Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [9]
“Yes, I did want to stay as an observer. I am not especially anxious to mingle.”
“Honey, to tell you the truth, I can’t listen to that story about that bus no more tonight. You already told it four times since we got here.”
Ignatius looked hurt.
“I hardly suspected that I was boring you. After all, that bus ride was one of the more formative experiences of my life. As a mother, you should be interested in the traumas that have created my worldview.”
“What’s with the bus?” the blonde asked, moving to the stool next to Ignatius. “My name’s Darlene. I like good stories. You got a spicy one?”
The bartender slammed the beer and the daiquiri down just as the bus was starting off on its journey in the vortex.
“Here, have a clean glass,” the bartender snarled at Mrs. Reilly.
“Ain’t that nice. Hey, Ignatius, I just got a clean glass.”
But her son was too preoccupied with his arrival in Baton Rouge to hear her.
“You know, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly said to the young man, “me and my boy was in trouble today. The police tried to arress him.”
“Oh, my dear. Policemen are always so adamant, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, and Ignatius got him a master’s degree and all.”
“What in the world was he doing?”
“Nothing. Just standing waiting for his poor, dear momma.”
“His outfit is a little bizarre. I thought he was a performer of some sort when I first came in, although I tried not to imagine the nature of his act.”
“I keep on telling him about his clothes, but he won’t listen.” Mrs. Reilly looked at the back of her son’s flannel shirt and at the hair curling down the back of his neck. “That’s sure pretty, that jacket you got.”
“Oh, this?” the young man asked, feeling the velvet on the sleeve. “I don’t mind telling you it cost a fortune. I found it in a dear little shop in the Village.”
“You don’t look like you from the country.”
“Oh, my,” the young man sighed and lit a Salem with a great click of his lighter. “I meant Greenwich Village in New York, sweetie. By the way, where did you ever get that hat? It’s truly fantastic.”
“Aw, Lord, I had this since Ignatius made his First Communion.”
“Would you consider selling it?”
“How come?”
“I’m a dealer in used clothing. I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”
“Aw, come on. For this?”
“Fifteen?”
“Really?” Mrs. Reilly removed the hat. “Sure, honey.”
The young man opened his wallet and gave Mrs. Reilly three five dollar bills. Draining his daiquiri glass, he stood up and said, “Now I really must run.”
“So soon?”
“It’s been perfectly delightful meeting you.”
“Take care out in the cold and wet.”
The young man smiled, placed the hat carefully beneath his trench coat, and left the bar.
“The radar patrol,” Ignatius was telling Darlene, “is obviously rather foolproof. It seems that the cab driver and I were making small dots on their screen all the way from Baton Rouge.”
“You was on radar,” Darlene yawned. “Just think of that.”
“Ignatius, we gotta go now,” Mrs. Reilly said. “I’m hungry.”
She turned toward him and knocked her beer bottle to the floor where it broke into a spray of brown, jagged glass.
“Mother, are you making a scene?” Ignatius asked irritably. “Can’t you see that Miss Darlene and I are speaking? You have some cakes with you. Eat those. You’re always complaining that you never go anywhere. I would have imagined that you would be enjoying your night on the town.”
Ignatius was back on radar, so Mrs. Reilly reached in her boxes and ate a brownie.
“Like one?” she asked the bartender. “They nice. I got some nice wine cakes, too.”
The bartender pretended to be looking for something on his shelves.
“I smell wine cakes,” Darlene cried, looking past Ignatius.
“Have one, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said.
“I think that I shall have one, too,” Ignatius said. “I imagine that they taste rather good with brandy.”
Mrs. Reilly spread the box out on the bar. Even the man with the racing form agreed to take a macaroon.
“Where you bought these nice wine cakes, lady?” Darlene asked Mrs. Reilly. “They’re nice and juicy.”
“Over by Holmes, sugar. They got a good