John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

Lana Lee was on a barstool, her legs crossed in tan suede trousers, her muscular buttocks pinning the stool to the floor and commanding it to support her in perfectly vertical form. When she moved slightly, the great muscles of her nether cheeks rippled to life to prevent the stool from leaning and tottering even an inch. The muscles rippled around the cushion of the stool and grabbed it, holding it erect. Long years of practice and usage had made her rump an unusually versatile and dexterous thing.

Her body had always amazed her. She had received it free of charge, yet she had never bought anything that had helped her as much as that body had. At these rare moments when Lana Lee grew sentimental or even religious, she thanked God for His goodness in forming a body that was also a friend. She repaid the gift by giving it magnificent care, expert service and maintenance that was given with the emotionless precision of a mechanic.

Today was Darlene’s first dress rehearsal. A few minutes earlier Darlene had arrived with a large dress box and disappeared backstage. Lana looked at Darlene’s gadget on the stage. A carpenter had made a stand that looked like a hatrack but instead of hooks there were large rings attached to the top of the stand and three rings on chains hung from the top at different heights. What Lana had seen of the act so far was not promising, but Darlene said that the costuming would transform the performance into a thing of beauty. Lana couldn’t complain. All things considered, she was glad that she had let Darlene and Jones talk her into permitting Darlene to perform. She was getting the act cheap, and she had to admit that the bird was very good, a skilled and professional performer who almost made up for the act’s human deficiencies. The other clubs along the street might get the tiger, chimp, and snake trade. The Night of Joy had the bird trade in the bag, and Lana’s peculiar knowledge of one aspect of humanity told her that the bird trade might indeed be very large.

“Okay, Lana, we’re ready,” Darlene called offstage.

Lana looked over at Jones, who was sweeping out the booths in a cloud of cigarette smoke and dust, and said, “Put the record on.”

“Sorry. Recor plain star at thirty a week. Whoa!”

“Put down that broom and get on that phonograph before I call up the precinct,” Lana hollered at him.

“And you get off your stool and get on that phonograph before I call up the precinc and ax them po-lice mothers make a search for your orphan frien who disappear. Ooo-wee.”

Lana studied Jones’s face, but his eyes were invisible behind the smoke and dark glasses.

“What was that?” she asked finally.

“The only thing you ever be givin the orphan is siphlus. Whoa! Don gimme no shit about no motherfuckin record player. As soon as I crack open this orphan case, I callin a po-lice myself. I sick and tire of workin in this cathouse below the minimal wage and getting intimidatia all the time.”

“Hey, kids, where’s our music?” Darlene’s voice called eagerly.

“What can you prove to the cops?” Lana asked Jones.

“Hey! Then they is somethin crooker with the orphans. Whoa! I knowed it all along. Well, if you ever plannin to call up a po-lice about me, I plannin to call up a po-lice about you. Phones at po-lice headquarters really be hummin. Ooo-wee. Now lemme in peace with my sweepin and moppin. Recor playin pretty advance for color peoples. I probably break your machine.”

“I’d like to see a jailbait vagrant like you trying to get the cops to believe you, especially when I tell them you been dipping into my cash register.”

“What’s happening?” Darlene inquired from behind the little curtain.

“The only thing I been dippin in around here is a mop bucket fulla dirty water.”

“It’s my word against yours. The police already got their eyes on you. All they need is to get the word about you from an old pal of theirs like me. Which one you think they’ll believe?” Lana looked at Jones and saw that his silence had answered her question. “Now get on the phonograph.”

Jones threw his broom into a booth and put on the record of Stranger in Paradise.

“Okay, everybody, here we come,” Darlene called, bumping on stage with the cockatoo on her arm. She was wearing a low-cut orange satin evening dress, and at the peak of her upswept hair there was a large artificial orchid. She made several clumsily lascivious motions over toward the stand while the cockatoo swayed unsteadily on her arm. Holding onto the top of the stand with one hand, she made a grotesque pass at the pole with her pelvis and sighed, “Oh.”

The cockatoo was placed in the lowest ring, and with beak and claw began to climb up to the next highest ring. Darlene bumped and ground around the pole in a sort of orgiastic frenzy until the bird was on a level with her waist. Then she offered the bird the ring sewed in the side of her gown. He grabbed at it with his beak and the gown popped open.

“Oh,” Darlene sighed, bumping down to the edge of the little stage to show the audience the lingerie that showed through the opening. “Oh. Oh.”

“Whoa!”

“Stop it, stop it,” Lana screamed and, leaping from her stool, snapped off the phonograph.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Darlene asked in an offended voice.

“It stinks is what’s the matter. For one thing, you’re dressed up like a streetwalker. I want a nice, refined act in my club. I got a decent business, stupid.”

“Whoa!”

“You look like a whore in that orange dress. And what’s all these sounds you’re making like a slut? You look like a drunk nympho passing out in a alley.”

“But Lana…”

“The bird’s okay. You stink.” Lana stuck a cigarette between her coral lips and lit it. “We gotta rethink the whole act. You look like your motor’s broke or something. I know this business. Stripping’s an insult to a woman. The kinda creeps come in here don’t wanna see a tramp get insulted.”

“Hey!” Jones aimed his cloud at Lana Lee’s. “I thought you say nice, refine peoples comin here at night.”

“Shut up,” Lana said. “Now listen, Darlene. Anybody can insult a tramp. These jerks wanna see a sweet, clean virgin get insulted and stripped. You gotta use your head for Chrissake, Darlene. You gotta be pure. I want you to be like a nice, refined girl who’s surprised when the bird starts grabbing at your clothes.”

“Who says I’m not refined?” Darlene asked angrily.

“Okay. You’re refined. Then be refined on my stage. That’s what gives a turn drama, goddammit.”

“Ooo-wee. Night of Joy be winnin a Academy Awar with this ack. The bird get one, too.”

“Get back on my floor.”

“Right away, Scarla O’Horror.”

“Wait a minute,” Lana screamed in the best tradition of the director in a musical movie, She had always enjoyed the theatrical aspects of her profession: performing, posing, composing tableaux, directing acts. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?” Darlene asked.

“An idea, moron,” Lana answered, holding her cigarette before her lips and speaking through it as if it were a director’s megaphone. “Now see this act. You’re gonna be a southern belle type, a big sweet virgin from the Old South who’s got this pet bird on the old plantation.”

“Say, I like that,” Darlene said enthusiastically.

“Of course you do. Now listen to me.” Lana’s mind began to whirl. This act could be her theatrical masterpiece. That bird had star quality. “We get you a big plantation dress, crinoline, lace. A big hat. A parasol. Very refined. Your hair’s on your shoulders in curls. You’re just coming in from a big ball where a lot of southern gentlemen were trying to feel you up over the fried chicken and hog jowls. But you cooled them all. Why? Because you’re a lady, dammit. You come onstage. The ball’s over, but you still got your honor. You got your little pet with you to tell it goodnight, and you say to it, ‘There was plenty beaux at that ball, honey, but I still got my honor.’ Then the goddam bird starts grabbing at your dress. You’re shocked, you’re surprised, you’re innocent. But you’re too refined to stop it. Got it?”