The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [331]
It was just nice, though, to sit here, and through the bushes to see the water, the sunlight dancing on it, like it was alive. The same way the sunlight had danced on the lagoon in Washington Park when he and Lucy had sat in the tree. Oars splashed and a boat rode by. Might be a good idea to go rowing, but he changed his mind, because that was too strenuous a form of exercise.
He let a burning cigarette hang from his mouth until he coughed from a throatful of smoke. He leaned back and with shaded eyes looked up at a sky whose shimmering and pervasive brightness brought water to his eyes. He blinked at a squirrel moving swiftly across the walk and into the bushes. He was humble and soft, and felt that there was something behind all this that he saw, sun, and sky, and new grass, and trees, and birds, and the bushes, and the squirrel, and the lagoon, and people moving by him, and street cars and automobiles, and it was God. God made all this, moved it, made it live, himself, that Red he’d met who was against Him, the fellows playing ball. And God was the spirit behind it all and behind everything. Gee, if Catherine was only here now! He shook his head, as if to drive all these thoughts away because if he told them to anybody, it would just sound goofy. He wasn’t a poet.
But Christ, this was the life!
From far off he heard twelve-o’clock whistles. They made him want to do something, and they made him feel the same as train whistles did.
A woman of about thirty, neat, good figure, hopped along holding to the leash of a straining Airedale. The dog forced her onto the grass, switched directions, tugged and pulled across to the grass on the other side of the walk. She did not return his glance. Maybe she, too, thought he was a park bum. He wished a neat trick, like his sister Fran, would come by, speak to him, he’d show her he wasn’t a bum. He watched the dog drag her forward, and didn’t give a damn what she thought of him, and silently exclaimed, Up your brown Lizzie.
He sat back, feeling that warm sun on his arms and face, contented again. Nice.
IV
The Greek restaurant at Sixty-third and Stony Island Avenue with the imitation marble counter and the modernistic gray and dull red furnishings was crowded with high-school kids, and as Studs entered he heard an uproar of talk, giggling girls at the booths and tables, a clatter of dishes, and, above it, a male chorus on a radio singing snappily:
My wife is on a diet,
And since she’s on a diet,
Home isn’t home any more.
No gravy and potatoes,
Just lettuce and tomatoes,
Where are the pies I adore?
Oh, oh, oh, oh. What a disgrace,
I’m ashamed to look a grapefruit straight in the face.
The stout Greek behind the counter, hearing the song, wobbled to the radio and twisted the dial, bringing forth a saccharine torch-singing love-song.
Studs, smiling at the incident and thinking that it was a good song for Catherine to hear, took a seat at the counter. On his left, he noticed a young khaki-shirted workingman, soaking up the gravy on his plate with a slice of bread, and on his other side, a tall marcelled blond lad, with a long face, who wore a blue sweater with a large white P on the front. Park High athlete, he thought. He watched a dumpy waitress pass and ‘hoped his order would be taken soon because he didn’t like it with all these crazy high-school kids around. “Have you ever dated Irene Knisley, Jack?” the athlete asked the black-haired, baby-faced lad beside him.
“No, but she can be my big moment any time she wants.”
“She’s a big moment who will heat you plenty. I dropped up to the Park Community Center dance last Friday, and she was there. You ought to dance with her.”
“Tompkins took her out and he says she’s plenty strong on the lovin’. He’s certain he can make her.”
Studs thought that they were just drying the milk behind their ears. He toyed with his knife and fork, and thought about how hungry he was.
“Hey,. Katie,” the baby-faced high-school student called out at the clumpy waitress.
“What?”
“How’d you like to