Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [77]
“That’s right,” Darlene said. “I’m just startin out in show biz. I need a break.”
“Shut up, stupid. You think you can get that bird to strip you?”
“Yes, ma’m,” Darlene said enthusiastically. “Suddenly it come to me. I was sitting in my apartment watching it play on its rings, and I said to myself, ‘Darlene, how come you don’t stick some rings on your clothes?’”
“Shut your moron up,” Lana said. “Okay, let’s see what it can do.”
“Whoa! Now you talkin. All kinda mother be showin up to see this act.”
III
“Santa, I hadda call you, honey.”
“What’s wrong, Irene babe?” Mrs. Battaglia’s froggy baritone asked feelingly.
“It’s Ignatius.”
“What he’s done now, sweetheart? Tell Santa.”
“Wait a minute. Let me see if he’s still in that tub.” Mrs. Reilly listened apprehensively to the great liquid thrashings coming from the bathroom. One whalelike snort floated out into the hall through the peeling bathroom door. “It’s okay. He’s still in there. I can’t lie to you, Santa. My heart’s broke.”
“Aw.”
“Ignatius comes home about a hour ago dressed up like a butcher.”
“Good. He’s got him another job, that big fat bum.”
“But not in a butcher shop, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said, her voice heavy with grief. “He’s a hot dog vendor.”
“Aw, come on,” Santa croaked. “A hot dog vendor? You mean out on the streets?”
“Out on the streets, honey, like a bum.”
“Bum is right, girl. Even worst. Read the police notices in the paper sometimes. They all a bunch of vagrants.”
“Ain’t that awful!”
“Somebody oughta punch that boy in the nose.”
“When he first comes in, Santa, he makes me guess what kinda job he’s got. First, I guess, ‘butcher,’ you know?”
“Of course.”
“So he says, very insolent, ‘Guess again. You ain’t even close.’ I keep guessing for about five minutes until I can’t think of no more jobs where you’d be wearing one of them white uniforms. Then he finally says, ‘Wrong every time. I got me a job selling weenies.’ I almost passed out, Santa, right on the kitchen floor. Wouldn’t thata been fine, me with my head broke open on the linoleum?”
“He wouldn’t care, not that one.”
“Not him.”
“Never in a million years.”
“He don’t care about his poor momma,” Mrs. Reilly said. “With all his education, mind you. Selling weenies out on the street in the broad daylight.”
“So what you told him, girl?”
“I didn’t tell him nothing. By the time I got my mouth open, he runs off to the bathroom. He’s still locked up in there splashing water all over the floor.”
“Hold on a minute, Irene. I got one of my little grandchirren over here for the day,” Santa said and screamed at someone at her end of the line: “Get the hell away from that stove, Charmaine, and go play out on the banquette before I bust you right in the mouth.”
A child’s voice made some reply.
“Lord,” Santa continued calmly to Mrs. Reilly. “Them kids is sweet, but sometimes I just don’t know. Charmaine! Get the hell outside and go play on your bike before I come slap your face off. Hold the line, Irene.”
Mrs. Reilly heard Santa put the telephone down. Then a child screamed, a door slammed, and Santa was back on the line.
“Christ, I tell you true, Irene, that child won’t listen to nobody! I’m trying to cook her some spaghettis and daube, and she keeps on playing in my pot. I wish them sisters at her school would beat up on her a little. You know Angelo. You shoulda seen how them sisters beat up on him when he was a kid. One sister throwed him right into a blackboard. That’s how come Angelo’s such a sweet, considerate man today.”
“The sisters loved Ignatius. He was such a darling child. He used to win all them little holy pictures for knowing his catechism.”
“Them sisters shoulda knocked his head in.”
“When he useta come home with all them little holy pictures,” Mrs. Reilly sniffed, “I sure never thought then he’d end up selling weenies in the broad daylight.” Mrs. Reilly