Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [115]
“There’s plenty of chumps workin’ already,” Reilley said.
“That’s what I’m trying to suggest to my old man. But he gets on a soap-box every morning at breakfast and threatens not to give me any more dough,” Studs said.
“My old man tried that once, and I blew. He knows better than try it again. He’s got enough dough and did enough work for the Reilleys for a long time to come. If he cracks wise about it, he knows I’ll just tell him all right fellow, and blow. I can get me a gat and pull a stickup when I need the kale,” Reilley said, causing them all to admire him.
“You know, boys, sometimes I think it would be a good idea to go on the bum,” Doyle said.
“Not me. I know where I can find my pork chops,” Studs said.
“If you did go, you might meet Davey Cohen. Hell, he’s been gone three years, ever since that time we gang-shagged that little bitch Iris, and she told him no soap because he was a hebe,” said Red.
“If somebody hasn’t croaked that kike by this time, they ought to. I don’t like kikes,” Weary said.
Studs finally tired of the gassing and sitting around, so he drifted over to the Washington Park boathouse. It was a long, low, open structure, bounded on two sides by shrubbery. He picked out a cane chair and rocked rapidly. There were few people around, some old men and women who talked too much in loud, cracking voices, Coady, the red-faced, flat-footed park cop who always eyed the lads with suspicion, and a couple of dinges. If the guys had come, they could have ganged the dinges. Niggers didn’t have any right in a white man’s park, and the sooner they were taught that they didn’t, the better off they’d be. He looked around; no chickens.
A coatless fellow rowed effortlessly by on the lagoon. If he had a dollar for deposit, he could get a boat and row around, maybe pick up a chicken by the stone bridge, and fool around with her until it was dark, and then take her over to the wooded island.
Rocking away wasn’t his idea of a picnic, so he went outside, and plumped down under a shady tree behind the bushes that stood in front of the boathouse. He fell asleep thinking about girls. Suddenly he opened his eyes, feeling stiff; he didn’t know where he was. He heard sounds, voices, the shouts of children, footsteps, the hum of automobile motors as if in a blur. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and realized that he’d been sleeping.
He was moody, trying to recall something sad that he’d been dreaming about. He couldn’t remember it, and started thinking again of picking a chicken up, and making her. The fact that later on he’d have to go home for supper dropped in his thoughts like a soggy towel. The old man would probably be on the war-path again. He didn’t mind work, he guessed. It was the looking for it, having to learn things about it and seeming like a goof while he was learning. He mightn’t even mind working for the old man, but it was only the idea of it, the old man still trying to be his boss. The old man seemed to understand less and less every day and he couldn’t be natural with the old fathead. Treated him just like a kid in short pants. If things got too hot at home, he had that gat he’d gotten from Young Hennessey. He’d take it and blow. Weary wouldn’t be afraid to. He could do anything that skunk could. But robbing was dangerous. Jail, getting pot-shotted by cops! It was more fun thinking of pulling off a stick-up.
He pillowed his head in locked hands, and looked driftingly through the stirring leaves at the almost cloudless sky. The wind waved branches, the sun glinted on the leaves, and the sky was big and round and far away. He was lonesome, wanting things, a girl, Lucy, wanting that and something more and he didn’t even know what it was. Always these days, no matter what he was doing, he wanted to be doing something else, and he couldn’t think of much else for long, but girls, Lucy, and girls too, and he was always wishing, looking at girls on the streets as if they were the thing he was always wanting, thinking every morning he might meet