John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

“Hey, now you gettin me. Whoa!”

“I really don’t have the time to discuss the errors of your value judgments. However, I would like some information from you. Do you by any chance have a woman in that den who is given to reading?”

“Yeah. She all the time slippin me somethin to read, tellin me I be improvin myself. She pretty decent.”

“Oh, my God.” The blue and yellow eyes flashed. “Is there any way that I can meet this paragon?”

Jones wondered what this was all about. He said, “Whoa! You wanna see her, you come around some night, see her dancin with her pet.”

“Good grief. Don’t tell me that she is this Harlett O’Hara.”

“Yeah. She Harla O’Horror all right.”

“Boethius plus a pet,” Ignatius mumbled. “What a discovery.”

“She be openin in a coupla three days, man. You oughta get your ass down here. This the very fines ack I ever seen. Whoa!”

“I can only imagine,” Ignatius said respectfully. Some brilliant satire on the decadent Old South being cast before the unaware swine in the Night of Joy audience. Poor Harlett. “Tell me. What sort of pet does she have?”

“Hey! I cain tell you that, man. You gotta see for yourself. This ack a big surprise. Harla got somethin to say, too. This ain jus a reglar strip ack. Harla talkin.”

Good heavens. Some incisive commentary which no one in her audiences could fully comprehend. He must see Harlett. They must communicate.

“There is one thing I would like to know, sir,” Ignatius said. “Is the Nazi proprietress of this cesspool around here every night?”

“Who? Miss Lee? No.” Jones smiled at himself. The sabotage was working too perfectly. The fat mother really wanted to come to the Night of Joy. “She say Harla O’Horror so perfec, she so fine, she don’t havta be comin aroun at night to supervise. She say jus as soon Harla be openin, she leavin for a vacation in Califonia. Whoa!”

“What luck,” Ignatius slobbered. “Well, I shall be here to see Miss O’Hara’s act. You may secretly reserve a ringside table for me. I must see and hear everything she does.”

“Ooo-wee. You be real welcome, man. Drag your ass over in a coupla days. We give you the fines service in the house.”

“Jones, are you talking to that character or what?” Lana demanded from the door.

“Don’t worry,” Ignatius told her. “I’m leaving. Your henchman has terrified me completely. I shall never make the mistake of even passing by this vile pigsty.”

“Good,” Lana said and swung the door closed.

Ignatius gloated at Jones conspiratorially.

“Hey, listen,” Jones said. “Before you be leavin, tell me somethin. Wha you think a color cat can do to stop bein vagran or employ below the minimal wage?”

“Please.” Ignatius fumbled through his smock to find the curb and raise himself. “You can’t possibly realize how confused you are. Your value judgments are all wrong. When you get to the top or wherever it is that you want to go, you’ll have a nervous breakdown or worse. Do you know of any Negroes with ulcers? Of course not. Live contentedly in some hovel. Thank Fortuna that you have no Caucasian parent hounding you. Read Boethius.”

“Who? Read wha?”

“Boethius will show you that striving is ultimately meaningless, that we must learn to accept. Ask Miss O’Hara about him.”

“Listen. How you like bein vagran half the time?”

“Wonderful. I myself was a vagrant in happier, better days. If only I were in your shoes. I would stir from my room only once a month to fumble for my relief check in the mailbox. Realize your good fortune.”

The fat mother was really a freak. The poor people at Levy Pants were lucky that they hadn’t ended up in Angola.

“Well, be sure you come aroun in a coupla nights.” Jones blew a cloud at the earring. “Harla be doin her stuff.”

“I shall be there with bells on,” Ignatius said happily. How Myrna would gnash her teeth.

“Whoa!” Jones walked around to the front of the wagon and studied the sheet of Big Chief paper. “Look like somebody been playin tricks on you.”

“That is only a merchandising gimmick.”

“Ooo-wee. You better check it again.”

Ignatius lumbered around to the prow and saw that the waif had decorated the TWELVE INCHES (12") OF PARADISE sign with a variety of genitals.

“Oh, my God!” Ignatius ripped off the sheet covered with the ball-point graffiti. “Have I been pushing this about?”

“I be out front lookin for you,” Jones said. “Hey!”

Ignatius waved a happy paw and waddled off. At last he had a reason for earning money: Harlett O’Hara. He aimed the denuded prow of the wagon toward the Algiers ferry ramp, where the longshoremen gathered in the afternoons. Calling, entreating, he guided the wagon into the crowd of men and succeeded in selling all of his hot dogs, courteously and effusively squirting ketchup and mustard on his sold goods with all the energy of a fireman.

What a brilliant day. The signs from Fortuna were more than promising. A surprised Mr. Clyde received cheery greetings and ten dollars from vendor Reilly, and Ignatius, his smock filled with bills from the waif and the mogul of frankfurters, billowed onto the trolley with a glad heart.

He entered the house and found his mother talking quietly on the telephone.

“I been thinking about what you said,” Mrs. Reilly was whispering into the phone. “Maybe it ain’t such a bad idea after all, babe. You know what I mean?”

“Of course it ain’t,” Santa answered. “Them people at Charity can let Ignatius take him a little rest. Claude ain’t gonna want no Ignatius around, sweetheart.”

“He likes me, huh?”

“Likes you? He called up this morning to ax me if I thought you was ever gonna remarry. Lord. I says, ‘Well, Claude, you gotta pop the question.’ Whoee. You two having a worldwin courtship if I ever seen one. That poor man’s desperate from loneliness.”

“He’s sure considerate,” Mrs. Reilly breathed into the mouthpiece. “But sometimes he makes me nervous with all them communiss.”

“What in the world are you babbling about?” Ignatius thundered in the hall.

“Christ,” Santa said. “It sound like that Ignatius come in.”

“Ssh,” Mrs. Reilly said into the phone.

“Well, listen, sweetheart. Once Claude gets married, he’ll stop thinking about them communiss. His mind isn’t occupied is what’s wrong with him. You give him some loving.”

“Santa!”

“Good grief,” Ignatius spluttered. “Are you speaking with that Battaglia strumpet?”

“Shut up, boy.”

“You better knock that Ignatius in the head,” Santa said.

“I wisht I was strong enough, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly answered.

“Oh, Irene, I almost forgot to tell you. Angelo come around this morning for a cup of coffee. I hardly reconnized him. You oughta seen him in that wool suit. He looked like Mrs. Astor’s horse. Poor Angelo. He’s sure trying hard. Now he’s going to all the high-class bars, he says. He better get him some character.”

“Ain’t that awful,” Mrs. Reilly said sadly. “What Angelo’s gonna do if he gets himself kicked off the force? And him with three chirren to support.”

“There are a few challenging openings at Paradise Vendors for men with initiative and good taste,” Ignatius said.

“Listen at that nut,” Santa said. “Aw, Irene. You better ring up the Charity, honey.”

“We gonna give him another chance. Maybe he’ll hit the jackpot.”

“I don’t know why I bother talking to you, girl,” Santa sighed hoarsely. “I’ll see you tonight then about seven. Claude says he’s gonna come over here. Come pick us up and we’ll take us a nice ride out to the lake for some of them good crabs. Whoo! You kids sure lucky you got me for a chaperone. You two need one, especially with that Claude around.”