A Confederacy of Dunces (18 page)

But even Talc realized that his reputation for sophistication and glibness would not save him in the face of his being unable to remember absolutely anything about Lear and Arthur aside from the fact that the former had some children.

He put his cigarette in the ashtray and began on the bottom drawer again. In the rear of the drawer there was a stack of old papers that he had not examined very thoroughly during his first search through the desk. Placing the papers in his lap, he thumbed through them one by one and found that they were, as he had imagined, principally un-returned essays that had accumulated over a period of more than five years. As he turned over one essay, his eye fell upon a rough, yellowed sheet of Big Chief tablet paper on which was printed with a red crayon:

Your total ignorance of that which you profess to teach merits the death penalty. I doubt whether you would know that St.

Cassian of Imola was stabbed to death by his students with their styli. His death, a martyr's honorable one, made him a patron saint of teachers.

Pray to him, you deluded fool, you "anyone for tennis?" golf-playing, cocktail-quaffing pseudo-pedant, for you do indeed need a heavenly patron. Although your days are numbered, you will not die as a martyr-for you further no holy cause-but as the total ass which you really are.

-Zorro

A sword was drawn on the last line of the page.

"Oh, I wonder whatever happened to him," Talc said aloud.

Six

Mattie's Ramble Inn was on a corner in the Carrollton section of the city where, after having run parallel for six or seven miles, St. Charles Avenue and the Mississippi River meet and the avenue ends. Here an angle is formed, the avenue and its streetcar tracks on one side, the river and levee and railroad tracks on the other. Within this angle there is a separate little neighborhood. In the air there is always the heavy, cloying odor of the alcohol distillery on the river, an odor that becomes suffocating on hot summer afternoons when the breeze blows in from the river. The neighborhood grew haphazardly a century or so ago and today looks hardly urban at all. As the city's streets cross St. Charles Avenue and enter this neighborhood, they gradually change from asphalt to gravel. It is an old rural town that has even a few barns, an alienated and microcosmic village within a large city.

Mattie's Ramble Inn looked like all the buildings on its block; it was low, unpainted, imperfectly vertical. Mattie's rambled slightly to the right, tilting toward the railroad tracks and the river. Its facade was almost invulnerable, covered as it was with tin advertising posters for a variety of beers and cigarettes and soft drinks. Even the screen on the door advertised a brand of bread. Mattie's was a combination bar and grocery, the grocery aspect limited to a sparse selection of goods, soft drinks, bread, and canned foods for the most part. Beside the bar there was an ice chest that cooled a few pounds of pickled meat and sausage. And there was no Mattie; Mr. Watson, the quiet, tan, cafe au lait owner, had sole authority over the restricted merchandise.

"The problem come from not havin no vocation skill," Jones was saying to Mr. Watson. Jones was perched on a wooden stool, his legs bent under him like ice tongs ready to pick up the stool and boldly carry it away before Mr. Watson's old eyes. "If I had me some trainin I wouldn be moppin no old whore flo."

"Be good," Mr. Watson answered vaguely. "Be well behave with the lady."

"Wha? Ooo-wee. You don understan at all, man. I got a job workin with a bird. How you like workin with a bird?" Jones aimed some smoke over the bar. "I mean, I'm glad that girl gettin a chance. She been workin for that Lee mother a long time. She need a break. But I bet that bird be makin more money than me. Whoa!"

"Be nice, Jones."

"Whoa! Hey, you really been brainwash," Jones said. "You ain got nobody to come in and mop your flo. How come? Tell me that."

"Don't get yourself in no trouble."

"Hey! You soun just like the Lee mother. Too bad you two ain met. She love you. She say, 'Hey, boy, you the kinda fool oldtimey nigger I been lookin for all my life.' She say, 'Hey, you so sweet, how's about waxin my floor and paintin my wall? You so darlin, how's about scrubbin my tawlet and polishin my shoe?' And you be sayin, 'Yes, ma'm, yes, ma'm.

I'm well behave.' And you be bustin your ass fallin off a chandelier you been dustin and some other whore frien of her comin in so they can compare they price, and Lee star throwin some nickel at your feet and say, 'Hey boy, that sure a lousy show you puttin on. Han us back them nickel before we call a po-lice.' Ooo-wee."

"Didn that lady say she call a po-lice if you give her trouble?"

"She got me there. Hey! I think that Lee got some connection with the po-lice. She all the time tellin me about her frien on the force. She say she got such a high class place a po-lice never stick a foot in her door." Jones formed a thundercloud over the little bar. "She operatin somethin with that orphan crap, though. As soon as somebody like Lee say, 'Chariddy,'

you know they somethin crooker in the air. And I know they somethin wron cause all of a sudden the Head Orphan stop showin up cause I'm axing plenty question. Shit! I like to fin out what goin on. I tire of bein caught in a trap payin me twenny dollar a week, workin with a bird as big as a eagle. I wanna get someplace, man. Whoa! I want me a air condition, some color TV, sit around drinkin somethin better than beer."

"You want another beer?"

Jones looked at the old man through his sunglasses and said,

"You tryina sell me another beer, a poor color boy bustin his ass for twenny dollar a week? I think i' about time you gimme a free beer with all the money you make sellin pickle meat and sof drink to po color peoples. You sen you boy to college with the money you been makin in here."

"He a schoolteacher now," Mr. Watson said proudly, opening a beer.

"Ain that fine. Whoa! I never go to school more than two year in my life. My momma out washing other people clothin, ain nobody talkin about school. I spen all my time rollin tire aroun the street. I'm rollin, momma washin, nobody learnin nothin.

Shit! Who lookin for a tire roller to give them a job? I end up gainfully employ workin with a bird, got a boss probly sellin Spanish fly to orphan. Ooo-wee."

"Well, if conditions really bad . . ."

" 'Really bad? Hey! I'm workin in modren slavery. If I quit, I get report for bein vagran. If I stay, I'm gainfully employ on a salary ain even startin to be a minimal wage."

"I tell you what you can do," Mr. Watson said confidentially, leaning over the bar and handing Jones the beer. The other man at the bar bent toward them to listen; he had been silently following their conversation for several minutes. "You try you a little sabotage. That's the only way you fight that kinda trap."

"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 Smitnfield 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."