Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [66]
“Huh?” Ignatius asked absently. He was wondering what he could write to Myrna now. The film seemed to have been ruined, too. Explaining the disaster of the Crusade in a letter would be impossible. “What was that you said, mother of mine?”
“I said you gettin on that trolley with the birds,” Mrs. Reilly screamed.
“That sounds appropriate.”
“When you come home again, you gonna have you a job.”
“Apparently Fortuna has decided upon another downward spin.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
V
Mrs. Levy lay prone on the motorized exercising board, its several sections prodding her ample body gently, nudging and kneading her soft, white flesh like a loving baker. Winding her arms under the table, she held it tightly.
“Oh,” she moaned softly and happily, nibbling on the section beneath her face.
“Turn that thing off,” her husband’s voice said somewhere behind her.
“What?” Mrs. Levy raised her head and looked dreamily around. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying in town for the races.”
“I changed my mind, if it’s okay with you.”
“Sure, it’s okay with me. Do whatever you want. Don’t let me tell you what to do. Have yourself a ball. See if I care.”
“Pardon me. I’m sorry I tore you away from the board.”
“Let’s leave the board out of this, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry if I insulted it.”
“Just leave my board out of it. That’s all I said. I’m trying to be nice. I don’t start the arguments around here.”
“Turn the damn thing on again and shut up. I’m going to take a shower.”
“You see? You’re very excited over nothing. Don’t take all your guilt feelings out on me.”
“What guilt feelings? What have I done?”
“You know what it is, Gus. You know how you’ve thrown your life away. A whole business down the drain. A chance to go nationwide. Your father’s sweat and blood handed to you on a silver platter.”
“Ugh.”
“A growing concern failing.”
“Listen, I have a headache from trying to save that business today. That’s why I didn’t go to the races.”
After having fought with his father for almost thirty-five years, Mr. Levy had decided that he would spend the rest of his life trying not to be bothered. But he was bothered every day that he was at Levy’s Lodge by his wife simply because she resented his not wanting to be bothered by Levy Pants. And in staying away from Levy Pants, he was bothered even more by the company because something was always going wrong there. It would all be simpler and less bothersome if he really operated Levy Pants and put in an eight-hour day as manager. But just the name “Levy Pants” gave him heartburn. He associated it with his father.
“What did you do, Gus? Sign a few letters?”
“I fired somebody.”
“Really? Big deal. Who? One of the furnace stokers?”
“You remember I told you about that big kook, the one that ass Gonzalez hired?”
“Oh. Him.” Mrs. Levy rolled about on the exercising board.
“You should see what he did to that place. Paper streamers hanging from the ceiling. A big cross tacked up in the office. As soon as I walk in today, he comes up to me and starts complaining that somebody from the factory knocked his bean plants to the floor.”
“Bean plants? He thought Levy Pants was a truck garden?”
“Who knows what went on in that head. He wants me to fire the one who knocked over his plants and this other guy he says cut up his sign. He says the factory workers are a bunch of rowdies who have no respect for him. He says they’re out to get him. So I go back in the factory to find Palermo, who of course is not there, and what do I find? All those workers have bricks and chains lying all over the place. They’re all very emotionally worked up, and they tell me this guy Reilly, that’s the big slob, made them bring all that crap so they could attack the office and beat up Gonzalez.”
“What?”
“He’d been telling them they were underpaid and overworked.”
“I think he’s right,” Mrs. Levy said. “Just yesterday Susan and Sandra wrote something