Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [422]
“It’s this way, Joe. Now, what gave us good times? The automobile industry. Why? Because it was something new to develop. Now, what do we need now to bring back better times? Something else that’s new, to develop. Well, that’s the idea, see. This outfit I’m with has got something new. An electric shaver. All right. If it can sell an electric shave to every man in the country who is working, well, think of what that means.”
“Don’t let anybody from the barber’s union hear you say that.”
“I’m serious.”
If he could think of something new, or get in on something new that was really a good thing and not just a racket like that paper-cup dodge. If he could go back to painting.
From somewhere outside he heard fire-engine sirens, and he sat on the edge of his chair and saw that all over the restaurant people got excited. A man arose, hurried out of the restaurant. He felt like dashing out to see the fire. But he couldn’t. Not in the rain. And anyway this afternoon he had ahead of him the serious business of getting a job. The Negro passed him, humming quietly as he mopped. Looked like a happy shine. Wished he was as naturally happy as all the shines were. Suppose he had been born a jigg. Christ! That, at least, was one thing to be thankful for.
“Joe, it’s a chance. But it’s worth taking. There’s a whole new virgin field here, just as Mr. Cathaway, he’s the man I just got the job from, just as he said.”
“Sure, you wear out your shoes, feed yourself, and take the change. If you sell anything, he collects, and then you do.”
“You’re just cynical, Joe.”
“Sure I am. I’ve worked at enough jobs and seen enough rackets to be cynical.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Studs was too nervous to keep sitting. He got up and paid his check. He walked along Wabash Avenue, rain pelting him, worried over getting wet and catching cold, not knowing what to do, a feeling of confusion spreading like a fog over his thoughts. He scarcely knew where he was. He heard an automobile horn and stepped back two feet on the sidewalk, standing in momentary paralysis. He had to laugh at himself. In the middle of the block, jumping back, afraid of being run over because he heard an automobile horn in the street! He had to, damn it, just pull himself together.
Oh, my Jesus Christ, if only something would happen! Again that confusion, like a fog, numbed his senses, and he became unaware even of the rain battering against his raincoat. Suppose he should just clear out on a freight, and go to-hell-and-gone, letting everything just go to pot. What then? Consumption, like Davey Cohen had gotten on the bum. Or maybe lose a leg or get killed under a train, or freeze to death riding the rods in winter, or just poop out with heart failure. He imagined himself a politician, with a fat cigar in his mouth, a bigger shot in the racket than Red Kelly, a boss sitting over a table with Barney McCormack, deciding on what to do with jobs and rake-offs.
“Buddy, can you spare a man the price of a cup of coffee?”
Studs turned to see an unshaven man in a soaked, torn coat. He walked on, turning east on Randolph Street. Women’s dresses in a window. The same window that Catherine had looked at the night they became engaged. Maybe he should take in a show this afternoon and get started bright and early in the morning. He passed the public library, seeing hoboes cluttered around the entrance way, looking out at the rainy street. He turned north on Michigan Avenue. Well, he at least wasn’t a bum. He asked himself where he was going. Well, maybe he might just stumble into a job somewheres along here. He entered a building near the bridge and read the bulletin board, his eyes stopping at the name, Royal Insurance Company.
On a hunch that it might be his ticket, he rode on the