Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [300]
Warning bells and the lowering train gates of the I.C. distracted his thoughts, and he watched a westbound electric suburban train clatter down the middle of the street, drawing into the Bryn Mawr station that reached westward from Jeffery. He watched three young fellows racing up the station steps to catch the train, asking himself idly who they were, and what they were?
“Say, Lonigan, since your old man’s a painting contractor, I was wondering about something. A lad I know, good friend of mine, was chump enough to get himself spliced when he was out of a job. He’s damn nifty with the brushes, too, and now he needs work because his wife is having a kid. I’ll vouch for him as a damn good worker, not at all like me, he just knows me. Would there be any chance of your old man giving him something to do?” O’Grady asked.
“Jesus, the kid brother here and I don’t even work regularly,” Studs said, Martin frowning at Studs.
“Well, no harm in asking,” O’Grady said.
Studs regretted that he couldn’t help out O’Grady’s friend. He’d like to be a guy who could do favors that way, like a politician. If guys wanted something, they’d say, know Studs Lonigan, well, see him, he ought to be able to fix you up.
“Now that everybody has done his gassing, how about a bottle, boys?” Martin said.
“Studs, hear that?” said Pat, nodding his head at Martin.
“Yeah, Pat, these kids nowadays getting pretty reckless,” Studs said, winking at Pat.
“Sure we are, Grandpa Lonigan. Tell about that time, though, during the Spanish American War, when you jumped out of the window of a can house with your pants down. I haven’t heard that story for an hour. Now, come on, tell us,” said Martin, his voice a cutting sneer.
“Yes, and I’ll bet you just go rolling down the gutter every time you whiff a cork,” Studs said, pleased when they laughed, because it showed that he was impressing them all as a guy with a real sense of humor.
“Listen, I’ll eat mine if I can’t drink you under the table,” Martin countered.
“Pat, there’s a lot of cocky young punks these days whose talk is louder than their actions,” Studs said with strained casualness.
“And there’s plenty of old boys, you know, in training to become bald-headed dryballs,” Martin said.
“I’d call this nice brotherly friendship,” Bryan said, Studs glad for the crack because he was stumped for a retort.
“Frankly, if you asked my opinion, I’d lay my dough on the line to say that your old man could spot both of you a good-sized pint and still watch you pass out,” Pat said.
“The gaffer had his in his day,” Martin said.
“And Steve O’Grady’s old man whetted his gullet with plenty, too, in his time,” O’Grady said.
“You know, it’s funny. Now, you take my old man. I’m pretty sure he was wild and sowed his wild oats in his day. But he must have changed a lot since then. He acted toward Martin there and me as if he didn’t want us to have what he had, and as if he didn’t even understand why a guy could want to go out, tip the bottle, raise some hell. Funny, isn’t it, the way people change,” Studs said.
“Wait till you are married and you make me the uncle of some squawking little Studs Lonigans,” Martin laughed.
“Going to march down the middle aisle with a flower in your buttonhole, huh, Studs? Well, congratulations,” O’Doul said.
“That reminds me. Pete Webb just took a run-out powder on his wife. She’s having a kid, and Pete, who never liked work anyway, didn’t have a job, so he just took the run-out powder,” Pat said.
“He was the skinny, dark-haired punk around the corner who was so chicken, wasn’t he,” Studs said.
“That’s Webb, Lonigan,” Bryan said.
“What’s his frau doing besides having a baby?” asked Schuber.
“Webb was crummy to pull a stunt like that,” O’Grady said.
“Fellows, you can’t always tell what a guy’s reasons are when he does a thing like that. He might be wanting to explore new fields for nooky, and