The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [239]
“Phil, Mother is calling you for your coffee,” said Fritzie.
“Hi, there, Martin. All set?” smiled Phil, turning to go out to the kitchen.
“Say, Bill, he’s a good decent, clean-cut boy,” Lonigan said. Studs nodded.
“Dad, the movers are here,” Fran called.
“Well, let’s go.”
The movers commenced taking things down. Studs took a large rocker, and carried it slowly downstairs. It was tedious work. His arms and back got tired. When he set it down in the alley, he was breathless, and all pooped out. Jesus Christ, and he was only twenty-six. Goddamn it, he felt rotten. In rotten condition. He touched the soft, unnecessary flesh about his abdomen and stomach. Goddamn it!
He walked slowly back, wishing the moving was done. Upstairs, the old man, mother, and two girls were standing in the parlor.
“Well, Mother, take a last look around and say goodbye,” the old man said.
“Yes, Patrick.”
“Now, you and the girls go ahead out there.”
“No, Patrick, I’m afraid you’ll forget something.”
“Not on your life.”
“I had better wait until everything is moved.”
Studs picked up a lamp. It was lighter. He carried it down towards the back. Loretta and Phil followed him. He paused at the kitchen sink, and got a drink. Turning, he noticed Loretta squeezing Phil’s hand, and telling him not to hurt himself lifting anything big.
He walked downstairs with the lamp. Yeah, he was kind of sorry to be moving. So were they all. Well!
XXIII
It was a Saturday night. Husk Lonigan had the dough from the first pay he had earned since starting to work for the old man. He, Pete McFarland, Crabby Konetchy, and a couple of other fellows from their old gang at St. Patrick’s wanted a woman. But they were leery about going to a can house. They stood around the corner of Sixty-third and Cottage Grove, telling each other how they wished they would pick up some broads. Husk finally got bored and suggested some liquor. They chipped in and bought a quart of moon. They walked down to Jackson Park and sat on a bench drinking it, talking about girls, each trying to pretend to the other that he had al-ready lost his cherry. They followed two girls and couldn’t make the grade because of their lout-like approach. The booze gave them more courage and they took a taxi down to Twenty-second Street. They walked around lost, but feeling romantic and adventurous. A pimp picked them up, and took them to a can house. It cost two bucks, and the women wormed two bucks extra out of Husk, who was afraid and unable to talk. It was over quickly, and they were disappointed, because there didn’t seem to be hardly anything to it.
Riding back to Sixty-third Street, they acted like men, and with bravado and hard obscene language, minutely discussed their experience. They killed their stuff, and, scarcely able to walk. they bought another pint of cheap moon and staggered back to Jackson Park. They coughed as they drank the bitter stuff, but would not be outdone. Husk suddenly pitched for-wards, bawled like a baby, and muttered prayers. He passed out, still mumbling prayers that were interspersed with in-coherent curses. They carried him around, and once, he started coughing and spit up some blood. They let him sleep on a bench for about half an hour, and still they couldn’t bring him to. They soaked their handkerchiefs in water, and sponged his face. Konetchy went over to Sixty-third and Stony Island and came back with black coffee in a milk bottle. Trying to pour it down Husk’s throat, they spilled it all over him. Finally, they rushed him frantically to a hospital. It cost ten bucks to have his stomach pumped. The doctor said he would have died if they hadn’t brought him. Husk was left in the hospital, and the gang departed, humble. but still with a feeling that they were adventurous and the real stuff.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ooph, the last of the Mohicans! Studs thought to himself, as he came out of the Fifty-eighth