A Confederacy of Dunces (5 page)

His vision of history temporarily fading, Ignatius sketched a noose at the bottom of the page. Then he drew a revolver and a little box on which he neatly printed GAS CHAMBER. He scratched the side of the pencil back and forth across the paper and labeled this APOCALYPSE. When he had finished decorating the page, he threw the tablet to the floor among many others that were scattered about. This had been a very productive morning, he thought. He had not accomplished so much in weeks. Looking at the dozens of Big Chief tablets that made a rug of Indian headdresses around the bed, Ignatius thought smugly that on their yellowed pages and wide-ruled lines were the seeds of a magnificent study in comparative history. Very disordered, of course. But one day he would assume the task of editing these fragments of his mentality into a jigsaw puzzle of a very grand design; the completed puzzle would show literate men the disaster course that history had been taking for the past four centuries. In the five years that he had dedicated to this work, he had produced an average of only six paragraphs monthly. He could not even remember what he had written in some of the tablets, and he realized that several were filled principally with doodling. However, Ignatius thought calmly, Rome was not built in a day.

Ignatius pulled his flannel nightshirt up and looked at his bloated stomach. He often bloated while lying in bed in the morning contemplating the unfortunate turn that events had taken since the Reformation. Doris Day and Greyhound Scenicruisers, whenever they came to mind, created an even more rapid expansion of his central region. But since the attempted arrest and the accident, he had been bloating for almost no reason at all, his pyloric valve snapping shut indiscriminately and filling his stomach with trapped gas, gas which had character and being and resented its confinement.

He wondered whether his pyloric valve might be trying, Cassandralike, to tell him something. As a medievalist Ignatius believed in the rota Fortunae, or wheel of fortune, a central concept in De Consolatione Philosophiae, the philosophical work which had laid the foundation for medieval thought. Boethius, the late Roman who had written the Consolatione while unjustly imprisoned by the emperor, had said that a blind goddess spins us on a wheel, that our luck comes in cycles. Was the ludicrous attempt to arrest him the beginning of a bad cycle? Was his wheel rapidly spinning downward? The accident was also a bad sign. Ignatius was worried. For all his philosophy, Boethius had still been tortured and killed. Then Ignatius's valve closed again, and he rolled over on his left side to press the valve open.

"Oh, Fortuna, blind, heedless goddess, I am strapped to your wheel," Ignatius belched. "Do not crush me beneath your spokes. Raise me on high, divinity."

"What you mumbling about in there, boy?" his mother asked through the closed door.

"I am praying," Ignatius answered angrily.

"Patrolman Mancuso's coming today to see me about the accident. You better say a little Hail Mary for me, honey."

"Oh, my God," Ignatius muttered.

"I think it's wonderful you praying, babe. I been wondering what you do locked up in there all the time."

"Please go away!" Ignatius screamed. "You're shattering my religious ecstasy."

Bouncing up and down on his side vigorously, Ignatius sensed a belch rising in this throat, but when he expectantly opened his mouth he emitted only a small burp. Still, the bouncing had some physiological effect. Ignatius touched the small erection that was pointing downward into the sheet, held it, and lay still trying to decide what to do. In this position, with the red flannel nightshirt around his chest and his massive stomach sagging into the mattress, he thought somewhat sadly that after eighteen years with his hobby it had become merely a mechanical physical act stripped of the flights of fancy and invention that he had once been able to bring to it. At one time he had almost developed it into an art form, practicing the hobby with the skill and fervor of an artist and philosopher, a scholar and gentleman. There were still hidden in his room several accessories which he had once used, a rubber glove, a piece of fabric from a silk umbrella, a jar of Noxema. Putting them away again after it was all over had eventually grown too depressing.

Ignatius manipulated and concentrated. At last a vision appeared, the familiar figure of the large and devoted collie that had been his pet when he was in high school. "Woof!"

Ignatius almost heard Rex say once again. "Woof! Woof!

Arf!" Rex looked so lifelike. One ear drooped. He panted. The apparition jumped over a fence and chased a stick that somehow landed in the middle of Ignatius's quilt. As the tan and white fur grew closer, Ignatius's eyes dilated, crossed, and closed, and he lay wanly back among his four pillows, hoping that he had some Kleenex in his room.

************

"Yeah?" Lana Lee looked at the sunglasses. "You got any references?"

"A po-lice gimme a reference. He tell me I better get my ass gainfully employ," Jones said and shot a jet of smoke out into the empty bar.

"Sorry. No police characters. Not in a business like this. I got an investment to watch."

"I ain exactly a character yet, but I can tell they gonna star that vagran no visible means of support stuff on me. They told me." Jones withdrew into a forming cloud. "I thought maybe the Night of Joy like to help somebody become a member of the community, help keep a poor color boy outta jail. I keep the picket off, give the Night of Joy a good civil right ratin."

"Cut out the crap."

"Hey! Whoa!"

"You got any experience as a porter?"

"Wha? Sweepin and moppin and all that nigger shit?"

"Watch your mouth, boy. I got a clean business."

"Hell, anybody do that, especially color peoples."

"I've been looking," Lana Lee said, becoming a grave personnel manager, "for the right boy for this job for several days." She put her hands in the pockets of her leather overcoat and looked into the sunglasses. This was really a deal, like a present left on her doorstep. A colored guy who would get arrested for vagrancy if he didn't work. She would have a captive porter whom she could work for almost nothing. It was beautiful. Lana felt good for the first time since she had come upon those two characters messing up her bar. "The pay is twenty dollars week."

"Hey! No wonder the right man ain show up. Ooo-wee. Say, whatever happen to the minimal wage?"

"You need a job, right? I need a porter. Business stinks. Take it from there!"

"The las person workin in here musta starve to death."

"You work six days a week from ten to three. If you come in regular, who knows? You might get a little raise."

"Don worry. I come in regular, anything keep my ass away from a po-lice for a few hour," Jones said, blowing some smoke on Lana Lee. "Where you keep them mutherfuckin broom?"

"One thing we gotta understand is keeping our mouth clean around here."

"Yes, mam. I sure don wanna make a bad im-pressia in a fine place like the Night of Joy. Whoa!"

The door opened and Darlene came in wearing a satin cocktail dress and a flowered hat, flouncing her skirt gracefully as she walked.

"How come you're so late?" Lana screamed at her. "I told you to be here at one today."

"My cockatoo come down with a cold last night, Lana. It was awful. The whole night he was up coughing right in my ear."

"Where do you think up excuses like that?"

"Well, it's true," Darlene answered in an injured voice. She put her huge hat on the bar and climbed on a stool up into a cloud that Jones had blown. "I hadda take him to the vet's this morning to get a vitamin shot. I don't want that poor bird coughing all over my furniture."

"What got into your head that made you encourage those two characters last night? Every day, every day, Darlene, I try to explain to you the kind of clientele we want in here. Then I walk in and find you eating crap off my bar with some old lady and a fat turd. You trying to close down my business?

People look in the door, see a combination like that, they walk off to another bar. What I have to do to make you understand, Darlene? How does a human being get through to a mind like yours?"

"I already told you I felt sorry for that poor woman, Lana. You oughta seen how her son treated her. You oughta heard the story he told me about a Greyhound bus. And all the time that sweet old lady sitting there paying for his drinks. I had to take one of her cakes to make her feel good."

"Well, the next time I find you encouraging people like that and ruining my investment, I'm gonna kick you out on your behind. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"You sure you got what I said?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Okay. Now show this boy where we keep our brooms and crap and get that bottle that old lady broke cleaned up. You're in charge of getting this whole goddam place as clean as a pin for what you did me last night. I'm going shopping." Lana got to the door and turned around. "I don't want nobody fooling with that cabinet under the bar."

"I swear," Darlene said to Jones after Lana had swung through the door, "this place is worse than the army. She just hire you today?"

"Yeah," Jones answered. "She ain exactly hire me. She kinda buying me off a auction block."

"At least you gonna get a salary. I only work on commission for how much I get people to drink. You think that's easy? Try to get some guy to buy more than one of the kinda drinks they serve in here. All water. They gotta spend ten, fifteen dollars to get any effect at all. I swear, it's a tough job. Lana even pumps water in the champagne. You oughta taste that. Then she's all the time complaining about how business stinks. She oughta buy a drink at this bar and find out. Even when she's got only about five people drinking in here she's making a fortune. Water don't cost nothin."

"Wha she go shoppin for? A whip?"

"Don't ask me. Lana never tells me nothin. That Lana's a funny one." Darlene blew her nose daintily. "What I really wanna be is an exotic. I been practicing in my apartment on a routine. If I can get Lana to let me dance in here at night, I can get me a regular salary and quit hustling water on commission. Now that I think of it, I oughta get me some commission for what them people drank up in here last night. That old lady sure drank up a lotta beer. I don't see what Lana's got to complain about. Business is business. That fat man and his momma wasn't much worse than plenty we get in here. I think the thing got Lana was that funny green cap he had stock up on his head. When he was talking, he'd pull the earflap down, and when he was listening, he'd stick it up again. By the time Lana got here, everybody was hollering at him, so he had both flaps stuck out like wings. You know, it looked sorta funny."

"And you say this fat cat travlin around with his momma?"

Jones asked, making a mental association.

"Uh huh." Darlene folded her handkerchief and slipped it into her bosom. "I sure hope they don't ever decide to hang around here again. I'll really be in trouble. Jesus." Darlene sounded worried. "Look, we better do something about this place before Lana comes back. But listen. Don't knock yourself out cleaning up this dump. I never seen it really clean since I been here. And it's so dark in here all the time, nobody can tell the difference. To hear Lana talk, you'd think this hole was the Ritz."

Jones shot out a fresh cloud. Through his glasses he could hardly see anything at all.

Patrolman Mancuso enjoyed riding the motorcycle up St.

Charles Avenue. At the precinct he had borrowed a large and loud one that was all chromium and baby blue, and at the touch of a switch it could become a pinball machine of flashing, winking, blinking red and white lights. The siren, a cacophony of twelve crazed bobcats, was enough to make suspicious characters within a half-mile radius defecate in panic and rush for cover. Patrolman Mancuso's love for the motorcycle was platonically intense.

The forces of evil generated by the hideous-and apparently impossible to uncover-underground of suspicious characters seemed remote to him this afternoon, though. The ancient oaks of St. Charles Avenue arched over the avenue like a canopy shielding him from the mild winter sun that splashed and sparkled on the chrome of the motorcycle. Although the days had lately been cold and damp, the afternoon had that sudden, surprising warmth that makes New Orleans winters gentle.

Patrolman Mancuso appreciated the mildness, for he was wearing only a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, the sergeant's costume selection for the day. The long red beard that hooked over his ears by means of wires did manage to warm his chest a little; he had snatched the beard from the locker while the sergeant wasn't looking.

Patrolman Mancuso inhaled the moldy scent of the oaks and thought, in a romantic aside, that St. Charles Avenue must be the loveliest place in the world. From time to time he passed the slowly rocking streetcars that seemed to be leisurely moving toward no special destination, following their route through the old mansions on either side of the avenue.

Everything looked so calm, so prosperous, so unsuspicious.

On his own time he was going up to see that poor Widow Reilly. She had looked so pitiful crying in the middle of that wreck. The least he could do was try to help her.

At Constantinople Street he turned toward the river, sputtering and growling through a declining neighborhood until he reached a block of houses built in the 1880s and 90s, wooden Gothic and Gilded Age relics that dripped carving and scrollwork. Boss Tweed suburban stereotypes separated by alleys so narrow that a yardstick could almost bridge them and fenced in by iron pikes and low walls of crumbling brick. The larger houses had become impromptu apartment buildings, their porches converted into additional rooms. In some of the front yards there were aluminum carports, and bright aluminum awnings had been installed on one or two of the buildings. It was a neighborhood that had degenerated from Victorian to nothing in particular, a block that had moved into the twentieth century carelessly and uncaringly-and with very limited funds.