John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

“Wha you mean ‘sabotage’?”

“You know, man,” Mr. Watson whispered. “Like the maid ain bein paid enough to throw too much pepper in the soup by accident. Like the parkin lot attendant takin too much crap skid on some oil and crash a car into the fence.”

“Whoa!” Jones said. “Like the boy workin in the supermarket suddenly get slippery fingers and drop a dozen aigs on the floor cause he ain been pay overtime. Hey!”

“Now you got it.”

“We really plannin big sabotage,” the other man at the bar said, breaking his silence. “We havin a big demonstration where I work.”

“Yeah?” Jones asked. “Where?”

“At Levy Pant. We got this big old white man comin in the factory tellin us he like to drop a atom bum on top the company.”

“It sound like you peoples having more than sabotage,” Jones said. “It sound like you havin a war.”

“Be nice, be respectful,” Mr. Watson told the stranger.

The man chuckled until his eyes filled with tears and he said, “This man say he prayin for the mulattas and the rats all over the world.”

“Rats? Whoa! You peoples got a one-hunner-percen freak on your hand.”

“He very smart,” the man said defensively. “He very religious, too. He built him a big cross right in the office.”

“Whoa!”

“He say, ‘You peoples all be happier in the middle age. You peoples gotta get you a cannon and some arrows, drop a nucular bum on top this place.’” The man laughed again. “We ain’t got nothin better to do in that factory. He always interestin to listen to when he flappin his big moustache. He gonna lead us in a big demonstration he say make all the other demonstration look like a ladies’ social.”

“Yeah, and it sound like he gonna lead you peoples right into jail,” Jones said, covering the bar with some more smoke. “He sound like a crazy white mother.”

“He kinda strange,” the man admitted. “But he work right in that office, and the manager in there, Mr. Gonzala, he think this guy pretty sharp. He let him do whatever he want. He even let him come back in the factory any time this guy want to. Plenty peoples ready to do demonstrate with him. He tell us he got permission from Mr. Levy hisself to have a demonstration, tell us Mr. Levy want us to demonstrate and get rid of Gonzala. Who know? Maybe they raise our wage. That Mr. Gonzala afred of him already.”

“Tell me, man, what this white savior cat look like?” Jones asked with interest.

“He big and fat, got him a huntin cap he wearin all the time.”

Jones’s eyes widened behind his glasses.

“This huntin cap green? He got him a green cap?”

“Yeah. How you know that?”

“Whoa!” Jones said. “You peoples in plenty trouble. A po-lice already lookin for that freak. He come in the Night of Joy one night, star tellin this Darlene gal about a bus.”

“Well, whaddya know,” the man said. “He tell us about a bus, too, tell us he go ridin into the har of darkness on a bus one time.”

“He the same one. Stay away from that freak. He wanted by a po-lice. You po color peoples all get your ass throwed in jail. Whoa!”

“Well, I gotta ax him about that,” the man said. “I sure don wanna get led on no demonstration by a convic.”

Mr. Gonzalez was at Levy Pants early, as usual. He symbolically lit his little heater and a filtered cigarette with the same match, lighting two torches that signaled the start of another working day. Then he applied his mind to his early morning meditations. Mr. Reilly had added a new touch to the office the day before, streamers of mauve, gray, and tan crepe paper looped from light bulb to light bulb across the ceiling. The cross and signs and streamers in the office reminded the office manager of Christmas decorations and made him feel slightly sentimental. Looking happily into Mr. Reilly’s area, he noticed that the bean vines were growing so healthily that they had even begun to twine downward through the handles of the file drawers. Mr. Gonzalez wondered how the file clerk managed to do his filing without disturbing the tender shoots. Pondering this clerical riddle, he was surprised to see Mr. Reilly himself burst like a torpedo through the door.

“Good morning, sir,” Ignatius said brusquely, his scarf-shawl flying horizontally in his wake like the flag of some mobilized Scottish clan. A cheap movie camera was slung over his shoulder and under his arm he had a bundle which appeared to be a rolled-up bed sheet.

“Well, you certainly are early today, Mr. Reilly.”

“What do you mean? I always arrive at this time.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Gonzalez said meekly.

“Do you believe that I am here early for some purpose?”

“No. I…”

“Speak up, sir. Why are you so strangely suspicious? Your eyes are literally flickering with paranoia.”

“What, Mr. Reilly?”

“You heard what I said,” Ignatius answered and lumbered through the door to the factory.

Mr. Gonzalez tried to compose himself again but was disturbed by what sounded like a cheer from the factory. Perhaps, he thought, one of the workers had become a father or won something in a raffle. So long as the factory workers let him alone, he was willing to extend the same courtesy to them. To him they were simply part of the physical plant of Levy Pants not connected with “the brain center.” They were not his to worry about; they were under the drunken control of Mr. Palermo. When he did find the proper courage, the office manager intended to approach Mr. Reilly in a most politic manner about the amount of time he was spending in the factory. However, Mr. Reilly had lately become somewhat distant and unapproachable, and Mr. Gonzalez dreaded the thought of a battle with him. His feet grew numb when he thought of one of those bear’s paws landing squarely on the top of his head, driving him perhaps like a stake through the unpredictable flooring of the office.

Four of the male factory workers were embracing Ignatius around the Smithfield hams that were his thighs and, with considerable effort, were lifting him onto one of the cutting tables. Above the shoulders of his carriers Ignatius barked directions as if he were supervising the loading of the rarest and most precious of cargoes.

“Up and to the right, there!” he shouted down. “Up, up. Be careful. Slowly. Is your grip tight?”

“Yeah,” one of the lifters answered.

“It feels rather loose. Please! I am deteriorating into a state of total anxiety.”

The workers watched with interest as the lifters tottered back and forth under their burden.

“Now backward,” Ignatius called nervously. “Backward until the table is directly beneath me.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. R.,” a lifter panted. “We aimin you right at that table.”

“Apparently you are not,” Ignatius replied, his body slamming into a post. “Oh, my God! My shoulder is dislocated.”

A cry arose from the other workers.

“Hey, watch out with Mr. R.,” someone screamed. “You men gonna bust his haid wide open.”

“Please!” Ignatius cried. “Someone help! In another moment I shall probably be a broken heap.”

“Look, Mr. R.,” a lifter said breathlessly, “the table right behine us now.”

“I shall probably be dumped into one of the furnaces before this misadventure terminates. I suspect that it would have been much wiser to address the group from floor level.”

“Put your feets down, Mr. R. The table right under you.”

“Slowly,” Ignatius said, extending his big toe downward with great caution. “Well, so it is. All right. When I have steadied myself, you may release your hold upon my body.”

Ignatius was at last vertically atop the long table, holding the bundled bed sheet over his pelvis to hide from his audience the fact that during the process of being lifted, he had become somewhat stimulated.