Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [137]
He had made his decision while shaving. Now, it caused him to have a sense of impending unpleasantness. It would be a wasted evening, and tomorrow he would regret having let a night slip by him. But that wasn’t the right attitude to show. Sometimes, he wished that he wasn’t a Catholic, and didn’t have to meet the responsibilities of a Catholic. But that wasn’t the right attitude either.
The Carter playgrounds surrounding the school were rimmed by an iron picket fence. Walking along, Studs had an impulse to touch each picket as he had used to do. But he walked along like a guy of twenty-one who wasn’t a clown. He paused at a spot along the fence which stood almost opposite the third base of the indoor diamond in the northeast corner of the grounds.
Remembering, remembering many things, he nodded. And Paulie was dead now. He had never thought that on his twenty-first birthday, first day of manhood, that his old friend, Paulie, would die. Life was funny and unpredictable.
He looked at the rambling, tan-and-gray school building that stood in the center of the grounds facing south. The sky over it was red. It all made him lonesome. The sky red, the empty buildings, the playground he had known so well as a kid, with nobody now in it. He looked at the batter’s box on the diamond. Paulie had stood there batting right-handed in a piggy game, cursing Young Coady for twirling the ball on the day he’d cleaned Red Kelly. He could almost hear Paulie’s voice:
“Come on, you goddamn punk, or I’ll fling the bat at you!”
And right inside the fence from where he stood was the spot where they’d had the fight. Paulie had placed the stick on his shoulder and Red had knocked it off, and they’d tangled. And the fists of Studs Lonigan had won him respect.
Suddenly, he was lonesome, lonesome to be a boy again.
He looked at his clenched fist. It was pretty big, considering his size. He was only about five six, but he was broad, and he was still tough, and able to spot a lot of guys on weight and take them.
But still he couldn’t get himself to believe that Paulie was dead. He had stood right inside the playground, and Studs could almost see him, mushy-faced, a bit fat, big fanny, wearing a red-trimmed, gray baseball shirt. The first to go, and all shot to pieces with clap, and drink, and dissipation.
Poor Paulie.
Studs lit a cigarette. He wondered why the good guys like Paulie went, and the louses like Weary Reilley didn’t. He shrugged his shoulders and told himself he ought to snap out of it. But when he looked at the playground, with the sky red over it, and remembered so many things, and thought that Paulie was dead, out in Calvary Cemetery, he was lonesome, lonesome to be a kid again. He walked on towards the corner, along a sidewalk he’d walked with Paulie many times. Even though he was sad about Paulie, he couldn’t help being a bit proud, because he was twenty-one and strong, and yes, tomorrow in the football game, he’d show his strength. He’d done his drinking and jazzing too, and still, he was strong and tough. He was the real stuff.
He’d never realized that he was growing up and changing. There had been signs on his body, but they, too, had come gradually. Each day he had grown stronger, bigger, with more hair on him. He had changed, though, slowly day by day, gotten to hanging around the poolroom, worked with his old man, and then, well, he wasn’t doing the things he’d done as a kid. Now he was a man. Well, he was! He felt a little goofy, remembering how, before coming out, he’d looked at himself in the mirror, and assured himself that he was a man. But he was. And there were many years ahead of him, drinking, jazzing, poker-games, plenty of things. And he had dough. With the birthday present from his old man, he now had four hundred bucks in his own name in the bank. He was pretty goddamn well off.
A girl came toward him. He liked her looks. He had confidence in his walk. He was well dressed too: gray Stetson, conservative gray topcoat, well-fitting sixty-five dollar Oxford