The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [28]
SECTION TWO
CHAPTER THREE
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Studs awoke to stare sleepily at a June morning that crashed through his bedroom window. The world outside the window was all shine and shimmer. Just looking at it made Studs glad that he was alive. And it was only the end of June. He still had July and August. And this was one of those days when he would feel swell; one of his days. He drowsed in bed, and glanced out to watch the sun scatter over the yard. He watched a tomcat slink along the fence ledge; he stared at the spot he had newly hoarded so that his old man wouldn’t yelp about loose boards; he looked about at the patches in the grass that Martin and his gang had worn down playing their cowboy and Indian games. There was something about the things he watched that seemed to enter Studs as sun entered a field of grass; and as he watched, he felt that the things he saw were part of himself, and he felt as good as if he were warm sunlight; he was all glad to be living, and to be Studs Lonigan. Because when he came to think of it, living had been pretty good since he had graduated. Every morning he could lie in bed if he wanted to, or else he could hop up and go over and goof around Indiana Avenue and see the guys and…Lucy.
He reclined in bed and thought about looking for a job; he did this almost every morning, and usually he had good intentions. Then he would start pretending, as if his good intentions had been carried out and he was working, earning his own living, and independent, so that his old man couldn’t boss him. But every morning he would forget his good intentions before he got out of bed. And a morning like this was too nice a one to be wasted going downtown and trying to find a job, and maybe not finding it; and anyway, it was a little late, and most of the jobs for guys like him had been probably grabbed up by other kids.
Studs got up. He thought about saying his morning prayers, but he decided to wait and say them while he was washing; a wise guy could always kill two birds with one stone. He knelt down by the open window and took ten inhales; on colder mornings, when the temperature of the room was not the same as the temperature outside, it was swell and invigorating taking inhales, and Studs liked to do it because it made him feel good, but in summer like now, it was only a physical culture measure that he took, because some day Studs Lonigan was going to become big and strong and tough. He turned and went over to the dresser, thinking about how tough a guy he might become. He studied Studs Lonigan in the mirror, and discovered that he wasn’t such a bad-looking guy, and that maybe he even looked older than he was. He took a close-up squint at his mug and decided that it was, after all, a pretty good mug, even if he almost had a sheeny’s nose. He twisted his lips in sneers, screwed up his puss, and imagined himself telling some big guy where to get off at. He said, half aloud:
See, bo, I don’t take nobody’s sass. And get this, bo, the bigger they are, de harder dey fall. See, bo!
He took his pajama top off and gave his chest the double-o. It was broad and solid, all right. He practiced expanding his chest, flexing and unflexing his muscles to feel their hardness, tautening his abdomen to see if he had a cast-iron gut. He told himself that Studs Lonigan was one pretty Goddamn good physical specimen. Scowling like a real bruiser ought to scowl, he shadow-boxed with tip-toed clumsiness, cleaving the air with haymakers, telling himself that he was not only tough and rough, but that he was also a scientific boxer. He swung and swished himself into a good perspiration, knocking out imaginary roughnecks as if they were bowling pins, and then he sat down, saying to himself that he was Young Studs Lonigan, or maybe only Young Lonigan, the Chicago sensation, now in training for the bout when he would kayo Jess Willard for the title.
He snapped out of it, and went to the bathroom. He washed in clear, cold water, snorting with his face lowered in the filled bowl. It felt good, and it also felt good to douse water on his chest. After drying himself with a rough bath towel, he stood up close to the mirror and looked to see if there were any hairs on his upper lip. If he wasn