Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [37]
“Isn’t that nice,” Mr. Gonzalez said when Ignatius had stopped hammering. “It gives the office a certain tone.”
“What does it mean?” Miss Trixie demanded, standing directly beneath the sign and examining it frantically.
“It is simply a guidepost,” Ignatius said proudly.
“I don’t understand all this,” Miss Trixie said. “What’s going on around here?” She turned to Ignatius. “Gomez, who is this person?”
“Miss Trixie, you know Mr. Reilly. He’s been working with us for a week now.”
“Reilly? I thought it was Gloria.”
“Go back and work on your figures,” Mr. Gonzalez told her. “We have to send that statement to the bank before noon.”
“Oh, yes, we must send that statement,” Miss Trixie agreed and shuffled off to the ladies’ room.
“Mr. Reilly, I don’t want to pressure you,” Mr. Gonzalez said cautiously, “but I do notice that you have quite a pile of material on your desk that hasn’t been filed yet.”
“Oh, that. Yes. Well, when I opened the first drawer this morning, I was greeted by a rather large rat which seemed to be devouring the Abelman’s Dry Goods folder. I thought it politic to wait until he was sated. I would hate to contract the bubonic plague and lay the blame upon Levy Pants.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Gonzalez said anxiously, his dapper person quivering at the prospect of an on-the-job accident.
“In addition, my valve has been misbehaving and has prevented me from bending over to reach the lower drawers.”
“I have just the thing for that,” Mr. Gonzalez said and went into the little office storeroom to get, Ignatius imagined, some type of medicine. But he returned with one of the smallest metal stools that Ignatius had ever seen. “Here. The person who used to work on the files used to wheel back and forth on this along the lower drawers. Try it.”
“I don’t believe that my particular body structure is easily adaptable to that type of device,” Ignatius observed, a gimlet eye fixed upon the rusting stool. Ignatius had always had a poor sense of balance, and ever since his obese childhood, he had suffered a tendency to fall, trip, and stumble. Until he was five years old and had finally managed to walk in an almost normal manner, he had been a mass of bruises and hickeys. “However, for the sake of Levy Pants, I shall try.”
Ignatius squatted lower and lower until his great buttocks touched the stool, his knees reaching almost to his shoulders. When he was at last nestled upon his perch, he looked like an eggplant balanced atop a thumb tack.
“This will never do. I feel quite uncomfortable.”
“Give it a try,” Mr. Gonzalez said brightly.
Propelling himself with his feet, Ignatius traveled anxiously along the side of the files until one of the miniature wheels lodged in a crack. The stool tipped slightly and then turned over, dumping Ignatius heavily to the floor.
“Oh, my God!” he bellowed. “I think I’ve broken my back.”
“Here,” Mr. Gonzalez cried in his terrorized tenor. “I’ll help you up.”
“No! You must never move a person with a broken back unless you have a stretcher. I won’t be paralyzed through your incompetence.”
“Please try to get up, Mr. Reilly.” Mr. Gonzalez looked at the mound at his feet. His heart sank. “I’ll help you. I don’t think you’re badly injured.”
“Let me alone,” Ignatius screamed. “You fool. I refuse to spend the remainder of my life in a wheel chair.”
Mr. Gonzalez felt his feet turn cold and numb.
The thud of Ignatius’s fall had attracted Miss Trixie from the ladies’ room; she came around the files and tripped on the mountain of supine flesh.
“Oh, dear,” she said feebly. “Is Gloria dying, Gomez?”
“No,” Mr. Gonzalez said sharply.
“Well, I’m certainly glad of that,” Miss Trixie said, stepping onto one of Ignatius’s outstretched hands.
“Good grief!” Ignatius thundered and sprang into a sitting position. “The bones in my hand are crushed.