The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [280]
“That’s why you’ve always been so dumb,” O’Grady said, interrupting Allison.
“Dumb, hell! It’s just that I got to have something to do, and dough in my pocket, and the feeling that I don’t have to take nobody’s crap. Then I can just go along and pay my own way, and I feel right. And Christ, this goddamn hanging around without a sou in your pocket, it just rips me up the back.”
“Me, now, I might just as well be not working, with my salary cut to fifteen bucks a week, and my old man sobbing the blues every night about how broke he is. Holy Christ!” Bryan said.
“Sing ‘em, brother, sing ‘em!” Pat said, smiling. He turned to Studs as they seemed to split into two groups, and said, “Doing anything interesting these days, Studs?”
“Not a lot,” Studs answered, as if his conduct were of interest to Pat, his feeling for Pat warmed more and more.
“I guess nobody’s raising as much hell as they used to. Fellows like yourself are getting more settled, and anyway, there’s not so much loose dough floating around for hell-raising like there used to be.”
“Come to think of it, Pat, I did spend a hell of a lot of dough on booze and such things in the old days.”
“Don’t I remember! It used to be a sight to hang around the corner on a Saturday night until one or two when you boys of the Fifty-eighth Street Alky Squad came around pie-eyed,” Pat said, he and Studs laughing, Studs having the feeling suddenly that it was still the old days.
Warning bells and the lowering train gates of the I.C. distracted his thoughts, and he watched a westbound electric suburban train clatter down the middle of the street, drawing into the Bryn Mawr station that reached westward from Jeffrey. He watched three young fellows racing up the station steps to catch the train, asking himself idly who they were, and what they were?
“Say, Lonigan, since your old man’s a painting contractor, I was wondering about something. A lad I know, good friend of mine, was chump enough to get himself spliced when he was out of a job. He’s damn nifty with the brushes, too, and now he needs work because his wife is having a kid. I’ll vouch for him as a damn good worker, not at all like me, he just knows me. Would there be any chance of your old man giving him something to do?” O’Grady asked.
“Jesus, the kid brother here and I don’t even work regularly,” Studs said, Martin frowning at Studs.
“Well, no harm in asking,” O’Grady said.
Studs regretted that he couldn’t help out O’Grady’s friend. He’d like to be a guy who could do favors that way, like a politician. If guys wanted something, they’d say, know Studs Lonigan, well, see him, he ought to be able to fix you up.
“Now that everybody has done his gassing, how about a bottle, boys?” Martin said.
“Studs, hear that?” said Pat, nodding his head at Martin.
“Yeah, Pat, these kids nowadays getting pretty reckless,” Studs said, winking at Pat.
“Sure we are, Grandpa Lonigan. Tell about that time, though, during the Spanish American War, when you jumped out of the window of a can house with your pants down. I haven’t heard that story for an hour. Now, come on, tell us,” said Martin, his voice a cutting sneer.
“Yes, and I’ll bet you just go rolling down the gutter every time you whiff a cork,” Studs said, pleased when they laughed, because it showed that he was impressing them all as a guy with a real sense of humor.
“Listen, I’ll eat mine if I can’t drink you under the table,” Martin countered.
“Pat, there’s a lot of cocky young punks these days whose talk is louder than their actions,” Studs said with strained casualness.
“And there’s plenty of old boys, you know, in training to become bald-headed dryballs,” Martin said.
“I’d call this nice brotherly friendship,” Bryan said, Studs glad for the crack because he was stumped for a retort.
“Frankly, if you asked my opinion, I’d lay my dough on the line to say that your old man could spot both of you a good-sized pint and still watch you pass out,” Pat said.
“The gaffer had his in his day,