LOOKING FOR MR. SALINGER by LARRY BAUMHOR
J.D. Salinger writing Catcher in the Rye as a soldier in WW2
Looking for Mr. Salinger
"by"
Larry Baumhor
As I was driving to Cornish, New Hampshire to speak with Mr. Salinger my motives became more clear, I was bullshitting myself. Yes, I am writing a short story on this experience, and I would like his advice on my twenty years of unpublished literary material, and yes, I want Mr. Salinger’s insights into my psychological conflict of self-publishing on the Internet. But in part, and perhaps in large part, I desired something Mr. Salinger avoided for over 40 years as a recluse: notoriety. I’m a phony. I’m driven by ulterior motives. Though I don’t know of anybody who’s not a phony, at times, when desiring something. Being a hypocrite is not black and white, but rather shaded in layers of complex nuances, some acceptable, others illegal, immoral, repulsive, and even murderous. Nevertheless, I was in pursuit of notoriety and was attempting to use Mr. Salinger to achieve my goal.
This was a well-thought-out plan on my part. I have OCD and was determined not to leave Cornish under any circumstances until I spoke with Mr. Salinger. The fact he was 89 years old, probably declining in health, and didn’t speak to anyone publicly, made no difference. I was on a mission, and like a Boy Scout I needed equipment. I printed t-shirts that read: Looking For Mr. Salinger - on the front - To Discuss My 20 Years Of Unpublished Fiction And My Conflict Of Internet Publishing - on the back. I made placards and a sandwich board with the same information as the t-shirts. I printed a business card with the same information, including my cell phone number. I purchased a bullhorn. I was prepared to battle the authorities, the townspeople, and an old dying literary icon, just to get my story. However, the most important thing I had going for me was not my persistence, obsession, or equipment; it was my gift of gab, my personality, my charm, my ability to adlib and persuade that I would depend on, and ultimately these were my weapons of resistance.
It was Monday morning, May 12th, 2008, when I arrived at The Chase House Bed and Breakfast Inn of Cornish, New Hampshire. The 160-acre estate with a 1766 Settlement Colony-style house, located on the banks of the Connecticut River, offers a spellbinding view of Vermont’s Mount Ascutney. I was wearing my t-shirt and baseball cap that said Looking For Mr. Salinger. I knew I was going to be stared at like some kind of freak, and this was ok, this was my intent. “Hi, my name is Larry Baumhor. I have a reservation.”
“Madge Kramer, nice to meet you.”
“I’m at a loss for words as to the charm and beauty of your facility. This is truly a surreal paradise. I’m a history buff and would love to know where I can get some information, perhaps a book or brochures on the Inn and surrounding areas.”
“The Inn is a National Historic Landmark and a Colonial settlement. Perhaps you’ll find some information in our gift shop, if not I recommend Violet’s Book Exchange in Claremont.”
“How far is Claremont from here?”
“About 10 miles.”
“How about restaurants in the area?”
“Here’s a brochure with some attractions and restaurants. I highly recommend Windsor Station Restaurant. The food is great, and if you like history the restaurant was built in 1900 and was a passenger and freight depot. They restored it in 1977. The likes of Calvin Coolidge and Teddy Roosevelt have passed through. It’s in Windsor, Vermont, but only 4 miles from here.”
“I’ll try it tonight. I’m sure you’ve noticed my T-shirt and hat. The main reason I’ve come to Cornish is to speak with Mr. Salinger. I earn a living selling vintage photos, but my real passion is writing. I’ve been at it for 20 years, with 6 manuscript books, over 20 short stories, and hundreds of letters and poems, but nothing published. I wanted to ask Mr. Salinger his advice on writing, and now I’m thinking of self-publishing on the Internet, but I am in conflict about this method. I know Mr. Salinger is a very private man and is up there in age, and therefore if I don’t get a chance to meet him that’s ok, but at least I know I’ve tried. I wanted to give Mr. Salinger one of my short stories, Gefilte Fish. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“I can’t begin to tell you how many people have come through looking for Mr. Salinger. I’m sorry, I do not have any information on Mr. Salinger or his whereabouts, though he does patronize establishments in the area including the Windsor Station Restaurant. What is ‘Gefilte Fish’?”
“‘Gefilte Fish’ is a humorous psychological short story about Passover dinners at my Grandparents. Please forgive me if I’m presumptuously imposing, but here’s Gefilte Fish with my card and cell phone. If you happen to know anybody who knows somebody who knows Mr. Salinger, please ask them to give him Gefilte Fish and my card. Again, I apologize, but I made a promise to myself that I would at least try to speak with Mr. Salinger. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.”
I decided to take a ride into Claremont, New Hampshire, and visit Violet’s Book Exchange. What else would Mr. Salinger patronize if not a book store, I thought. I’ll find him, you’ll see. Located at 28 Opera House Square, a quaint little shop with walls of used books, specializing in literature and history. I introduced myself to the owner Martha, an attractive hippie-looking woman in her fifties. After exchanging small talk and telling her about my vintage photo business, there was an immediate connection. Martha collected vintage snapshots, particularly photobooth and arcade-type snapshots.
“Here’s my vintage photo business card. When you come to New York, stop by the Chelsea Antique Garage. Come to my booth and I’ll take care of you. I have thousands of photos for you to look at and plenty of photobooth and arcade photos. I can even scan a few and I’ll e-mail them to you. If they’re appealing, you can purchase them.”
Her dark eyes gleamed with joy. “Thank you, I’ve heard so much about the Chelsea Antique Garage. Now that I know you, I’ll come visit you this summer.” We both liked the Beat writers and Henry Miller. I found a kindred spirit, and I saw no rings on her fingers, but I was scared to ask if she was single.
“The real reason I came to Cornish, New Hampshire - I’m staying at the Chase House Bed and Breakfast Inn - is to speak with Mr. Salinger.” The gleam in her eyes went dark - her infectious smile disappeared, and her face became tight with angst. I just ruined whatever credibility I built during my two hours in the store. What a putz, I thought.
“I know this seems weird, and it’s an infringement on Mr. Salinger’s privacy, but I promised myself I would try. I have tons of unpublished books, stories, letters, and essays. For twenty years I’ve been rejected, and now I’m thinking of self-publishing on the Internet. I wanted to ask Mr. Salinger his opinion of my work, and the conflict I’m having about publishing on the Internet. I don’t even want to know if you know Mr. Salinger, or if he comes into your store, but please, if you know anybody who knows him, give him my Gefilte Fish short story and card with my cell phone. I know we hit it off and you seem really nice. I have to be honest with you, I’m a phony. I’m writing a short story about this experience and would only be using Mr. Salinger to gain notoriety.” I handed Martha my short story and Looking For Mr. Salinger card and left the store.
Cornish is a small rural town with very few stores and a population of 1,661. If you wanted to go to a bigger town with stores and a Main St., you had to either cross the Cornish-Windsor Covered Bridge into Windsor, Vermont, or drive to Claremont, New Hampshire about nine miles from Cornish. Many residents living in Cornish shopped in Windsor and Claremont. I went back to my car and put on my wooden Looking For Mr. Salinger sandwich board. In one hand I held my bullhorn, and in the other were copies of Gefilte Fish with my card stapled at the top left corner. I began walking down Main Street in Claremont. I pushed the button on the bullhorn and began speaking:
“Good afternoon residents of Sullivan County, my name is Larry Baumhor and I’m looking for Mr. Salinger. I am a frustrated unpublished author of twenty years. I would like someone to please give Mr. Salinger my short story Gefilte Fish.” I began handing out Gefilte Fish as though it was a manifesto, a document that would break down the barriers of genre literature. “Please take Gefilte Fish and give it to Mr. Salinger,” I yelled into the bullhorn.
I stopped in every store on Main Street and handed out Gefilte Fish. I began to speak again into the bullhorn, “I’m looking for Mr. Salinger,” when I heard a siren and then a sheriff pulled over and double parked on Main Street.
“What are you doing?” asked Sheriff Warren.
“I’m looking for Mr. Salinger.”
“You’re in violation of section 16.05.12 of the Sullivan County Ordinance: No person shall disturb the peace, quiet and comfort of any neighborhood by creating any disturbing or unreasonably loud noise.”
“I’m sorry officer, I’m just trying to get the word out to Mr. Salinger and give him a copy of my short story, Gefilte Fish. I thought I had the right to freedom of speech?”
“You are disturbing the peace. I’m giving you a citation for $100.00. You’re going to have to stop this. And Mr. Salinger is a private man who does not want to be bothered with this nonsense.”
Things didn’t go too well in Claremont, except I really liked Martha, but I’m sure once she found out about my buffoonery, I didn’t have a chance in hell. I must have spoken to over one hundred people. These towns are small, someone must know Mr. Salinger or at least know where he lives. I went back to the Inn, showered, and headed over the bridge to the Windsor Station Restaurant in Vermont.
I gave Gefilte Fish to the hostess, waitress, and busboy. After dinner, I walked around town handing out my manifesto. I engaged in conversation with anyone willing to talk to me. At this point, I was getting venomous stares and cold responses. Some people walked across the street deliberately to avoid me. In one day I became ostracized. One lady grabbed hold of Gefilte Fish, threw it down on the ground, and said, “Get out of this community, stop bothering us. You’re a kook.”
I dejectedly and exhaustedly drove back to the Inn.
The next morning, I drove to the post office on Route 120 in Cornish, thinking someone would at least give a copy of Gefilte Fish to Mr. Salinger. No luck, they refused to give me any information, nor would they accept any copies of Gefilte Fish. I drove along Route 120 until I got to the Cornish General Store, and that’s where I met Billy Smithson, a 78-year-old Cornish-bred and raised New Hampshire.
“No one likes me around here, Mr. Smithson. They think I’m disturbing the peace and trying to bother Mr. Salinger. He probably comes in here, right?”
“Now and then, he used to come in a lot. I know J.D. from when he first moved here in the 50s. He ain’t nothin’ to me, as long as you don’t talk to him about personal stuff or that writing of his, he’s a nice guy.”
“Would it be a terrible inconvenience if I left you my short story and card with my cell phone to give to him?”
“What you want to do that for, he lives right up on that road,” as he directs me with his finger. “J.D. lives in the brown hilltop chalet with a sun deck facing the Connecticut River. You can’t miss it.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Smithson. Thank you so much. I appreciate it.” I went right to the house Mr. Smithson described, except there was nothing on the mailbox and not even an address number on the street or any of the doors. It was a simple home, but the view was spectacular. I got out of the car and walked up to the door with Gefilte Fish in my hand. My heart was pounding. Was I here? Was this really Mr. Salinger’s house? There was no bell. I knocked, lightly at first, and waited one minute. I knocked harder and waited two minutes. I knocked a third time and a fourth time, no answer. I’ll go back to the Inn and come back after dinner, surely someone, if not Mr. Salinger, would be home. Still, no one answered after supper. I’ll try early in the morning. Tomorrow, I thought for sure, I would get Mr. Salinger in the morning.
That night, I wrote a letter to Mr. Salinger that I was going to leave in his mailbox, with a copy of Gefilte Fish and my card:
Dear Mr. Salinger:
My passion has been writing for the past twenty years. Despite the frustration of 6 unpublished books, over 20 short stories, hundreds of poems, letters, and essays, I continue to dream. Though at 54 years of age, one must wonder, if perhaps, I’m just not good enough. I drove up here with the intent of handing you my short story Gefilte Fish, and asking your opinion (I brought other stories with me too) on both my writing and my conflict of self-publishing on the Internet. I write self-confessional fiction in the first person, and I’m not sure if I want to expose myself to the world. And I also feel that the Internet is a second-rate form of publishing. I’m a purist and want my words in a book. I’m selling out.
Driving up here to Cornish, I had an epiphany, realizing I was bullshitting myself in that I wanted to use you for the sole purpose of notoriety while I write this short story about our meeting. I’m a hypocrite, pretending to ask for your advice, not that I don’t want it, but your name and interview would mean more. I’m ashamed of myself. Perhaps this whole thing is lunacy on my part. During one thought I think it is lunacy and then I have another thought that says I’ll do anything to get published. It’s an act of desperation for sure, and for this I’m sorry.
Sincerely,
Larry Baumhor
At 8:00 AM, I knocked on Mr. Salinger’s door and knocked again and again and again, but no answer. I left the letter, the short story, and my card in his mailbox. I drove to Route 120 and Cornish Stage Road, parked my car, and got out with my placard, some Gefilte Fish stories, and my bullhorn. I began holding the placard Looking For Mr. Salinger, and as the cars stopped at the intersection, I handed out Gefilte Fish stories. After an hour and a half, I was getting bored, so I picked up the bullhorn: “Mr. Salinger, I’m looking for you, please come out wherever you are. Does anyone know where I can give Mr. Salinger my short story?”
Within twenty minutes I heard a siren. It was Sheriff Warren again and he didn’t look too happy. “You’re under arrest,” said the Sheriff in an authoritative tone, “for disturbing the peace and stalking Mr. Salinger.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I never threatened Mr. Salinger. I’ve never stalked him or threatened him. I haven’t even seen him.” I was handcuffed and placed in the back seat of the sheriff’s car. I was driven to the police department and placed in a holding cell for two and a half hours, and then driven to the Claremont District Court in Claremont, New Hampshire. The court has jurisdiction over the city of Claremont and the town of Cornish.
“All rise, the Honorable Judge Ken Jones Presiding.”
“Do you, Larry Baumhor, solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Mr. Baumhor, on Monday, May 12, 2008, in Claremont, New Hampshire, you were given a citation for violating section 16.05.12 of the Claremont, New Hampshire Ordinance that states: No person shall disturb the peace, quiet, and comfort of any neighborhood by creating any disturbing or unreasonably loud noise. Is this correct Mr. Baumhor?”
“Yes Your Honor that is correct, however, I will be appealing this citation on the grounds it is ill-defined, with no guidelines for what is an unreasonably loud noise, and it violates my First Amendment of freedom of speech.”
“That certainly is your right, Mr. Baumhor. However, today, May 14, 2008, you once again violated this ordinance by using your bullhorn on Route 120 and Cornish Stage Road in Cornish, New Hampshire. And that’s when Mr. Warren arrested you. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I did use the bullhorn today.”
“Until you, Mr. Baumhor, who lives out of state, repeal this ordinance, you’re under my jurisdiction. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What was going through your mind when you decided to use the bullhorn again after getting a citation?”
“I don’t know, Your Honor. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. I have OCD and I’ve been obsessed with finding Mr. Salinger and giving him my short story to read.”
“How many times did you go to Mr. Salinger’s house and knock on his door?
“Three times.”
“How many different days?”
“Two different days. Twice yesterday and once today.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with any psychiatric disorders?”
“Yes, I have OCD, depression and anxiety, and low self-esteem.”
“Do you take any medicine?”
“No, I used to but I haven’t taken it in years.”
“Have you ever been hospitalized for mental illness?”
“No.”
“I’m ordering a full psychiatric evaluation for you. I am issuing a restraining order against you, where you are not to go within 100 yards of Mr. Salinger’s house. Do I make myself clear? If you violate this order, you could be charged with stalking, and face up to five years in prison. My suggestion is that you stop looking for Mr. Salinger and go home to Philadelphia.”
“Your Honor, I want him to read my short story and ask Mr. Salinger a couple of questions about my writing and the possibility of Internet publishing.”
“I’ve been on this bench for twenty-six years and I’ve never had so many complaints in such a short time about one person. You have inundated every store and every nook and cranny of Cornish and Claremont with Gefilte Fish. It was also brought to my attention that you flooded Windsor, Vermont with Gefilte Fish. And if that’s not bad enough, is it true that you also went into residential areas in Claremont and Cornish and placed Gefilte Fish in mailboxes?”
“Yes, I did, Your Honor.”
“How many Gefilte Fish stories have you given out during the past three days?”
“I’m not sure, but I would say over one thousand.”
“I’m going to read the first sentence of Gefilte Fish for the record, and then ask you if this story is yours. Have you ever eaten smoked gefilte fish, not with the traditional horseradish, but with a couple of cigarette ashes on top, billows of cigarette smoke in the air, served by a Jewish Grandmother who wore a brassiere as a blouse, with a Viceroy cigarette dangling from her lips?” A lot of people in the courtroom laughed when they heard the first sentence of Gefilte Fish.
“Approach the bench Mr. Baumhor. Is this a copy of your story Gefilte Fish that you handed out over one thousand copies to the residents in Sullivan County, New Hampshire?”
“Yes, Your Honor, that’s my Gefilte Fish story.”
“Duly noted, marked Exhibit “A” and entered into the record. Is this your card, Looking For Mr. Salinger, that you attached to Gefilte Fish and handed out over one thousand copies to the residents of Sullivan County, New Hampshire?”
“Yes, Your Honor it is.”
“Marked Exhibit “B” and entered into the record. Please take a look at this sandwich board, placard, t-shirt, and hat and identify them.”
“They are all mine, Your Honor.”
“They will be entered into the record as evidence. Do you have any other questions before I close this proceeding?”
“May I make a statement to the court?”
“Go ahead.”
“I would like to extend my deep appreciation and gratitude to a most gracious hospitable community that welcomed me for the most part, despite my attempt to meet Mr. Salinger. And for those of you whom I have offended, annoyed, or aggravated, I want to extend my heartfelt apologies, as this was not my intent. Out of my desperation to get published, I perhaps crossed the line of appropriate, socially acceptable behavior, and for this I am sorry. And I apologize to the court and the Sheriff’s Department for taking up their valuable time and the use of taxpayers’ money.”
I drove to Violet’s Book Exchange to say goodbye to Martha. You better get a hold of your life. What are you doing? You’re a loser. You’ve isolated yourself from all your friends and family. You sit in that apartment day and night writing stories and living in fantasies. The only time you go out is to an occasional movie and bookstore or to buy and sell those stupid old photos. You haven’t dated in years. You know, you’re right, I am a loser with a capital L. It was over, my quest, my obsession, it all turned into a failure.
“Hi, Martha. I just got out of court and Judge Jones issued me a restraining order to stay 100 yards away from Mr. Salinger’s house.”
“Yeah, I know, it was on the radio, probably the TV too. You didn’t see the reporters?”
“No, I was so out of it, I didn’t know who was there. Although somebody did take a couple of pictures.”
“I want you to come here tomorrow at 11:00 A.M. Mr. Salinger is coming here to meet with you.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m dead serious. Don’t ask me any questions. I’m not answering them. You come here tomorrow at 11:00, and I guarantee you Mr. Salinger will be here to talk with you.”
“I’m sorry, this is overwhelming,” as I broke down and cried, I hugged Martha. “I don’t know how to thank you. I made a fool of myself. And this is what you do for me. I can’t begin to tell you how much this means. I’m eternally grateful. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at 11:00 A.M.”
I went back to the Inn and lay in bed all night, unable to close my eyes. What in God’s name am I going to ask Mr. Salinger? I thought. Finally, I decided not to ask him anything about his personal life and his writings. I would ask him about my writings and give him other stories to read.
At 10:30, I arrived at Violet’s Book Exchange. I looked around and only saw Martha.
“You look very nervous, just calm down,” Martha said.
“Ok.”
“He’s just an ordinary person, a real nice guy.”
“Ok.”
At 10:45, Martha walked me into the back room and sat me down at the table. It was a very tiny 7 by 7 room where Martha held books for customers, and there was a counter with a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee machine. “You sit at this table and at 11:00 Mr. Salinger will come through the back door and talk to you. I’m going up front, and I’m going to put a sign on the front door that I’ll reopen at noon. I will be in the front of the store. I will not be back here with you. Are you ok? You don’t look good.”
“I didn’t get any sleep last night. I’ll be alright.”
10:55 A.M., no Mr. Salinger, 10:58, no Mr. Salinger, 11:00, no Mr. Salinger, 11:02, no Mr. Salinger. At 11:04, the back door opened, and in walked Mr. Salinger with a man and a woman by his side. His hair was grey but thick, his face wrinkled, and he walked with a cane. I felt Moses just parted the Red Sea. I was so nervous that in my mind I thought he was Moses. I immediately stood up and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Salinger signaled me with both hands to sit down. The man and woman were standing.
Mr. Salinger sat down at the table. It seemed like we were staring at each other for a while. “Thank you so much for meeting with me Mr. Salinger. It’s quite an honor.”
He placed his finger up to his lip to stop me from talking. “Martha has the information on my literary agent. You mail your stories there. I liked Gefilte Fish.” Mr. Salinger stood up, and as fast as you could say gefilte fish, he was gone.
I drove back to Philadelphia and as soon as I opened my car door the paparazzi and TV cameras were in my face. Flashbulbs going off, lights in my eyes, mikes in my face, and questions flying at me.
“What is Mr. Salinger like? How’s his health? How long did you meet with him? Will he ever speak to the press? Is he writing? Is he going to publish? Will he publish posthumously? What did he say?”
“I can’t answer these questions, because you’ll read about it in my short story, ‘Looking for Mr. Salinger.’”
Salinger reading from Catcher in the Rye, 1952.
San Diego Historical Society Getty Images
Larry you're a fine writer...
ReplyDeleteAlways interesting!
Thank you!
DeleteLooking for Mr Salinger was a pretty incredible story, and you described your thought process very well, reenacting the dysfunctional stubbornness, which worked! didn’t it? As a short story, it works as a simple tale, an anecdote, but not as a piece of literature writing, in my opinion. Good reading in a non-fiction piece perhaps, but not quite an article. I like Salinger better because of it, and i agree that your behavior indicates a diagnosis. Great friend material, but not yet a great writer. Not here. Too much repetition in your dialogue.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed your story!
ReplyDelete