Studs Lonigan (21 page)

People paraded to and fro along Fifty-eighth, and many turned on and off of Prairie Avenue. It was a typically warm summer day. Studs vaguely saw the people pass, and he was, in a distant way, aware of them as his audience. They saw him, looked at him, envied and admired him, noticed him, and thought that he must be a pretty tough young guy. The ugliest guy in the world passed. He was all out of joint. His face was colorless, and the jaws were sunken. He had the most Jewish nose in the world, and his lips were like a baboon's. He was round-shouldered, bow-legged and knock-kneed. His hands were too long, and as he walked he looked like a parabola from the side, and from the front like an approaching series of cubistic planes. And he wore colored glasses. Studs looked at him, laughed, even half-admired a guy who could be so twisted, and wondered who old plug-ugly was, and what he did. Then Leon ta-taed along, pausing to ask Studs about taking music lessons. He put his hands on Studs' shoulders, and Studs felt uncomfortable, as if maybe Leon had horse apples in his hands. Leon wanted Studs to take a walk, but Studs said he couldn't because he was waiting for some guys to come along. Leon shook himself along, and Studs felt as if he needed a bath. Old Fox-in-the-Bush, the priest or minister or whatever he was of the Greek Catholic Church across from St. Patrick's, walked by, carrying a cane. Studs told himself the guy was funny all right; he was Gilly's bosom friend. Studs laughed, because it must be funny, even to Gilly, listening to a guy talk through whiskers like that. Mrs. O'Brien came down the street, loaded with groceries, and Studs snapped his head around, like he was dodging something, and became interested in the sky, so that she wouldn't see him, not only because he was chewing, but also because if he saw her, he'd have to ask her if he could carry her groceries home for her. Hell, he was no errand boy, or a do-a-good-deed-a-day boy scout. And there was old Abraham Isidorivitch, or whatever his name was, the batty old halfblind Jew who was eighty, or ninety or maybe one hundred and thirty years old, and who was always talking loud on the corners. Abraham, or whatever his name was, did repair work for Davey Cohen's old man sometimes, and the two of them must be a circus when they're together. Mothers passed with their babies, some of them brats that squawled all over the place. Helen Borax, with her nose in the air, like she was trying to avoid an ugly smell. Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman, with a young kid carrying a package of her groceries that was too heavy for him. Studs got the gob of tobacco out just in the nick of time. She stopped and asked him how his dear mother was. She said he should be sure and tell her and his father to telephone them sometimes, and to come over for tea. And she asked him how he was enjoying the summer. Dorothy was just doing fine. She was very busy with her music, and she was going to summer school at Englewood, because she wanted to do the four years high school in three. And she said that Mr. Robinson, head master of the troop of boy scouts in the neighborhood, had been over to her house the other evening, and he talked about getting more boys in his organization, because that kept them out of mischief. The boy scouts, she explained, were an excellent organization, which made gentlemen out of boys, gave them opportunities for clean, organized fun and sport, and they taught boys to do all sorts of kind deeds like helping blind ladies across the street. The little boy helping her with groceries was a boy scout, and his good deed every day was to carry her groceries home; and he wouldn't take a penny for it. And her husband said that the boy scouts gave boys preliminary military training and discipline so that it would be easier for them later on in the army, if they were called to defend their country, as they might have to with that old Kaiser trying to conquer the world. She expected to see Studs and all the other boys on Indiana Avenue join the boy scouts. She started to move on, and said in parting:

“Now, do tell your dear mother and your father to come and see us, and now don't you forget to, like little boys often do.”

The boy scout struggled after her with the bundle that was too heavy for him. Studs watched them, and thought unprintable things about old lady Gorman.

He stacked some more tobacco in his mug. He sat there. He put on a show to please himself, and imagined that everybody noticed him. He tired of his tobacco juice spitting contest, and quit. He watched snotnosed Phil Rolfe, the twelve-year-old little pest, tear after a motor truck heading north. The runt got his hitch, even though Studs yelled after him to confuse him, and wished that he'd break his kike neck. Old man Cohen, dirty, bearded, paused and accusingly asked Studs if he had seen Davey. Studs said no. Studs felt sorry for Davey, with an old man like that. He sat there.

Nate shuffled by, and, seeing Studs, came over. Nate was a toothless, graying little man, with an insane stare in his smallish black eyes. He wore a faded and unpressed green suit that had cobwebs on it and a thick, winter cap of the kind that teamsters wore.

“What's on your mind, Nate?” Studs asked, using the same tone and manner that the older guys around Bathcellar's pool room used with him.

Nate said he was getting some new French post cards, and told Studs that he'd sell them for a dime apiece. They were some pictures. Oh, boy! They showed everything. Studs said that he'd take a dozen or two when Nate brought them around. Nate tried to collect in advance, but Studs was no soap for that. Nate started to shuffle away and Studs asked him where the fire was.

“Work, my boy! I was jus' tellin' myself about the chicken I made lay eggs today. I was deliverin' some groceries over on South Park Avenoo, and this chicken was the maid. See! Well! Well, I delivers my groceries, and she says the missus ain't in, and she looks at me, you know the way a chicken looks at a guy!”

Nate winked, leered and poked Studs in the ribs expressively. He continued:

“She says I should leave the groceries, and you know that ain't good business, so I calls ole man Hirschfield, but he says it's o. k. So I leaves the groceries. She tanks me, and she says she has jus' made a cup of tea, an' I should siddown and have one wid her. She was a looker, so I takes the tea wid her, and we gets to barbering about one ting an' anoder, about one ting and anoder . . .”

Nate paused to wipe the slobber off his whiskery chin.

“We gasses about one ting an' anoder, and soon she ups and walks by me to go to the sink, so I pinches her, and it was de nicest I ever pinched, an', my boy, I pinched many in my day, because I'm old enough to be yer grandaddy. Well, first ting you know . . .”

Nate leered.

“The first ting you know . . . why . . . I schlipt her a little luck.”

“Yeh?”

Nate poked Studs confidentially, leered, and said:

“Yeh, I schlipt her a little luck.”

“Yeh?”

“Yeh!”

Nate turned to gape at a passing chicken, and Studs goosed him. Nate jumped.

He shuffled away, furious, telling himself about the damn brats who got too wise before their diapers were changed.

Studs laughed.

He took out another chew, and resumed his competition. The right hand side of his mouth won easily. He thought of Lucy who was probably still sore at him. The old feeling for Lucy flowed through him, warm. She seemed to him like a . . . like a saint or a beautiful queen, or a goddess. But the tough outside part of Studs told the tender inside part of him that nobody really knew, that he had better forget all that bull. He tried to, and it wasn't very easy. He let fly a juicy gob that landed square on a line, three cracks from him. Perfect! He saw Lucy, and acted very busy with his tobacco juice squirting. He let fly another gob that was a perfect hit. She laughed aloud at him, and said:

“Think you're funny, Mr. Smarty!”

Studs let fly another gob. She laughed again, and walked on. Studs sat, not looking nor feeling so much like a tough guy. He didn't turn and see Lucy twist around to glance at him. He threw his wad away. He sat, heedless of the noisy street. A dago peddler parked his fruit wagon in back of Studs, and he was there calling his wares for some time before Studs laughed, like he laughed at all batty foreigners. He thought of Lucy. Lucy . . . she could go plum to . . . LUCY! He shoved another thumb of tobacco in his puss, but didn't chew it with the same concentration. He almost swallowed the damn stuff. Mr. Dennis P. Gorman passed, after his trying day at the police court. Studs coughed from the bad taste in his mouth.

Kenny Killarney appeared, and Studs smiled to see him. Kenny was thin, taller than Studs, Irish, blue-eyed, dizzy-faced, untidy, darkish, quick, and he had a nervous, original walk.

“Hi!” said Studs.

“Hi!” said Kenny, raising his palms, hands outward.

“Hi!” said Studs.

“Hi!” said Kenny; he salaamed in oriental fashion.

“Hi!” laughed Studs.

“Hi!” said Kenny.

“Hi!” said Studs. “Jesus Christ!” said Studs.

“Hi, Low, Jack, and the Game,” said goofy Kenny.

They laughed and stuffed chews in their faces. Studs marveled at Kenny's skill in chewing. Juice rolled down his own chin, and he had to spit the tobacco out again.

Kenny gave a rambling talk. Studs didn't listen, and only heard the end, when Kenny said:

“And I said I'm from Tirty-turd and de tracks, see, an' I lives on de top floor ob de las' house on de left-hand side of de street, and deres a skull an' crossbones on de chimney, and blood on de door, and my back yard's de graveyard for my dead.”

Studs laughed, because you had to laugh when Kenny pulled his gags. Kenny was a funny guy. He ought to be in vaudeville, even if he was still young.

“Well, Lonigan, you old so-and-so, what's happening?”

“It's dead as a doornail, you old sonofabitch,” Studs said.

Kenny looked at Studs; he told him not to say that; he cried:

“Take that back!”

“What's eatin' you?”

“Nothin'. But I don't care if you're kiddin' or not. I love my mother, and she's the only friend I got, and if I was hung tomorrow, she'd still be my mother, and be at my side forgivin' me, and I can't stand and let anybody call her names, even if it's kiddin'; and I don't care if you are Studs Lonigan and can fight, you can't say anything about my mother,” Kenny said. He drew back a step, wiped the tears from his face with his shirt sleeve, and picked up a wooden slab that lay on the sidewalk.

Studs looked questioningly at Kenny, who stood there nervously clenching and unclenching his free fist, determined, his face ready to break into tears at any moment.

“Hell, Kenny! I was only kiddin'. I take it all back,” said Studs.

They faced each other, and in a minute or two the incident was forgotten. Kenny became his old self.

“It's too hot, or we could go raidin' ice boxes. But I don't feel like much effort today,” Kenny said.

“Let's go swimmin',” suggested Studs.

“O.K.,” said Kenny.

“All right. I'll get my suit and meet you here in twenty minutes,” said Studs.

“But I'll have to get a suit. I ain't got none,” said Kenny.

“Whose will you borrow?” asked Studs.

Kenny winked.

“What beach'll we go to?” asked Studs.

“Fifty-first Street,” said Kenny.

“Ain't there a lot of Jews there?” asked Studs.

“Where ain't there kikes? They're all over. You watch. First it's the hebes, and then it's the niggers that's gonna overrun the south side,” Kenny said.

“And then where ull a white man go to?” asked Studs.

“He'll have to go to Africa or ... Jew-rusalem,” said Kenny.

Kenny sang Solomon Levi with all the sheeny motions, and it was funny, because Kenny was funny, all right, and could always make a guy laugh.

Afterward Studs said:

“If we go to Jackson Park, it might be better.”

“There's Polacks there,” said Killarney.

“Well, how about Seventy-fifth Street beach?” asked Studs.

“It's O. K. But listen, sometimes Iris is at Fifty-first.”

“That's a different story. I got to meet this here Iris,” said Studs.

“Yeh,” said Kenny.

“I hope she's there.”

“She's sweet. Boy, she's just UMMMMMMMMMMMMMM-MMM,” said Kenny.

“Is she really good?” asked Studs.

“Best I ever had,” said Kenny like he was an older guy with much experience.

“Well, I'm going to be a disappointed guy if she ain't,” said Studs.

“But listen! Don't work so fast. Suppose she don't give you a tumble. Sometimes she gets temperament, and then she's no soap until some guy she gets a grudge against beats it ... She's like a primadonna,” said Kenny.

“I thought she was like a sweetheart of the navy,” Studs said.

“Well, sometimes she is and sometimes she isn't.”

“Yeah. But anyway, you just lead me to her,” boasted Studs.

“Well, at that, you're talkin' horse sense,” said Kenny.

“Horsey sense,” said Studs.

“Well, anyway, I got to get my suit,” said Kenny.

Kenny told Studs to walk down Fifty-eighth toward Indiana.

“And when I come tearin' along, you run, too, and cut through the lot on Indiana, and down the alley, and through that trick gangway to Michigan,” he added.

Studs did. In a moment, Kenny came running along, and they carried out their plan of escaping, though no one was chasing them. On Michigan, Kenny pulled out the two-piece bathing suit he had copped; the trunks were blue, the top white.

“If it only fits now,” he said.