The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [63]
A girl passed, and they told Nate there was something for him. Nate turned and gaped at her with a moron’s excited eyes.
Percentage told Nate he had a swell new tobacco which he was going to let him try. Nate asked the name and price. Percentage said it was a secret he couldn’t reveal, because it was not on the market yet, but he was going to give him a pipeful. He asked Nate for his pipe, and Nate handed him the corncob. Percentage held the pipe and started to thumb through his pockets. He winked to Swan, who poked the other guys. They crowded around Nate so he couldn’t see, and got him interested in telling about all the chickens he made while he delivered groceries. Percentage slipped the pipe to Studs, and pointed to the street. Studs caught on, and quickly filled the pipe with dry manure. Percentage made a long funny spiel, and gave the pipe to Nate. The guys had a hell of a time not laughing, and nearly all of them pulled out handkerchiefs. Studs felt good, because he’d been let in on a practical joke they played on someone else; it sort of stamped him as an equal. Nate fumbled about, wasting six matches trying to light the pipe. He cursed. Percentage said it was swell tobacco, but a little difficult to light, and again their faces went a-chewing into their handkerchiefs. Nate said they must all have colds. Nate said that whenever he had a cold he took lemon and honey. Percentage said that once you got this tobacco going, it was a swell smoke, and all the colds got suddenly worse.
Nate shuffled on, trying to light his pipe and talking to himself.
Percentage took Studs through the barber shop and back into the pool room to wash his hands. Studs said hello, casually, to Frank, who always cut his hair; Frank was cutting the hair of some new guy in the neighborhood, who was reading the Police Gazette while Frank worked. The pool room was long and narrow; it was like a furnace, and its air was weighted with smoke. Three of the six tables were in use, and in the rear a group of lads sat around a card table, playing poker. The scene thrilled Studs, and he thought of the time he could come in and play pool and call Charley Bathcellar by his first name. He was elated as he washed his hands in the filthy lavatory.
He came out and saw that Barney was around. Barney was a bubble-bellied, dark-haired, middle-aged guy. He looked like a politician, or something similarly important.
“Say, Barney, you think you’ll ever amount to much?” asked Barlowe.
“Sure, he’s something already,” said Swan.
“What?”
“He’s a hoisting engineer,” said Swan, who accompanied his statement with the appropriate drinking gesture.
“Yeh, he’s a first-class hoistin’ engineer,” said Emmet Kelly, one of Red’s brothers.
“He hoists down a barrel of beer a week, don’t you, Barney?” said Mickey O’Callaghan.
They laughed. Studs told himself that, goddamn it, they were funny all right.
“You two-bit wiseacres can mind your own business,” said Barney.
They all laughed.
“But, Barney, no foolin’... I want to ask you a question in all sincerity,” said Percentage.
“Save the effort and don’t get a brainstorm, hebe,” said Barney.
“Why don’t you go to work?” asked Percentage.
“Times are hard, jobs are scarce and good men is plentiful,” said Barney.
They all laughed.
“Well, anyway, Barney, did you get yer beers last Sunday?” asked Weber.
“Listen, brother! Them Sunday blue laws don’t mean nothin’ to me,” said Barney.
“Nope, I guess you’d get your beer even if the Suffragettes put Prohibition down our necks,” said Pat Coady.
“Why, hell! 1 seen him over in Duffy’s saloon last Sunday, soppin’ up the beers like there was no law against buyin’ drinks on Sunday. He was drinkin’ so much, I thought he was gonna get his’ false teeth drowned in beer,” Barlowe said, and they all laughed.
Studs noticed the people passing. Some of them were fat guys and they had the same sleepy look his old man always had when he went for a walk... Those old dopey-looking guys must envy the gang here, young and free like they were. Old Izzy Hersch, the consumptive, went by. He looked yellow and almost like a ghost; he ran the delicatessen-bakery down next to Morty Ascher