Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [142]
“Oh, talk, talk, talk,” Dorian moaned. “Then let’s go into the kitchen. I want you to meet the ladies’ auxiliary.”
“Is that true? An auxiliary?” Ignatius asked greedily. “Well, I must compliment you upon your foresightedness.”
They entered the kitchen where, except for two young men who were having an emotional argument in a corner, all was quiet. Seated at a table were three women drinking from beer cans. They regarded Ignatius squarely. The one who was crushing a beer can in her hand stopped and tossed the can into a potted plant next to the sink.
“Girls,” Dorian said. The three beer girls raised a raucous Bronx cheer. “This is Ignatius Reilly, a new face.”
“Put it there, Fats,” the girl who had been crushing the can said. She grabbed Ignatius’s paw and worked it over as if it, too, were a prospect for crushing.
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius screamed.
“That’s Frieda,” Dorian explained. “And they’re Betty and Liz.”
“How do you do,” Ignatius said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his smock to prevent any further handshaking. “I’m sure that you’ll be of invaluable help to our cause.”
“Where did you pick him up?” Frieda asked Dorian while her two companions studied Ignatius and nudged each other.
“Mr. Greene and I met through my mother,” Ignatius answered grandly for Dorian.
“No kidding,” Frieda said. “Your mother must be a very interesting person.”
“Hardly,” Ignatius replied.
“Well, grab yourself a beer, Tubby,” Frieda said. “I wish we had it in bottles. Betty here could open you one with her teeth. She’s got teeth like an iron claw.” Betty made an obscene gesture at Frieda. “And one of these days she’s going to get them all knocked down her fucking throat.”
Betty hit Frieda on the head with an empty can.
“You’re asking for it,” Frieda said, raising one of the kitchen chairs.
“Now stop it,” Dorian spat. “If you three can’t behave, you can just leave right now.”
“Personally,” Liz said, “we’re getting very bored just sitting here in the kitchen.”
“Yeah,” Betty screamed. She grabbed a rung of the chair that Frieda was holding over her head, and she and Frieda began wrestling for possession of it. “How come we have to sit out here?”
“Put that chair down this minute,” Dorian said.
“Yes, please,” Ignatius added. He had retreated to a corner. “Someone will be injured.”
“Like you,” Liz said. She heaved an unopened beer can at Ignatius, who ducked.
“Good heavens!” Ignatius said. “I think I shall return to the other room.”
“Beat it, bigass,” Liz said to him. “You’re using up all the air in here.”
“Girls!” Dorian was screaming at the wrestling Frieda and Betty, whose T-shirts were growing damp. They were huffing and heaving around the room with the chair, mashing each other against the wall and sink.
“Okay, cut it out,” Liz screamed at her friends. “These people are going to think you’re crude.”
She picked up another chair and got between the two contestants. Then she slammed her chair down onto the one that Frieda and Betty were wrestling over, knocking the girls aside. The two chairs rattled and clattered to the floor.
“Who told you to butt in?” Frieda demanded of Liz, grabbing her by her cropped hair.
Dorian, stumbling over the chairs, tried to push the girls back to the table, snapping, “Now sit down there and be decent.”
“This party stinks,” Betty said. “Where’s the action?”
“How come you invited us down here if all we’re gonna do is sit here in this frigging kitchen?” Frieda demanded.
“You’ll only start brawling in there. You know it. I thought it would be a neighborly thing to do to ask you down out of courtesy. I don’t want any trouble. This is the nicest party we’ve had in months.”
“Okay,” Frieda growled. “We’ll sit out here like ladies.” The girls punched one another about the arms in agreement. “After all, we’re only paying tenants. Go in there and be nice to that phony cowboy, the one that sounds like Jeanette MacDonald, the one that tried to bitch us on Chartres Street the other day.”
“He’s a very fine and friendly person,