Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [49]
“I certainly don’t mean to dictate what you people should wear,” Mr. Gonzalez said anxiously.
“I should hope not. Miss Trixie and I can only take so much.”
Mr. Gonzalez pretended to look for something in his desk to avoid the terrible eyes that Ignatius had turned on him.
“I shall finish the cross,” Ignatius said finally, removing two quarts of paint from the pouchlike pockets of his overcoat.
“That’s wonderful.”
“The cross is top priority at the moment. Filing, alphabetizing — all of that must wait until I have completed this project. Then, when I finish the cross, I am going to have to visit the factory. I suspect that those people are screaming for a compassionate ear, a dedicated guide. I may be able to aid them.”
“Of course. Don’t let me tell you what to do.”
“I won’t.” Ignatius stared at the office manager. “At last my valve seems to permit a visit to the factory. I must not pass up this opportunity. If I wait, it may seal up for several weeks.”
“Then you must go to the factory today,” the office manager agreed enthusiastically.
Mr. Gonzalez looked at Ignatius hopefully, but he received no reply. Ignatius filed his overcoat, scarf, and cap in one of the file drawers and began working on the cross. By eleven o’clock he was giving the cross its first coat, meticulously applying the paint with a small watercolor brush. Miss Trixie was still AWOL.
At noon Mr. Gonzalez looked over the stack of papers on which he was working and said, “I wonder where Miss Trixie can be.”
“You have probably broken her spirit,” Ignatius replied coldly. He was dabbing at the rough edges of the cardboard with the brush. “However, she may appear for lunch. I told her yesterday that I was bringing her a luncheon meat sandwich. I have discovered that Miss Trixie considers luncheon meat a rather toothsome delicacy. I would offer you a sandwich, but I am afraid that there are only enough for Miss Trixie and me.”
“That’s quite all right.” Mr. Gonzalez produced a wan smile and watched Ignatius open his greasy brown paper bag. “I’m going to have to work straight through lunch anyway to finish these statements and billings.”
“Yes, you’d better. We must not allow Levy Pants to fall behind in the struggle for the survival of the fittest.”
Ignatius bit into his first sandwich, tearing it in half, and chewed contentedly for a while.
“I do hope that Miss Trixie does appear,” he said after he had finished the first sandwich and emitted a series of belches which sounded as if they had disintegrated his digestive tract. “My valve will not tolerate luncheon meat, I’m afraid.”
While he was tearing the filling of the second sandwich from the bread with his teeth, Miss Trixie came in, her green celluloid visor facing the rear.
“Here she is,” Ignatius said to the office manager through the big leaf of limp lettuce that was hanging from his mouth.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Gonzalez said weakly. “Miss Trixie.”
“I imagined that the luncheon meat would activate her faculties. Over here, Mother Commerce.”
Miss Trixie bumped into the statue of St. Anthony.
“I knew I had something on my mind all morning, Gloria,” Miss Trixie said, taking the sandwich in her claws and going to her desk. Ignatius watched with fascination the elaborate process of gums, tongue, and lips that every piece of sandwich set into motion.
“You took a very long time to change,” the office manager said to Miss Trixie, noting bitterly that her new ensemble was only a little more presentable than the robe and nightgown.
“Who?” Miss Trixie asked, sticking out a tongueful of masticated luncheon meat and bread.
“I said you took a long time to change.”
“Me? I just left here.”
“Will you please stop harassing her?” Ignatius demanded angrily.
“There was no need for the delay. She only lives down by the wharves somewhere,” the office manager said and returned to his papers.
“Did you enjoy that?” Ignatius