2 to 4 and I
will pay
your train fare.
Your
friend,
Justin
Horgenschlag”
Shirley would have shown this letter,
too, to all her friends. But she would not answer
this
one. Anyone could see that this
Horgenschlag was a goof. And after all. She had
answered
the
first
letter.
If
she
answered
this
silly
letter
the
thing
might
drag
on
for
months
and
everything. She did all
she could do for the man. And what a schlag.
Meanwhile, in prison
Horgenschlag is having a terrible time, even
though they have movies
once
a
week.
His
cell-mates
are
Snipe
Morgan
and
Slicer
Burke,
two
boys
from
the
back
room, who see in
Horgenschlag’s face a resemblance to a chap in
Chicago who once ratted
on them. They
are convinced that Ratface Ferrero and Justin
Horgenschlagare one and the
same
person.
“But I’m not
Ratface Ferrero,” Horgenschlag tells
them.
“Don’t
gimme that,” says Slicer, knocking Horgenschlag’s
meager food rations to the floor.
“Bash his head in,” says
Snipe.
“I
tell
ya
I’m
just
here
because
I
stole
a
girl’s
purse
on
the
Third
Avenue
Bus,”
pleads
Horgenschlag. “Only I didn’t really
steal it. I fell in love with her, and it was the
only way I
could get to know
her.”
“Don’t
gimme that,” says Slicer.
“Bash his head in,” says
Snipe.
Then
there is the day when seventeen prisoners try to
make an escape. During play period in
the recreation yard, Slicer Burke lures
the warden’s niece, eight
-year-old
Lisbeth Sue, into his
clutches. He puts
his eight-by-twelve hands around
the
child’s waist and holds her up for the
warden to see.
“Hey, warden!” yells Slicer. “Open up
them gates or it’s curtains for the
kid!”
“I’m not
afraid, Uncle Bert!” calls out Lisbeth
Sue.
“Put
down
that
child,
Slicer!”
commands
the
warden,
with
al
l
the
impotence
at
his
command.
But
Slicer knows he has the warden just where he wants
him. Seventeen men and a small
blonde
child
walk
out
the
gates.
Sixteen
men
and
a
small
blonde
child
walk
out
safely.
A
guard
in the high tower thinks he sees a wonderful
opportunity to shoot Slicer in the head,
and
thereby
destroy
the
unity
of the escaping
group. But
he
misses,
and
succeeds only
in
shooting the small man walking
nervously behind Slicer, killing him instantly.
Guess who?
And,
thus,
my
plan
to
write
a
boy-meets-
girl
story
for
Collier’s,
a
tender,
memorable
love
story, is thwarted by
the death of my hero.
Now,
Horgenschlag never would have been among those
seventeen desperate men if only he
had
not been made desperate and panicky by Shirley’s
failure
to answer his second letter.
But the fact remains that she did not
answer his second letter. She never in a hundred
years
would have answered it. I can’t
alter facts.
And
what
a
shame.
What
a
pity
that
Horgenschlag,
in
prison,
was
unable
to
write
the
following letter to
Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss
Lester:
“I hope
a few lines will not annoy or embarrass you. I’m
writing, Miss Lester, because I’d like
you to know that I am not a common
thief. I stole your bag, I want you to know,
because I fell
in
love
with
you
the
moment
I
saw
you
on
the
bus.
I
could
think
of
no
way
to
become
acquainted with you except by acting
rashly
—
foolishly, to be
accurate. But then, one is a fool
when
one is in love.
“I loved
the way your lips were so slightly parted. You
repres
ented the answer to everything
to me. I haven’t been unhappy since I
came to New York four years ago, but neither have
I
been happy. Rather, I can best
describe myself as having been one of the
thousands of young
men in New York who
simply exist.
“I
came
to New York from Seattle. I was
going to become rich and famous and well-dressed
and suave. But in four years I’ve
learned that I am not going to become rich and
famous and
well-
dressed and
suave. I’m a good printer’s assistant, but that’s
all I am. One d
ay the printer
got sick, and I had to take his place.
What a mess I made of things, Miss Lester. No one
would
take my orders. The typesetters
just sort of giggled when I would tell them to get
to work.
And I don’t blame them. I’m a
fool when I give orders.
I
suppose I’m just one of the millions
who
was
never
meant
to
give
orders.
But
I
don’t
mind
anymore.
There’s
a
twenty-three-
year-
old
kid
my
boss
just
hired.
He’s
only
twenty
-three,
and
I
am
thirty-one
and have worked at the same place for
four years. But I know that one day he will become
head printer, and I will be his
assistant. But I don’t mind knowing this
anymore.
“Loving you is the important thing,
Miss Lester. There are some people who think love
is sex
and marriage and six
o’clock
-kisses and children, and
perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you
know what I think? I think love is a
touch and yet not a touch.
“I suppose it’s important to a woman
that other people think of her as the wife of a
man
who is either rich
,
handsome, witty or popular. I’m not even popular.
I’m not even hated. I’m
just
—I’m
just—
Justin Horgenschlag. I never make
people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted. I
think people regard me as a nice guy,
but that’s all.
“When I was a child no one
poin
ted me out as being cute or bright
or good-looking. If they
had to say
something they said I had sturdy little legs.
“I
don’t
expect
an
answer
to
this
letter,
Miss
Lester.
I
would
like
an
answer
more
than
anything else in the world, but
truthfully I don’
t expect one. I merely
wanted you to know
the truth. If my
love for you has only led me to a new and great
sorrow, only I am to blame.
“Perhaps one day you will understand
and forgive your blundering admirer,
Justin
Horgenschlag”
Such a letter would be no more unlikely
than the following: