Studs Lonigan (57 page)

“Studs, this joint looks phony to me,” Les said.

“Yeah.”

There was a drugged sanctimoniousness about the sappy-looking birds seated in the lobby. Studs felt that there wasn't a man or a regular guy amongst them. The desk was at the right of the rectangular lobby, and a blond young man, with a pinhead mustache, stood behind it.

“I suppose we should ask this dope,” Studs said, approaching the desk.

“All I can say is that I don't like the looks of this joint,” Les said.

“Sure, every one in the joint was probably a boy scout when he was a punk. What can you expect? But we came here to use the gym and swim. We don't have to worry about all these mopes.”

As they passed a lounge, a small little chap, with a wax-like mustache and stacombed hair, stopped before another guy who was reading the
American Magazine.

“Hello, old man!” the chap with the wax-like mustache said.

“Why, George! Gee, George, I'm pleased to see you.”

“I wonder what museum those eggs came from,” Studs quietly said to Les.

“This one,” Les answered.

The clerk directed them to the office of the Membership Secretary. As they entered the office, the vacuous-looking, pale secretary rose and said:

“Good evening, fellows!”

He heartily shook hands with them. They took seats at his direction.

 

“You gentlemen, I presume, are desirous of becoming members.”

They nodded.

“Well, we're always pleased to have the right kind of members. And were you intending to reside here with us?”

“No.”

“You're Christians, I assume?”

“Irish,” said Les.

“And if I may ask, what is it that prompts you to join us?”

Studs said for the use of the gym and swimming. He told them of the salutary effect of exercise and sports, and what fine fellows they had in the organization. They were given membership blanks to fill out, and their dough was collected. They were told they'd have to be examined by the doctor, but the doctor was not around. They went down to the lockers to undress for a swim.

“That guy's clammy,” Studs said.

“You know, I don't think I've ever gone swimming before at this time of the year,” Les said.

“I did,” Studs said.

“I always hate the first splash. Hitting the water for the first time makes me nervous.”

“All you have to do is just dive in and it's over with.”

“I know, but thinking about it in advance makes me nervous.”

They came to the pool, and heard shouting and splashing. Inside, they paused, and looked around, seeing many naked guys. A tall fellow made a big splash as he dove from the board at the deep end of the pool. Studs said that guy didn't know how to dive. . . . They moved around to the diving board. Studs said let's go, walked to the end of the board, stood on his toes, rocked a moment, and leaped, turning over as he went down, arms first, making little splash.

“Nice one, Studs,” Les yelled.

Studs came up, puffed, and took a few strokes. He about-faced and swam the crawl stroke back to the pool edge. Holding to the railing with one hand, and splashing water with the other, he told Les it was swell, to come on in. Les said he would, he was just standing there a minute. Studs let go of the railing, and pushed himself away from the pool edge. He turned on his back and floated, the pool sounds and muffling shouts sounding vague in his ears. He turned over and swam speedily to the shallow end of the pool, turned around without stopping, and returned swimming as swiftly as he could, but tiring with each stroke, so that his breath came more irregularly, and his arms seemed to grow heavy. He puffed noticeably, and his arms were leaden as he climbed up the ladder, and out of the pool.

“Go ahead. Make the leap, and it's swell.”

“I will. I was just watching a minute.”

“That almost pooped me. I got to get better wind than I got,” Studs said.

He patted the fat around his belly.

“This has to come off.”

“There isn't much there.”

“It's more than there should be.”

A big splash was made, and water was thrown up against them.

“Why don't that bastard learn how before he starts diving. He's like Moses parting the waters,” Studs said.

“You're a good swimmer,” Les said.

“I used to swim a lot as a kid.”

“So did I, but you're better than I am,” Les said.

“Well, here goes again. Coming?”

“All right.”

Studs ran off the board, and let go, again doing a neat dive. Les followed, diving more awkwardly, splashing heavily.

“Nice,” Les yelled, coming up, and swimming alongside of Studs.

“Let's race,” Studs said.

“You can beat me.”

“Oh, come on, anyway.”

They raced, Studs let Les gain, then, with full confidence, he took even powerful strokes to draw alongside, and then ahead of, him. They stood up in the shallow water.

“I'm glad I came.”

“It's good,” Studs said, shaking his head.

“Race back?” he added.

“What's the use. You beat me.”

Studs turned, jogged out to the deeper water as he moved, dove, swam under water, and came up near the middle of the pool. He turned and saw Les coming towards him. He swam to the deeper edge, followed by Les, and climbed up the ladder. He took another dive, went under water for about six feet, came up and moved swiftly, exulting in a feeling of complete bodily freedom. It was swell. The water was just right, lukewarm, and he took rhythmic strokes, gaining a confidence in his physical powers, feeling removed from the world, clean. It was like losing all the gripes that had been piling up within him. He felt, too, that he still had a good body. After a few months of this, and then the summer, he'd be hard as nails. And whores and whore houses, and booze, all that were like sins of the past. He swam until he was tired and gasping, with his arms again heavy and leaden, and his back weary as if it were crushed down with weights. He was spent. He climbed out of the pool, thinking how it had been fun spending himself. He lay down wet on the slippery tile, covering his eyes with his arms.

“Gee, this is swell,” Les said, lying down beside him.

“Uh huh,” Studs said.

Guys talked, dove, swam, ran around the tile flooring. It all seemed far away.

“Yes, hell, it's much better swimming this way than with suits.”

Studs looked up, as if he were just awakening. He and Les sat up.

“Come on, let's take another dip before we call it quits.”

They dove in, swam the length of the pool, and then went down to the lockers to dress and go out.

“I had a swell time,” Les said.

“Yeah, and it's good for you.”

“The guys don't know what they missed,” Les said.

“They're all mopes.”

“SAY,
Mr., could you help me to get a bite to eat?” Davey Cohen begged, touching the sleeve of a well-dressed bucolic-looking fellow in front of the Circle Monument in Indianapolis.

“SAY, Studs, if I knew you were coming around tonight, I'd have had the boys hire a band to meet you. Where you been keeping yourself?” asked Red Kelly.

“Oh, I've just been catching up on my sleep.”

“So I heard; the boys were saying that you're living hygienically.”

“You must be another one of these guys who's been working crossword puzzles.”

“Say, listen, Studs, how about coming along with me tonight to that meeting at St. Patrick's?”

“What's doing?”

“Don't you remember, Gilly announced it at mass last Sunday.”

“Oh, yeah, the club they're going to have for young people.”

“I was thinking I might as well go there.”

“That'll be all blah. Every damn time they tried that stunt in this parish, it's flopped.”

“I just thought I'd see what was going to happen.”

“All the church ushers, Larkin, McAuliffe, Al Borax, and maybe even Jim Clayburn will run it and think up some committees to put themselves on. Then they'll pass the plate. And all the punks will be up there, smelling after young broads. You can have that crap for yourself.”

“But look here, Studs; I was thinking that if a couple of guys like us went there, we might be able to make something out of it besides a dancing school for the drug store cowboys, or a hall where those goddamn church ushers could try and pretend that they're Father Gilhooley,” Red said.

“Say, Red, are you planning to go into politics?”

“Well, if I ever do, an outfit like this wouldn't hurt me none,” said Red.

Studs nodded his head, smiling knowingly.

“Come on, Studs.”

Up there, he might see that girl, and he was still Studs Lonigan, and all the punks and everybody would treat him with respect. They always did. They knew they had to. Let them try kidding him! O'Neill had the other day, and he'd shut up when he'd been told, because if he hadn't, he knew what was coming to him. And going back around St. Patrick's made him think of the old days when, goddamn it, he'd had such a swell time.

“All right,” Studs said, feigning disinterest.

“I really think we ought to go. This time they're organizing the thing to raise money for the new church. After all these years and all this talk, Gilly's really going to build it. And there's no reason why St. Patrick's shouldn't have as fine a church as any in the city. This is a good neighborhood and a good church. There's plenty of good Catholics, Irish, in it, people like your old man and mine, and we ought to have a church. There's enough dough in the parish, too, and Gilly's the boy to raise it. But it's a worthy venture, and we ought to try and do our share.”

“Red, you're getting the gift of gab. If I'm not careful, you'll probably be selling me real estate out in the middle of Lake Michigan,” Studs said, starting with Red towards St. Patrick's.

He could feel it in his bones that tonight he was really going to meet her. And there were things about him that nobody knew, and that he'd once thought Lucy would notice, but hadn't, and she would. Well, Lucy could go plumb to—and then stick her head in the bowl. Tonight was going to be his night in a big way. He'd get her, and maybe marry her. Why not? He tried to remember what she looked like. She was blond. She was slender but with enough meat on her. Her face, eyes.... He couldn't remember.

“St. Patrick's is a coming parish, Studs. And the new church is going to make it. It's going to stop all this wild talk about the jiggs moving around here and running the neighborhood. Gilly is a smart man, and what he said last Sunday in church is the goods. Michigan Avenue is going to be made a boulevard. Property values around here will skyrocket. The new church will clinch the matter. You watch, it'll make people stay here, and the new ones of the right kind with money will move in and buy property. Gilly knows his stuff.”

“That's what my old man thinks. He won't sell the building because he thinks it'll be worth more in a few years.”

“He's got a head on his shoulders, too.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And a young guy from a good family in this neighborhood, now he's got a good chance here in politics. You know, we all laugh at Jim Doyle and kid him about being assistant precinct captain. But he's got the dope. He's got a good paying political job now on city construction work, and he's going to get along. You see, Studs, we're younger than Jim, and we still got some wild oats to sow, but sometime we'll have to settle down. That's why I was saying a young fellow in this neighborhood can get along in politics.”

Studs kind of wished that he'd finished school and studied law. He could see himself as alderman of the ward some day, maybe even Mayor Lonigan. They walked a stretch without talking.

“Say, Weary Reilley damn near killed a guy in a scrap around Sixty-third and University the other night. You know, that bastard is riding for a fall. He's got into the habit of thinking he's tough, and he has to act tough to keep up his rep, and well, you know what happens to such guys. There's always somebody just a little bit tougher.”