Catcher in the Rye wasn’t my favourite story in high school. That was Shakespeare’s Julius Cesar. No, Catcher in the Rye was my second favourite story in high school. For no real good reason either. Maybe because it was current. It made sense.

To be honest, I can’t remember a thing about it. All I know is that it wasn’t about the end of the world. It wasn’t some techno-thriller. It wasn’t about anything I really cared about. There was no city bigger than life itself, there was only some human depravity. There was nothing more than some young kid’s tendencies, his lies and whatever else was going on. It was good, I’m sure. Worthy of praise, but, I can’t remember a damn thing about it.

Well, except for one thing.

I have that plain white covered copy. The one everyone read in class. I bought that copy because that is how I know the book to look like. No other cover will make sense. It’s white. Catcher in the Rye is the book with the white cover. On page 122 of the white copy, somewhere near the top, Salinger references something that the moment I read it, it clicked. The most mundane thing ever.

Or you’d just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them…

He referenced a gasoline rainbow. It’s the only thing I remember about the story. At fifteen, I thought it was the prettiest image I had ever read in the written word, tucked in there, especially for me to find. Me, the one who didn’t belong, didn’t fit in, the one the idea of the entire book should have probably appealed to. It was the one thing I took away from the 73,404 words in the entire thing. It was mine and I’ve never let it go, as nonsensical and minor as it is.

J.D. Salinger didn’t write about the apocalypse, but even someone like me found something in Catcher in the Rye. For that, he’ll be missed.

Salinger, there’s always been a gasoline rainbow in every cityscape I’ve ever written. Thank you.