Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [417]
“You and I, well, just to take a look at us, anybody could tell we’re not the underdog or working-stiff type. And when we got to go out looking for something to do, and the breaks have gone against us, well, it only goes to show how hard times are.”
Studs nodded. He saw that the heavy fellow next to this guy was giving the two of them a fishy eye, and he wished this fellow would stop shovelling out so much crap.
“I’ll tell you, stranger, it’s a dirty shame when you and I and our type have to take it on the chin. Take myself now, I get pretty damn sore when I think of what I had. A swell apartment out on Wilson Avenue, gals, all the wine, women, and song my little heart desired, and a nice wad socked away. Nothing in the world to disturb my peace of mind, or my night’s rest. And then, the firm goes bust, the bank closes its doors, so here I am. But I ain’t through, not by a damn sight. I was in the class once, and that’s where I’ll be again.”
Studs turned away, not wanting to see any more of the fellow’s teeth, hoping the others on the bench or the girl typing wouldn’t take him to be the same type of crap artist.
The girl walked out of the office, wriggling with each step. The way they all gave her the once-over reminded Studs how the boys used to line up in front of the Fifty-eighth Street poolroom and undress every girl who passed. And this dame, he could see that she was a teasing bitch who liked to be looked at. Well, let her flaunt herself. He wasn’t exactly hard up.
“Jesus Christ!” he heard a little fellow at the opposite end of the bench exclaim in an enthusiastic half-whisper.
“She’s something that could make a man forget whether or not he had a job on a day like this,” the crap artist beside him said insinuatingly, slyly poking Studs as he spoke.
A wiry, nervous, bald-headed man came from an adjoining office, followed by a barrel-like fellow who walked out of the office, carrying a folded newspaper under his arm.
“Who’s next?”
A tall lad arose and walked into the adjoining office after the bald-headed man.
The girl returned.
“Sticks what she’s got right up into your face,” the crap artist whispered.
Sitting down, the girl flashed an annoyed glance at them, and Studs flushed. But how could a guy help getting het up when a dame did everything she could to tantalize him? She was crossing her legs, showing one leg above the knee. Ought to be a law forbidding broads to tease that way. She pulled the gum from her mouth, stretched it several feet, pulled it back into her mouth, resumed chewing it, and began typing as if the lineup on the bench were non-existent.
He looked toward the unwashed windows at the opposite end of the office and, staring at the heavy pall of gray sky, he became aware of traffic noises from the street below. He was damp, wet, and what would he do if there was nothing decent here? And how long would he have to wait? He looked at his watch: a quarter to twelve.
Two shabby men entered and walked to the girl. The tall lad came out of the inner office. Didn’t look like he’d gotten anything. Maybe, then, it might be a good job. And if he got it, his troubles might be ended. If not, a whole morning wasted.
V
Studs saw the wiry, bald-headed man sitting at the littered desk of the cramped adjoining office, and beside him there were stacks of paper cups.
“How do you do, ah, Mar. . . .”
“Lonigan,” Studs volunteered, taking the chair opposite the man.
“Glad to meet you, I’m Mr. Peters. Now tell me, Mr. Lonigan, are you, or are you not, a live-wire?” the man said, giving Studs a penetrating look.
Too stunned to answer, Studs stared back, puzzled.
“I have here a proposition that is for live-wires, and for live-wires only. Slackers, slow-pokes, easy-going, unambitious fellows, I neither want nor can tolerate. I am not even interested in the kind of salesman who thinks that because he has made a few sales in the morning, his day’s work is