The Absence of the Artist

I heard a funny story the other day, one which I'm sure has been told repeatedly amongst friends in the New England are. A few friends of friends decided that they were going to make the trek to remote areas of upstate New York in search of the prolific hermit J.D. Salinger (yes he's still alive). Salinger has made it his business to stay out of the public eye, almost literally in his house for the last few decades. Many a young intellectual have gone in search of the mysterious writer, but few come back with anything but disappointment. Anyway, these friends of friends decide that they are the individuals who are going to break Salinger's malingering hermitic ways. So they locate Salinger's home (how this is done I have no clue) and they leave a note that introduces themselves and tells him to meet them at so and so spot at so and so time. Their anxiousness builds all night and the next morning they wake up with the idea that they are finally going to meet the amazing author. They arrive at the spot and to their surprise Salinger is not waiting to pontificate the meaning of the universe, but instead two officers are waiting to ask them what their intentions are with the reclusive author. They make the trek back to the city with their tails between their legs, but with a funny story to make up for the gas money they wasted on the trip upstate.