John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces (Chap 1.2) lyrics

In the precinct the old man sat on a bench with the others, mostly shoplifters, who composed the late afternoon haul. He had neatly arranged along his thigh his Social Security card, his membership card in the St. Odo of Cluny Holy Name Society, a Golden Age Club badge, and a slip of paper identifying him as a member of the American Legion. A young black man, eyeless behind spaceage sungla**es, studied the little dossier on the thigh next to his. “Whoa!” he said, grinning. “Say, you mus belong to everthin.” The old man rearranged his cards meticulously and said nothing. “How come they draggin in somebody like you?” The sungla**es blew smoke allover the old man's cards. “Them police mus be gettin desperate.” “I'm here in violation of my constitutional rights,” the old man said with sudden anger. “Well, they not gonna believe that. You better, think up somethin else.” A dark hand reached for one of the cards. “Hey, what this mean, ‘Colder Age'?” The old man snatched the card and put it back on his thigh. “Them little card not gonna do you no good! They throw you in jail anyway. They throw everybody in jail.” “You think so?” the old man asked the cloud of smoke. “Sure.” A new cloud floated up. “How come you here, man?” “I don't know.” “You don know? Whoa! That crazy. You gotta be here for somethin. Plenty time they pickin up color peoples for nothing, but, mister, you gotta be here for somethin.” “I really don't know,” the old man said glumly. “I was just standing in a crowd in front of D. H. Holmes.” “And you lifted somebody's wallet.” “No, I called a policeman a name.” “Like wha you calling him?” “‘Communiss.'” “Cawmniss! Ooo-woo. If I call a police a cawmniss, my a** be in Angola right now for sure. I like to call one of them mother a cawmniss, though. Like this afternoon I standing around in Woolsworth and some cat steal a bag of cashew nuts out the ‘Nut House' star screaming like she been stab. Hey! The nex thing, a flo'walk grabbing me, and then a police mother draggin me off. A man ain got a chance. Whoa!” His lips s**ed at the cigarette. “Nobody finding them cashews on me, but that po-lice still dragging me off. I think that flo'walk a cawmniss. Mean motherf**er.” The old man cleared his throat and played with his cards. “They probably let you go,” the sungla**es said. “Me, they probably gimma a little talk think it scare me, even though they know I ain got them cashews. They provably try to prove I got them nuts. They probably buy a bag, slip it in my pocket. Wools worth probably try to send me up for life.” The Negro seemed quite resigned and blew out a new cloud of blue smoke that enveloped him and the old man and the little cards. Then he said to himself, “I wonder who lift them nuts. Probly that flo'walk himself.” A policeman summoned the old man up to the desk in the center of the room where a sergeant was seated. The patrolman who had arrested him was standing there. “What's your name?” the sergeant asked the old man. “Claude Robichaux,” he answered and put his little cards on the desk before the sergeant. The sergeant looked over the cards and said, “patrolman Mancuso here says you resisted arrest and called him a communiss.” “I didn't mean it,” the old man said sadly, noticing how fiercely the sergeant was handling the little cards. “Mancuso says you says all policemen are communiss.” “Oo-wee,” the Negro said across the room. “Will you shut up, Jones?” the sergeant called out. “Okay,” Jones answered. “I'll get to you next.” “Say, I didn call nobody no cawmniss,” Jones said. “I been frame by that flo'walk in Woolsworth. I don even like cashews.” “Shut your mouth up.” “Okay,” Jones said brightly and blew a great thundercloud of smoke. “I didn't mean anything I said,” Mr. Robichaux told the sergeant. “I just got nervous. I got carried away. This policeman was trying to arress a poor boy waiting for his momma by Holmes.” “What?” the sergeant turned to the wan little policeman. “What were you trying to do?” “He wasn't a boy,” Mancuso said. “He was a big fat man dressed funny. He looked like a suspicious character. I was just trying to make a routine check and he started to resist. To tell you the truth, he looked like a big prevert.” “A pervert, huh?” the sergeant asked greedily. “Yes,” Mancuso said with new confidence. “A great big prevert.” “How big?” “The biggest I ever saw in my whole life,” Mancuso said, stretching his arms as if he were describing a fishing catch. The sergeant's eyes shone. “The first thing I spotted was this green hunting cap he was wearing.” Jones listened in attentive detachment somewhere within his cloud. “Well, what happened, Mancuso? How come he's not standing here before me?” “He got away. This woman came out the store and got everything mixed up, and she and him run around the corner into the Quarter.” “Oh, two Quarter characters,” the sergeant said, suddenly enlightened. “No, sir,” the old man interrupted. “She was really his momma. A nice, pretty lady. I seen them downtown before. This policeman frightened her.” “Oh, listen, Mancuso,” the sergeant screamed. “You're the only guy on the force who'd try to arrest somebody away from his mother. And why did you bring in grampaw here? Ring up his family and tell them to come get him.” “Please,” Mr. Robichaux pleaded. “Don't do that. My daughter's busy with her kids. I never been arrested in my whole life. She can't come get me. What are my granchirren gonna think? They're all studying with the sisters.” “Get his daughter's number, Mancuso. That'll teach him to call us communiss!” “Please!” Mr. Robichaux was in tears. “My granchirren respect me.” “Jesus Christ!” the sergeant said. “Trying to arrest a kid with his momma, bringing in somebody's grampaw. Get the hell outta here, Mancuso, and take grampaw with you. You wanna arrest suspicious characters? We'll fix you up.” “Yes, sir,” Mancuso said weakly, leading the weeping old man away. “Ooo-wee!” Jones said from the secrecy of his cloud.