John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

The old man cleared his throat and played with his cards.

“They probly let you go,” the sunglasses said. “Me, they probly gimma a little talk think it scare me, even though they know I ain got them cashews. They probly try to prove I got them nuts. They probly buy a bag, slip it in my pocket. Woolsworth probly try to send me up for life.”

The Negro seemed quite resigned and blew out a new cloud of blue smoke that enveloped him and the old man and the little cards. Then he said to himself, “I wonder who lif them nuts. Probly that flo’walk hisself.”

A policeman summoned the old man up to the desk in the center of the room where a sergeant was seated. The patrolman who had arrested him was standing there.

“What’s your name?” the sergeant asked the old man.

“Claude Robichaux,” he answered and put his little cards on the desk before the sergeant.

The sergeant looked over the cards and said, “Patrolman Mancuso here says you resisted arrest and called him a communiss.”

“I didn’t mean it,” the old man said sadly, noticing how fiercely the sergeant was handling the little cards.

“Mancuso says you says all policemen are communiss.”

“Oo-wee,” the Negro said across the room.

“Will you shut up, Jones?” the sergeant called out.

“Okay,” Jones answered.

“I’ll get to you next.”

“Say, I didn call nobody no cawmniss,” Jones said. “I been frame by that flo’walk in Woolsworth. I don even like cashews.”

“Shut your mouth up.”

“Okay,” Jones said brightly and blew a great thundercloud of smoke.

“I didn’t mean anything I said,” Mr. Robichaux told the sergeant. “I just got nervous. I got carried away. This policeman was trying to arress a poor boy waiting for his momma by Holmes.”

“What?” the sergeant turned to the wan little policeman. “What were you trying to do?”

“He wasn’t a boy,” Mancuso said. “He was a big fat man dressed funny. He looked like a suspicious character. I was just trying to make a routine check and he started to resist. To tell you the truth, he looked like a big prevert.”

“A pervert, huh?” the sergeant asked greedily.

“Yes,” Mancuso said with new confidence. “A great big prevert.”

“How big?”

“The biggest I ever saw in my whole life,” Mancuso said, stretching his arms as if he were describing a fishing catch. The sergeant’s eyes shone. “The first thing I spotted was this green hunting cap he was wearing.”

Jones listened in attentive detachment somewhere within his cloud.

“Well, what happened, Mancuso? How come he’s not standing here before me?”

“He got away. This woman came out the store and got everything mixed up, and she and him run around the corner into the Quarter.”

“Oh, two Quarter characters,” the sergeant said, suddenly enlightened.

“No, sir,” the old man interrupted. “She was really his momma. A nice, pretty lady. I seen them downtown before. This policeman frightened her.”

“Oh, listen, Mancuso,” the sergeant screamed. “You’re the only guy on the force who’d try to arrest somebody away from his mother. And why did you bring in grampaw here? Ring up his family and tell them to come get him.”

“Please,” Mr. Robichaux pleaded. “Don’t do that. My daughter’s busy with her kids. I never been arrested in my whole life. She can’t come get me. What are my granchirren gonna think? They’re all studying with the sisters.”

“Get his daughter’s number, Mancuso. That’ll teach him to call us communiss!”

“Please!” Mr. Robichaux was in tears. “My granchirren respect me.”

“Jesus Christ!” the sergeant said. “Trying to arrest a kid with his momma, bringing in somebody’s grampaw. Get the hell outta here, Mancuso, and take grampaw with you. You wanna arrest suspicious characters? We’ll fix you up.”

“Yes, sir,” Mancuso said weakly, leading the weeping old man away.

“Ooo-wee!” Jones said from the secrecy of his cloud.

Twilight was settling around the Night of Joy bar. Outside, Bourbon Street was beginning to light up. Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time. The taxis bringing the evening’s first customers, midwestern tourists and conventioneers, made slight splashing sounds in the cold dusk.

A few other customers were in the Night of Joy, a man who ran his finger along a racing form, a depressed blonde who seemed connected with the bar in some capacity, and an elegantly dressed young man who chainsmoked Salems and drank frozen daiquiris in gulps.

“Ignatius, we better go,” Mrs. Reilly said and belched.

“What?” Ignatius bellowed. “We must stay to watch the corruption. It’s already beginning to set in.”

The elegant young man spilled his daiquiri on his bottle-green velvet jacket.

“Hey, bartender,” Mrs. Reilly called. “Get a rag. One of the customers just spilled they drink.”

“That’s quite all right, darling,” the young man said angrily. He arched an eyebrow at Ignatius and his mother. “I think I’m in the wrong bar anyway.”

“Don’t get upset, honey,” Mrs. Reilly counseled. “What’s that you drinking? It looks like a pineapple snowball.”

“Even if I described it to you, I doubt whether you’d understand what it is.”

“How dare you talk to my dear, beloved mother like that!”

“Oh, hush, you big thing,” the young man snapped. “Just look at my jacket.”

“It’s totally grotesque.”

“Okay, now. Let’s be friends,” Mrs. Reilly said through foamy lips. “We got enough bombs and things already.”

“And your son seems to delight in dropping them, I must say.”

“Okay, you two. This is the kinda place where everybody oughta have themselves some fun.” Mrs. Reilly smiled at the young man. “Let me buy you another drink, babe, for the one you spilled. And I think I’ll take me another Dixie.”

“I really must run,” the young man sighed. “Thanks anyway.”

“On a night like this?” Mrs. Reilly asked. “Aw, don’t pay no mind to what Ignatius says. Why don’t you stay and see the show?”

The young man rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Yeah.” The blonde broke her silence. “See some ass and tits.”

“Mother,” Ignatius said coldly. “I do believe that you are encouraging these preposterous people.”

“Well, you’re the one wanted to stay, Ignatius.”

“Yes, I did want to stay as an observer. I am not especially anxious to mingle.”

“Honey, to tell you the truth, I can’t listen to that story about that bus no more tonight. You already told it four times since we got here.”

Ignatius looked hurt.

“I hardly suspected that I was boring you. After all, that bus ride was one of the more formative experiences of my life. As a mother, you should be interested in the traumas that have created my worldview.”

“What’s with the bus?” the blonde asked, moving to the stool next to Ignatius. “My name’s Darlene. I like good stories. You got a spicy one?”

The bartender slammed the beer and the daiquiri down just as the bus was starting off on its journey in the vortex.

“Here, have a clean glass,” the bartender snarled at Mrs. Reilly.

“Ain’t that nice. Hey, Ignatius, I just got a clean glass.”

But her son was too preoccupied with his arrival in Baton Rouge to hear her.

“You know, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly said to the young man, “me and my boy was in trouble today. The police tried to arress him.”

“Oh, my dear. Policemen are always so adamant, aren’t they?”