Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [421]
“Lonigan.”
“Mr. Lonigan, yes. I interview so many people daily that I can’t remember new names always. Now, Mr. Lonigan, if you are interested, I’ll be glad to discuss this proposition of ours with you further in the morning, and start you off on the right foot. But don’t forget, every day, every minute that you lose means that valuable territories and Loop buildings are going to others.”
Studs arose.
“Think it over, Mr. Lonigan,” the man said, lifelessly shaking Studs’ hand.
“I will.”
Studs walked from the office, tired, almost dizzy, from the man’s talk. There was a lineup on the bench, but the girl was gone. He examined his watch: twelve twenty-five, and left. But, gee, if it had only been a real and genuine proposition that would have netted him his sixty a week.
VI
He walked in the rain, north along Wabash Avenue, worn out, with his feet soaked, fighting the discouraging idea of giving up for the day, wondering where to go and what to do next. He dashed into a Thompson restaurant to get out of the rain. He noticed the clock to the right of the cashier’s desk. Seven minutes to one. It probably wouldn’t do much good to try any other place until at least one-thirty. He could sit here over a cup of coffee until then. Should have taken longer with his lunch. He carried his cup of coffee from the counter, put sugar into it at a service stand, and found a one-arm chair. He slouched, and stared around at the many people scattered over the place, noticing a shabby, graying man wolfing a sandwich. Two chairs away from this man, a bum snoozed half asleep over a cup of coffee. At a table, two young lads talked rapidly over plate dinners. Near them two bell-hops or doormen in braided uniforms drank coffee. Down to his right, an old man with shaking hands slobbered as he drank. All these people, some happy, some not, how many were worse off than he?
He drank coffee, and determined to force his mind on the problem of what to do this afternoon, and what to say when he went out looking again. He lifted the cup and noticed the manager, a sour-faced fellow in a clean white coat, move officiously around, seeming to give orders to the hustling busboys. The man took a position near the door and stood with folded arms as if he owned the joint. Studs thought of how he would hate to work for a nasty-looking bastard like that manager. In a far comer two girls talked at a table. What about them?
There was no urge in him now to do anything. He was too damned tired. His feet were wet, and they felt dirty. His suit seemed not to fit, hanging loosely and unpressed on his body, the trousers about the cuffs heavy from rain. He told himself that he was whipped. He told himself, that no, damn it, no, he wasn’t whipped. He would just sit here a while, rest himself, get his bearings, figure out a clear line to use in getting a job, and then go out and look until he did get something.
He walked to the cashier’s counter and bought a package of cigarettes. He knew he shouldn’t smoke, but one now, in his present state, wouldn’t hurt. Returning to his chair, he saw that his cup had been removed. He walked to the counter and came back with another cup. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He shook his head, thinking that Christ, the times sure must be hard, all right. At both places where he’d been this morning, fellows had kept streaming in. And there would be some chumps, so dumb, or so hard up, that they would fall for that bald-headed guy’s paper-cup racket. Have a scientific drink of water in a scientific paper cup, he smiled to himself, drinking coffee. But Studs Lonigan had not been one of that boy’s suckers. No, sir.
“Well, Joe, I got a job.”
Studs turned to his left, and saw two young lads in blue suits a few chairs down from him.
“Anything good?”
“You can’t tell. It’s commission selling.”
“That ain’t a job, that’s a question of reducing weight.”
He had to get a job, because if he didn’t he would be living on Catherine’s dough, and on what she could earn until she would have to quit because of the kid she was having.