“You know, I always used to think I'd feel a little different when I graduated from grammar school, but here it's a couple of weeks ago, and I don't see any difference yet. Everything seems pretty much the same, and well, I don't know. Here I am graduated, and I'm wearin' short pants again, and got to listen to my old man the same as I did before I was graduated, and I come around, and everything and everybody's the same, kidding the punks, playing chase-one-chase-all, and blue-my-blackberry, and baby-in-the-hole, and all that sort of thing, just like before, and, well, in the fall I'll have to go to high school, and, well, things are just not like I imagined they would be after I graduated.”
“I feel the same way,” Helen said.
“I feel the same; and it's no different when you get confirmed. You are supposed to change, and something that's a mystery called a character is stamped on your soul, that is, if you're a Catholic; but you don't really seem to change any. Anyway, I didn't seem to,” Studs pondered.
“Well, I never got confirmation, but I think I know what you mean. But my father and my mother, they don't think so much of confirmation,” said Helen.
“Of course we're taught different than you. We're taught that you shouldn't feel that way about the thing. You should believe in God and in the Church, and do all the duties that God and the Church say you should, or else you won't be doin' right and you'll go to Hell. Of course, if a person's not Catholic, but if they're sincere in bein' whatever they are, well, they'll stand a good chance of gettin' into Heaven. That's the way we're taught,” said Studs.
“My father and mother say that it's all right what you believe, so long as you live up to that belief and don't do nothin' that's really wrong, or really hurt your neighbor, and if you do that, you ain't got nothin' to worry about from God,” Helen said.
“Well, you know, it seems funny. Last night I was thinkin'. I remembered how I thought all the time that I'd feel so different after graduation. But now! Well, I'm just . . . I don't know. When I was a punk in the first grade, I used to look up to the guys ahead of me and feel that eighth-grade kids were so big, and now when I'm graduated I still wish I was bigger, and I don't feel satisfied, like I used to think I would when I was only a punk,” Studs said.
“That's just the way I sort of feel.”
“Yeh . . . but, oh, well,” said Studs.
He felt that there was something else to be said, but he didn't know how to say it; he wondered if he was blowing his gab off too much. Sometimes, with Helen, he could talk more, and say more of what he really meant, than he could with any other person.
“Yeh,” said Helen, meaningfully.
He glanced at her; he told himself that she was nice-looking. He felt soft inside, as if his feelings were all fluid, all melting up and running through him like a warm stream of water. He didn't know what he ought to say. He hurriedly glanced across the street. He saw Dennis P. Gorman tote his cane and his dignity down Indiana Avenue on his way to the police court. He laughed at High-Collars; and Helen said her father always called Gorman a mollycoddle who ought to be wearing corsets.
“You know, we'll have to take a look at that can house sometimes,” Studs said, because he felt that he had better say something.
“Yeh!”
“I'd like to know what's inside of a can house,” said Studs.
He was calmed down again, and he could look at her without feeling strange, and he wasn't in danger of giving his feelings away. He noticed that she, too, had been looking away.
“Well, I suppose one of those places has got a lot of expensive furniture, and the whores all sit around in their underclothes and maybe they drink a lot, and you know,” she said.
“I'd sure like to see one some time,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Maybe we can sneak up on the porch sometimes,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“We might see someone doin' it, too,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Helen.
“Sometimes I wonder what it's like,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
“I don't think it's so much,” said he.
“All the kids act as if they knew, but I'll bet that none of them really do,” she said.
“I guess you're right.”
She told him of the time that her dog, Billie, had cut its nose, and had accidentally rubbed a little blood on her nightgown. Her mother had seen the blood spot, and had gotten excited, and had tried to explain to Helen what things were all about, but Helen had known what her mother told her; and her mother hadn't told about the thing that was the real bother; her mother hadn't said a word of what it really felt like. As Helen told this to Studs, he got all excited, and seemed to see her before him, melting and fading. He felt like he'd have to do something, and he was afraid to try.
“Say, wouldn't it be nicer back in the playhouse?” he said, keeping his voice under control as much as he could.
“We can't go back and sit there now. My sister Marion and her girl chums are in it,” she said.
“Oh!” he said.
Nothing had seemed wrong in his asking, he guessed. So they sat there and talked. Helen asked him if he knew this Iris who took all kinds of guys up to her house when her mother wasn't home, and let them all have a gang-shag. Studs said he didn't know Iris, but he'd heard of her. Helen said that was going too far; it was like being a whore. Studs said yes.
But he wished he could horn in on one of those gang-shags.
Weary Reilley ambled around, and Helen grumbled a greeting to him. He asked if they'd seen Helen Borax, and they said no. Weary fooled around with the soccer ball, and they barbered about nothing in particular. Then they dribbled, one taking the ball, and the other two standing in a line to block the dribble. Weary had never played basketball, so he was awkward and clumsy and couldn't do the trick right. He went at it rough-and-tumble. He got sore because Helen could make such a monkey out of him. He finally lost his bean and dribbled head on into her, bucking her breasts with his football shoulders. It hurt her. She cried; she knew he had done it meanly and on purpose. She told him so, and he called her a liar. She slammed him in the mush with the ball, and his eyes watered.
“Listen,” he said, preparing to rush her and let her have one.
Studs gripped Weary from the rear and held him in a firm clasp.
“Let me go, you sonofabitch,” Weary yelled.
Studs flung Weary around and then faced him.
“Who's one?” asked Studs.
“Both of you, and she's a whore,” said Weary.
“Why, Goddamn you,” said Helen.
“Take that back,” said Studs.
“From . . .
you!”
sneered Weary.
Weary socked Studs in the jaw; Studs' jaw flushed, Studs was confused; his breath came fast; maybe he was afraid; he had to fight; he forgot about everything but Weary in front of him. He hauled off and caught Weary on the knob with a wild right haymaker. They rushed into each other and swung. They broke their clinch and circled around. Weary rushed, and a wild uppercut that Studs had started from the ground a trifle before Weary had come in, caught Reilley on the button. Reilley was jogged back; he shook his head, and then walloped Studs with a left and right. But neither of them felt a lot. They fought, absorbed in punching each other. Every time they landed, a feeling of pleasure ran through them, pleasure at having done something physically successful. They fought, slugging, socking away, rushing, swinging with haymakers and wild swishing roundhouses.
Johnny O'Brien, thirteen and fattish, came around and watched. He didn't yell who he was for, and asked Helen how the scrap had started.
“Oh, Weary got snotty and called me an' Studs dirty names. If Studs can't bust hell out of him, I'M GONNA ... Come on, Studs! Bam him! ... Attaboy, Studs!”
Helen attaboyed Studs because he had just given Weary a good bust in the nose. Weary rushed back and made Studs' left ear red from a wallop. Studs missed Weary with a wild haymaker, and almost fell over. Weary jolted him when he was off balance. Studs came back with a rush and caught Weary in the mouth. Weary busted Studs. Studs busted Weary.
A crowd had formed a circle around them, watching, blocking the sidewalks. Women, mothers, yelled unheeded from nearby windows for them to stop. Screwy McGlynn, the fat guy who drove a laundry wagon, and who bragged that he had put the blocks to nearly every K. M. in the neighborhood, climbed down from his wagon and watched the fight with a professional eye. He stood next to Johnny OâBrien, similarly professional, and said the little guy had guts. He rooted for the little guy. Danny O'Neill, twelve, small, curly-haired, four-eyed, joined the mob and yelled for Studs to bust hell out of the bully. Dick Buckford, from Danny's gang, came around and rooted for both of them to win. The mob around had a swell time, shifting, shouting, yelling; it was the fight they had been waiting for. Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman tripped along. She paused and made a vain attempt to tell someone that it was a nasty spectacle which should be stopped. She heard Helen yelling for Studs to slam the cur; she picked up her skirts, crossed the street and tripped on.
Screwy McGlynn chewed on his cigar, grew more professional, and said: “That little guy is sure game . . . Well, he's one of them guys that believes in the old adage . . . the bigger they are, the harder they fall . . . And I always say that a good game little man can lick a good big man.”
“Yeah, they're both good boys,” said Johnny O'Brien.
Studs fought a boring-in fight. He waved his left arm up and down horizontally, for purposes of defense, so he couldn't do much punching with it, but he kept his right swinging. Weary met Studs and lammed away with both fists. It was anybody's fight.
Studs cracked Weary with a dirty right. They clinched. Weary socked in the clinch.
“HEY! FIGHT FAIR!” young Danny O'Neill yelled.
“DON'T LET'IM GET AWAY WITH IT, STUDS,” yelled Helen.
Lucy Scanlan deserted the carpet sweeper and stood on her front steps watching, rooting for Studs. Helen Borax, on her way to the store, stopped to watch from Lucy's porch. Helen said it was disgusting, and hinted that it would be a roughneck like Studs Lonigan to start such a light. Lucy was too busy rooting for Studs to hear. She kept yelling:
“BUST HIM, STUDS!”
Helen watched with an aloof expression on her precociously disdainful face.
Weary again socked in a clinch.
“Fight fair,” said Studs, a little breathlessly.
“Up your brown!” sneered Weary.
They clinched. Studs swung low, and experienced animal pleasure when the foul punch connected. Weary tried to knee Studs, but it was only a glancing blow off Lonigan's thigh. They clinched again, tumbled onto the grass, rough and tumbled, with first one and then the other on top, socking away. Dan Donoghue and lanky Red O'Connell dragged them apart, and they squared off. O'Connell yelled for Weary. Everybody else cheered Studs. They rushed each other, swinging, fighting dirty, cursing, scratching. Studs connected with Weary's beak, and Reilley got a bloody nose. He asked Weary if he was licked yet; and Weary thumbed his nose at Studs. Weary socked Studs, giving him a shiner. Studs smashed Weary with rights on three successive rushes. Studs seemed to be winning, although he lumbered tiredly. Weary was bleeding, breathing almost in pants, and his shirt was torn; his shoulder was scratched; and there were scratches on Studs' arms. They fought, and Studs kept connecting with Weary's mush, hitting twice for every one he took.
Diamond-Tooth, tough, red-faced, big-mouthed, hairy-handed, looking as much ape as man, came around; he separated them with his crane-like paws.
“Now, you fools, shake hands,” he commanded.
Weary refused. He told Diamond-Tooth to mind his own Goddamn business and go to hell.
“Oh, you're tough! I see! Thanks for the tip! You're a tough punk, not afraid of nothin'. Huh! You want your snotty puss bashed in a little more. Huh? Didn't this little squirt here give you enough?”
Most of the kids laughed.
Weary retreated a few paces and picked up a boulder.
“PUT THAT BRICK DOWN!”
Weary didn't reply.
“I see! I GOTTA SLAP YOUR PUSS, and run the gang of you in, give you a nice little ride in the wagon and let your old ladies come down to the station bawlin' to get you out.”
The kids drew back nervously. Screwy McGlynn, who had moved forward to remonstrate with the stranger, retreated, hopped onto his wagon, and was gone. Diamond-Tooth cowed the gang with his detective's star.
“Gee, he's a real bull,” Danny O'Neill whispered too loudly.
Profound silence!
“Yeh, he's a real bull, punk; and you better clamp that trap of yours tight!”
“Come on, you guys. Maybe you'll change your minds.”
He dragged them along. Studs was meek and afraid; Weary was sullen, glowering. The others started to follow them toward Fifty-seventh, and he turned and snottily told them to blow, before they were hauled in.
He asked, after the three of them had turned the corner:
“What were you punks scrappin' over? Huh?”
“He called my mother a name,” Studs said.
“He called me one, too,” Weary said.
“Maybe you were both right,” Diamond-Tooth said.
They stood there.
“Now, shut up and shake hands; if you don't, I'll fight the two of you,” said the dick.
They shook hands, insincerely. Weary walked east along Fifty-seventh, toward Prairie Avenue. His pride was even more bruised than his face. He walked determining revenge, entertaining extravagant schemes of cold-blooded murder, of framing Studs on some stunt or other, of getting him from the back sometimes with a rock or a beebe gun or a knife, or maybe a twenty-two, of some day walking up to him and renewing the fight, taking an advantage by busting him right square between the eyes before he knew what was coming, or maybe cracking him in the neck and choking his windpipe, or in the solar plexus. He was angry. He sensed his own weakness. He could get little satisfaction out of planning revenge. He hated Studs, hated him with the face Studs had punched, with the body he'd battered; and that face and body told Weary he was licked when his mind refused to believe it. He was interrupted by Helen Borax, who called him from behind. She said that she was sorry, and that Studs was a beast, and she knew that Studs must have hurt him, and she was awfully sorry. Her pity made him see white. He drained off his hatred by glaring at her, calling her a bitch, and telling her he had gotten all he wanted from her under her back porch on the night they had graduated.