A Confederacy of Dunces (34 page)

"I'll put on some clogs. I'm in my Ruby Keeler phase," the young man told Ignatius gaily. Then he began to sing. " 'You go home and get your scanties, I'll go home and get my panties, and away we'll go. Oh-ho-ho. Off we're gonna shuffle, shuffle off to Buf-falo-ho-ho

"Stop that offensive performance," Ignatius ordered angrily.

These people must be whipped into line.

The young man did a little soft shoe around Ignatius and said,

"Ruby was such a darling. I watch her old movies on television religiously. 'And for just a silver quarter, we can tip the pullman porter, turn the lights down low, oh-ho-ho, off we're gonna shuffle, shuffle off to . . .' "

"Please be serious for a moment. Stop fluttering around here."

"Moi? Fluttering? What do you want, Gypsy Woman?"

"Have you people considered forming a political party and running a candidate?"

"Politics? Oh, Maid of Orleans. How dreary."

"This is very important!" Ignatius shouted worriedly. He would show Myrna how to inject sex into politics. "Although I had never considered it before, you may hold the key to the future."

"Well, what do you want to do about it, Eleanor Roosevelt?"

"You must start a party organization. Plans must be made."

"Oh, please," the young man sighed. "All this man's talk is making my mind reel."

"We may be able to save the world!" Ignatius bellowed in an orator's voice. "Good heavens. Why haven't I thought of this before?"

"This kind of conversation depresses me more than you could possibly imagine," the young man told him. "You're beginning to remind me of my father, and what could be more depressing than that?" The young man sighed. "I'm afraid I'll have to be running along. It's costume time."

"No!" Ignatius grabbed the lapel of the young man's jacket.

"Oh, my goodness," the young man breathed, putting his hand to his throat. "Now I'll be on pills all night."

"We must organize immediately."

"I can't tell you how much you're depressing me."

"There must be a large organizational meeting to kick off the campaign."

"Wouldn't that be something like a party?"

"Yes, in a way. However, it would have to express your purpose."

"Then it might be sort of fun. You can't imagine how drab, drab the parties have been lately."

"This is not to be a party, you ass."

"Oh, we'll be very serious."

"Good. Now listen to me. I must come to lecture to you people so that you will be set upon the correct path. I have a rather extensive knowledge of political organization."

"Marvelous. And you must wear that fantastic costume. I can assure you that you'll get everyone's undivided attention," the young man shrieked, covering his mouth with a hand. "Oh, my dear, what a wild gathering it could be."

"There is no time to be lost," Ignatius said sternly. "The apocalypse is near at hand."

"We'll have it next week at my place."

"You must have some red, white, and blue bunting," Ignatius advised. "Political meetings always have that."

"I'll have yards and yards of it. What a decorating job lies ahead. I'll have to get some close friends in to help me."

"Yes, do that," Ignatius said excitedly. "Begin organizing at every level."

"Oh, I never guessed that you would be such a fun person to know. You were so hostile in that dreadful, tacky bar."

"My being has many facets."

"You amaze me." The young man stared at Ignatius's outfit.

"To think that they're letting you run around loose. In a way, I respect you."

"Thank you very much." Ignatius's voice was smooth, pleased.

"Most fools don't comprehend my worldview at all."

"I wouldn't imagine so."

"I suspect that beneath your offensively and vulgarly effeminate fa9ade there may be a soul of sorts. Have you read widely in Boethius?"

"Who? Oh, heavens no. I never even read newspapers."

"Then you must begin a reading program immediately so that you may understand the crises of our age," Ignatius said solemnly. "Begin with the late Romans, including Boethius, of course. Then you should dip rather extensively into early Medieval. You may skip the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. That is mostly dangerous propaganda. Now that I think of it, you had better skip the Romantics and the Victorians, too. For the contemporary period, you should study some selected comic books."

"You're fantastic."

"I recommend Batman especially, for he tends to transcend the abysmal society in which he's found himself. His morality is rather rigid, also. I rather respect Batman."

"Oh, look, there's Timmy again," the young man said. The sailor was passing on Chartres Street in the opposite direction.

"Doesn't he ever get tired of the same old route? Back and forth, back and forth. Look at him. It's winter and he's still wearing his summer whites. Of course he doesn't realize that he's a sitting duck for the shore patrol. You can't imagine how stupid and foolish that boy is."

"His face did appear rather clouded," Ignatius said. The artist in the beret and goatee passed Chartres, busily following the sailor by several feet. "Oh, my God! That ludicrous law officer will ruin everything. He's the fly in everyone's ointment.

Perhaps you should run along and get the deranged Sailor off the street. If the naval authorities apprehend him, they will discover that he is an imposter, and our political strategy will be undone. Spirit that clown away before he wrecks the most fiendish political coup in the history of western civilization."

"Oh!" the young man shrieked happily. "I'll go back and tell him about it. When he hears what he's almost done, he'll scream and faint."

"Now don't slacken in your preparations," Ignatius warned.

"I'll work myself to exhaustion," the young man said gaily.

"Ward meetings, voter registration, pamphlets, committees.

We'll start the kickoff rally around eightish. I'm on St. Peter Street, the yellow stucco building just off Royal. You can't miss it. Here's my card."

"Oh, my God!" Ignatius mumbled, looking at the austere little calling card. "You can't really be named Dorian Greene."

"Yes, isn't that wild?" Dorian asked languidly. "If I told you my real name, you'd never speak to me again. It's so common I could die just thinking of it. I was born on a wheat farm in Nebraska. You can take it from there."

"Well, at any rate, I am Ignatius J. Reilly."

"That isn't too dreadful. I sort of imagined you as a Horace or Humphrey or something like that. Well, don't fail us. Practice your speech. I guarantee a large crowd, everyone is almost dead from ennui and general depression, so they'll be fighting for invitations. Give me a tinkle and we'll iron out the exact date."

"Be sure to stress the importance of this historic conclave,"

Ignatius said. "We shall want no fly-by-nights in this core group."

"There may be a few costumes. That's what's so wonderful about New Orleans. You can masquerade and Mardi Gras all year round if you want to. Really, sometimes the Quarter is like one big costume ball. Sometimes I can't tell friend from foe. But if you oppose costumes, I'll tell everyone, although their little hearts will snap with disappointment. We haven't had a good party in months."

"I would not oppose a few tasteful and decent maskers,"

Ignatius said at last. "They may add the proper international atmosphere to the meeting. Politicians always seem to want to shake hands with mongoloids in ethnic and native costumes.

Now that I think of it, you may encourage a costume or two.

We do not want any female impersonators, however. I don't believe that politicians care to be seen with them particularly.

They cause resentment among rural voters, I suspect."

"Now let me run along and find that silly Timmy. I'll frighten him to death."

"Beware of that Machiavel of a policeman. If he gets wind of the plot, we're lost."

"Oh, if I weren't so glad to see him back on the beat, I'd telephone the police and have him arrested immediately for soliciting. You don't know the wonderful expression that man used to get on his face when the squad car arrived to take him off. And the arresting officers. It was too priceless. But we'll all be so grateful to have him back. No one will dare mistreat him now. So long, Gypsy Mother."

Dorian skipped off down the alley to find the decadent mariner. Ignatius looked toward Royal Street and wondered what had happened to the women's art guild. He lumbered over to the passageway where his cart was hidden, prepared a hot dog, and prayed that some customers would happen along before the day was over. Sadly he realized how low Fortuna had spun, his wheel. He had never imagined that he would one day be praying that people buy hot dogs from him. At least he had a magnificent new scheme ready for launching against M.

Minkoff. The thought of the kickoff rally cheered him greatly.

This time the minx would be totally confounded.

It was all a matter of storage. From almost one to three every afternoon George was stuck with the packages. One afternoon he had gone to a movie, but even there in the dark watching a double bill of two nudist colony films he wasn't comfortable.

He was afraid to put the packages down on an adjoining seat, especially in a theater like that one. Holding them in his lap, he was reminded of the burden throughout the three hours of tanned flesh that filled the screen. On the other days he had carried them around with him during boring wanderings through the business district and the Quarter. But by three o'clock he was so tired from the marathon of strolling that he hardly had the enthusiasm to negotiate his day's business; and in two hours of being carried, the wrapping on the packages got damp and started to break. If one of those packages broke open on the street, he could plan to spend the next few years in a juvenile detention home. Why had that undercover agent tried to arrest him in the rest room? He hadn't done a thing.

That agent must have had some sort of detective ESP.

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.

Eleven

"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."