The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [178]
“It’ll do us good. It’ll be exercise.”
“I get plenty of exercise wrestling freight for John Continental.”
“Come on, a little more won’t hurt you. I get exercise, too. And if we go by street car, we’d have to go down to Sixty-first, and then transfer at Cottage Grove.”
“It’d be quicker.”
“Come on,” Studs said, as they entered the park.
“Say, what’ll we have to do?”
“Sign up, pay the fee, and then we can use the gym and swimming pool.”
They walked across the park, saying little. Studs tried to think of himself al a prizefighter or some kind of an athlete putting himself in condition to come back. It made it appear more interesting and important that way. It was as if he was somebody in the limelight, a celebrity, and the world was interested in his success and failure. And now, suppose he was a fighter, would it be best for him to call himself Studs Lonigan, Young Lonigan, or K. O. Lonigan?
“Say, aren’t Y. M. C. A.’s dopey places?”
“I guess they got all boy scouts in them, but we’re going there to swim and use the gym and get ourselves in condition physically.”
“Then, what do we do?”
“What the hell! Don’t you like to be healthy?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
“Puddles here,” Studs said, skipping and leaping over a stretch of watery ground.
“I knew it would be best not to come this way.”
“We’re near the hills now. Then we’ll be past the puddles.” Les laughed to himself.
“What’s the comedy?” asked Studs.
“I was thinking what would the teameos I know at the express company think, if they knew I was going to a Y. M. C. A.. Jesus, them turkeys down there would ride the pants off me.”
“You don’t have to tell them, and if they do find out, what the hell’s the difference? Tell them to go to and stay put.”
“But they’ll find out. Down there at that express company they find out about everything a guy does. They got the best grapevine in the world.”
“There are a lot of bastards like that in this world. I’d like to see them all in hell too.”
“Cigarette, Studs?”
“No, thanks.”
“Jesus, you’re doing this thing right.”
“If I plan to do something, I don’t see any reason to do it half ass,” Studs said.
“I wonder why Tommy and Red and the guys didn’t come along. They all promised to.”
“Hell, they’re mopes. And they’re going to a goddamn shine cabaret, and maybe get slashed with a razor,” Studs said. “They never think of what’s going to happen to them.”
“They’re mopes.”
They crossed the hills on the far side of the park, went over the drive, along a path, and out at Fifty-fifth and Cottage.
“It’s only down a few blocks and over on Fifty-second Street.”
“That don’t irritate me none,” Les said.
They turned east on Fifty-second Street.
“Hey, Shrimp doesn’t look so good, does he?”
“He’s hitting the bottle every day. I don’t think he’s been sober since New Year’s. He’s wasting away to a shadow,” Studs said.
“Yeah, poor Shrimp’s wasting away to a shadow.”
“He can drink the whole gang of us together under the table,” Studs said.
“He certainly doesn’t look any too good. I’ll say that,” Les said.
“He’s ripping his guts out with rotgut,” Studs said.
III
Feeling out of place at the Y entrance, they paused in momentary indecision. Studs acted casual. Les was nervous, and blushed.
“Studs, this joint looks phony to me,” Les said.
“Yeah.”
There was a drugged sanctimoniousness about the sappy-looking birds seated in the lobby. Studs felt that there wasn’t a man or a regular guy amongst them. The desk was at the right of the rectangular lobby, and a blond young man, with a pinhead mustache, stood behind it.
“I suppose we should ask this dope,” Studs said, approaching the desk.
“All I can say is that I don’t like the looks of this joint,” Les said.
“Sure, everyone in the joint was probably a boy scout when he was a punk. What can you expect? But we came here to use the gym and swim. We don’t have to worry about all these mopes.”
As they passed a lounge, a small little chap, with a wax-like mustache and stacombed hair, stopped before another guy who was reading the American Magazine.
“Hello, old man!