Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [342]
“Have you ever dated Irene Knisley, Jack?” the athlete asked the black-haired, baby-faced lad beside him.
“No, but she can be my big moment any time she wants.”
“She’s a big moment who will heat you plenty. I dropped up to the Park Community Center dance last Friday, and she was there. You ought to dance with her.”
“Tompkins took her out and he says she’s plenty strong on the lovin’. He’s certain he can make her.”
Studs thought that they were just drying the milk behind their ears. He toyed with his knife and fork, and thought about how hungry he was.
“Hey, Katie,” the baby-faced high-school student called out at the clumpy waitress.
“What?”
“How’d you like to be my big moment?”
“Come around on Sunday. I have kindergarten then,” she flung back.
Studs smiled. He followed her with his eyes as she moved to the slot opening back to the kitchen and shoved a pile of used dishes into it. He gulped down the glass of water and saw, as she turned, that she was no chicken, and her breasts almost fell down to her belly. Not worth the making. How did broads like her feel, because they had so little to offer a guy? They must know they look like hell and that a guy would have to be pretty hard up before he tried to play around with them. In fact, they must, in dolling themselves up to be made, have a hell of a lot of nerve and think a lot of what they had. And from the looks of her tough face, crusted with powder, she didn’t look decent, but the type that would go with anything in pants.
You’ve got me pickin’ petals off o’ daisies,
Some say yes, some say no . . .
Still, some guys went for dumb broads like her, and would be glad to get her. At times, he might himself, because a guy got that way.
“What’ll you have?” she asked in a strident voice.
“Roast beef and mashed potatoes.”
“My pater’s sobbing the blues, too, about dough. He’s cut down on my allowance, but the mater slips me something and doesn’t snitch to him,” the athlete said.
“My dad’s swell, a real pal. He always says to me, ‘Jack, I had my fun when I was your age and I don’t want my kid to be an angel.’ He doesn’t want me to kill myself studying, either.”
“My pater’s a babbitt.”
The plate of food, soaked with greasy gravy, was set before Studs. He dumped catsup beside the meat, and commenced eating rapidly. His mouth jammed, he thought that these kids didn’t know how lucky they were, having a good time and a chance to get an education in high school, and they ought to make the best of their chance. An education didn’t hurt you.
“I tried to date Daisy Dell for the Alpha dance, and she was oh, so sorry. So I said to her, ‘Say, don’t cry, baby, you’re not Clara Bow.’ She hung up on me,” the baby-faced lad said, and the athlete laughed.
“Apple pie and coffee,” Studs called at the dumpy waitress as she scuttled by him with an armful of orders.
I lift up my finger and I say
“Tweet tweet, shush, shush, now, now,
Come come.”
He wished he’d gone to high school and college and belonged to fraternities and had a good time. But then, wasn’t he a Christy? Wait, too, until the next initiation in his council. It would be a knockout. And he ought to start going to meetings.
“Apple pie and coffee.”
She didn’t even notice him. He wanted to get out, too, away from all these high-school boys. Goddamn bitch! She ought to be glad she had a job these days instead of gassing like she was now with a punk down the counter during a rush period like this.
“Apple pie and coffee.”
“I got it the first time, mister,” she called back.
Nervy bitch, who did she think