Studs Lonigan (25 page)

“But can you imagine a guy like me bein' a priest?” repeated Studs.

“The girls around here are too soft and primpy; they're cry babies. And they are always talking, talking about boys and kisses. And some of 'em like Helen Borax are too damn catty for me,” Helen said.

“Well, it seems to me that the whole neighborhood around here has gone dead. Now aroun' Fifty-eighth and Prairie we got a real gang,” said Studs.

“Well, I don't like them,” she said.

Studs shot the butt he'd been smoking. He stocked his mush with tobacco. She smiled and asked him how long he'd been chewing. Trying to be matter of fact, he said that he'd been chewing for a long time. He rose, and walking to the window he let the brown juice fly. It was a pretty good performance; he was learning, all right.

He came back and asked her if she could imagine a guy like him bein' a priest. She said he wasn't such a bad guy at that.

“But can you imagine a guy like me bein' a priest?” he said.

They sat. They didn't have much more to say. Studs had feelings he would have liked to talk about, but he didn't have words, just those melting feelings that went through him and made him want Lucy more than he wanted a drink of water when he was thirsty. Helen would have liked to talk to him as they used to talk when he hung around Indiana. The words just weren't in either of them any more. After a while she tried to speak, telling him that he was being a fool hanging around Fifty-eighth Street where the bunch made a bum out of everybody. She said a guy didn't have to be a sissy or yellow not to be a bum like those louses were. She didn't like them, or like the way they picked on Jews, and beat kids up, and always got in trouble. The thing the matter with them, she said, was that they thought every night was Hallowe'en.

Studs said that she just didn't understand them, because they were great guys, and they had a lot of pep, and weren't a bunch of mopes. And they always stuck together and none of them were yellow. They were awake and lively; they weren't deadnecks.

“If I was you, Studs, I'd can ‘em. First thing you know they'll have you in a jam, and you'll be ridin' in the paddy wagon.”

“Naw,” said Studs, letting tobacco juice fly through the opened window.

He thought about riding in a paddy wagon. It was like thinking of fighting, a lot of fun; but the real stuff wasn't always so swell.

“Well, Studs, you'll maybe find out for yourself. I like you, Studs, and you're a nice kid, but for your own good, I'd say that you ought to shake them bastards. Red Kelly's nothin' but a rat, and Tommy Doyle, he's no good. Why, he used to get drunk when he was only in the sixth grade, and last summer he used to run for beer for the workmen who were over at the Prairie Theatre, and he'd drink with them; and he always goes around with older guys like Jimmy Devlin, getting girls in basements, and not caring at all if they say yes or not, but just going ahead. No wonder he got thrown out of St. Patrick's and Carter School. The only nice kid in the bunch is Paulie, but he won't be long, hanging around with those rats.”

“They're all right,” insisted Studs.

“And I hear Weary's around again,” said she.

“Yeh, him and me made up,” said Studs.

“Well, watch him; he's dangerous, and I wouldn't trust him. He's a dirty . . .”

“I don't know. I don't like him particularly, and if he ever gets noisy with me, well, I'll hang a couple more on him, but you gotta admit that he's one guy that don't let nobody run him. He don't even let his old man run him . . . Why, he beat it from home,” Studs said.

“Yeh, I heard about it. He lives in basements and generally has peanuts for supper,” said she.

“But he's his own boss.”

“But that's all boloney. He's going straight for the pen. You mark my word. Then a hell of a lot of bossing himself he'll do,” she said.

Studs said he didn't know.

They sat. Silence, and a feeling of artificiality for both of them.

Helen asked him if he had met that Iris that was around.

“I met her on the street with Paulie. That's all,” he said.

Studs wanted to say he was going up there, but he didn't know how she'd take it. He remembered the time Iris had given him and Paulie a lot of hot air because she wanted Weary alone. Reilley! He hissed to himself. But maybe Iris didn't know he'd cleaned on Weary. Well, when she did, and she got to know him, she wouldn't have nothing to do with Weary. When she got to know him, well, you just watch his dust. If he had to, he'd take a few more pokes at Reilley . . . only, well, he wasn't afraid of another fight, but then, well, he'd licked the guy once, even if he did get the insides of his face all cut, and a shiner. Iris would . . . understand him. Now that was a discovery. The trouble that always bothered him was that nobody understood him. Well, maybe she would. Maybe that thing was so that fellows and girls could get to understand each other. Maybe there was more to it than just getting girls and doing it because you were curious, and because then you could brag before other guys about it. He wanted to tell Helen about this thought, but he guessed he hadn't better.

“Say, did you find anything more out about that house on Fifty-seventh Street?” asked Studs.

“Lucy's heard something about Iris, and asked me. Lucy still likes you,” Helen said.

“Yeh,” said Studs, getting quite misty.

A pause.

“Say, do you think there'd be anything doing at that place now? Maybe if we could climb on the porch,” said Studs.

Helen shrugged her shoulders.

A pause.

“Is your mother or anybody home?” he asked.

“Why?” Helen asked.

She looked at him; she guessed what was in his mind.

“No,” she said. She added, “Lucy really likes you.”

Lucy! She seemed quite far away from him now. At times he liked her, and at times he tried to pretend to himself that he didn't. He wanted to tell it all to Helen, and the words choked in his throat.
The time they sat in the tree!
Helen said she could fix things up for him with Lucy. He wanted to say go ahead, but something stopped him, and he told her never mind. He could have kicked himself in the tail all the way around the block for it, but that was what he said and he didn't know why. And it was all on account of that punk, Danny O'Neill. Well, things would turn out all right in the end. Lucy liked him, and it might do her good if she did a little worrying because he acted like he didn't like her. She would come around to him. After all he was STUDS LONIGAN. He tried to keep Helen talking about Lucy, and he sat there, as if he wasn't interested, spitting tobacco juice like sixty. He told Helen that Lucy was all right, but he didn't think he was interested in girls any more. Helen said “YEAH!” Silence. Studs tried to explain that he really wasn't, and he got himself all mixed up. Helen didn't answer him. They sat in silence.

“But say, didn't any of the guys find out about that place?” he said.

He looked at her.

She glanced away.

“I don't like to always be talking about those things. Guys always start to talk about them with me, and then, well, they get fresh and start asking me, or scratching the palm of my hand,” she said.

She talked to him as if she was talking to Andy Le Gare or somebody else.

Silence. Then she asked him was he going to school. He lied that he wasn't. He guessed he couldn't talk to Helen as he used to. They looked at each other, realizing that they were changed. They looked at each other.

She said he ought to go to high school, because he would be a football star. He said he didn't know.

They sat. He got up, and she said she had to go in and take a bath. He said he'd come in and wait, as long as nobody was home. She gave him a dirty look and said he hadn't better.

She walked out to the front with him. He limped, just like he had seen Barlowe limping. She asked him what was wrong. He said he'd sprained a muscle or something, sliding in an indoor game.

He left her, and walked down toward Fifty-eighth. He thought of Lucy, and Iris, and Helen, and . . . then Lucy. He pretended that he was with Lucy over in the park in their tree, with the wind in his hair, and her sitting, swinging her legs, himself watching her, kissing her, her telling him he was a great guy, and she liked him, and was sorry for what had happened, themselves sitting there all afternoon with no one near them, and the air so cool in their hair. And maybe she'd see it was all right for them to . . . well, it might make them understand each other better.

He thought he heard her calling him, and he started his limping again. He turned sharply. There was no one behind him. He dropped his head and walked along. He tried to make himself feel good by telling himself how tough he was.

Lucy, I love you.

“What'll we do?” asked Tommy Doyle.

“I don't know,” answered Benny Taite.

“Uh!” muttered Davey Cohen.

“I'm pretty tired of sockin' Jew babies, or we might scout a few,” said Red Kelly.

“Me, too,” said Davey.

“Well, what I'd like is a glass of beer,” said Tommy.

“You always do,” said Davey, as he sniped a butt from the curb-edge.

The gang of them were in front of the Fifty-eighth Street elevated station.

“Ope!” laughed Studs Lonigan, pointing to Vine Curley and Phil Rolfe, who came along Fifty-eighth Street from Calumet.

As they approached, Weary Reilley commanded:

“Commere!”

“Say, goofy, you got any dough?” Studs asked.

“Yeh,” said Vine Curley like an absent-minded dunce.

“Let me see it,” said Kenny Killarney.

Vine said he had made a mistake. He didn't have any money. They ragged him. Weary sneered, grabbed Vinc's arm, and told the guys to frisk him. Studs grabbed Phil, and the gang got six bits out of the two of them. They ran, the victims ran after them, bawling, but they were ditched in an alley.

The group ganged into Joseph's Ice Cream Parlor at Fifty-fifth and Prairie and had sodas. The bill was more than their six bits, and they didn't see why they should pay anyway. They figured out how they would make a dash for the door, and Kenny told them to leave and say he had the bill. He told Weary to hold the door for him. To stall time, Kenny fooled around the candy case, took a couple of Hershey bars, and ordered some mixed chocolates. While Joseph was weighing the chocolates Kenny dashed. He and Weary caught up with the guys, who were crossing the north drive of Garfield Boulevard. They all tore down Prairie, and got away easily. They returned toward Fifty-eighth Street, laughing over it. After a lot of squabbling, they divided the dough evenly. They wondered what to do. Kenny and Davey goofed over a cigarette butt. Studs and Benny Taite sparred. Weary told some new dirty jokes. Paulie Haggerty then asked Weary about school, but Weary said the hell with it. He pointed to the objects in the street that symbolized school for him. He said the family had taken him back home, and wouldn't make him do what he didn't want to, because they were scared to hell that he'd bust out and become a holdup man. Studs thought it would be a good thing to run away from home, but felt that he never would. They wondered what they would do. Two kids came along, and they were stopped and asked where they came from. The kids said Fifty-ninth and Wentworth. Red Kelly said it was an Irish neighborhood and all right, so they let the kids go. They wondered what to do, and Kenny thought he'd like to play his cat trick. The last time he had played it, he had caught a couple of cats and dropped them from a roof, and one cat had almost landed square on a cop. The cat trick was best, though, when he could get a dog, and cart the cats to a third floor or a roof and then sick the dog on them so they'd have to jump. There were no cats to be found, so Kenny said he'd like to rob ice boxes. They trailed over to a building at Fifty-eighth and Michigan, and on the way picked up Johnny O'Brien. Three buildings stood in a row facing Fifty-eighth and extending to the Michigan Avenue corner. There was a narrow walk, and a few feet of dirt in the back, and the porches extended all the way along, with no banisters dividing one from another. It was easy for the guys to split up, and for each group to take a floor, while Davey stood downstairs and Johnny O'Brien hung outside in the alley to give jiggs. They got milk, tomatoes, eggs, catsup, and butter. Kenny got most of the loot, because Kenny had a style of his own. Studs got one bottle of milk; he had been a little leery about getting caught, and in a hurry, or he could have hooked some tomatoes. He whewed with relief when they all got safely over to the vacant lot at Fifty-eighth and Indiana. No one was hungry, so they wondered what they would do with their haul. Kenny lammed a bottle of milk against the wall of the three-story gray brick house where O'Connell lived. Red Kelly said it was a shot for the lanky bastard. They flung the other bottles of milk against the wall, and watched the milk trickling into the sandy prairie. Johnny O'Brien saw goofy Andy Le Gare. Johnny flung a tomato, and it smacked Andy square in the mush. Wiping his face with a dirty handkerchief, and stuttering curses, Andy came over. He socked Johnny, who was a year older and bigger than him. They fought and Johnny gave Andy three dirty socks. He was too big for Le Gare, but the fool kept on fighting, getting himself smacked. Benny Taite suddenly gave jiggers. The janitor from the O'Connell building and the one from the building they had looted were coming across the prairie after them.

“The Germans are comin'!” Paulie yelled.

“Boushwah!” Kenny yelled at the janitors.

He flung his last tomato and it caught one of the janitors in the neck. The other guys flung their eggs and tomatoes, and then rocks. They legged it, yelling like a band of movie Indians. They ditched the janitors around Fifty-fifth, and marched on toward Fifty-third. They laughed, and Weary said they could have licked the lousy foreigners anyway, only it was more fun getting shagged. They decided to get the two of them on Hallowe‘en. Kenny said every day was Hallowe'en. They laughed. Kenny said they were in little Jewrusalem now, and they could probably catch a couple of Jew babies.