Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [145]
“We couldn’t take that kitchen anymore,” Frieda said to Ignatius. “After all, we’re human beings, too.” She gave Ignatius a light punch to the stomach. “Looks like you’re left out, Fats.”
“Just what do you mean?” Ignatius asked haughtily.
“Looks like your costume’s not going over too well,” Liz observed.
“Pardon me, ladies. I must leave.”
“Hey, don’t go, Tubby,” Betty said. “Somebody’ll ask you. They’re just trying to bitch you. Don’t give up the ship. They’d bitch their own mother.”
At that moment, Timmy, who had slipped out to the slave quarters again to look for his missing charm bracelet and, he hoped, more games with the chains, appeared in the living room. He wandered over to Ignatius and asked wistfully, “Do you want to dance?”
“There. You see?” Frieda said to Ignatius.
“I want to see this,” Liz shouted. “Let’s see you two do the limbo. Come on. I’ll get a broom we can use for the pole.”
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius said. “Please. I don’t dance.”
“Oh, come on,” Timmy said. “I can teach you. I love to dance. I’ll lead.”
“Go ahead, bigass,” Betty threatened.
“No. It would be impossible. The cutlass, the smock. Someone would be injured. I came here to speak, not dance. I don’t dance. I never dance. I have never danced in my life.”
“Well, you’re going to dance now,” Frieda told him. “You don’t want to hurt this sailor’s feelings.”
“I am not dancing!” Ignatius barked. “I have never danced, and I certainly am not going to begin with some drunken deviate.”
“Oh, don’t be so straight,” Timmy sighed.
“I have always had a rather substandard sense of balance,” Ignatius explained. “We will plunge to the floor in a broken heap. This deranged mariner will be crippled or worse.”
“Tubby looks like a troublemaker,” Frieda said to her friends. “Right?”
With a wink from Frieda, the three girls attacked Ignatius. One wrapped a square leg around his; the other kicked him in the back of the knee; the third pushed him backward onto the cowboy, who was whirling in the vicinity. Ignatius steadied himself by grabbing the cowboy, who broke from Dorian’s horrified grasp and toppled to the floor. As the cowboy landed, the needle jumped from the record and the music stopped. But in its place there began a chorus of shrieking and screaming from the guests.
“Oh, Dorian, get him out!” an elegant shrieked in panic.
There was a metallic crash of rings, bracelets, and cuff links as some of the guests pressed together in a corner.
“Hey, you knocked that bitch of a cowboy over like a tenpin,” Frieda screamed admiringly at Ignatius, who was still flailing his arms to regain his balance.
“Nice work, Fats,” Liz said.
“Let’s aim him at somebody else,” Betty said to her companions.
“What have you done, you huge beastly thing?” Dorian cried at Ignatius.
“This is an outrage,” Ignatius was shouting. “I have not only been ignored and vilified at this gathering. I have been viciously attacked within the walls of your cobweb of a home. I hope that you carry liability insurance. If not, you may well lose this flamboyant property once my legal advisors have attended to you.”
Dorian was down on his knees, fanning the cowboy, whose lids were beginning to flutter.
“Make him leave, Dorian,” the cowboy sobbed. “He almost killed me.”
“I had thought you might be different and funny,” Dorian hissed at Ignatius. “As it is, you have proved to be the most awful thing that has ever been in my house. From the moment that you broke the door, I should have realized that it would end like this. What did you do to this dear boy?”
“My trousers are filthy,” the cowboy shrieked.
“I was savagely attacked and pushed onto that coxcomb cowpoke.”
“Don’t try to lie, Fats,” Frieda said. “We saw the whole thing. He was jealous, Dorian. He wanted to dance with you.”
“Awful.” “Make him go.” “Ruining the party.” “So monstrous.” “Dangerous.” “Total loss.”
“Get