John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

“In addition, my valve has been misbehaving and has prevented me from bending over to reach the lower drawers.”

“I have just the thing for that,” Mr. Gonzalez said and went into the little office storeroom to get, Ignatius imagined, some type of medicine. But he returned with one of the smallest metal stools that Ignatius had ever seen. “Here. The person who used to work on the files used to wheel back and forth on this along the lower drawers. Try it.”

“I don’t believe that my particular body structure is easily adaptable to that type of device,” Ignatius observed, a gimlet eye fixed upon the rusting stool. Ignatius had always had a poor sense of balance, and ever since his obese childhood, he had suffered a tendency to fall, trip, and stumble. Until he was five years old and had finally managed to walk in an almost normal manner, he had been a mass of bruises and hickeys. “However, for the sake of Levy Pants, I shall try.”

Ignatius squatted lower and lower until his great buttocks touched the stool, his knees reaching almost to his shoulders. When he was at last nestled upon his perch, he looked like an eggplant balanced atop a thumb tack.

“This will never do. I feel quite uncomfortable.”

“Give it a try,” Mr. Gonzalez said brightly.

Propelling himself with his feet, Ignatius traveled anxiously along the side of the files until one of the miniature wheels lodged in a crack. The stool tipped slightly and then turned over, dumping Ignatius heavily to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” he bellowed. “I think I’ve broken my back.”

“Here,” Mr. Gonzalez cried in his terrorized tenor. “I’ll help you up.”

“No! You must never move a person with a broken back unless you have a stretcher. I won’t be paralyzed through your incompetence.”

“Please try to get up, Mr. Reilly.” Mr. Gonzalez looked at the mound at his feet. His heart sank. “I’ll help you. I don’t think you’re badly injured.”

“Let me alone,” Ignatius screamed. “You fool. I refuse to spend the remainder of my life in a wheel chair.”

Mr. Gonzalez felt his feet turn cold and numb.

The thud of Ignatius’s fall had attracted Miss Trixie from the ladies’ room; she came around the files and tripped on the mountain of supine flesh.

“Oh, dear,” she said feebly. “Is Gloria dying, Gomez?”

“No,” Mr. Gonzalez said sharply.

“Well, I’m certainly glad of that,” Miss Trixie said, stepping onto one of Ignatius’s outstretched hands.

“Good grief!” Ignatius thundered and sprang into a sitting position. “The bones in my hand are crushed. I’ll never be able to use it again.”

“Miss Trixie is very light,” the office manager told Ignatius. “I don’t think she could have hurt you much.”

“Has she ever stepped on you, you idiot? How would you know?”

Ignatius sat at the feet of his co-workers and studied his hand.

“I suspect that I won’t be able to use this hand again today. I had better go home immediately and bathe it.”

“But the filing has to be done. Look how behind you are already.”

“Are you talking about filing at a time like this? I am prepared to contact my attorneys and have them sue you for making me get on that obscene stool.”

“We’ll help you up, Gloria.” Miss Trixie assumed what was apparently a hoisting position. She spread her sneakers far apart, toes pointing outward, and squatted like a Balinese dancer.

“Get up,” Mr. Gonzalez snapped at her. “You’re going to fall over.”

“No,” she answered through tight, withered lips. “I’m going to help Gloria. Get down on that side, Gomez. We’ll just grab Gloria by the elbows.”

Ignatius watched passively while Mr. Gonzalez squatted on his other side.

“You are distributing your weight incorrectly,” he told them didactically. “If you are going to attempt to raise me, that position offers you no leverage. I suspect that the three of us will be injured. I suggest that you try a standing position. In that way you can easily bend over and hoist me.”

“Don’t be nervous, Gloria,” Miss Trixie said, rocking back and forth on her haunches. Then she fell forward onto Ignatius, throwing him on his back once again. The edge of her celluloid visor hit him in the throat.

“Oof,” gurgled from somewhere in the depths of Ignatius’s throat. “Braah.”

“Gloria!” Miss Trixie wheezed. She looked into the full face directly beneath hers. “Gomez, call a doctor.”

“Miss Trixie, get off Mr. Reilly,” the office manager hissed from where he squatted beside his two underlings.

“Braah.”

“What are you people doing down there on the floor?” a man asked from the door. Mr. Gonzalez’s chipper face hardened into a mask of horror, and he squeaked, “Good morning, Mr. Levy. We’re so glad to see you.”

“I just came in to see if I had any personal mail. I’m driving back to the coast right away. What’s this big sign over here for? Somebody’s going to get his eye knocked out on that thing.”

“Is that Mr. Levy?” Ignatius called from the floor. He could not see the man over the row of filing cabinets. “Braah. I have been wanting to meet him.”

Shedding Miss Trixie, who slumped to the floor, Ignatius struggled to his feet and saw a sportily dressed middle-aged man holding the handle of the office door so that he could flee as rapidly as he had entered.

“Hello there,” Mr. Levy said casually. “New worker, Gonzalez?”

“Oh, yes sir. Mr. Levy, this is Mr. Reilly. He’s very efficient. A whiz. As a matter of fact, he’s made it possible for us to do away with several other workers.”

“Braah.”

“Oh, yeah, the name on this sign.” Mr. Levy gave Ignatius a strange look.

“I have taken an unusual interest in your firm,” Ignatius said to Mr. Levy. “The sign which you noticed upon entering is only the first of several innovations which I plan. Braah. I will change your mind about this firm, sir. Mark my word.”

“You don’t say?” Mr. Levy studied Ignatius with certain curiosity. “What about the mail, Gonzalez?”

“There’s not much. You received your new credit cards. Transglobal Airlines sent you a certificate making you an honorary pilot for flying one hundred hours with them.” Mr. Gonzalez opened his desk and gave Mr. Levy the mail. “There’s also a brochure from a hotel in Miami.”

“You’d better start making my spring practice reservations. I gave you my itinerary of practice camps, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir. By the way, I have some letters for you to sign. I had to write a letter to Abelman’s Dry Goods. We always have trouble with them.”

“I know. What do those crooks want now?”

“Abelman claims that the last lot of trousers we shipped him were only two feet long in the leg. I’m trying to straighten out the matter.”

“Yeah? Well, stranger things have happened around this place,” Mr. Levy said quickly. The office was already beginning to depress him. He had to get out. “Better check with that foreman in the factory. What’s his name? Look, suppose you sign those letters like always. I have to go.” Mr. Levy pulled the door open. “Don’t work these kids too hard, Gonzalez. So long, Miss Trixie. My wife asked about you.”

Miss Trixie was sitting on the floor relacing one of her sneakers.

“Miss Trixie,” Mr. Gonzalez screamed. “Mr. Levy is talking to you.”

“Who?” Miss Trixie snarled. “I thought you said he was dead.”

“I hope that you will see some vast changes the next time that you drop in on us,” Ignatius said. “We are going to revitalize, as it were, your business.”

“Okay. Take it easy,” Mr. Levy said and slammed the door.