The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [132]
He went down the steps two and three at a time, thinking why they always had to be like that, never open to reason and sense, wanting you to do whatever they wished in everything. Felt like leaving home, and living in a room by himself; some day he’d have to, if they didn’t keep from trying to run everything he did.
It was humid and sunless. He liked the click of his cleats on the sidewalk. He felt so good, and in such condition, that he had an impulse to run. He checked himself, and took his time. Studs Lonigan was going to use his noodle, and conserve his energy. He was a wise guy, and in everything in life he was going to be that way, always with a little stuff left in him for a pinch.
Jim Clayburn’s dude father came along, dressed in snappy gray, wearing a derby, and tapping a cane on the sidewalk. With his gray bush of hair, his face looked soft, almost like a woman’s. Must have been something of a sissy and teacher’s pet in his own day at school, just as Jim had been. He bowed stiffly to Studs, and Studs nodded, hoping he noticed the foot-ball outfit. Jim was studying law now, clerking for a measly ten or fifteen bucks a week. Well, by the time Clayburn, with all his studying and kill-joy stuff was in the dough, Studs Lonigan would be running his old man’s business, and be in the big dough too.
He saw Tubby Connell and Nate Klein flinging passes in the street in front of the poolroom. Nate muffed one, and Studs told him to get a bushel basket. He lit a cigarette and laughed at Nate’s scenery; an old-fashioned square black helmet that must have come down from Walter Eckersall’s day; tight green jersey with holes in the sleeves; pants so big that he swam in them; shoes turned up at the toes because of their size. He looked more closely at the shoes; they were spiked baseball ones. He told Nate they’d never let him play in those, because he might cut somebody to ribbons. Tubby said that Klein was wearing them to show that he had the Fifty-eighth Street fighting spirit.
“This ain’t tiddledy-winks; the guy I cut up will be a Monitor, and that’s his tough tiddy,” Nate said, hard-boiled.
He and Tubby disregarded Studs’ advice to save themselves, and went on fooling around with the ball. Studs turned his back to them, and let his hand fall on his hips; his helmet was over his right elbow, and his blond hair was a trifle curly. His broad face revealed absorption. A middle-aged guy with a paunch doped along; Studs hoped that the guy had noticed him, wished he was young like he was, and able to go out and play a game of football, still full of the vim and vitality of youth. A quick feeling of contrition came over him. Suppose he should get hurt? Suppose he should never come back alive? His mother would always remember how he had slammed the door in her face. But damn it, couldn’t they be reasonable?
“Hello, Flannel Mouth! How’s the brother?” asked Studs, as Young Fat Malloy showed up.
“He’ll be there, and he was saying that if you guys lose your first game of the season, he was going to kick your tails around the block to hell and gone. And don’t think he can’t! He may be a little runt, but let me tell you, Hugo was one of the toughest sergeants they ever had in the army.”
“I know it,” Studs said, thinking that it was another case of a good little man.
“Look at Klein, that crazy hebe! He’s liable to break his neck trying to catch that football!” Fat said.
“Yeah, he’s that way because he got gassed in the war.”
“But he has guts. You know, Studs, you guys ought to have a crack team this year. And with a good coach like Hugo, you oughtn’t to lose a game.”
Studs nodded. He thought that maybe, this year, they would all get to working together like a well-oiled machine, and then, next season they could join the