The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [62]
And the flower of this community, its young men, were grouped about the pool room, choking the few squares of sidewalk outside it. The pool room was two doors east of the elevated station, which was midway between Calumet and Prairie Avenues. It had barber poles in front, and its windows bore the scratched legend, Bathcellar’s Billiard Parlor and Barber Shop. The entrance was a narrow slit, filled with the forms of young men, while from inside came the click of billiard balls and the talk of other young men.
Old toothless Nate shuffled along home from his day’s work.
“Hello, Nate!” said Swan, the slicker, who wore a tout’s gray checked suit with narrow-cuffed trousers, a pink silk shirt with soft collar, and a loud purplish tie; his bright-banded straw hat was rakishly angled on his blond head.
“Hello, Moneybags!” said Jew Percentage, a middle-aged, vaguely corpulent, brown-suited, purple-shirted guy with a cigar stuck in his tan, prosperous-looking mug.
“Hello, Nate! How’s the answer to a K. M.’s prayer on this fine evenin’?” asked Pat Coady, a young guy dressed like a race-track follower.
“How’re the house maids?” asked young Studs Lonigan, who stood with the big guys, proud of knowing them, ashamed of his size, age and short breeches.
The older guys all laughed at Young Lonigan’s wisecrack. Slew Weber, the blond guy with the size-eleven shoes, looked up from his newspaper and asked Nate if he was still on the trail of the house maids.
Nate had been holding a dialogue with himself. He interrupted it to tell them that he was getting his.
Slew Weber went back to his newspaper. He said:
“Say, I see there’s six suicides in the paper tonight.”
“Jesus, I knew it,” said Swan.
“This guy Weber is a guy, all right. All he needs to do is smell a paper, and he can tell you how many birds has croaked themselves. He’s got an eagle eye fur suicides,” said Pat Coady.
Nate started to talk; he said:
“Say, goddamnit, I’m tired. I’m gonna quit this goddamn work. Jesus Christ! the things people wancha tuh do. Now, today I was hikin’ an order, and some old bitch without a stitch on…”
“Naughty! Naughty! Naughty Nate!” interrupted Percentage, crossing his fingers in a child’s gesture of shame.
“She was without a stitch on, and she wants me to go an get her a pack of cigarettes, an I looks at her, and I said, I said... but Jesus, it was funny, because I coulda killed her with the look I gave her; but I’ said, I said, Lady I’m work-in’ since seven this mornin’, and I still gotta store full of orders to deliver. Now Lady how do you expect me ever to get finished, and Lady if I go runnin’ for Turkish Trophies for everyone that wants ‘em . Well, sir! Ha! Ha! She shuts up like a clam. And then I always gotta deal with these nigger maids dat keep yellin’ for you tuh wipe your feet. I say, give uh nigger an inch, and dey wants a hull mile. And my rheumatism is botherin’ me again. But say you oughta see the chicken I got today .. .”
Saliva and browned tobacco juice trickled down Nate’s chin.
“Well, Nate, the first hundred years is the hardest,” said Percentage.
“Yeh, Nate, it’s a tough life if you don’t weaken,” said Swan.
“Say, Nate, did you ever buy a tin lizzie?” said Studs, trying to be funny like the older guys.
“Think yuh’ll ever amount to much, Nate?” asked Pat Coady.
“Say, listen, when you guys is as old as me you’ll be in the ground,” said Nate.
“Say, I’ll bet Nate’s got the first dollar he ever earned,” said Slew.
“And a lot more,” said Pat.
Nate told them never to mind; then he started to talk of the Swedish maid he had on the string. He poked Slew confidentially, and said that every Thursday afternoon, you know. Then he said he was getting in a new stock of French picture cards, and tried to collect in advance, but they told him to bring them around first.