Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [129]
“Look, you want me to help you pick up this pile of junk?”
“Pile of junk? Are you talking about this Paradise vehicle?”
The streetcar clanged at them again.
“Come on,” George said. “Up.”
“I hope you realize,” Ignatius said as he breathlessly lifted the wagon, “that our association is only the result of an emergency.”
The cart bounced back onto its two bicycle tires, the contents of the tin bun rattling against its sides.
“Okay, prof, there you go. Glad I could help you out.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you waif, you are about to be hooked on the cowcatcher of that streetcar.”
The streetcar rolled by them slowly so that the conductor and motorman could study Ignatius’s costume more closely.
George grabbed one of Ignatius’s paws and stuck two dollars in it.
“Money?” Ignatius asked happily. “Thank God.” He quickly pocketed the two bills. “I’d rather not ask the obscene motive for this. I’d like to think that you’re attempting to make amends in your simple way for slandering me on my dismal first day with this ludicrous wagon.”
“That’s it, prof. You said it better than I ever could. You’re a really educated guy.”
“Oh?” Ignatius was very pleased. “There may be some hope for you yet. Hot dog?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then pardon me while I have one. My system is petitioning for appeasement.” Ignatius looked down into the well of his wagon. “My God, the hot dogs are quite disordered.”
While Ignatius was slamming doors and plunging his paws down into the well, George said, “Now I helped you out, prof. Maybe you can do the same for me.”
“Perhaps,” Ignatius said disinterestedly, biting into the hot dog.
“You see these?” George indicated the brown paper packages he was carrying under his arms. “These are school supplies. Now this is my problem. I gotta pick them up from the distributor at lunchtime, but I can’t deliver them to the schools until after school’s closed. So I gotta carry them around for almost two hours. You understand? What I’m looking for is a place to put these things in the afternoon. Now I could meet you someplace about one and put them in your bun compartment and come get them out sometime before three.”
“How bogus,” Ignatius belched. “Do you seriously expect me to believe you? Delivering school supplies after the schools are closed?”
“I’ll pay you a couple of bucks every day.”
“You will?” Ignatius asked with interest. “Well, you will have to pay me a week’s rent in advance. I don’t deal in small sums.”
George opened his wallet and gave Ignatius eight dollars.
“Here. With the two you already got, that makes ten for the week.”
Ignatius happily pocketed the new bills and ripped one of the packages from George’s arms, saying, “I must see what it is that I’m storing. You’re probably selling goof balls to infants.”
“Hey!” George shouted. “I can’t deliver the stuff if it’s opened.”
“Too bad for you.” Ignatius fended off the boy and tore off the brown wrapping. He saw a stack of what looked like postcards. “What are these? Visual aids for civics or some other equally stultifying high school subject?”
“Gimme that, you nut.”
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius stared at what he saw. Once in high school someone had shown him a pornographic photograph, and he had collapsed against a water cooler, injuring his ear. This photograph was far superior. A nude woman was sitting on the edge of a desk next to a globe of the world. The suggested onanism with the piece of chalk intrigued Ignatius. Her face was hidden behind a large book. While George evaded indifferent slaps from the unoccupied paw, Ignatius scrutinized the title on the cover of the book: Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. “Do I believe what I am seeing? What brilliance. What taste. Good grief.”
“Give that back,” George pleaded.
“This one is mine,” Ignatius gloated, pocketing the top card. He handed the torn package back to George and looked at the piece of torn wrapping between his fingers. There was an address on it. He pocketed that, too. “Where in the