The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [416]
Faster, sister, faster, baby, oh, sister, shake yourself. “Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off.”
Tough luck. Too quick in covering to let them see her boobs. Another blonde, shaking the same way, oh, Jesus Christ, he wanted a woman. One of these would be the trick if he could put a towel over their faces. Come on, sister, let it go, come on, sister. Jesus Christ, this was too much, that flesh wriggling beneath pink tights, faster, head flung back just as if she was taking it standing up, and oh, sister, stop it, stop it, this was too much.
“Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off.”
Studs relaxed in his seat. His hands unclenched. He sighed, wished he hadn’t come in. Glancing to his right, he saw, two seats away, a man’s hand running up the thigh of a young kid of eighteen or nineteen. Ugh!
He arose, crushed out to the aisle, walked to the exit. Dazed, sleepy, he walked back toward Van Buren Street, past barber shops, employment agencies, cheap and greasy restaurants, shows, shooting galleries, flop houses, with-out seeing them. Stray bums scurried past him. He was so disgusted with himself that he could almost vomit. He felt as if he could puke himself right up. Watching such lowdown broads, letting them send him off as if he was a sixteen-year-old punk who still had his cherry. How different Catherine was from them. She was decent. And look what she had and was giving up for him. And then his going to a dime girl show, and liking it, getting so hot. Ugh, but he had acted like a slimy bastard. Pride in his woman Catherine mounted in a rush of dizzy hot-blooded thoughts. Catherine so clean, where they were dirty. He was just a louse, unworthy of her.
He sneezed, coughed, full of fear. He was sick. He wanted to go home, get his clothes off and fall into bed. He was tired. His arms pained, and an ache wormed straight down his backbone. His feet were so leaden that walking was an effort. His underwear was sticky, his clothes heavy. To get home and in a bed of clean, white sheets, resting, sleeping endlessly, forgetting everything that was on his mind. He tried to walk fast, but slowed down. Too much for him. His heart was leaping. His feet were getting more soaked with every step.
He had just made a mess of every damn thing. The thought of Catherine, her love and devotion alone, gave him confidence, and he wasn’t worthy of her, he had been false to her. He was through. Studs Lonigan, hang up your glove. Studs Lonigan, you’re through. He was beaten and whipped and he did not know what to do. He could only crawl to Catherine, ask her to forgive and take care of a louse named Studs Lonigan.
He sneezed again, and his head pounded. He realized that he had a headache. A nauseous taste arose from his stomach. He had to get home. He walked through the tunnel leading underneath Michigan Boulevard to the Van Buren Illinois Central Station. Waiting for the train, he bought a newspaper and read a headline.
RIOT AS BANK FAILS
But he was too tired, too tired to read.
“South Chicago,” an announcer barked.
Studs staggered through the doors to the long, narrow platform, slouched into a seat by a window. He sneezed and coughed, and damp, dirty, tired, he wished the train ride would end quickly. He touched his cheeks. Warm. Thirsty. Must have a fever. He was sick. Maybe he was going to die. Oh, God, please don’t let him die. Please only let him get home to sleep, sleep, sleep. He let his chin sink on his chest. He felt as if he were going to vomit. He wanted to moan, and fought back his impulse.
“I was walking down Sixty-seventh Street, and he smiled at me. And he had such a nice smile. He! He! I didn’t mean to smile, but I couldn’t help myself. But then I walked right on like a good little girl, and he came along, and when