Catch them
"And I'm standing at the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff. I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."She had watched the slim figure take a bar stool, his eyes locked to the ground, even as the man behind the bar was talking to him.
"What can I get you? A soda?"
"Southern Comfort on the rocks."
"I don't quite think you're old enough to order liquor, son."
"Fine. Fine. A coke."
He lit a cigarette.
The bartender knitted his brows, turned around and returned, still eyeing the impassive creature in front of him, who was clinging to the dirty glass of beverage just like to a lifeline.
The woman of indefinable age sat down next to the boy, her gloved hands painting swirls on the bar. She leaned forward and looked at her neighbour, seemingly unaware of the listlessness he was dispersing.
"Good evening dear."
His eyes didn't move.
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Marcy."
His lips stiffened.
Marcy's throaty voice continued to drown out the distinct sound of blues in the background.
"What is a fella like you doin' in old Manhattan all alone on a Saturday night? You must be lonesome."
The boy's ears began to sink behind the collar of his black coat. Marcy, surprised by the sudden, scared reaction, threw a glance at the busy bartender and, without putting too much thought into it, put her hand on the knee next to hers.
Dark eyes shot up, meeting hers, she smirked. "Am I mistaken?"
He moved his tired, pale face a few inches closer to hers, closed his eyes once again and then his lips parted, a small whisper escaped. "No."
"What's your name, darling?"
"Neil."
He looked up again and his eyes wandered over the dark, red lips, the heavy lidded eyes, the artificial blush.
"What are you doing in New York, Neil?"
"I'm a writer."
"Where're you from?"
"I don't remember. I've been raised in an orphanage outside of town."
They locked eyes and Marcy could swear she could see sorrow somewhere inside the black pupils.
"I'm sorry." She wasn't lying. He didn't seem much older than seventeen. "I shouldn't be pestering you. Actually," – she was smiling, even though she didn't know why and how – "actually, you're young enough to be my–"
The sound of breaking glass killed her words. Somewhere, a waitress cursed.
Marcy returned the following nights, forgetting herself, forgetting her own life, her own destinations. The boy called Neil awaited her, even if he didn't show it, and he told her about his life in the orphanage, about cold winter nights and sharing a dormitory with hundreds of other boys. About crying at night and about sneaking out to go ice skating in Central Park.
She kept her distance as good as possible, told him about her dreams of cabarets and starring in movies, just like Marilyn Monroe, and smiled away the wrinkled glances the bartender threw at them while reading the newspapers.
A week had passed, it was Saturday night again, when Marcy entered the pub. It seemed as if he hadn't moved at all since the night before, he was sitting to her right and staring into nothingness.
"Neil", she mouthed as she climbed on the stool next to his.
He didn't respond. Something had changed, she could feel it.
When he looked at her, his face was different. Marcy frowned. He was the same boy, alright, but then again, he wasn't Neil at all.
"Don't call me that name. I'm not Neil."
For the first time she could remember, Marcy didn't know what to say.
He sighed and shook his head. "I'm not an orphan, I've never gone ice skating in Central Park, and I'm as far from becoming a writer as this dirty pub is from becoming a fancy restaurant, Marcy."
Outside, a black Mercedes and a police car stopped and everybody turned around to stare. Everybody except for the boy who, apparently, wasn't called Neil.
"I'm sorry."
The door opened and a severe looking man entered, followed by a petite woman in a white fur coat. Their eyes found the boy and now she could see real sorrow, real fear in his eyes.
The woman cried out a name.
Charles.
And she understood.
"Good luck at becoming a film star," he muttered, fingers brushing off non-existent dirt on his sleeves, lips trembling.
The man gripped his shoulder and then they were gone.
A/N & Disclaimer: I don't own DPS. Quotation is taken from "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger, a novel that I link like none other with the character of Charlie Dalton, somehow. I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, English is not my native language.