We all know who J.D. Salinger is.
We all got to know Holden Caulfield in high school; some of us even worship "Franny and Zooey" and the Glass family. We know he's a famous recluse -- maybe the most famous recluse in the world. But only a handful of Dartmouth students know that he lives on the very border of the Dartmouth bubble, and even fewer of us have fantasized about bumping into him in the Dartmouth Bookstore or sitting across from him at Lou's.
I might have the most extreme case of Salinger stalker syndrome on campus -- I came to Dartmouth because it would put me, at all times, within a 30-mile radius of him. Well, not exactly, but Salinger's close proximity to Dartmouth was (shamefully) one big plus in my Dartmouth pro-con list. Yeah, seriously (sad). I read all his books by freshman year of high school. I've re-read them at least three times each. I have parts of "Nine Stories" memorized. Uh-huh. So if you have qualms with shady literary obsessions ... go read the sports page.
Of course Salinger looks like every other elderly man in the world, so every old dude in Hanover falls prey to my stalker stare. And there are lots of old dudes.
He Walks Among Us
The campus-wide Salinger myths keep the hunt fresh -- evidently, he sometimes eats breakfast alone in Novack (why Novack, of all places, who knows); he sits with his wife on the benches surrounding the Green; he's been spotted by a few Sig Nu brothers at Fort Lou's for a late-night muffin run. What's a stalker to do, tackle every old man on the Green? Oh pschaw, that's not sketchy at all. And you're a fool if you think I'm eating breakfast in Novack.
So when The Mirror asked me to journey to his home, Cornish, NH, to search for Salinger -- with the ultimate goal of finding and interviewing him of course -- I said "yes! please! of course!" and then quickly sat back in my chair and got nervous. Why? 1) I had a better chance of finding President Wright playing pong in a frat basement than I had of finding Salinger wandering around Cornish, and 2) if I did find him, he'd probably snarl at me, grumble something about "fucking Holden Caulfield," and hobble back to his cave like the good hermit that he is.
When I was about to back out on writing the article, I had an epiphany in the form of a self-call: I am indeed the best person for the job. In addition to being utterly obsessed with him in the first place, I can be bubbly/friendly to an obnoxious extent. And, most importantly, there's the fact that Salinger infamously only gives interviews to young, attractive ladies. Not that I want a Michael Jackson-esque situation on my hands here, but if you want to catch a big fish, you have to use the bait it likes. I'm usually quite the feminist, I swear. So do as I say, not as I do, all you little '09s out there.
The only snag in the plan here is, I've got real issues with people trying to disturb this favorite author of mine. When his daughter published a memoir a few years ago, I would walk through Barnes and Noble and turn her book around so no one could see the cover. Joyce Maynard wrote a memoir about an affair she had with him, against his uber-furtive wishes. I have dreams about murdering that self-centered psychopath.
Basically, I defend Salinger like he's my own beloved, slightly anti-social grandpa. I'd like to see him happy, and if all he wants is to be alone, then I wish everybody would just leave him the f*ck alone.
Obviously, I took the job anyway. I'm selfish and don't want anyone else writing about my J.D. And if anyone gets to meet him, it should be me, dammit.
The Mission
So first, research: the internet is a playground for Salinger stalkers, but damn if it isn't a discouraging playground. Nearly every website I found summed up to either "wow what a jerk" or "don't even try, bitch." Some legal thing (technical terms obviously mean nothing to me, sorry pre-law people) forbids anyone from posting his address on the internet, so it was nowhere to be found. I decided to just blindly wander to Cornish (with my trusty driver, Matt Hill) and poke around. Did I expect to find him? Do I expect President Wright to defeat my ass in pong tonight? (Clear cut answer: a most emphatic "hell, no.")
So we drive into quaint Cornish, NH, (population: 1,576) ... which, well isn't much to look at. Matt beelines for the post office, because duh, everyone has to come into contact with the U.S. Postal Service eventually. According to the post-woman, they don't receive much crap for him anymore, just sporadic letters that they have been ordered to return to sender. Does he ever come get his mail? Nope, his wife does that duty, apparently.
So we ventured next door, to the General Store ("He has to eat, dammit" -- Hill). Here's pretty much the interesting part of our Corn-folk encounter, after it was established that we weren't getting any substantial info, "to respect Mr. Salinger's privacy."
Me: "How many people come in here asking about Salinger?"
Cornish woman with broom: "Not that many anymore, maybe two or three a year. But I live two houses down from him" (chuckles to herself; my jaw hits the floor).
Matt: "Have you ever seen him? Or met him?"
Corn-broom woman: (uninterested) "No... not really..."
Random man at counter: "I slept with him."
After chatting with them a little longer, Matt and I decided to leave, at which time the random man decided to reaffirm, "I HAVE slept with him, you know."
Oh dear, those Cornish folk sure are silly. The broom woman did advise us to try closer to Windsor, Vt., because Salinger is known to frolic around yonder, evidently.
But first, we hit up the elementary school because if anyone will give away any top-secret Salinger info, it's foolish children. After throwing myself in the middle of their basketball game, here's how I conversed with Cornish's future statesmen:
Me: "Do you know who J.D. Salinger is?"
Kid #1: "No, but I recognize her name."
Me (with my back to Kid #1): "How about you? J.D. Salinger, the author?"
Kid #2: "Books? Who cares!?"
Okay then, on to Windsor, confirmed dwelling grounds of Salinger. We stopped a high school kid on the street, and he had no earthly clue who Salinger was ... now that I think back, he might not have actually spoken English, because he sure acted confused. At Price Chopper (hub of Windsor social activity), the clerk said he never came in, and no one ever asked about him. I had to buy cheap marshmallow cereal to get that info, by the way.
So wow, what a depressing string of encounters. Not knowing who else to ask short of crashing our car randomly into someone's house, we just started driving around the area, looking for a sign that said "J.D. Salinger lives here." After a few haphazard turns, we came over a hill and ... into West Lebanon. Damn. For a moment we contemplated going back with a genius door-to-door muffin-selling scheme, but best possible scenario would probably only get us a conversation with Salinger's wife. Back to Hanover we crawled.
No sh*t, we were kinda disappointed. We went on an epic journey to fulfill any English major's ultimate dream, and all we have to show for it is some cereal and the mud on Matt's car. Ours is just another failed mission in the cruel war against Salinger's privacy.
There Is Hope Yet
Screenwriting professor Bill Phillips met Salinger in the '70s, and has recognized him a few times around the Upper Valley, in normal places like Pizza Hut and the grocery store. With admirable self-control, Professor Phillips doesn't treat Salinger like a celebrity -- he just tries to make him feel like a normal citizen. Most recently, Salinger held the door for Phillips and his son as they walked into Borders Bookstore. Seriously, I think I'm satisfied knowing that I may have once or twice brushed up against this man -- I don't need to encumber on his beloved privacy to cherish the stories he's given me.
On that note, the next time you see me camped out in Borders, suspiciously eyeing the old guy at the next table over, just know that I'm there for the ... gourmet muffins. Really, I swear.
