The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [284]
“Amos and Andy will be on about ten o’clock. Gosh, they’re funny, and when they get going they can touch anybody’s funny bone,” Lonigan said in an interlude between songs, while an announcer’s eulogy of furniture went unheeded.
Studs nodded. Maybe in the morning he’d better dump the stock, after all. But if he did, and the stock rose, wouldn’t he want to shag his tail around the block six ways from Sunday for having pulled out with clammy feet? He looked at his father, wondering whether the old man were really listening to the radio music or not. He was getting along in years now, and it was showing, his gray hair thinning out, wrinkles coming into the blown red face, bags under the eyes, the look of all-around tiredness on it. Pretty tough, too, having worries in old age. He heard a faint wheeze with every breath his father took, and he continued to glance at the relaxed face. Tough!
And how would things be going in ten years-1941. Would his father and mother be alive? Would he? Martin, what would he be doing? Would he and Catherine have kids of their own? How many? Would they be well-heeled with dough? And Phil and Loretta? These questions disturbed him. He was kind of afraid of what might happen in the next ten years. He let himself slump into his chair to receive the song of a cloying-voiced radio crooner.
Just a gigolo
Everywhere I go,
People know the part I’m playing.
Paid for every dance,
Selling each romance,
Every night some heart betraying.
There will come a day,
Youth will pass away,
Then, what will they say about me?
When the end comes,
I know they’ll say,
“Just a gigolo,”
As life goes on without me.
He didn’t like gigolos. They were like pansies, worse even. But he felt something sad in the music, and it seemed to make their home, the parlor, his father and mother, himself, seem sad, as the chorus of the song was crooned a second time. Wiping her bony, chapped hands in an apron, his mother entered the room and took a seat near a tall, ornate floor-lamp. He noticed his parents again, and he wondered when he and Catherine were old would they sit night after night the same way, listening to the radio, with hardly a word to say, and would they have children of their own to feel sorry for them in the same way that he was feeling sorry now for his mother and dad, and would he seem to his children to be ready for the ash heap as he dozed half-awake at nights?
He tried to shift to other thoughts, and words from the song stuck in his mind. Youth will pass away, Life goes on without me. His stocks could give him a start and prevent him from fearing lest he end up like the old man. Oh, Jesus Christ, why, why couldn’t they just go up and double, triple, in value. If they went to a hundred bucks, that would be seventy-five bucks a share profit. And other people had made plenty this way. Why couldn’t he?
And there they were, his father and mother, seeming to have other things on their minds. The old man’s mouth hung open, his arms were dropped like lead over the side of his chair, and when he breathed, the loose roll of fat around his belly moved.
Poor old bastard! Studs silently exclaimed.
And there were so many wrinkles now in his mother’s face, and the circles under her eyes, too, made her seem so old. She was the kind who must always be wearing herself out doing things for people, for the old man, for himself and Martin, for the girls, and Phil and Carroll. And she would go on doing things for her home and her family until the end. Suppose the old man did lose everything? How tough it would be on her! Jesus God, if his stock would only go up and he could save them from such troubles!
“And what could be more tempting, more refreshing, more delicious than...”
“Those damn advertisements,” Lonigan said, leaning forward to turn the