Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [164]
“Mother, I must attend to my bowels. They are revolting against the trauma of the last twenty-four hours.”
“Get out that bathroom, boy, and come back here. Now what you want with crazy, Mr. Levy?”
“Mr. Reilly, do you know anything about this?”
Ignatius looked at the two letters that Mr. Levy produced from his jacket and said, “Of course not. That is your signature. Leave this house immediately. Mother, this is the fiend who fired me so brutally.”
“You didn’t write this?”
“Mr. Gonzalez was extremely dictatorial. He would never permit me near a typewriter. Actually, he cuffed me once rather viciously when my eyes chanced to stray across some correspondence which he was composing in rather dreadful prose. If I was permitted to shine his cheap shoes, I was grateful. You know how possessive he is about that cesspool company of yours.”
“I know. But he says he didn’t write this.”
“An obvious untruth. His every word is false. He speaks with a forked tongue!”
“This man wants to sue us for a lot of money.”
“Ignatius done it,” Mrs. Reilly interrupted a little rudely. “Whatever went wrong, Ignatius done it. He makes trouble everyplace he goes. Go on, Ignatius. Tell the man the truth. Go on, boy, before I knock you in the head.”
“Mother, make this man leave,” Ignatius cried, trying to push his mother against Mr. Levy.
“Mr. Reilly, this man wants to sue for $500 thousand. That could ruin me.”
“Ain’t that awful!” Mrs. Reilly exclaimed. “Ignatius, what you done this poor man?”
As Ignatius was about to discuss the circumspection of his behavior at Levy Pants, the telephone rang.
“Hello?” Mrs. Reilly said. “I’m his mother. Of course I’m sober.” She glared at Ignatius. “He is? He did? What? Aw, no.” She stared at her son, who was beginning to rasp one paw against the other. “Okay, mister, you’ll get your stuff, all except the earring. The bird got that. Okay. Of course I can remember what you telling me. I ain’t drunk!” Mrs. Reilly slammed down the telephone and turned on her son with, “That was the weenie man. You’re fired.”
“Thank God,” Ignatius sighed. “I couldn’t stand that cart again, I’m afraid.”
“What you told him about me, boy? You told him I was a drunk?”
“Of course not. How ludicrous. I don’t discuss you with people. No doubt he’s spoken with you previously when you were under the influence. You’ve probably had a date with him for all I know, a drunken spree in several hot dog boîtes.”
“You can’t even peddle hot dogs in the streets. Was that man angry. He says you gave him more trouble than any vendor he ever had.”
“He resented my worldview rather actively.”
“Oh, shut up before I slap you again,” Mrs. Reilly screamed. “Now tell Mr. Levy here the truth.”
What a squalid homelife, Mr. Levy thought. This woman certainly treated her son dictatorially.
“Why, I am telling the truth,” Ignatius said.
“Lemme see that letter, Mr. Levy.”
“Don’t show it to her. She reads rather dreadfully. She’ll be confused for days.”
Mrs. Reilly knocked Ignatius in the side of the head with her purse.
“Not again!” Ignatius cried.
“Don’t hit him,” Mr. Levy said. The kook’s head was already bandaged. Outside of the prizefighting ring, violence made Mr. Levy ill. This Reilly kook was really pitiful. The mother ran around with some old man, drank, wanted the son out of the way. She was already on the police blotter. The dog was probably the only thing that the kook had ever really had in his life. Sometimes you have to see a person in his real environment to understand him. In his own way Reilly had been very interested in Levy Pants. Now Mr. Levy was sorry that he had fired Reilly. The kook had been proud of his job at the company. “Just let him alone, Mrs. Reilly. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Help me, sir,” Ignatius slobbered, grabbing histrionically at the lapels of Mr. Levy’s sports jacket. “Fortuna only knows what she will do