Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [133]
This was luck, Jones thought. The fat mother dropped out of the sky just when he needed him most.
“You mus be outa your min man. You oughta have you a good job, big Buick, all that shit. Whoa! Air condition, color TV…”
“I have a very pleasant occupation,” Ignatius answered icily. “Outdoor work, no supervision. The only pressure is on the feet.”
“If I go to college I wouldn be draggin no meat wagon aroun sellin peoples a lotta garbage and shit.”
“Please! Paradise products are of the very highest quality.” Ignatius rapped his cutlass against the curb. “Anyone employed by that dubious bar is not in a position to question another’s occupation.”
“Shit, you think I like the Night of Joy? Ooo-wee. I wanna get someplace. I like to get someplace good, be gainfully employ, make me a livin wage.”
“Just as I suspected,” Ignatius said angrily. “In other words, you want to become totally bourgeois. You people have all been brainwashed. I imagine that you’d like to become a success or something equally vile.”
“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