Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [27]
He puffed and looked about the dark and lonely place. He could hear himself breathing, and his heart beating away, and the queerness of the place seemed to put strange figures in him, and the strange figures just walked right out of his head and moved about the place, leering at him like red-dressed Satan. He felt like he used to feel when he was a young kid, and he would have nightmares, and strange boys, like demons, and as big as his father, would come and lean over his bed, and he would get up and run screaming into the dining room, where he would tear around and around the table until his old man came and shagged them away. Hell, he wasn’t afraid of spooks any more, and all this talk of spirits was a lot of hokum. It was just that he felt a little queer about something. He puffed nervously, and watched the way the rays of moonlight fell into the room and dropped over the damp floor like they were sick things.
Whenever Studs had queer thoughts he had a good trick of getting rid of them. He imagined that his head was a compartment with many shutters in it, like a locker room. He just watched the shutters close on the queer, fruity thoughts, and they were gone, and he’d have a hell of a time bringing them back, even if he wanted to. He saw the shutter close in his mind now, and he puffed away and felt better. He coughed, because he tried to inhale and got too much smoke in his throat and nose. He thought about Gilly’s speech, and told himself that, whew, Gilly had talked a leg off of everybody; he talked as much as High-Collars Gorman, the lawyer. He thought of some of the things Gilly had said, and told himself that he didn’t care so much about making any long, hard journey, like Gilly had described. He had always wanted to grow up and become a big guy, because a big guy could be more independent than a punk; a big guy could be his own boss. But he felt a little leery about leaving it all behind and going out into the battle of life.
He had long pants, and he wasn’t just a grammar school punk any more, and he could walk down the street feeling he wasn’t, but well . . . sometimes he wasn’t so glad of it. And now he’d have to go to high school, when he didn’t want to, and meet new kids and get in fights all over again to become somebody in a new gang.
He told himself that he’d have to go out now in the battle of life and start socking away. It was fun thinking about it, but that was different from the real thing. And when you had to fight, you got socked in the mush, and a good sock was never any fun. Anyway, he had the summer ahead of him, and he could have fun with the guys around Indiana.
Weary Reilley came in. Weary was carrying his diploma, but he didn’t have any Irish history or Palmer method certificates. They were boushwah anyway, and just a lot of extra work.
Studs gave Weary a cigarette, and they stood facing each other. They were a contrast, Weary taller, and with a better build, and looking like a much badder guy. Weary had a mean, hard face, square and dirty-looking.
“I’m glad it’s over,” Studs said.
“Me, too. This for the works,” Weary said, making noises by compressing his lips outward and blowing.
“I’m glad I’m through with Battling Bertha,” Studs said.
They laughed in mutual agreement and understanding.
“Wouldn’t she get one if she saw us in here smokin’!” said Weary.
“Yeah,” said Studs.
They laughed and lit new fags.
“She’s too old to teach anyway,” said Studs.
“She’s a crab,” Weary said.
“I never liked the old battleaxe,” Studs said.
“Remember when she kept me after school and started to sock me, and I wouldn’t let her?” Weary said.
“Yeah. You had to fight with her, didn’ cha?” said Studs.
“Well, the old cow went to swing on me, and I told her hands off. No, sir! I’m not lettin’ no one take a