Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [423]
Walking back toward Randolph Street, Michigan Boulevard lost itself in mist, and the Art Institute down at Monroe Street was like some very distant building. People were hurrying by, and the crawling, honking traffic beat a confusion into him. He collided with a stout woman, hurried on without an apology. Maybe he ought to go home. He was too wet and mussed to look for a job. At Randolph, he dashed across the street and up the steps of the public library building, winded by the short run. He looked at the small crowd of people who stood sheltered from the rain. The boes made him laugh. So many of them looked like mopes. He watched a stream of people pour up from the Illinois Central subway exit. Train had just pulled in. Lots of women. Some neat girls, too. If it was only a hot sunny day, they wouldn’t be wearing raincoats and slickers, and he could get a better look at their figures. He watched one girl in a yellow slicker, with blonde hair curling out from a black hat, as she minced to a taxicab. Neat little parcel of femininity, young and budding just like Lucy had once been. Lucy again. If he could only see her, talk to her, even if she was fat and used up and another man’s woman. Lucy, like she used to be. Even to see her would give him a feeling of those other days, when he had never dreamed that he would be in the kind of a hole he was now in. Or to see good old Helen Shires, a girl he could talk to, tell her of his feelings and troubles, and she would understand. Another cute dame, her dainty steps, the shocked look on her face as she avoided a puddle. He laughed. An old Jew with black whiskers getting wet, maybe a rabbi smelling of gefillte fish. Boy, what wind tormentors that old Abie had! They fell halfway down his chest. He watched the automobiles curving onto and off Randolph Street. Two students entering the Cresar Library Building across the street caught his eye. Lucky boys getting an education. And the cartoon coming up the library steps with books under his arm. A nose that hooked and stuck out all over his face, blue corduroy pants, leather jacket, no hat. Must be one of those Bohemians or a pansy. Lots of goofs in the world.
“Got a cigarette, Mister?”
Studs turned to face a jerking little gray-haired man with ill-fitting old clothes that hung over his body like a wet sack.
“Thanks,” the man muttered, taking a cigarette from Studs’ extended pack.
Studs nodded as if he had done the man a great favor.
“Got a match?”
Studs handed him a book of matches, looking on as the fellow unconfidently and excitedly wasted four matches before getting a light.
“Terrible weather,” the man said.
Studs grunted agreement. The bum stood beside Studs as if expecting something. Studs watched a green-bellied surface car swerve onto Randolph Street and clang to Wabash Avenue surrounded by automobiles.
“Say, Mister, you couldn’t spare a dime for a bite to eat? I’ve been carrying the banner all night, and I’m goddamn hungry.” Studs did not hear, and his thoughts dragged up Lucy again. The bum walked off, muttering curses. Studs stood watching people pass in the rain, thinking of Lucy, and wondering, now what would he do?
VII
Studs stepped out of another building. Four straight turndowns, one right after the other. It was about a quarter to three, and disappointment was deep and like a worm inside of him. Walking again in the rain, he was afraid, afraid that he was no good, useless, that he would never be able to get anywhere. If the old man lost everything, he would just be a pauper without a pot to take a leak in. He walked rapidly, half running until he was forced to