The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [221]
Davey sipped his coffee. He liked Christy, and maybe some of the things Christy said were true, but, hell, Christy was a Greek. He didn’t get the idea about America right.
“In America what have you got?... politicians. Crooks and liars. You have that man in this city, Gorman, running for judge. What does he know of... justice? A noble word, and you make it like a whore in America.”
“I guess Gorman is a shyster, but all the boys around here are for him.”
“Yes, what do they know? Silly boys. They have no education. They go to school to the sisters.” (Christy folded his arms, and made a face of mock piety.) “Sisters, sanctimonious hypocrites. They pray and pray and pray. Fear! Crazy! What can they teach boys? To pray and become sanctimonious hypocrites too. Silly boys, they grow up, their fathers want to make money, their mothers are silly women and pray like the sanctimonious sisters, hypocrites. The boys run the streets, and grow up in poolrooms, drink and become hooligans. They don’t know any better. Silly boys, and they kill themselves with diseases from whores and this gin they drink.”
Studs came in.
“Or else they are sent to the capitalist war and they get killed, for what? Like the last war, they get killed to make more money for Morgan and the bankers.”
Studs looked quizzically at Christy.
“Why did America fight? Because of money, money for Morgan and the capitalists. Why, even the Kaiser in Germany, he had a better government, better laws for the workingman than America.”
“I guess the war was for money all right, but I think Wilson was a great man, the greatest American we ever had.”
“Why, then, did he want war to save the bankers, and why did he keep Debs in jail?” asked Christy.
“Who’s he?” Studs asked.
“He was a great man,” said Christy.
“He was a socialist,” said Davey.
“Oh, he was against religion and the home,” said Studs.
“How come the boys aren’t back?” Davey asked.
“Oh, they went drinking beer after the show. I thought I’d go home for a change. Jesus, I’ve been hitting the bottle too goddamn heavy lately,” said Studs.
Davey hoped Studs hadn’t heard much of the talk. He didn’t want them to think him completely cracked.
Christy looked at them, two boys. He went back to work on his translation of Whitman into Greek.
“What the hell was that goddamn Greek talking about?” asked Studs.
“Oh, lots of things. He’s radical,” Davey said in a very low voice.
“Well, if he doesn’t like this country why don’t he go back to Greece or Russia?” asked Studs.
“He’s a nice fellow, a white Greek. Only he’s a little bit radical. He’s a poet,” said Davey.
‘For Christ sake! I suppose he writes about the birdies and the stars, and my heart in love,” sneered Studs.
A song of several years back jingled in Studs’ mind, Don’t Bite the Hand That’s Feeding You... The first line kept returning to him:
If you don’t like your Uncle Sammy ...
The song hit the nail square. Studs had an image of Uncle Sammy in his brain, tall, thin, angular, kindly, a trifle bucolic, but with powerful Abe Lincoln or Slug Mason mitts. He had a picture of him steady in his mind, this thin, tall, kindly, bearded man in red, white and blue clothes, his eyes sad with sorrow caused by the ingratitude of all the foreigners who had come over here and been ungrateful to him. But he was a powerful man. He had licked the Kaiser and he could lick the world. It made Studs feel like saying to Christy:
“Why, you lousy Greek sonofabitch, get the hell out of a white man’s country.”
“Say, is that Greek an American citizen?” asked Studs.
“Yeah,” said Davey.
“A hell of a lot of nerve he had, being an. American,” said Studs.
He had that image of Uncle Sam again, and it made him think of how, as a kid, he had used to see cartoons with Uncle Sam in them in the newspapers, and he used to wish that Uncle Sam was a real man, the same to America as God was to the world. It made him wish that again, and wishing that,