The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [401]
“Got a cigarette, Mister?”
Studs turned to face a jerking little gray-haired man with ill-fitting old clothes that hung over his body like a wet sack.
“Thanks,” the man muttered, taking a cigarette from Studs’ extended pack.
Studs nodded as if he had done the man a great favor. “Got a match?”
Studs handed him a book of matches, looking on as the fellow unconfidently and excitedly wasted four matches before getting a light.
“Terrible weather,” the man said.
Studs grunted agreement. The bum stood beside Studs as if expecting something. Studs watched a green-beamed surface car swerve onto Randolph Street and clang to Wabash Avenue surrounded by automobiles.
“Say, Mister, you couldn’t spare a dime for a bite to eat? I’ve been carrying the banner all night, and I’m goddamn hungry.” Studs did not hear, and his thoughts dragged up Lucy again. The bum walked off, muttering curses. Studs stood watching people pass in the rain, thinking of Lucy, and wondering, now what would he do?
VII
Studs stepped out of another building. Four straight turn-downs, one right after the other. It was about a quarter to three, and disappointment was deep and like a worm inside of him. Walking again in the rain, he was afraid, afraid that he was no good, useless, that he would never be able to get anywhere. If the old man lost everything, he would just be a pauper without a pot to take a leak in. He walked rapidly, half running until he was forced to slow down. He knew he shouldn’t exert himself in this manner, tiring his heart, getting more and more soaked, his clothes hanging wet on him, his trouser legs and cuffs heavy and soggy, his shoes sopping out wetness with every step, his hat dripping. Again he hurled himself forth, with head lowered, street sounds beating in his ears while he kept telling himself, goddamn it, he had to have a stretch of luck. There was nothing he could do but paint, and that was out, and at anything else he’d be lucky to make a measly fifteen bucks a week.
He entered a building on North Wabash Avenue, read the bulletin board. Emmett Jewelry Company. He took the elevator, hoping again. A girl by a telephone board in an outer office looked at him impersonally.
“I want to see the man in charge.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’d like to interview him about a position.”
“I’m sorry, but we have no openings.”
“Well, couldn’t I just see him?”
“He isn’t in.”
“Is his assistant or secretary in?”
“She’s busy.”
He turned away, slammed the door behind him. Another defeat. He told himself that he didn’t give a good goddamn. Let himself get sick. Let anything happen. He’d already had so much tough luck that what the hell difference did it make. He stepped carelessly into the rain, faintly aware of streets and people.
He had a picture in his mind of Studs Lonigan courageously telling life and the world to shove itself up its old tomato and let it stick there. He saw himself walking in the rain, wet and tired, with things crashing down on his head, being screwed at every turn, forced to do something. He saw himself walking south along State Street in the sloshing rain, past department stores, past attractive windows full of suits and ties and shirts and dresses and furniture and baseball bats and football suits and feminine lingerie and refrigerators. Walking past tall buildings full of people at work who didn’t have the troubles Studs Lonigan had. He looked at people on the streets, their faces indistinct, and an unquenchable hate rose up in him, and he wanted to punch and maim and claw them. He caught a close-up view of a fat male face, a sleeping contentment in the features. There went another sonofabitch, another sonofabitch who had a job and did not have to marry a girl he’d knocked up when he was sick and didn’t have any dough, a sonofabitch who wasn’t afraid of dying of heart failure. And there was a high-hat black-haired broad who probably thought that hers was gold, a broad who ought to be raped until she was exhausted and couldn’t take another goddamn thing.
The sneer from the old days, the old Studs Lonigan sneer of confidence and a superior feeling came on his face, and he threw back his aching shoulders. He wanted to be noticed by these passing strangers, wanted them to see his surly expression telling them, he hoped, that here was a guy who did not give a good whooping goddamn and just walked along, taking his time and did not run to get out of the rain and hide from it in doorways, worried and afraid. A guy who had a perfect right to worry about plenty of things, plenty, and still did not worry. He stopped in a building entrance-way and drew out his package of cigarettes. Shouldn