The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [411]
He drank coffee, and determined to force his mind on the problem of what to do this afternoon, and what to say when he went out looking again. He lifted the cup and noticed the manager, a sour-faced fellow in a clean white coat, move officiously around, seeming to give orders to the hustling bus-boys. The man took a position near the door and stood with folded arms as if he owned the joint. Studs thought of how he would hate to work for a nasty-looking bastard like that manager. In a far corner two girls talked at a table. What about them?
There was no urge in him now to do anything. He was too damned tired. His feet were wet, and they felt dirty. His suit seemed not to fit, hanging loosely and unpressed on his body, the trousers about the cuffs heavy from rain. He told himself that he was whipped. He told himself, that no, damn it, no, he wasn’t whipped. He would just sit here awhile, rest himself, get his bearings, figure out a clear line to use in getting a job, and then go and look until he did get some-thing.
He walked to the cashier’s counter and bought a package of cigarettes. He knew he shouldn’t smoke, but one now, in his present state, wouldn’t hurt. Returning to his chair, he saw that his cup had been removed. He walked to the counter and came back with another cup. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He shook his head, thinking that Christ, the times sure must be hard, all right. At both places where he’d been this morning, fellows had kept streaming in. And there would be some chumps, so dumb, or so hard up, that they would fall for that bald-headed guy’s paper-cup racket. Have a scientific drink of water in a scientific paper cup, he smiled to himself, drinking coffee. But Studs Lonigan had not been one of that boy’s suckers. No, sir.
“Well, Joe, I got a job.”
Studs turned to his left, and saw two young lads in blue suits a few chairs down from him.
“Anything good?”
“You can’t tell. It’s commission selling.”
“That ain’t a job, that’s a question of reducing weight.”
He had to get a job, because if he didn’t he would be living on Catherine’s dough, and on what she could earn until she would have to quit because of the kid she was having. Jesus, it was just dumb, tying themselves down with a kid in the first inning, refusing to take anything or have something done about it. His eye, wandering over the restaurant, caught a coal black and perspiring Negro, in an almost filthy white apron, who slung a mop rhythmically back and forth along the dirty tile floor.
“It’s this way, Joe. Now, what gave us good times? The automobile industry. Why? Because it was something new to develop. Now, what do we need now to bring back better times? Something else that’s new, to develop. Well, that’s the idea, see. This outfit I’m with has got something new. An electric shaver. All right. If it can sell an electric shaver to every man in the country who is working, well, think of what that means.”
“Don’t let anybody from the barber’s union hear you say that.”
“I’m serious.”
If he could think of something new, or get in on something new that was really a good thing and not just a racket like that paper-cup dodge. If he could go back to painting.
From somewhere outside he heard fire-engine sirens, and he sat on the edge of his chair and saw that all over the restaurant people got excited. A man arose, hurried out of the restaurant. He felt like dashing out to see the fire. But he couldn’t. Not in the rain. And anyway this afternoon he had ahead of him the serious business of getting a job. The Negro passed him, humming quietly as he mopped. Looked like a happy shine. Wished he was as naturally happy as all the shines were. Suppose he had been born a jigg. Christ! That, at least, was one thing to be thankful for.
“Joe, it’s a chance. But it’s worth taking. There’s a whole new virgin field here, just as Mr. Cathaway,