The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [70]
“But can you imagine a guy like me bein’ a priest?” repeated Studs.
“The girls around here are too soft and primpy; they’re cry babies. And they are always talking, talking about boys and kisses. And some of ‘em like Helen Borax are too damn catty for me,” Helen said.
“Well, it seems to me that the whole neighborhood around here has gone dead. Now aroun’ Fifty-eighth and Prairie we got a real gang,” said Studs.
“Well, I don’t like them,” she said.
Studs shot the butt he’d been smoking. He stocked his mush with tobacco. She smiled and asked him now long he’d been chewing. Trying to he matter of fact, he said that he’d been chewing for a long time. He rose, and walking to the window he let the brown juice fly. It was a pretty good performance; he was learning, all right.
He came back and asked her if she could imagine a guy like him bein’ a priest. She said he wasn’t such a bad guy at that.
“But can you imagine a guy like me bein’ a priest?” he said.
They sat. They didn’t have much more to say. Studs had feelings he would have liked to talk about, but he didn’t have words, just those melting feelings that went through him and made him want Lucy more than he wanted a drink of water when he was thirsty. Helen would have liked to talk to him as they used to talk when he hung around Indiana. The words just weren’t in either of them any more. After a while she tried to speak, telling him that he was being a fool hanging around Fifty-eighth Street where the bunch made a bum out of everybody. She said a guy didn’t have to be a sissy or yellow not to be a bum like those louses were. She didn’t like them, or like the way they picked on Jews, and beat kids up, and always got in trouble. The thing the matter with them, she said, was that they thought every night was Hallowe’en.
Studs said that she just didn’t understand them, because they were great guys, and they had a lot of pep, and weren’t a bunch of mopes. And they always stuck together and none of them were yellow. They were awake and lively; they weren’t deadnecks.
“If I was you, Studs, I’d can ‘em. First thing you know they’ll have you in a jam, and you’ll be ridin’ in the paddy wagon.”
“Naw,” said Studs, letting tobacco juice fly through the opened window.
He thought about riding in a paddy wagon. It was like thinking of fighting, a lot of fun; but the real stuff wasn’t always so swell.
“Well, Studs, you’ll maybe find out for yourself. I like you, Studs, and you’re a nice kid, but for your own good, I’d say that you ought to shake them bastards. Red Kelly’s nothin’ but a rat, and Tommy Doyle, he’s no good. Why, he used to get drunk when he was only in sixth grade, and last summer he used to run for beer for the workmen who were over at the Prairie Theatre, and he’d drink with them; and he always goes around with older guys like Jimmy Devlin, getting girls in basements, and not caring at all if they say yes or not, but just going ahead. No wonder he got thrown out of St. Patrick’s and Carter School. The only nice kid in the bunch is Paulie, but he won’t be long, hanging around with those rats.”
“They’re all right,” insisted Studs.
“And I hear Weary’s around again,” said she.
“Yeh, him and me made up,” said Studs.
“Well, watch him; he’s dangerous, and I wouldn’t trust him. He’s a dirty…”
“I don’t know. I don’t like him particularly, and if he ever gets noisy with me, well, I’ll hang a couple more on him, but you gotta admit that he’s one guy that don't let nobody run him. He don’t even let his old man run him... Why, he beat it from home,” Studs said.
“Yeh, I heard about it. He lives in basements and generally has peanuts for supper,