The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [165]
He walked on and sat on a bench by the stone bridge around past the south bend of the lagoon. He pulled up his overcoat collar, and thought of how it was funny that a guy never took time off to think of what he was doing, and think about life. When he was home, he never did, but always listened to the radio, played a Victrola record, read a story in some magazine like the Argosy, or looked at the newspaper. Once in a while he would lie down, but then he would think of something he wanted to happen, getting girls, drinking. Often, since he had knelt beside her at Mass on Christmas day two years ago, he’d thought of her, of knowing her and loving her. And when he went out, he hung around so goddamn much, restless, wondering what to do, and hardly ever satisfied when he did do something, gassing, goofing clowns like Curley and he always kept wondering what time it was. And all along, he had known there was something missing. But this spring it would all be different and he would be better off from every viewpoint, all because he was going to meet her, and, yes, go with her.
He remembered when he licked Weary Reilley, that other day when he had sat with Lucy in the tree, and that day when he had gone home from work with his first pay, how on all those times, he had felt that life was going to start being different for him. This time, though, it had to be. It would. He looked across the lagoon at the wooded island which was on a small hill, half hidden in shadows, with bare trees ranged backwards at intervals from the bank.
He tossed aside the cigarette he was smoking. Most painters smoked and drank too much. He guessed those heartburns he got were from too much smoking. He was going to cut down. Under no considerations would he smoke more than a package a day. He was suddenly afraid that he had a bum heart. Sup-pose he wouldn’t live long, and even a long life was short. He was going on twenty-three now, and look how quickly time seemed to have passed. He thought of himself being cut off early.
He slowly calmed his fears, because he was sure that it was not too late for him to start taking care of his health. He’d exercise, get the fat off, because if he let it go, he’d have too much on and fat would be dangerous and maybe make his heart worse, and you looked like hell with an alderman. Everybody kidded you. And she wouldn’t want a guy who stuck out in front like a balloon. He would exercise every day, go on the wagon, even watch his eating. Many a guy had dug his grave with a knife and fork, just as that writer in the Questioner, Cathcart, bad said. The hell with boozing, whoring. It was the crap. Didn’t pay. Ended you up behind the eight ball.
He felt chilly, and started back to Fifty-eighth Street. He looked at the trees which spread before him, like corpses, with the wind saddening through them. Nice. He was glad, too, that he had taken this walk. And he was going to stick to his determinations, fight not to break them. By God, he wouldn’t! He shot his butt, realizing that he had determined to cut out smoking. Well, it hadn’t been breaking his intentions, because he hadn’t realized that he was smoking. He felt more different than he had ever felt before. He felt that he had will power, and will power was the main asset needed in every walk of life. Over near the drive, he was again aware of the wind sweeping through the shrubbery. It was a sad song, and it seemed to sing through him. It made him sad, but it was a pleasant sadness, because he knew he was different from all the mopes at the poolroom, he was going to do different things and be more than they. He could see himself, meeting them thirty years from now, himself thin, in the pink, not looking his age, them fat, red-nosed, failures, like Barney Keefe, envying him, and saying Studs you haven