The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [76]
He had been at Iris’ and they had shot craps for turns. Studs had been first; then it was his turn. When Studs came out, MMMM MMMMMMMM, he had jumped up, anxious, and gone in, and she had covered herself and called him a dirty Jew.
He walked around and didn’t notice where he was going. He enjoyed hating the micks, the lousy Irish. The Irish were dumb. That was why they always had to fight with their fists. They couldn’t use their noodle; they didn’t have any to use. All they had up there was bone, hambones and cabbage. He thought of himself, so much cleverer than the Irish. The micks were lousy, all right. A race of beer guzzlers, flat-feets, red mugs and boneheads. Why, they even had to take a Jew Christ, and then what did they do but make a dumb Irishman out of him.
He saw all the Irish race personified in the face of Studs Lonigan, and he imagined himself punching that face, cutting it, bloodying the nose, blackening the eyes, mashing it. He had walked out of Iris’, and Studs had yelled ope; he’s gotta go and peddle clothes for the old man. And the others had said things: Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry? Where’s the fire? Don’t be gone long. He had walked out and hadn’t said anything. But the Irish! They were all like Lonigan and that lousy Weary Reilley.
He wanted to outwit the whole goddamn gang. Well, he could do that, but he wanted to bust them one and all. First Lonigan. Barn! Then Reilley. Barn again. Then Doyle, Kelly, all of them one right after the other. He wanted to bust them and he was... Yellow.
But it was more than being yellow. It wasn’t his yellowness, it was his feeling. The Irish didn’t have any feeling. They had thick hides and fists like hams. Fighting made him sick. When he went with the guys smacking Jews, he sometimes got so sick he felt as if he’d puke. He didn’t like it. He put himself off as a battler, and talked big and hard only because he had to. If you went around with the Irish and didn’t make yourself out a scrapper, you had one hell of a time. He had to use his noodle even there, so he could get along with them. They didn’t know how to do a damn thing but put up their dukes ... and look for Iris, the dirty …
He knew he was... yellow. He had gotten himself a rep as a tough guy by using his mouth and getting in with Doyle and Kelly, then with Studs after Studs had taken on the redhead over at Carter Playground, and now that Reilley was coming around he was nosing in with him, too. Well, he could lick some of the guys like Bob Stole, who was heavier than he was, or Benny Taite, or goofy Kenny Kilarney. But if anybody ever leaned on Kenny the whole gang would pile on him and send him to the hospital. He was supposed to be as tough as they were; but, well, it was just because a Jew had more gray matter in one little corner of his nut than an Irishman, or a whole gang of them, had in their whole damn heads. Yes, sir, if Studs ever let him have one, it would be curtains. But he had the rep for being as hard as Studs or any of them. And Iris had threatened to put her dress on and call the party off if he didn’t get out; and he had walked out like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs.
He walked around and sniped a butt. He smoked and brooded. He felt that he was different from the guys. All they ever wanted to do was to roughhouse around, make noise, give guys the clouts, raid ice boxes and have gang-shags with girls like Iris, the dirty .. .
He was different. He liked to read books. He thought of the books he read when he got a chance, late at night, after his goddamned old man was in bed, snoring. He thought of the characters, the goddesses of his own pretendings, who were like all the nice and fine things in the world. The Lady of the Lake, who had a breast of snow; Guinevere, who was the fairest of all flesh on earth; Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat. He was their champion, their knight; and he roamed through a wild world of his own imaginings... all for them. They were his, and none of the Irish bastards could know them, touch them, think of them, see them all white and fine and beautiful and understanding, and like a fine day. They were his. What did he care for fourteen-year-old Iris, the dirty