John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

Finally George thought of a place that would at least guarantee him some rest and a chance to sit down, St. Louis Cathedral. He sat in one of the pews next to a bank of vigil lights and decorated his hands, his packages stacked beside him. When his hands were done, he picked a missal from the rack before him and looked through it, refreshing his dim knowledge of the mechanics of the Mass by studying the drawings of the celebrant as he moved through the devotions. The Mass was really very simple, George thought. Until it was time to leave he flipped back and forth through the missal. Then he gathered up his packages and went out onto Chartres Street.

A sailor leaning against a lamppost winked at him. George acknowledged the greeting with an obscene gesture of his tattooed hands and slouched off down the street. As he passed Pirate’s Alley, he heard screaming. There in the Alley the crazy hot dog vendor was trying to stab a fairy with a plastic knife. That vendor was really far out. George paused for a second to look at the earring and scarf that were heaving and bobbing while the fairy shrieked. That vendor probably didn’t know what day it was or what month or even what year. He must have thought today was Mardi Gras.

Just in time George saw the rest room undercover agent coming down the street behind the sailor. He looked like a beatnik. George ran behind one of the arches of the ancient Spanish governmental building, the Cabildo, and dashed through the arcade out onto St. Peter Street, where he continued running until he reached Royal and headed uptown to the bus lines.

Now the undercover agent was prowling around the Cathedral. George had to give it to the cops. They were really on the ball. Christ. A guy didn’t have a chance.

So his mind returned to the matter of storage. He was beginning to feel like some escaped convict hiding out from the cops. Where now? He climbed on an outbound Desire bus and pondered the matter while the bus swung around and headed out on Bourbon Street, passing by the Night of Joy. Lana Lee was out on the sidewalk giving the jig some directions about a poster he was putting up in the glass case on the front of the bar. The jig flipped a cigarette that would have set Miss Lee’s hair on fire if it hadn’t been aimed by a master marksman. As it was, the butt sailed over Miss Lee’s head with about an inch to spare. These jigs were really getting smart. George would have to ride into one of their neighborhoods one of these nights and toss a few eggs. He and his friends hadn’t done that in a long time, driving along in someone’s souped-up car and splattering whatever jigs were stupid enough to be standing out on the sidewalk.

But back to the matter of storage. The bus crossed Elysian Fields before George came up with anything. There it was. It had been before him all the time and he just hadn’t realized it. He could have kicked himself in the shins with the stiletto toes of his flamenco boots. He saw a nice, roomy, weather-tight metal compartment, a mobile safety deposit box that no undercover agent in the world, however crafty, would think of opening, a safe vault operated by the biggest patsy in the world: the bun compartment in that oddball vendor’s wagon.

“Aw, look,” Santa said, holding the newspaper close to her eyes. “They got a cute picture show on in the neighborhood with little Debbie Reynolds.”

“Aw, she’s sweet,” Mrs. Reilly said. “You like her, Claude?”

“Who’s that?” Mr. Robichaux asked pleasantly.

“Little Debra Reynolds,” Mrs. Reilly answered.

“I don’t think I can place her. I don’t go to the show much.”

“She’s darling,” Santa said. “So petite. You ever seen her in that cute picture where she played Tammy, Irene?”

“Ain’t that the picture where she went blind?”

“No, girl! You must be thinking of the wrong show.”

“Oh, I know who I was thinking of, precious. I was thinking of June Wyman. She was sweet, too.”

“Aw, she was good,” Santa said. “I remember that picture where she played the dummy who got herself raped.”

“Lord, I’m glad I didn’t go see that show.”

“Aw, it was wonderful, babe. Very dramatic. You know? The look on that poor dummy’s face when she got raped. I’ll never forget it.”

“Anybody want more coffee?” Mr. Robichaux asked.

“Yeah, gimmee some there, Claude,” Santa said, folding the newspaper and throwing it on top of the refrigerator. “I’m sure sorry Angelo couldn’t make it. That poor boy. He told me he’s gonna be working day and night on his own so he can bring somebody in. He’s out someplace tonight, I guess. You oughta heard what his Rita been telling me. It seems Angelo went out an bought a lot of expensive clothes he can wear so maybe he can attract some character. Ain’t that a shame. That just shows you how much that boy loves the force. If they was to kick him out, it’d break his heart. I sure hope he takes in some bum.”

“Angelo’s got him a hard road to travel,” Mrs. Reilly said absently. She was thinking of the PEACE TO MEN OF GOOD WILL sign that Ignatius had tacked to the front of their house after he had come home from work. Miss Annie had immediately started an inquisition about that as soon as it had appeared, screaming questions through her shutters. “What you think about somebody wants peace, Claude?”

“That sounds like a communiss to me.”

Mrs. Reilly’s worst fears were realized.

“Who wants peace?” Santa asked.

“Ignatius got a sign up in front the house about peace.”

“I mighta known,” Santa said angrily. “First that boy wants a king, now he wants peace. I’m telling you, Irene. For your own good. That boy’s gotta be put away.”

“He ain’t wearing no earring. I ask him and he says, ‘I ain’t wearing no earring, momma.’”

“Angelo don’t lie.”

“Maybe he just got him a small one.”

“A earring’s a earring to me. Ain’t that right, Claude?”

“That’s right,” Claude answered Santa.

“Santa, honey, that’s a sweet little Blessed Virgin you got on top that TV,” Mrs. Reilly said to get them off the earring topic.

Everyone looked at the television set next to the refrigerator, and Santa said, “Ain’t that nice, though? It’s a little Our Lady of the Television. It’s got a suction cup base so I don’t knock it over when I’m banging around in the kitchen. I bought it by Lenny’s.”

“Lenny’s got everything,” Mrs. Reilly said. “It looks like it’s made outta nice plastic, too, don’t break.”

“Well, how you kids liked that dinner?”

“It was delicious,” Mr. Robichaux said.

“It was wonderful,” Mrs. Reilly agreed. “I ain’t had me a good meal in a long time.”

“Aarff,” Santa belched. “I think I put too much garlic in them stuffed eggplants, but I got a heavy hand with garlic. Even my granchirren tell me, they say, ‘Hey, maw-maw, you sure got a heavy hand with garlic.’”

“Ain’t that sweet,” Mrs. Reilly said of the gourmet grandchildren.

“I thought the eggplants was fine,” Mr. Robichaux said.

“I’m only happy when I’m scrubbing my floors and cooking my food,” Santa told her guests. “I love to fix a big pot of meatballs or jumbalaya with shrimps.”

“I like to cook,” Mr. Robichaux said. “It helps out my daughter sometimes.”

“I bet it does,” Santa said. “A man who can cook is a big help around the house, believe me.” She kicked Mrs. Reilly under the table. “A woman’s got a man that likes to cook is a lucky girl.”

“You like to cook, Irene?” Mr. Robichaux asked.

“You talking to me, Claude?” Mrs. Reilly had been wondering what Ignatius looked like in an earring.