Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [39]
Studs got up. He thought about saying his morning prayers, but he decided to wait and say them while he was washing; a wise guy could always kill two birds with one stone. He knelt down by the open window and took ten inhales; on colder mornings, when the temperature of the room was not the same as the temperature outside, it was swell and invigorating taking inhales, and Studs liked to do it because it made him feel good, but in summer like now, it was only a physical culture measure that he took, because some day Studs Lonigan was going to become big and strong and ... tough. He turned and went over to the dresser, thinking about how tough a guy he might become. He studied Studs Lonigan in the mirror, and discovered that he wasn’t such a bad-looking guy, and that maybe he even looked older than he was. He took a close-up squint at his mug and decided that it was, after all, a pretty good mug, even if he almost had a sheeny’s nose. He twisted his lips in sneers, screwed up his puss, and imagined himself telling some big guy where to get off at. He said, half aloud:
See, bo, I don’t take nobody’s sass. And get this, bo, the bigger they are, de harder dey fall. See, bo!
He took his pajama top off and gave his chest the double-o. It was broad and solid, all right. He practiced expanding his chest, flexing and unflexing his muscles to feel their hardness, tautening his abdomen to see if he had a cast-iron gut. He told himself that Studs Lonigan was one pretty Goddamn good physical specimen. Scowling like a real bruiser ought to scowl, he shadow-boxed with tip-toed clumsiness, cleaving the air with haymakers, telling himself that he was not only tough and rough, but that he was also a scientific boxer. He swung and swished himself into a good perspiration, knocking out imaginary roughnecks as if they were bowling pins, and then he sat down, saying to himself that he was Young Studs Lonigan, or maybe only Young Lonigan, the Chicago sensation, now in training for the bout when he would kayo Jess Willard for the title.
He snapped out of it, and went to the bathroom. He washed in clear, cold water, snorting with his face lowered in the filled bowl. It felt good, and it also felt good to douse water on his chest. After drying himself with a rough bath towel, he stood up close to the mirror and looked to see if there were any hairs on his upper lip. If he wasn’t so light, maybe he’d have to shave now. He imagined himself with the guys, walking, and him saying well, he wouldn’t be able to get around so early that night because he had to shave, and shaving was one lousy pain. And maybe girls would be there, and he’d say the same thing, only he wouldn’t curse. Himself letting Lucy know he shaved by complaining of it, or by talking about how he cut himself with the razor, or about how it had been hard because the razor was dull. Well, anyway, he could trim a lot of guys who did shave. He was nobody’s slouch. And some day he’d be shaving, and have hair on the chest, too. It was like that Uncle Josh piece on the victrola, I’m old but I’m awfully tough. Well, for him it was: I’m small but I’m awfully tough.
Studs left home immediately after breakfast so he could get away from the old lady. She was always pestering him, telling him to pray and ask God if he had a vocation. And maybe she’d have wanted him to go to the store, beat rugs, or clean the basement out. He didn’t feel like being a janitor. He would work, but he wouldn’t be a janitor. Janitor’s jobs were for jiggs, and Hunkies, and Polacks, anyway. He’d asked the old man again to take him to work, but the old man was the world’s champion putter-off. Every year since Studs could remember, he’d been promising that he was going to take the old lady to Riverview Park, and he was still promising. That was just like the old boy. Studs walked along, glancing about him, feeling what a good morning it was, walking in the sun that was spinning all over the street like a crazy top. He could feel the warmness of the sun; it