John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces (Chap. 10.3) lyrics

Ignatius was beginning to feel worse and worse. His valve seemed to be glued, and no amount of bouncing was opening it. Great belches ripped out of the gas pockets of his stomach and tore through his digestive tract. Some escaped noisily. Others, weaningbelches, lodged in his chest and caused ma**ive heartburn. The physical cause for this health decline was, he knew, the too strenuous consuming of Paradise products. But there were other, subtler reasons. His mother was becoming increasingly bold and overtly antagonistic; it was becoming impossible to control her. Perhaps she had joined some fringe group of the far right wing that was making her belligerent and hostile. At any rate, she certainly had been carrying on a witch-hunt in the brown kitchen recently, asking him all sorts of questions concerning his political philosophy. Which was strange. His mother had always been notably apolitical, voting only for candidates who seemed to have been kind to their mothers. Mrs. Reilly had been solidly behind Franklin Roosevelt for four terms not because of the New Deal, but because his mother, Mrs. Sara Roosevelt, seemed to have been respected and well treated by her son. Mrs. Reilly had also voted for the Truman woman standing before her Victorian house in Independence, Missouri, and not specifically for Harry Truman. To Mrs. Reilly, Nixon and Kennedy had meant Hannah and Rose. Motherless candidates confused her, and in motherless elections she stayed at home. Ignatius could not understand her sudden, clumsy effort to protect the American Way against her son. Then there was Myrna, who had been appearing to him in a series of dreams that was taking the form of the old Batman serials that he had seen at the Prytania as a child. One chapter followed the other. In one gruesome chapter, he had been standing on a subway platform, reincarnated as St. James, the Less, who was martyred by the Jews. Myrna appeared through a turnstile carrying a NON-VIOLENT CONGRESS FOR THE SEXUALLY NEEDY placard and began heckling him. “Jesus will come to the fore, skins or not,” Ignatius-St. James prophesied grandly. But Myrna, sneering, pushed him with the placard onto the tracks before the speeding subway train. He had awakened just as the train was about to crush him. The M. Minkoff dreams were getting worse than the old, terrifying Scenicruiser dreams in which Ignatius, magnificent on the upper deck, had ridden doomed buses over the rails of bridges and into collisions with jets taxiing along airport runways. By night he was plagued by dreams and by day by the impossible route that Mr. Clyde had given him. No one in the French Quarter, it seemed, was interested in hot dogs. So his take-home pay was getting smaller, and his mother, in turn, was getting surlier. When and how would this vicious cycle end? He had read in the morning paper that a ladies' art guild was having a hanging of its paintings in Pirate's Alley. Imagining that the paintings would be offensive enough to interest him for a while, he pushed his wagon up onto the flagstones of the Alley toward the variety of artwork dangling from the iron pickets of the fence behind the Cathedral. On the prow of the wagon, in an attempt to attract business among the Quarterites, Ignatius taped a sheet of Big Chief paper on which he had printed in crayon: TWELVE INCHES (12”) OF PARADISE. So far no one had responded to its message. The Alley was filled with well-dressed ladies in large hats. Ignatius pointed the prow of the wagon into the throng and pushed forward. A woman read the Big Chief statement and screamed, summoning her companions to draw aside from the ghastly apparition that had appeared at their art show. “Hot dogs, ladies?” Ignatius asked pleasantly. The ladies' eyes studied the sign, the earring, the scarf, the cutla**, and pleaded for him to move along. Rain for their hanging would have been bad enough. But this. “Hot dogs, hot dogs,” Ignatius said a little angrily. “Savories from the hygienic Paradise kitchens.” He belched violently during the silence that followed. The ladies pretended to study the sky and the little garden behind the Cathedral. Ignatius lumbered over to the picket fence, abandoning the hopeless cause espoused by the wagon, and viewed the oil paintings and pastels and watercolors strung there. Although the style of each varied in crudity, the subjects of the paintings were relatively similar: camellias floating in bowls of water, azaleas tortured into ambitious flower arrangements, magnolias that looked like white windmills. Ignatius scrutinized the offerings furiously for a while all by himself, for the ladies had stepped back from the fence and had formed what looked like a protective little grouping. The wagon, too, stood forlorn on the flagstones, several feet from the newest member of the art guild. “Oh, my God!” Ignatius bellowed after he had promenaded up and down along the fence. “How dare you present such abortions to the public.” “Please move along, sir,” a bold lady said. “Magnolias don't look like that,” Ignatius said, thrusting his cutla** at the offending pastel magnolia. “You ladies need a course in botany. And perhaps geometry, too.” “You don't have to look at our work,” an offended voice said from the group, the voice of the lady who had drawn the magnolia in question. “Yes, I do!” Ignatius screamed. “You ladies need a critic with some taste and decency. Good heavens! Which one of you did this camellia? Speak up. The water in this bowl looks like motor oil.” “Let us alone,” a shrill voice said. “You women had better stop giving teas and brunches and settle down to the business of learning how to draw,” Ignatius thundered. “First, you must learn how to handle a brush. I would suggest that you all get together and paint someone's house for a start.” “Go away.” “Had you ‘artists' had a part in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel, it would have ended up looking like a particularly vulgar train terminal,” Ignatius snorted. “We don't intend to be insulted by a coarse vendor,” a spokeswoman for the band of large hats said haughtily. “I see!” Ignatius screamed. “So it is you people who slander the reputation of the hot dog vendor.” “He's mad.” “He's so common.” “So coarse.” “Don't encourage him.” “We don't want you here,” the spokeswoman said tartly and simply. “I should imagine not!” Ignatius was breathing heavily. “Apparently you are afraid of someone who has some contact with reality, who can truthfully describe to you the offenses which you have committed to canvas.” “Please leave,” the spokeswoman ordered. “I shall.” Ignatius grabbed the handle of his cart and pushed off. “You women should all be on your knees begging forgiveness for what I have seen here on this fence.” “The city is certainly going down when that's out on the streets,” a woman said as Ignatius waddled off down the Alley. Ignatius was surprised to feel a small rock bounce off the back of his head. Angrily, he shoved the wagon along the flagstones until he was near the end of the alley. There he parked the wagon in a little pa**ageway so that it would be out of sight. His feet hurt, and while he was resting he didn't want anyone to bother him by asking for a hot dog. Even though business couldn't be worse, there were times when a person had to be true to himself and consider his welfare first. Much more of this vending and his feet would be bloody stumps. Ignatius squatted uncomfortably on the side steps of the Cathedral. His recently increased weight and the bloating caused by the inoperative valve made any position other than standing or lying down somewhat awkward. Removing his boots, he began toinspect his great slabs of feet. “Oh, dear,” a voice said above Ignatius. “What am I seeing? I come out to see this dreadful, tacky art exhibit, and what do I find as Exhibit Number One? It's the ghost of Lafitte, the pirate. No. It's Fatty Arbuckle. Or is it Marie Dressler? Tell me soon or I'll die.” Ignatius looked up and saw the young man who had bought his mother's hat in the Night of Joy. “Get away from me, you fop. Where is my mother's hat?” “Oh, that,” the young man sighed. “I'm afraid it was destroyed at a really wild gathering. Everyone dearly loved it.” “I'm sure that they did. I won't ask you just how it was desecrated.” “I wouldn't remember anyway. Too many martinis that night for little moi.” “Oh, my God.” “What in God's name are you doing in that bizarre outfit? You look like Charles Laughton in drag as the Queen of the Gypsies. What are you supposed to be? I really want to know.” “Move along, you coxcomb,” Ignatius belched, the ga**y eructations echoing between the walls of the Alley. The women's art guild turned its hats toward the source of the volcanic sound. Ignatius glared at the young man's tawny velvet jacket and mauve cashmere sweater and the wave of blonde hair that fell over the forehead of his sharp, glittering face. “Get away from me before I strike you down.” “Oh, my goodness,” the young man laughed in short, merry, childish breaths that made his downy jacket quiver. “You really are insane, aren't you?” “How dare you!” Ignatius screamed. He unpinned his cutla** and began to strike the young man's calves with the plastic weapon. The young man giggled and danced about in front of Ignatius to avoid the thrusts, his lithe movements making him a difficult target. Finally he danced across the Alley and waved to Ignatius. Ignatius picked up one of his elephantine desert boots and flung it at the pirouetting figure. “Oh,” the young man squealed. He caught the shoe and threw it back at Ignatius, whom it hit squarely in the face. “Oh, my God! I've been disfigured.” “Shut up.” “I can easily have you booked for a**ault.” “If I were you, I'd stay as far away from the police as possible. What do you think they'd say when they saw that outfit, Mary Marvel? And booking me with a**ault? Let's be a little realistic. I'm surprised that they're permitting you to go cruising at all in that fortune-teller's ensemble.” The young man clicked his lighter open, lit a Salem, and clicked it closed. “And with those bare feet and that toy sword? Are you kidding?” “The police will believe anything I tell them.” “Get with it, please.” “You may be locked away for several years.” “Oh, you really are on the moon.” “Well, I certainly don't have to sit here listening to you,” Ignatius said, putting on his suede boots. “Oh!” the young man shrieked happily. “That look on your face. Like Bette Davis with indigestion.” “Don't talk to me, you degenerate. Go play with your little friends. I am certain that the Quarter is crawling with them.” “How is that dear mother of yours?” “I don't want to hear her sainted name cross your decadent lips.” “Well, since it already has, is she all right? She's so sweet and dear, that woman, so unspoiled. You're very lucky.” “I will not discuss her with you.” “If that's the way you want to be, all right. I just hope that she doesn't know that you're flouncing around the streets like some sort of Hungarian Joan of Arc. That earring. It's so Magyar.” “If you want a costume like this, then buy one,” Ignatius said. “Let me alone.” “I know that something like that couldn't be bought anywhere. Oh, but it would bring the house down at a party.” “I suspect that the parties you attend must be true visions of the apocalypse. I knew that our society was coming to this. In a few years, you and your friends will probably take over the country.” “Oh, we're planning to,” the young man said with a bright smile. “We have connections in the highest places. You'd be surprised.” “No, I wouldn't. Hroswitha could have predicted this long ago.” “Who in the world is that?” “A sibyl of a medieval nun. She has guided my life.” “Oh, you're truly fantastic,” the young man said gleefully. “And although I didn't think it would be possible, you've gained weight. Where will you ever end? There's something so unbelievably tacky about your obesity.” Ignatius rose to his feet and stabbed the young man in the chest with his plastic cutla**. “Take that, you offal,” Ignatius cried, digging the cutla** into the cashmere sweater. The tip of the cutla** broke off and fell to the flagstone walk. “Oh, dear,” the young man shrieked. “You'll tear my sweater, you big crazy thing.” Down the Alley the women's art guild members were removing their paintings from the fence and folding their aluminum lawn chairs like Arabs in preparation for stealing away. Their annual outdoor exhibit had been ruined. “I am the avenging sword of taste and decency,” Ignatius was shouting. As he slashed at the sweater with his broken weapon, the ladies began to dash out the Royal Street end of the Alley. A few stragglers were snatching at their magnolias and camellias in panic. “Why did I ever stop to talk to you, you maniac?” the young man asked in a vicious and breathless whisper. “This is my very finest sweater.” “who*e!” Ignatius cried, scraping the cutla** across the young man's chest. “Oh, isn't this horrible.” He tried to run away, but Ignatius had been holding his arm firmly with the hand that was not wielding the cutla**. Slipping a finger through Ignatius' hoop earring, the young man pulled downward, breathing to Ignatius, “Drop that sword.” “Good grief.” Ignatius dropped the sword onto the flagstones. “I think that my ear is broken.” The young man released the earring. “Now you've done it!” Ignatius slobbered. “You will rot in a federal prison for the remainder of your life.” “Just look at my sweater, you disgusting monster.” “Only the most flamboyant offal would be seen in a miscarriage like that. You must have some shame or at least some taste in dress.” “You awful creature. You huge thing.” “I will probably spend several years at the Eye, Ear, Nose, and Throat Hospital having this attended to,” Ignatius said, fingering his ear. “You may expect to receive some rather staggering medical bills each month. My corps of attorneys will contact you in the morning wherever it is that you carry on your questionable activities. I shall warn them beforehand that they may expect to see and hear anything. They are all brilliant attorneys, pillars of the community, aristocratic Creole scholars whose knowledge of the more surreptitious forms of living is quite limited. They may even refuse to see you. A considerably lesser representative may be sent to call upon you, some junior partner whom they've taken in out of pity.” “You awful, terrible animal.” “However, to save you the anxiety of awaiting this phalanx of legal luminaries to arrive at your spider web of an apartment, I shall consent to accepting a settlement now, if you wish. Five or six dollars should suffice.” “My sweater cost me forty dollars,” the young man said. He felt the worn portion that had been scraped by the cutla**. “Are you prepared to pay for it?” “Of course not. Never become involved in an altercation with a pauper.” “I can easily sue you.” “Perhaps we should both drop the idea of legal recourse. For an event so auspicious as a courtroom trial, you would probably get completely carried away and appear in a tiara and evening gown. An old judge would grow quite confused. Both of us would doubtlessly be found guilty on some trumped up charge.” “You revolting beast.” “Why don't you run along and partake in some dubious recreation that appeals to you,” Ignatius belched. “Look, there's a sailor drifting along Chartres Street. He looks rather lonely.” The young man glanced down to the Chartres Street end of the Alley. “Oh, him,” he said. “That's only Timmy.” “Timmy?” Ignatius asked angrily. “Do you know him?” “Of course,” the young man said in a voice heavy with boredom. “He's one of my dearest, oldest friends. He's not a sailor at all.” “What?” Ignatius thundered. “Do you mean that he is impersonating a member of the armed forces of this country?” “That's not all he impersonates.” “This is extremely serious.” Ignatius frowned and the red sateen scarf rode down on his hunting cap. “Every soldier and sailor that we see could simply be some mad decadent in disguise. My God! We may all be trapped in some horrible conspiracy. I knew that something like this was going to happen. The United States is probably totally defenseless!” The young man and the sailor waved at each other familiarly, and the sailor drifted out of sight around the front of the Cathedral. Following a few steps behind the sailor, Patrolman Mancuso appeared at the end of Pirate's Alley wearing a beret and goatee. “Oh!” the young man shrieked gaily, watching Patrolman Mancuso stalking the sailor. “It's that marvelous policeman. Don't they know that everyone in the Quarter knows who he is?” “Do you know him, too?” Ignatius asked guardedly. “He's a very dangerous man!” “Everyone knows him. Thank goodness he's back again. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to him. We love him dearly. Oh, I simply wait to see what new disguise they put on him. You should have seen him a few weeks ago before he had disappeared, he was just too much in that cowboy outfit.” The young man exploded in wild laughter. “He could hardly walk in these boots, his ankles kept giving way. Once he stopped me on Chartres when I was going truly mad with your mother's W.P.A. hat. Then he stopped me again on Dumaine and tried to start a conversation. That day he was wearing horn-rimmed gla**es and a crew sweater, and he told me that he was a Princeton student down here on a vacation. He's just fabulous. I'm so glad the police have returned him to the people who truly appreciate him. I'm sure he was being wasted wherever he was recently. Oh, that accent of his. Some people like him best as the British tourist. That is choice. But I've always preferred his southern colonel. It's really a matter of taste, I guess. We've had him arrested twice for making indecent proposals. That's always wonderfully confusing to the police. I do hope that we haven't gotten him in too much trouble, for he's close to our hearts.” “He is thoroughly evil,” Ignatius observed. Then he said, “I wonder how many of our ‘military' are simply people like your friend, disguised tarts.” “Who knows? I wish they all were.” “Of course,” Ignatius said in a thoughtful, serious voice, “this could be a worldwide deception.” The red sateen scarf rode up and down. “The next war could turn out to be one ma**ive orgy. Good grief. How many of the military leaders of the world may simply be deranged old sodomites acting out some fake fantasy role? Actually, this might be quite beneficial to the world. It could mean an end to war forever. This could be the key to lasting peace.” “It certainly could,” the young man said pleasantly. “Peace at any price.” Two nerve ends in Ignatius' mind met and formed an immediate a**ociation. Perhaps he had found a means of a**aulting the effrontery of M. Minkoff. “The power-crazed leaders of the world would certainly be surprised to find that their military leaders and troops were only masquerading sodomites who were only too eager' to meet the masquerading sodomite armies of other nations in order to have dances and balls and learn some foreign dance steps.” “Wouldn't that be wonderful? The government would pay us to travel. How divine. We would bring an end to world strife and renew people's hope and faith.” “Perhaps you are the hope for the future,” Ignatius said, dramatically pounding one paw into the other. “There certainly doesn't seem to be anything else very promising on the horizon.” “We would also help to end the population explosion.” “Oh, my God!” The blue and yellow eyes flashed wildly. “Your method would probably be more satisfying and acceptable than the rather stringent birth control tactics which I have always advocated. I must dedicate some space to this in my writings. This subject deserves the attention of a profound thinker who has a certain perspective on the world's cultural development. I amcertainly glad that you have given me this valuable new insight.” “Oh, what a fun day this has been. You're a gypsy. Timmy's a sailor. The marvelous policeman's an artist.” The young man sighed. “It's just like Mardi Gras, and I feel so left out. I think I'll go home and throw something on.” “Wait just a moment,” Ignatius said. He couldn't permit this opportunity to slip through his swollen fingers. “I'll put on some clogs. I'm in my Ruby Keeler phase,” the young man told Ignatius gaily. Then he began to sing, “‘You go home and get your scanties, I'll go home and get my panties, and away we'll go. Oh-ho-ho. Off we're gonna shuffle, shuffle off to Buffalo-ho-ho...'” “Stop that offensive performance,” Ignatius ordered angrily. These people must be whipped into line. The young man did a little soft shoe around Ignatius and said, “Ruby was such a darling. I watch her old movies on television religiously. ‘And for just a silver quarter, we can tip the pullman porter, turn the lights down low, oh-ho-ho, off we're gonna shuffle, shuffle off to...'” “Please be serious for a moment. Stop fluttering around here.” “Moi? Fluttering? What do you want, Gypsy Woman?” “Have you people considered forming a political party and running a candidate?” “Politics? Oh, Maid of Orleans. How dreary.” “This is very important!” Ignatius shouted worriedly. He would show Myrna how to inject s** into politics. “Although I had never considered it before, you may hold the key to the future.” “Well, what do you want to do about it? Eleanor Roosevelt?” “You must start a party organization. Plans must be made.” “Oh, please,” the young man sighed. “All this man's talk is making my mind reel.” “We may be able to save the world!” Ignatius bellowed in an orator's voice. “Good heavens. Why haven't I thought of this before?” “This kind of conversation depresses me more than you could possibly imagine,” the young man told him. “You're beginning to remind me of my father, and what could be more depressing than that?” The young man sighed. “I'm afraid I'll have to be running along. It's costume time.” “No!” Ignatius grabbed the lapel of the young man's jacket. “Oh, my goodness,” the young man breathed, putting his hand to his throat. “Now I'll be on pills all night.” “We must organize immediately.” “I can't tell you how much you're depressing me.” “There must be a large organizational meeting to kick off the campaign.” “Wouldn't that be something like a party?” “Yes, in a way. However, it would have to express your purpose.” “Then it might be sort of fun. You can't imagine how drab, drab the parties have been lately.” “This is not to be a party, you a**.” “Oh, we'll be very serious.” “Good. Now listen to me. I must come to lecture to you people so that you will be set upon the correct path. I have a rather extensive knowledge of political organization.” “Marvelous. And you must wear that fantastic costume. I can a**ure you that you'll get everyone's undivided attention,” the young man shrieked, covering his mouth with a hand. “Oh, my dear, what a wild gathering it could be.” “There is no time to be lost,” Ignatius said sternly. “The apocalypse is near at hand.” “We'll have it next week at my place.” “You must have some red, white, and blue bunting,” Ignatius advised. “Political meetings always have that.” “I'll have yards and yards of it. “What a decorating job lies ahead. I'll have to get some close friends in to help me.” “Yes, do that,” Ignatius said excitedly. “Begin organizing at every level.” “Oh, I never guessed that you would be such a fun person to know. You were so hostile in that dreadful, tacky bar.” “My being has many facets.” “You amaze me.” The young man stared at Ignatius' outfit. “To think that they're letting you run around loose. In a way, I respect you.” “Thank you very much.” Ignatius' voice was smooth, pleased. “Most fools don't comprehend my worldview at all.” “I wouldn't imagine so.” “I suspect that beneath your offensively and vulgarly effeminate facade there may be a soul of sorts. Have you read widely in Boethius?” “Who? Oh, heavens no. I never even read newspapers.” “Then you must begin a reading program immediately so that you may understand the crises of our age,” Ignatius said solemnly. “Begin with the late Romans, including Boethius, of course. Then you should dip rather extensively into early Medieval. You may skip the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. That is mostly dangerous propaganda. Now that I think of it, you had better skip the Romantics and the Victorians, too. For the contemporary period, you should study some selected comic books.” “You're fantastic.” “I recommend Batman especially, for he tends to transcend the abysmal society in which he's found himself. His morality is rather rigid, also. I rather respect Batman.” “Oh, look, there's Timmy again,” the young man said. The sailor was pa**ing on Chartres Street in the opposite direction. “Doesn't he ever get tired of the same old route? Back and forth, back and forth. Look at him. It's winter and he's still wearing his summer whites. Of course he doesn't realize that he's a sitting duck for the shore patrol. You can't imagine how stupid and foolish that boy is.” “His face did appear rather clouded,” Ignatius said. The artist in the beret and goatee pa**ed Chartres, busily following the sailor by several feet. “Oh, my God! That ludicrous law officer will ruin everything. He's the fly in everyone's ointment. Perhaps you should run along and get the deranged sailor off the street. If the naval authorities apprehend him, they will discover that he is an imposter, and our political strategy will be undone. Spirit that clown away before he wrecks the most fiendish political coup in the history of western civilization.” “Oh!” the young man shrieked happily. “I'll go back and tell him about it. When he hears what he's almost done, he'll scream and faint.” “Now don't slacken in your preparations,” Ignatius warned. “I'll work myself to exhaustion,” the young man said gaily. “Ward meetings, voter registration, pamphlets, committees. We'll start the kickoff rally around eightish. I'm on St. Peter Street, the yellow stucco building just off Royal. You can't miss it. Here's my card.” “Oh, my God!” Ignatius mumbled, looking at the austere little calling card. “You can't really be named Dorian Greene.” “Yes, isn't that wild?” Dorian asked languidly. “If I told you my real name, you'd never speak to me again. It's so common I could die just thinking of it. I was born on a wheat farm in Nebraska. You can take it from there.” “Well, at any rate, I am Ignatius J. Reilly.” “That isn't too dreadful. I sort of imagined you as a Horace or Humphrey or something like that. Well, don't fail us. Practice your speech. I guarantee a large crowd, everyone is almost dead from ennui and general depression, so they'll be fighting for invitations. Give me a tinkle and we'll iron out the exact date.” “Be sure to stress the importance of this historic conclave,” Ignatius said. “We shall want no fly-by-nights in this core group.” “There may be a few costumes. That's what's so wonderful about New Orleans. You can masquerade and Mardi Gras all year round if you want to. Really, sometimes the Quarter is like one big costume ball. Sometimes I can't tell friend from foe. But if you oppose costumes, I'll tell everyone, although their little hearts will snap with disappointment. We haven't had a good party in months.” “I would not oppose a few tasteful and decent maskers,” Ignatius said at last. “They may add the proper international atmosphere to the meeting. Politicians always seem to want to shake hands with mongoloids in ethnic and native costumes. Now that I think of it, you may encourage a costume or two. We do not want any female impersonators, however. I don't believe that politicians care to be seen with them particularly. They cause resentment among rural voters, I suspect.” “Now let me run along and find that silly Timmy. I'll frighten him to d**h.” “Beware of that Machiavel of a policeman. If he gets wind of the plot, we're lost.” “Oh, if I weren't so glad to see him back on the beat, I'd telephone the police and have him arrested immediately for soliciting. You don't know the wonderful expression that man used to get on his face when the squad car arrived to take him off. And the arresting officers. It was too priceless. But we'll all be so grateful to have him back. No one will dare mistreat him now. So long, Gypsy Mother.” Dorian skipped off down the alley to find the decadent mariner. Ignatius looked toward Royal Street and wondered what had happened to the women's art guild. He lumbered over to the pa**ageway where his cart was hidden, prepared a hot dog, and prayed that some customers would happen along before the day was over. Sadly he realized how low Fortuna had spun his wheel. He had never imagined that he would one day be praying that people buy hot dogs from him. At least he had a magnificent new scheme ready for launching against M. Minkoff. The thought of the kickoff rally cheered him greatly. This time the minx would be totally confounded.