Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [415]
“Well, thank you. And, oh, yes, I wanted to say, also, that I can give you good references.”
“Of that I don’t doubt. I can see that you are an experienced man in your own line, and that you have undoubtedly made good at it.”
“Well, I can give references like Judge Dennis Gorman, and Mr. McCormack who’s high up in the Democratic party.”
“Of course, there is no connection between the Nation Oil Company and politics. But then, of course, such references are worthy ones, references of men in public offices, and they will count for you favorably when your application is considered. Now here is an application blank. It is self-explanatory. You fill it out tonight and mail it to me.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” Studs said, accepting the blank.
“I’m very glad to have met you, Mr. Lonigan,” Mr. Parker said, arising and offering a limp hand.
Studs hurried out past the waiting lineup on the benches. In the corridor, he looked at his watch, eleven-thirty, and pressed the button for an elevator.
IV
From the entrance-way to the Nation Oil building he watched the rain sweep Michigan Boulevard like a broom. The damp atmosphere seemed to penetrate to his bones and he felt lousy enough as it was, without having to take any disappointments.
What now? He tried to make himself believe that he hadn’t been dumb in the way he had talked upstairs, but he knew differently. Goddamn it, why did he have to go through this? Giving him the same kind of a go-by they would hand to a chump. It would just be a waste of time filling out the application and mailing it in. He wasn’t a dummy, either, and if they’d only give him the chance, he’d show them. He saw himself getting the chance, working himself up, becoming a big shot in the Nation Oil Company. But things had gone too far for him to be kidding himself with such dreams.
That Parker was one cold and clammy bastard. A fake high-brow, lording it over every poor guy who came along looking for a job. What education? What the hell was college anyway? But still, he did wish he hadn’t been such a muttonhead as to pass up the chance to get an education when he had had it. Just now, when he needed help most, an education would put him a long way ahead of many others.
Studs noticed a fellow who had been after him in the lineup waiting upstairs. He wanted the fellow to speak, but he passed out. He guessed the guy had gotten the same kind of crap that they’d given him.
A bum shambled by the building. A taxicab skidded on the wet street. Still, what next? He looked at the Help Wanted column of his newspaper, again figuring that he had time for one more attempt before lunch. Opportunity for a salesman. And the building was just over on Wabash Avenue. It didn’t look any too hot, but a chance was a chance, and he couldn’t afford to ignore anything if it looked at all likely. A green-slickered girl passed the doorway, and Studs thought how nice it would be to follow her, spend the day forgetting everything by fooling around with her. He wished to all holy hell that he didn’t have to go through with all this, and he stood watching the splattering rain. He felt sorry for himself.
And maybe the ad for a salesman wasn’t even worth trying. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and ran, hugging the building. He soaked his left foot and trouser cuff in a puddle, cursing as he hastened on. Turning a corner, breathless, he was forced to pause because of a stitch in his side and an aching heaviness in his back and arms. He jammed his hands into his raincoat pockets, gasped for breath, and began to worry over his wet feet. Rain beat off his hat and back, and a drop oozed inside his collar, slid coldly down his back.
On Wabash Avenue he found his number, a dirty, brownstone building, and he entered the gloomy cavern of the tile-floored entranceway. Reading