Studs Lonigan (35 page)

“You know, boys, sometimes I think it would be a good idea to go on the bum,” Doyle said.

“Not me. I know where I can find my pork chops,” Studs said.

“If you did go, you might meet Davey Cohen. Hell, he's been gone three years, ever since that time we gang-shagged that little bitch Iris, and she told him no soap because he was a hebe,” said Red.

“If somebody hasn't croaked that kike by this time, they ought to. I don't like kikes,” Weary said.

Studs finally tired of the gassing and sitting around, so he drifted over to the Washington Park boathouse. It was a long, low, open structure, bounded on two sides by shrubbery. He picked out a cane chair and rocked rapidly. There were few people around, some old men and women who talked too much in loud, cracking voices, Coady, the red-faced, flat-footed park cop who always eyed the lads with suspicion, and a couple of dinges. If the guys had come, they could have ganged the dinges. Niggers didn't have any right in a white man's park, and the sooner they were taught that they didn't, the better off they'd be. He looked around; no chickens.

A coatless fellow rowed effortlessly by on the lagoon. If he had a dollar for deposit, he could get a boat and row around, maybe pick up a chicken by the stone bridge, and fool around with her until it was dark, and then take her over to the wooded island.

Rocking away wasn't his idea of a picnic, so he went outside, and plumped down under a shady tree behind the bushes that stood in front of the boathouse. He fell asleep thinking about girls. Suddenly he opened his eyes, feeling stiff; he didn't know where he was. He heard sounds, voices, the shouts of children, footsteps, the hum of automobile motors as if in a blur. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and realized that he'd been sleeping.

He was moody, trying to recall something sad that he'd been dreaming about. He couldn't remember it, and started thinking again of picking a chicken up, and making her. The fact that later on he'd have to go home for supper dropped in his thoughts like a soggy towel. The old man would probably be on the war-path again. He didn't mind work, he guessed. It was the looking for it, having to learn things about it and seeming like a goof while he was learning. He mightn't even mind working for the old man, but it was only the idea of it, the old man still trying to be his boss. The old man seemed to understand less and less every day and he couldn't be natural with the old fathead. Treated him just like a kid in short pants. If things got too hot at home, he had that gat he'd gotten from Young Hennessey. He'd take it and blow. Weary wouldn't be afraid to. He could do anything that skunk could. But robbing was dangerous. Jail, getting pot-shotted by cops! It was more fun thinking of pulling off a stick-up.

He pillowed his head in locked hands, and looked driftingly through the stirring leaves at the almost cloudless sky. The wind waved branches, the sun glinted on the leaves, and the sky was big and round and far away. He was lonesome, wanting things, a girl, Lucy, wanting that and something more and he didn't even know what it was. Always these days, no matter what he was doing, he wanted to be doing something else, and he couldn't think of much else for long, but girls, Lucy, and girls too, and he was always wishing, looking at girls on the streets as if they were the thing he was always wanting, thinking every morning he might meet Lucy again, or some girl who would be what he wanted and might help him find out the thing that was always bothering him without his even knowing what it was. Must be going bugs! Doyle, Red and the guys didn't seem to have troubles like that. He looked through the leaves, with wind creeping in them, waving branches in groups. Looking and shuttering aside his thoughts, he felt pleasant and happy. And a girl could make him so much happier!

“Hello!”

It was a big guy, maybe thirty or even older, who had sat down by Studs without his knowing it. The fellow looked like a bag of mush, with soft skin, almost like a woman's, and a squeaky, weak voice. He made Studs uneasy.

“It's a ripping afternoon!”

“Yeah!” Studs said coldly, thinking that the guy was goofy all right.

“You come over to the park to find the girlies. There's plenty of them here, nice buxom nursemaids, you know, who would like a strong young boy like you.”

What the hell was he driving at? Something fluky about him all right!

The fellow stretched out, and his thigh, very casually, seemed to touch Studs' knee. This slight contact made Studs want to vomit, just as the sight of oysters did.

“You like the girlies?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Studs, feeling more and more uncomfortable, wondering if he ought to blow, or take a chance and sock the guy, even if he was heavier, or what?

“Boys your age generally do. If you don't, there must be something wrong with you. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Studs answered, not knowing why he even answered the guy.

“You're old enough to play. . . . You know?” the guy said with a wink as he gave Studs a soft but knowing little poke.

Studs knew he must be blushing.

“You shouldn't be ashamed of it. It's only natural to do that.”

“Say, what's the idea?” Studs tensely asked.

“Oh, nothing! You needn't worry. I just like to try to be friendly with young boys, talk over their problems with them, give them advice.”

Studs glanced aside. The fellow's leg kept rubbing against him. It made him feel like he might if he'd drunk something like toilet water.

“Playing, you know, is safer than fooling around with the girlies, because you can pick up diseases from them. Most of them have diseases.”

“Yeah, I know,” Studs said, trying to be hard.

“You have to be careful all the time.”

Studs felt like telling him a lot of bull, but he couldn't think up any story. The guy clogged up his tongue.

“You know, there's better and safer ways,” the fellow said, his hand ever-so-lightly running up Studs' thigh. Studs noticed how queer and tight the fellow's face got. He felt himself being pawed.

“Listen! What's the idea!” Studs said very excitedly, sitting up.

“Now, sonny, be calm! I'm only going to be a friend to you. I wouldn't try and hurt a clean decent-looking boy like you.”

“Yeah!” jerked Studs menacingly.

He stood up with his fists clenched, but indecisive. The guy arose, slipped into the bushes and disappeared.

Studs woke up. The guy was fruit, the first one he'd ever met like that. He was sorry he hadn't hauled off on him. He walked into the path, and looked up and down. Then he looked in the boathouse, but couldn't find the guy. He returned again to sit down under the tree.

He was ashamed of himself, of his thoughts, his body, of the way life was. He heard birds chirping and the winds above him in the tree leaves, pure like Lucy, and he looked up at the waving bushes, first one group of bushes flaunting, then another, then all of them whipping back and forth, and through them he could see patches of sky. He felt as if somebody had rubbed him all over with horse manure.

He got up, and walked about, moody, not wanting to go any place, not wanting to go back and sit around the poolroom with the guys, feeling all clammy.

He got home for supper late, and the old man was crabby. He didn't say anything at the table. They noticed that he was acting queer and kept asking him what was the matter.

“Nothing,” he said.

After supper, Lonigan called Studs into the parlor for a talk. He said all right, a bit surlily, and stopped off in the bathroom to get his thoughts collected. He felt that maybe this was going to be a showdown with the old man, and if it was, he'd let him know that Studs Lonigan was going to be his own boss.

The old man sat in his rocker, an ancient piece with a plush cushion that the old lady had been trying to get out of the parlor for years. Studs entered with a scowl of determination on his face. The old man gave him a sharp look, as if to scare him. He told Studs to sit down, his manner authoritative, and he dabbled away at lighting his stogy.

“You're going on eighteen?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if you agree with me that it's about time that you begin to figure out what you're going to do with your life?”

“Well . . . I looked for a job today.”

“Where?”

“Oh, a number of places in the Loop,” Studs said, wishing he had told the old man to mind his own damn business.

“Do you want to go back to school or don't you?” the old man asked, nodding ironically.

“I don't like school,” Studs said with uncertain firmness.

“Well, what do you want or like?”

“I'll get a job one of these days.”

“Yes. You've been doing that for over a year, and it's cost me a buck a day. What's the matter with you? Are you sick? Tonight at the supper table there, you didn't even bat an eye and had a face a yard long. What's wrong? Are you sick, or in trouble?”

“Nothing. I'll get a job.”

“Take the chip off your shoulder!”

“I ain't got any on it!”

“I can't understand you. Here I'm willing to give you a hell of a lot better chance in life than I ever had, and you won't take it. You just mope along . . .” the old man stopped short and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture of weariness. Studs waited to see what would come next.

“Well, as they say, you can bring a horse to the trough, but you can't make him drink!”

The old man whewed as if expressing the difficulties of thinking down into disconsolate depths.

“Maybe you're better off without an education, and a lot of book-learning. It might make you into a high-hat snob like it did Dinny Gorman. You don't need an education like that to be a success. I didn't.”

Studs wanted it to be over so he could get out of the damn house.

“What you need is hard work, and I'm going to give it to you. Tomorrow you can come with me, and I'll put you to work.”

Remembering what Weary had said of his old man, Studs felt that he'd be yellow if he took this. And he felt his courage ebbing.

“I had to work a damn sight harder than you'll ever have to. . . . And I'll be damned if I let you become a poolroom bum!” Lonigan said with sudden energy, banging his right fist into his left palm.

“I'm not a poolroom bum,” Studs unconvincingly replied.

“I don't want you to become one!”

“I'm not!” Studs countered like a pouting child.

“I'm your father, and it's my duty to see that you amount to something and turn into a decent citizen. And, by God, I will. You children are all your mother and I got. We worked hard for you, and we don't want to feel that we done it all for nothing. You owe us something in return, and all we are asking of you is that you amount to something, be decent citizens, give us the right to be justifiably proud of you. We don't want to have to hang our heads in shame because of any of our children when we walk down the street. And, by God, I'll see that we don't have to!”

Studs was sore, but words just choked up in him.

“You understand now. You come with me in the morning!”

A dangerous pause.

“I can find a job, maybe tomorrow,” Studs said, immediately perceiving that his words had weakly fizzled.

“I told you what you'd do!” the old man half-shouted.

“I'll find my own job!” Studs said swiftly and breathlessly, as he jumped to his feet.

“For once, you do what I say! In the morning, you start turning over a new leaf. . . . And, yes, you might as well stay in tonight so's to get a good night's sleep. You'll need it in the morning.”

“I'm my own boss!”

“Why, you goddamn little . . .”

A red flush from the slap he got appeared on Studs' left cheek. Uncontrolled tears welled forth. He wanted to hit back. He was afraid of his father. He sniffled without will.

The old man dropped back to his rocker, held his head in his hands. Studs looked at him, imagined himself smashing the old bastard's face till it bled and swelled. He stood impotently.

“You heard me! Tomorrow! Now get the hell out of my sight before I give you the trimming you deserve, you dirty little whelp!”

“Patrick! What's happened?” the old lady said, coming to the entry way, as Studs, still bawling, turned to go.

“William! . . .
William!”

“I'm leaving here!” Studs said, brushing past her.

“Did you hit him?” the mother demanded.

“And I'll hit again. After all I done for him, the dirty little ingrate, defying me! All right, go on, get out, and don't come back. I don't ever want to see you again!”

“Patrick Lonigan! How dare you! Striking my son, my own flesh and blood! Ordering my precious first-born baby out of my home!”

“Mary, you don't know what you're talking about. Don't tell me what I'm to do in my home! And don't be wastin' your sympathy. What he needs is to get the tar kicked out of him. And if he wants to live here, he'll do what I tell him!”

In his room, Studs was proud of himself for having defied the old man. Glad, too, that his father and mother were having a big blowout. He cried; well, he was so goddamn sore, he couldn't help it.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Fran said, stopping in his doorway.

“Mind your own goddamn business!”

“How dare you curse me!” she said, shocked.

“For Christ sake, shut your trap!”

She rushed into the parlor, and shrieked in a high-pitched voice. It was like a nut-house now. He slipped into his old lady's room, and copped five bucks from her pocket-book. He got his rusty old gat from its hiding place at the bottom of his closet. He put on his cap, and went to the bathroom. He saw that his eyes were red from crying. He tried to hide the redness with Fran's powder. He was ashamed of himself.