The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [64]
Suddenly he thought of death. He didn’t know why. Death just came into his thoughts, dripping black night-gloom. Death put you in a black coffin, like it was going to put Izzy Hersch. It gave you to the grave-diggers, and they dumped you in the ground. They shoveled dirt on you, and it thudded, plunked, plump-plumped over you. It would be swell if people didn’t have to die; if he, anyway, didn’t have to; if he could grow up and be big and strong and tough and the real stuff, like Barlowe was there, and never change. Well, anyway, he had a long time to go.
People kept dribbling by and the guys stood there, barbering in the funny way of theirs.
Lee came along, and the guys asked him why he was getting around so late.
“Oh, my wife invited me to stay home for supper, just for a change, and I thought I’d surprise her and accept the invitation,” Lee said.
“Hey, you guys! did you get that? Did you? Lee here said his old woman asked him to come to supper, just to vary the monotony a little, and he did. He actually... dined with his old woman,” Percentage said.
“Next thing you know he’ll be going to work and supportin’ her,” said Pat Coady.
“Jesus, that’s a good one. Hey, Lee, tell me some more I got lots of Irish... credulity,” said Barney.
They laughed.
“That’s a better one,” said Lee, pointing to a girl whom everybody marveled at because they said she was built like a brick out-house.
“She has legs, boy,” said Studs, trying to horn back into the conversation.
They didn’t pay any attention to him.
“Well, I object!” said Percentage.
“Why?”
“I OBJECT!”
“Why?”
“Goddamnit, it ain’t right! I tell you it ain’t right that stuff like that moll be wasted, with such good men and true around here... I say that it is damn wanton extravagance,” said Percentage.
“Hey, Percentage, you shoulda been a Philadelphia lawyer, with them there words you use,” said Barlowe.
The guys laughed, and Percentage said he saw the objection was sustained.
Swan, Percentage and Coady had a kidding match about who was the best man. It was interrupted by Barney. An ugly-looking, old-maidish female passed, and Barney said to the three kidders:
“That’s your speed!”
They trained their guns on Barney, and told him how dried up he was.
Another dame ambled by, and Percentage repeated his objection, and they kidded each other.
A third dame went by, and Percentage again objected.
“Them’s my sentiments,” said Fitz, the corner pest.
A good-looking Negress passed.
“Barney, how’d you like that?” Studs asked.
“Never mind, punk!... And listen, the niggers ain’t as bad as the Irish,” said Barney.
“Where’s there a difference?” asked Percentage.
“Well, if you ask me, Barney is a combination of eight ball, mick, and shonicker,” said McArdle, one of the corner topers.
“And the Irish part is pig-Irish,” said Studs.
“The kid’s got your number,” said Percentage as they all gave Barney some more merry ha-ha’s.
Studs felt grown up, all right.
Barney called Studs a goofy young punk. But they all laughed at him. Studs laughed weakly, and hated bloated-belly Barney. He told himself he’d been a damn fool for not having put on his long pants before he came out.
They hung around and talked about the heat and the passing gals. It grew dark, and more lights flashed on. Andy Le Gare came along. He spoke to Studs, but Studs didn’t answer him; Studs turned to Barlowe, and said the punk had wheels in his head. Barlowe said yeh; he remembered him in his diaper days down around Forty-seventh; but his brother George was a nice guy, and a scrapper. Studs again felt good, because Barlowe had talked to him like one equal to another. Andy stopped before Hirschfield