Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [61]
“Well, whaddya know,” the man said. “He tell us about a bus, too, tell us he go ridin into the har of darkness on a bus one time.”
“He the same one. Stay away from that freak. He wanted by a po-lice. You po color peoples all get your ass throwed in jail. Whoa!”
“Well, I gotta ax him about that,” the man said. “I sure don wanna get led on no demonstration by a convic.”
II
Mr. Gonzalez was at Levy Pants early, as usual. He symbolically lit his little heater and a filtered cigarette with the same match, lighting two torches that signaled the start of another working day. Then he applied his mind to his early morning meditations. Mr. Reilly had added a new touch to the office the day before, streamers of mauve, gray, and tan crepe paper looped from light bulb to light bulb across the ceiling. The cross and signs and streamers in the office reminded the office manager of Christmas decorations and made him feel slightly sentimental. Looking happily into Mr. Reilly’s area, he noticed that the bean vines were growing so healthily that they had even begun to twine downward through the handles of the file drawers. Mr. Gonzalez wondered how the file clerk managed to do his filing without disturbing the tender shoots. Pondering this clerical riddle, he was surprised to see Mr. Reilly himself burst like a torpedo through the door.
“Good morning, sir,” Ignatius said brusquely, his scarf-shawl flying horizontally in his wake like the flag of some mobilized Scottish clan. A cheap movie camera was slung over his shoulder and under his arm he had a bundle which appeared to be a rolled-up bed sheet.
“Well, you certainly are early today, Mr. Reilly.”
“What do you mean? I always arrive at this time.”
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Gonzalez said meekly.
“Do you believe that I am here early for some purpose?”
“No. I…”
“Speak up, sir. Why are you so strangely suspicious? Your eyes are literally flickering with paranoia.”
“What, Mr. Reilly?”
“You heard what I said,” Ignatius answered and lumbered through the door to the factory.
Mr. Gonzalez tried to compose himself again but was disturbed by what sounded like a cheer from the factory. Perhaps, he thought, one of the workers had become a father or won something in a raffle. So long as the factory workers let him alone, he was willing to extend the same courtesy to them. To him they were simply part of the physical plant of Levy Pants not connected with “the brain center.” They were not his to worry about; they were under the drunken control of Mr. Palermo. When he did find the proper courage, the office manager intended to approach Mr. Reilly in a most politic manner about the amount of time he was spending in the factory. However, Mr. Reilly had lately become somewhat distant and unapproachable, and Mr. Gonzalez dreaded the thought of a battle with him. His feet grew numb when he thought of one of those bear’s paws landing squarely on the top of his head, driving him perhaps like a stake through the unpredictable flooring of the office.
Four of the male factory workers were embracing Ignatius around the Smithfield hams that were his thighs and, with considerable effort, were lifting him onto one of the cutting tables. Above the shoulders of his carriers Ignatius barked directions as if he were supervising the loading of the rarest and most precious of cargoes.
“Up and to the right, there!” he shouted down. “Up, up. Be careful. Slowly. Is your grip tight?”
“Yeah,” one of the lifters answered.
“It feels rather loose. Please! I am deteriorating into a state of total anxiety.”
The workers watched with interest as the lifters tottered back and forth under their burden.
“Now backward,” Ignatius called nervously. “Backward until the table is directly beneath me.”
“Don’t you worry, Mr. R.,” a lifter panted. “We aimin you right at that table.”
“Apparently you are not,” Ignatius replied, his body slamming into a post. “Oh, my God! My shoulder is dislocated.”
A cry arose from the other workers.
“Hey, watch out with Mr. R.,” someone screamed. “You men gonna bust