Studs Lonigan (124 page)

It was a wide office with dark rubber flooring. A freckle-faced office boy sat behind a closed gate, within which there were two large, unused desks. A line of applicants sat waiting on the two benches panelling the walls outside the gate, and seeing them, Studs' hopes again sank, and he wished that he had tried some other place. He walked hesitantly toward the office boy, permitting the two fellows who had entered with him to speak first, and then he immediately cursed himself for having let them get ahead of him.

“Is the Personnel Manager in?” he asked when his turn came.

“Want a job?” the office boy asked. Studs nodded his head.

“There isn't much chance. We're not hiring,” the office boy said officially, handing Studs a card. “Fill that out and return it to me.”

After waiting for the fellows ahead of him to fill in cards, Studs sat at a small desk in the corner by a water cooler and wrote in his name, age and address. The blank space for the reason he wanted to work with the Nation Oil Company stumped him. He noticed that another applicant was behind him, also waiting to fill out a card, and, feeling a mounting pressure within him, he wrote down in semi-legible handwriting that he needed a job with the prospect of a future in it. He returned the card.

“Take a seat,” the office boy said, and Studs frowned, resenting this punk's snotty manner.

He noticed that the applicants on the benches were nervous and anxious. A gray-haired man with a kindly, friendly face sat in the center of the bench by the right wall, and beside him a thin-faced chap. From his looks, Studs decided he was a wise-guy bastard. Studs sat at the end of the opposite bench, and noticing the bull-necked applicant on the left of the wiry-looking skinny fellow, he guessed he must be in his thirties. He was dark-haired, with big ears and thick brows, a straight, long nose, and wide, thin, irregularly slanting lips. He sat as if holding himself together, giving off the effect of persistent sneering. Suddenly, his expression seemed to alter from a sneer to a pout. Studs decided he was a big sack of mush, and shifted his eyes to the floor, uneasy because he had stared so long at the fellow. Beside him, a weak-shouldered little man sat, nervously folding and opening his fingers, his wrists narrow and powerless, his face blown with yellowish, unhealthy fat, a tb face. He wondered what about this fellow, and the bull-necked one, and the gray-haired man, and the others? They all must be hoping for a job, and maybe they needed one just as much as he did. If he got a job, it would mean some of them would be s. o. l. Well, the same would apply to him if they got jobs. It was just the breaks. A dark foreigner hurriedly emerged from an inner door on the right, crowded through the gate with eyes on the floor, probably to avoid meeting the questioning stares of the waiting applicants. He departed. No soap for that guy, Studs could see. The office boy barked out a name, and a little fellow in a loud shabby gray suit swung through the gate and disappeared inside the inner door on the right.

Studs felt let down because the fellow who had just come from his interview hadn't, it seemed, gotten anything. If these fellows ahead of him couldn't, how could he? Still, if he was to land something, most of these others would have to get the bums' rush, and each one who did meant one less rival. He tried to hope. And looking around, he could see the others must be thinking much the same as he was, because they all sat waiting, their faces hardening, their muscles tight, alert, scraping their feet, making all sorts of little motions and gestures because they were so nervous.

The freckle-faced office boy was checking over a stack of cards, and, watching him, Studs got the feeling that the punk was showing off, trying to tell them all that he had a job and they didn't. Just the kind of a face that Studs would like to have mashed in a little. He stared at the wall above the office boy. He wished the waiting could be shortened.

The small fellow in the loud shabby suit appeared through the gates, smiling artificially. Again Studs could feel how they became tense. The gray-haired man went in. Two tall fellows entered, spoke to the office boy, filled out cards, waited, standing to the left of Studs' bench and he enjoyed seeing how nervous and jumpy they were. He told himself that misery loved company. Well, if he failed here, he wouldn't be alone. If he made a fool out of himself, well, maybe others would, too.

The mush-faced, bull-necked fellow stretched out his legs and opened a copy of
The Chicago Questioner
. Studs pulled out his newspaper and looked at the front page. Police blamed Reds for recent eviction riots in the Black Belt. Reds must be nigger-lovers. Mayor says city finances in dangerous condition. That was bad, all right. Just what Barney McCormack had told his old man. Forced labor of women on Russian boats. Maybe every night the men lined up outside the women's cabins. How would the women like that? But there weren't enough details in the paper. He skipped the account of farmers rioting with guns and pitchforks, and avidly turned to one next to it. Sixteen-year-old girl found unconscious in forest preserve. Did a guy pulling such a stunt get anything worth the effort? He folded up his newspaper and noticed that the mushy-faced fellow had gone in, and that there were three more talking to the office boy. He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock already. Seemed he might waste the whole morning here and get out too late to look any place else until after lunch. Might as well get up and leave, because the way they kept coming out of that office, glum and hasty, there didn't seem to be much chance here. A nice smoke would go good, too, only for the doctor's orders. He'd stick it here, too, damn it if he wouldn't, and find out. Getting up and leaving now would just be showing that he had no guts. This might be just his chance. After all these guys getting the air, he might just walk in and get a job. But if he did, could he do the work well enough? He didn't want it long, just to carry him over and bring in regular dough until he could get started on that course in traffic managing and find a place in something that had a real future in it. Still, from the looks of it here, wasn't he wasting his time? But no, he ought to stick it out and see, since he'd waited this long. He slouched on the bench and noticed a roughly dressed Polack or Hunky whose face was deep with wrinkles, a coarse-skinned man of about forty-five or so with a dirty, tobacco-stained mustache. Reminded Studs of old Boushwah, the crabby old janitor he and the other guys had hated when he was a kid. And he'd be willing to bet that this Boushwah was as bad, and could hardly speak English. Such a guy had nerve looking for a job here. It perked up his own confidence. If such a guy thought he could get a job here, why shouldn't Studs Lonigan have more right to think the same thing? What could he say? Should he talk big? Walk in like he owned the office and this whole building and say, I'm the nuts, give me a job? He could just see himself getting a job that way. He imagined himself really getting a job, and he saw himself wearing overalls, working his ears off in a gas station on a hot Sunday. Anyway, he would just walk into the office inside and talk naturally to the Personnel Manager. Of course, though, he couldn't say that he only wanted a job for a short time. If business picked up for the old man, he could work with him, not painting, but just helping out. He knew enough about the business. But he was tired of it. What he really wanted to do was to be a high-class, well-paid traffic manager, and if he got this job, he would use it as a stepping stone to that.

But these other fellows? Were they as nervous and afraid as he was? And did they need a job as much as he did? Another exit. Another entrance. His turn very soon now. And what the hell would he say?

Behind a glass-topped desk, set diagonally on a dull, green carpet, Studs saw a thick-browed, full-faced, coldly efficient-looking man whose broad shoulders were covered by the jacket of a black business suit. He seemed to have the appearance of being fraternity and ex-collegiate, and Studs felt ready to give up.

“Mr. Lonigan, how do you do? I'm Mr. Parker,” the man said, arising and extending a large, hairy-backed hand.

“How do you do,” Studs mumbled, trying to act like an equal.

“Won't you have a seat?” Mr. Parker said, pointing to the chair at the near side of his desk.

They sat down, and from the corner of his eye Studs glimpsed the wet, dreary panorama of Grant Park, the blackened driveways, the gray lake, half-smothered in thick mist.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Well, I thought I would come down to see you about a job,” Studs said, and the man's disconcerting smile made Studs wish that he was anywhere else but sitting opposite this fellow.

“I don't know if you are aware of it or not, but hundreds come here for that purpose every week.”

Studs smiled weakly, feeling that he was giving himself away and showing by his smile that he had no guts, but still he was unable to check it. The man quietly studied him, his penetrating glance making Studs feel even more hopeless.

“How old are you, Mr. Lonigan?”

“I'll be thirty this coming fall,” Studs answered, glad for the question because it would lead to talk and break that sitting in silence while that fellow looked through him.

“And how is it that you happen to come to Nation Oil Company? Did somebody send you, or do you know someone already employed here?”

“Well, I just thought that it would be a good company to work for,” Studs said, hoping that his answer was satisfactory.

Studs felt as if he were a mouse in the hands of a cat while Mr. Parker looked down at his desk, toyed with his pencil. Then with a pointed glance he forced Studs to meet his gaze.

“When did you work last?”

“I've been working right along,” Studs said, heeding a warning thought not to show his hand or reveal that he desperately needed a job.

“What sort of work have you been doing, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Painting,” Studs answered, and the man seemed to raise his eyebrows.

“Artist, you mean?”

“No, house painting,” Studs smiled, receiving a return smile which put him more at his ease.

“How does it happen that you want to come to work in a gasoline-filling station? Is it just a lull in your line, and a desire to tide over? Because, you should be informed, when we employ a man, we employ one whom we expect to stay with us and work his way up. Most of our salesmen and many of our executives here, you know, have worked their way up from the service stations. We consider our service stations as a training ground, and hence we cannot employ men just to tide over in dull seasons in their own occupation.”

“Well, I'm giving up painting on account of my health, and I got to get a steady job right away. I have to get some other kind of work,” Studs said, and, perceiving the frown his remark occasioned, he immediately realized that he had pulled a boner.

“What's the matter with your health, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Well, you know, painting, that is, house-painting, isn't the most healthy occupation in the world. You can get lead poisoning, and then, too, my lungs, I've got to watch them and get different work. I'm not in any serious danger, you see, but I just have to change and get some different work. And in changing, I've got to get a good job at outside work, and still something with a future in it.”

“Of course, Mr. Lonigan, I trust that you don't consider the Nation Oil Company a health resort,” Mr. Parker said after a moment of deep reflection.

“Naturally not,” Studs said, not liking the crack, but holding his temper. “I've got to find a job and I'm willing to work hard, as long as there is a chance to get ahead.”

He wondered would he have done better by putting all his cards on the table and shooting square. He didn't trust this fellow, but still, if he told more of his story, well, the fellow would have to sympathize with him and give him a break, if there was any break to be given.

“Married?”

“I'm getting married in two weeks.”

“How long have you been a painter?”

“Since 1919. I've been working with my father.”

“Business bad now?”

“Well, it isn't good. But that's not the reason. I'm leaving because I want to get into something new, and because I got to change my work. You see, on my getting married now, well, I lost two thousand bucks, dollars, that is, on Imbray stock, and then I'm broke, and then, as I said, I got to change my job on account of my health.” Studs noticed the immobile, cold face before him, and it seemed useless to go on. “Of course, things are not so hot, good, I mean, with my father, and well, under the circumstances, I think I ought to go out and work at something for myself. I've been a painter long enough, and now, I'm looking about for a change.”

“I see now. At first I wasn't able to understand why you should want to go to a new work that pays less,” Mr. Parker said, but still there was that lifelessness in his features.

“And, of course, I'm only asking for a start in a station,” Studs said, spurred on to win interest and sympathy. “And I'm sure I can work my way up. I'm not lazy. I've always worked, and I can work.”

“What education have you had?”

“Grammar school and some high school.”

“Some high school—how much?” Mr. Parker asked querulously.

“Two years.”

“In Chicago here?”

“Yes, Loyola on the north side,” Studs said, and he waited in uncertainty while the man made some jottings on a scratch pad. Maybe he would get it.

“Well, Mr. Lonigan, there isn't really an opening at present. Times are, you know, not the best, and we have only a limited capacity for hiring people. We would like to hire as many as we could, but that, of course, is out of the question. If you and your father have a contract to paint a house, and you hire more men than you need, there isn't any profit. And you say you are how old?”