Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [466]
And Antichrist Lonigan flung himself on his knees . . . and looked up to high heaven where God . . .
Father, I say unto You, forgive me, for I have jazzed. Father, forgive me, and if You must, kill me, but let me die in the state of grace, and with the Last Sacraments of the one holy true and apostolic Church that takes up a collection every Sunday under the auspices of Father Gilhooley, who is known as the one and only Gilly Himself.
And God looked down upon Studs Antichrist Lonigan who knelt humbly in his own defecation, and God said unto him:
Verily, verily, go take a flying jazz at the moon and die!
And Studs Antichrist Lonigan knelt in his own defecation, and he lowered his head, and said unto himself:
Verily, verily, I must take a flying jazz at the moon and die.
And he raised himself and said aloud:
I go forth as I am told, to jazz the moon.
He walked over the hills and over the dales . . . climbed up ladders of air to the moon . . . and he jazzed the moon, and then he stood again alone in a mist, and he knew he must die. And he felt that if only he could have a drink of water, he would die. His throat dried. Parched, he tore at his hair, and cried out:
Save me! Save me!
IV
Studs lay there, wasted and breathing rapidly. The doctor looked at him, felt the pulse and found it feeble, 110 a minute. Studs talked in delirium, incoherently . . . ugly sounds, out of which there were audible the words:
Save me! Save me!
The doctor found that Studs had a high fever and an indication of fluid in the lungs . . . .
V
Studs Lonigan seemed to be resting quietly. He saw himself clearly as a boy around Fifty-eighth Street, the morning sunny, walking down Indiana Avenue. He felt that he should be happy, but he was unhappy. Sadly, his face moody, he walked along slowly, looking at the buildings, looking in at the building where Lucy Scanlan should live, but where he was sure she did not live, and seeing through dusty windows the interior of a furnitureless parlor.
He walked on. The buildings, all of them, he realized, were untenanted, and this was funny . . . none of the old people were there. . . .
An awful loneliness was in him.
Well, you got your wish, a voice told him.
What wish? he asked, seeing no one.
You wanted to be back here. Riding home from the wake of Shrimp Haggerty, you asked for your wish, and here it is. You’re back on Fifty-eighth Street, back on Indiana Avenue, back in the old neighborhood. You got what you want, I hope you’re satisfied, the voice said.
Where is the old gang? said Studs.
All right, the voice said.
Studs turned, and saw walking toward him a procession of people, walking one by one. As they approached, a stout woman with four double chins smiled, walked up to him, kissed him, and he felt. . . .
Studs, you darling boy, said the woman.
Who are you? asked Studs.
I’m Lucy Scanlan, the woman said.
Studs looked at her. She walked on, and Studs saw in back of her a crummy little runt, who looked like a bum on West Madison Street.
Got a butt, Studs asked the crummy . . .
. . . Phil Rolfe, dressed in a jockey suit.
Studs, the riding is fine. I’m riding your kid sister, and Studs, no man else ever rode her, and she was good riding in her day. But now I want some new riding, said Phil Rolfe, laughing lewdly.
Studs stood at the edge of the sidewalk, speechless.
Joe Thomas passed, small, and looking like hell, and he said:
Studs, don’t ever get without a job.
Studs, how you like my new suit? said Johnny O’Brien.
Studs, go wash your dirty mouth, said Helen Borax, a fat woman with a lorgnette.
Look at Studs, he hasn’t changed, said Dan O’Neill, dressed in a gray suit.
Studs, go hop in, and stay hopped, said Weary Reilley in convict’s stripes.
Studs, don’t have crippled kids. When you have crippled kids, even jazzing doesn’t pay, said Simonsky.
Come on back in the alley and bend your