Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [134]
“Who? Read wha?”
“Boethius will show you that striving is ultimately meaningless, that we must learn to accept. Ask Miss O’Hara about him.”
“Listen. How you like bein vagran half the time?”
“Wonderful. I myself was a vagrant in happier, better days. If only I were in your shoes. I would stir from my room only once a month to fumble for my relief check in the mailbox. Realize your good fortune.”
The fat mother was really a freak. The poor people at Levy Pants were lucky that they hadn’t ended up in Angola.
“Well, be sure you come aroun in a coupla nights.” Jones blew a cloud at the earring. “Harla be doin her stuff.”
“I shall be there with bells on,” Ignatius said happily. How Myrna would gnash her teeth.
“Whoa!” Jones walked around to the front of the wagon and studied the sheet of Big Chief paper. “Look like somebody been playin tricks on you.”
“That is only a merchandising gimmick.”
“Ooo-wee. You better check it again.”
Ignatius lumbered around to the prow and saw that the waif had decorated the TWELVE INCHES (12") OF PARADISE sign with a variety of genitals.
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius ripped off the sheet covered with the ball-point graffiti. “Have I been pushing this about?”
“I be out front lookin for you,” Jones said. “Hey!”
Ignatius waved a happy paw and waddled off. At last he had a reason for earning money: Harlett O’Hara. He aimed the denuded prow of the wagon toward the Algiers ferry ramp, where the longshoremen gathered in the afternoons. Calling, entreating, he guided the wagon into the crowd of men and succeeded in selling all of his hot dogs, courteously and effusively squirting ketchup and mustard on his sold goods with all the energy of a fireman.
What a brilliant day. The signs from Fortuna were more than promising. A surprised Mr. Clyde received cheery greetings and ten dollars from vendor Reilly, and Ignatius, his smock filled with bills from the waif and the mogul of frankfurters, billowed onto the trolley with a glad heart.
He entered the house and found his mother talking quietly on the telephone.
“I been thinking about what you said,” Mrs. Reilly was whispering into the phone. “Maybe it ain’t such a bad idea after all, babe. You know what I mean?”
“Of course it ain’t,” Santa answered. “Them people at Charity can let Ignatius take him a little rest. Claude ain’t gonna want no Ignatius around, sweetheart.”
“He likes me, huh?”
“Likes you? He called up this morning to ax me if I thought you was ever gonna remarry. Lord. I says, ‘Well, Claude, you gotta pop the question.’ Whoee. You two having a worldwin courtship if I ever seen one. That poor man’s desperate from loneliness.”
“He’s sure considerate,” Mrs. Reilly breathed into the mouthpiece. “But sometimes he makes me nervous with all them communiss.”
“What in the world are you babbling about?” Ignatius thundered in the hall.
“Christ,” Santa said. “It sound like that Ignatius come in.”
“Ssh,” Mrs. Reilly said into the phone.
“Well, listen, sweetheart. Once Claude gets married, he’ll stop thinking about them communiss. His mind isn’t occupied is what’s wrong with him. You give him some loving.”
“Santa!”
“Good grief,” Ignatius spluttered. “Are you speaking with that Battaglia strumpet?”
“Shut up, boy.”
“You better knock that Ignatius in the head,” Santa said.
“I wisht I was strong enough, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly answered.
“Oh, Irene, I almost forgot to tell you. Angelo come around this morning for a cup of coffee. I hardly reconnized him. You oughta seen him in that wool suit. He looked like Mrs. Astor’s horse. Poor Angelo. He’s sure trying hard. Now he’s going to all the high-class bars, he says. He better get him some character.”
“Ain’t that awful,” Mrs. Reilly said sadly. “What Angelo’s gonna do if he gets himself kicked off the force? And him with three chirren to support.”
“There are a few challenging openings at Paradise Vendors for men with initiative