Studs Lonigan (27 page)

He knew he was . . . yellow. He had gotten himself a rep as a tough guy by using his mouth and getting in with the guys that were tough. He had gotten in with Doyle and Kelly, then with Studs after Studs had taken on the redhead over at Carter Playground, and now that Reilley was coming around he was nosing in with him, too. Well, he could lick some of the guys like Bob Stole, who was heavier than he was, or Benny Taite, or goofy Kenny Killarney. But if anybody ever leaned on Kenny the whole gang would pile on him and send him to the hospital. He was supposed to be as tough as they were; but, well, it was just because a Jew had more gray matter in one little corner of his nut than an Irishman, or a whole gang of them, had in their whole damn heads. Yes, sir, if Studs ever let him have one, it would be curtains. But he had the rep for being as hard as Studs or any of them. And Iris had threatened to put her dress on and call the party off if he didn't get out; and he had walked out like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs.

He walked around and sniped a butt. He smoked and brooded. He felt that he was different from the guys. All they ever wanted to do was to roughhouse around, make noise, give guys the clouts, raid ice boxes and have gang-shags with girls like Iris, the dirty . . .

He was different. He liked to read books. He thought of the books he read when he got a chance, late at night, after his goddamned old man was in bed, snoring. He thought of the characters, the goddesses of his own pretendings, who were like all the nice and fine things in the world. The Lady of the Lake, who had a
breast of snow;
Guinevere, who was
the fairest of all flesh on earth;
Elaine,
the lily maid of Astolat.
He was their champion, their knight; and he roamed through a wild world of his own imaginings . . . all for them. They were his, and none of the Irish bastards could know them, touch them, think of them, see them all white and fine and beautiful and understanding, and like a fine day. They were his. What did he care for fourteen-year-old Iris, the dirty . . . Her age limit was eight to eighty, and maybe she even got kids five and six. He walked and wondered which of the three goddesses he dream-loved the best—or maybe it was Rebecca from
Ivanhoe?
He tried to think of them all as one, and his thoughts got soft and beautiful like music. He wished that he could go home and read about them, imagining himself as their knight, fighting on a white charger to protect their innocence. Then Studs Lonigan and the other dirty micks could have their Iris. But if he went home, his old man would blow his snoot off, calling him a nogoodfornothing loafer, who wouldn't never deliver clothes, but always wanted to be out fighting with the Irish, or else reading books that would never do him no good. It was the sort of crap Davey could remember hearing ever since he could remember hearing anything. He hated like hell delivering clothes for the old man, but he never got any money any other way, unless he stole it. But he got sick of hanging around the tailor shop, listening to his old man nag as bad as if he was an Irish hag.

He wondered. He sniped another butt. He got chilly with fear, thinking of what might have happened if he hadn't cleared out of Iris', and she had got Studs, maybe Studs and Weary, to bust him. He kept feeling more and more sorry for himself, and making dream resolves that he would get even with them all some day. Maybe he would get rid of all yellowness and become a great fighter like Benny Leonard, who was one smart hebe that could beat the Irish at their own game; and when Benny got in the ring with Freddy Welsh, the champ, well, he'd kill Welsh. He would be a champ as scientific as Benny. They would see then. Or he would write a great poem about someone like Elaine or Ellen or Rebecca, with himself the knight, and Iris, the dirty . . . as the woman who cleaned out the chamber pots. Dirty Iris made him sore as hell. He hoped to hell she'd have a baby that looked like Studs Lonigan, only uglier, or that her old lady would come home and catch the bunch and call the police, and get them all a jolt in reform school. Then it would be his turn to laugh. She was so low that she wouldn't even bar a cockroach, a nigger, or a flea. She was nearer the ground than a snake.

He wished that he had a nickel for an ice cream cone. Studs and the other guys generally had spending money, and he always had to cadge off them. Himself with a chocolate ice cream cone, licking it with his tongue, slow. He thought of this until he passed a pretty girl, and that brought the scene at Iris' back to him. It made him sick and sore with wanting, and it cut him again, when he thought of her calling him a kike, and a Jew, and ordering him out after she had let him hang around, see her, shoot craps for his turn, and all that. And the ice cream cone. Himself and an ice cream cone, and a jane, like the one that passed, over on the wooded island at night, when the sky was choked with stars, like diamonds on the head of Elaine, and the moon was cool and blue, and the air nice, with the smell of the trees hitting you, and . . . the jane there . . . and . . . The goddamn Irish! Goddamn'em! Goddamn Studs Lonigan and the whole race of 'em! They got everything and deserved nothing. They were thickheaded. The dumbest Jew was smarter than the smartest Irishman. Well, some day!

He met Vinc Curley.

“Hello, Vinc,” said Davey.

“Hello! Say!”

“Yeh?”

“Say!”

“What?”

“Say, Davey! Say!”

“What in hell do you want?”

“Say, did you see Andy?”

“Yeh. Why?”

“Oh, I just wondered where he was, ‘cause he said he'd see me aroun' this afternoon.”

Davey said that Andy was with the older guys at Iris', where they were all having a gang-shag.

“What's that?”

“You're too young to know.”

Vine slowly realized what it was, and his feelings seemed hurt.

“What did he do a thing like that for?” Vinc asked, speaking in that slow sort of drawl he had.

“He wanted to. What do you suppose?”

Davey was impatient with the idiot.

“I didn't think Andy was like that,” said Vine sadly.

“You'll be the same some day, only don't pick 'em like Iris.”

Vinc asked if Davey had seen Danny O'Neill, Paulie, Studs, Red and others. And he sadly said he didn't think that Paulie would do a thing like that. Davey started to walk away. Vinc rushed up to him, tapped his shoulder, and said:

“Say! say!”

“Yeh!”

“Did you see Johnny O'Brien?”

“No, nuts!” said Davey.

“I was supposed to see him, too . . . Gee, I wonder why none of the guys came around this afternoon?”

“Say, Vinc, let me take a nickel, will you?” asked Davey.

“You say you ain't seen any of the guys? Gee, that's funny. All of them said they were gonna be around,” said Vinc.

“They shoulda been, if they said they would; it was a dirty trick, them tellin' you they'd be around when they knew they wouldn't be,” said Davey.

“Well, I just wondered,” said Vinc.

“Well, what do you say, Vine? You'll let me take a jit, won't you? I'll give it back to you tonight. My old man is gonna give me a couple of bucks for deliverin' clothes for him. I'll give you the jit back with a nickel interest,” coaxed Davey.

There was an oblivious look in Vinc's eye. He still wondered why none of the guys were around.

“But how about leavin' me take that jit?” said Davey.

Vinc watched a kid pass on a bike. He exclaimed:

“Oh!”

Davey asked again. Vinc said that he couldn't. He didn't have any money. He wondered why no one was around.

Davey walked down the street, deciding that Vinc was another Irish bastard. Davey suddenly turned around and saw Vinc coming out of the drug store with an ice cream cone. He said he thought Vinc was broke. Vinc said he'd found a nickel in his pocket after Davey had gone. Davey said Vinc was a liar. He said that whenever Vinc got in trouble, he needn't come around for Davey Cohen to stick up for him. He'd never stick up for a liar like Vinc Curley. Vinc said he was sorry. He said: Hones' Dave! He got his tongue twisted in explanations.

Davey said the guys were coming. Vinc asked where. Davey pointed in back of Vinc. Vinc turned. Davey grabbed the cone, and blew, Vinc after him, yelling help, murder, robber, stop thief. Davey ditched Vine in the alley under the elevated tracks.

He walked down Fifty-seventh to South Park, and down back to Fifty-eighth. At Fifty-eighth and South Park, he met Stein, an eleven-or twelve-year-old mamma's boy. Davey said hello. So did Stein. Davey got hard-boiled. Stein nervously moved away. Davey called him back.

“Where's your wrist watch and tennis racket?” Davey asked.

“I haven't a racket, and I'm going to the store.”

“Well, listen!”

“I am.”

“Listen!”

Davey made lip-noises.

Stein turned.

“Commere!”

“I have to go to the store for my mother.”

Davey dragged Stein back, and was going to sock him. He felt powerful. Then he let him go on, and felt even more powerful.

He walked around, and thought how he was going to be a great guy, when things got different, and he got away from the Irish. He would then be understood . . . He was sad . . . He came out of his sadness by imagining himself going back to Iris', socking Studs and then hanging one on Iris.

He met Danny O'Neill. Danny asked Davey if he'd seen anybody. He talked like he wasn't a punk, but was an older guy. That got Davey a little sore. But even so, he guessed Danny wasn't such a bad kid. Davey said most of the guys were having a gang-shag at Iris'.

“Yeah!” said Danny, curious.

“She likes gang-shags,” said Davey.

“Yeah!” said Danny, more curious.

“Sure,” said Davey.

“How they doin' it?” asked Davey.

“They shot craps for turns, and each guy takes his turn.”

“In front of everybody?”

“By yourself!”

“Gee, you think I could go there some time?”

Davey scorned the punk.

“You're too young. You ain't got the stuff of a man.”

“Well, I don't know.”

“Well, I do.”

“Were you there?” asked Danny.

“Oh, yeh,” said Davey casually.

“Why didn't you stay?”

“I didn't want to. I don't like bitches,” said Davey.

“Who stayed?”

“Oh, Studs, Weary, Tommy, Paulie, Red, Hennessey, a lot of guys.”

“Yeh?”

Davey sniped a butt, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

They talked of fighting, and Davey told of all the scraps the Fifty-eighth Street gang had, and what a great bunch it was. Danny asked if Davey could lick Studs, and Davey said he wasn't afraid of anybody ... but then the guys from Fifty-eighth Street stuck together and fought other guys.

After he left Danny, Davey sniped another butt. He thought of Elaine and Ellen. He became proud that he was a Jew. He recalled Chedar, not the beatings, the ugly smells and the dirty rabbi, but the beautiful sing-songed Hebrew, the beautiful-sad history of the Jews. He was proud. The Irish, goddamn them, didn't have anything like that. He hated the Irish. He vowed he'd blow the place, and go on the bum, see the world, make his own way, come back somebody, and leave them all lump it. He thought of Iris. He remembered how white she had been. The dirty . . .

He went home to supper, and the old man started chewing the rag.

After supper, he slunk in a corner and read
The Lady of the Lake.
He read and reread the line:

It set his imagination ablaze, and Davey Cohen, huddled in a corner of a dirty room in back of the disordered tailor-shop, became Snowdoun's Knight and Scotland's King.

After being at Iris', the guys hung around the corner. They started getting hungry, so they split up and went home for supper. Studs, Weary and Paulie walked together.

“Jesus, it woulda been funny if the old lady'd found us,” said Studs.

“It would have been a big joke, all right,” said Weary.

“It would have been funny, all right,” Studs said. “And our old men and old ladies would have found out. It would have been a big joke, all right.”

“Well, my old man and old lady can't do nothin' to me. I left home on 'em once, and they're scared I'll do it again. But my old lady would sure get one on. Whew! She'd pray, and sprinkle holy water all over the house, and I'd get drenched with it, and she'd pray and have masses said for my soul, and she might even try to have me exorcised,” Weary said.

“Well, there'd have been a stink that I wouldn't have wanted to get mixed in,” Studs said.

“But, hell, what's a guy gonna do? If he doesn't get a girl now and then, well, he's liable to put himself in the nut house,” said Paulie.

“Yes, I guess a guy does. I guess it's a sin, but . . .” said Studs, shrugging his shoulders.

“But, gee, I don't see why it's a sin if a fellow has to do it. I think the priests and sisters tell us this because they think we're a little too young. Maybe they don't mean it is a sin if you're a little older,” said Paulie.

“Maybe,” said Studs, who was having a time with his conscience.

“Well, anyway, they don't make machines any better than Iris,” said Paulie.

Lucy Scanlan passed them. She smiled sweetly, and they tipped their hats.

“You know, Lucy's nice-looking and she's got pretty good legs,” said Weary.