John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces (Chap. 11.4) lyrics

George had set up his stakeout on Poydras Street across from the Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, garage. He had remembered the name on the wagon and looked up the address of the vending firm. All morning he had waited for the big vendor, who had never shown up. Perhaps he had been fired for stabbing the fairy in Pirate's Alley. At noon George had left his outpost and gone down to the Quarter to get the packages from Miss Lee. Now he was back on Poydras wondering whether the vendor was going to show. George had decided to try to be nice to him, to hand him a few dollars right away. Hot dog vendors must be poor. He'd appreciate a few bucks. This vendor was a perfect front man. He would never know what was coming off. He had a good education, though. At last, sometime after one o'clock, a white smock billowed off the trolley and whipped into the garage. A few minutes later the oddball vendor wheeled his wagon out onto the sidewalk. He was still wearing the earring, scarf, and cutla**, George noticed. If he put them on in the garage, they must be part of his sales gimmick. You could tell by the way that he talked, though, that he had gone to school a long time. That was probably what was wrong with him. George had been wise enough to get out of school as soon as possible. He didn't want to end up like that guy. George watched him push the wagon a few feet down the block, stop, and tape a piece of tablet paper to the front of his wagon. George would use psychology on him; he'd play up to the vendor's education. That and the money should make him rent out his bun compartment. Then an old man stuck his head out of the garage, ran up behind the vendor, and struck him across the back with a long fork. “Get moving, you ape,” the old man shouted. “You're already late. It's already afternoon. Today you're going to bring in a profit or else.” The vendor said something coolly and quietly. George couldn't understand it, but it lasted a long time. “I don't care if your mother takes dope,” the old man answered. “I don't want to hear no more bullsh** about that automobile accident and your dreams and your goddam girl friend. Now get out to here, you big baboon. I want five dollars minimum from you today.” With a push from the old man, the vendor rolled to the corner and disappeared onto St. Charles. After the old man returned to the garage, George slouched off in pursuit of the wagon. Unaware that he was being trailed, Ignatius pushed his cart against the traffic down St. Charles toward the Quarter. He had stayed up so late the night before working on his lecture for the kickoff rally that he hadn't been able to move from his yellowed sheets ROBERTA E. LEE presents Harlett O'Hara The Virgin-ny Belle (and pet!) Who was Harlett O'Hara? Even more important, what kind of pet? Ignatius was intrigued. Afraid of attracting the wrath of the Nazi proprietress, he sat down uncomfortably on the curb and decided to wait. Lana Lee was watching Darlene and the bird. They were almost ready to open. Now if only Darlene could get that line straight. She wandered away from the stage, gave Jones some additional directions about cleaning under the stools, and went to look out of the porthole of gla** in the padded door. She'd seen enough of the act for one afternoon. The act was really pretty good in its own way. George was really bringing in the money with the new merchandise. Things were looking good. Too, Jones seemed to be broken in at last. Lana pushed the door open and hollered out into the street, “Hey, you. Get off my curb, you character.” “Please,” a rich voice answered from the street, pausing to think of some excuse. “I am only resting my rather broken feet.” “Go rest them someplace else. Get that crappy wagon away from in front my business.” “Let me a**ure you that I did not choose to collapse here before your gas chamber of a den. I did not return here of my own volition. My feet have simply ceased to function. I am paralyzed.” “Go get paralyzed down the block. All I need is you hanging around here again to ruin my investment. You look like a queer with that earring. People'll think this is a gay bar. Go on.” “People will never make that mistake. Without a doubt you operate the most dismal bar in the city. May I interest you in purchasing a hot dog?” Darlene came to the door and said, “Well, look who it is. How's your poor momma?” “Oh, my God,” Ignatius bellowed. “Why did Fortuna lead me to this spot?” “Hey, Jones,” Lana Lee called. “Quit knocking that broom and come chase this character away.” “Sorry. Bouncer wage star at fifty dollar a week.” “You sure treat your poor momma cruel,” Darlene said out the door. “I don't imagine that either of you ladies has read Boethius,” Ignatius sighed. “Don't talk to him,” Lana said to Darlene. “He's a f**ing smart-aleck. Jones, I'll give you about two seconds to come out here before I get you picked up on a vagrancy rap along with this character. I'm getting fed up with smarta**es in general.” “Goodness knows what storm trooper will descend upon me and beat me senseless,” Ignatius observed coolly. “You can't frighten me. I've already had my trauma for the day.” “Ooo-wee!” Jones said when he looked out the door. “The green cap mother. In person. Live.” “I see that you've wisely decided to hire a particularly terrifying Negro to protect you against your enraged and cheated customers,” the green cap mother said to Lana Lee. “Hustle him off,” Lana said to Jones. “Whoa! How you hustle off a elephan?” “Look at those dark gla**es. No doubt his system is swimming in dope.” “Get the hell back in there,” Lana said to Darlene, who was staring at Ignatius. She pushed Darlene and said to Jones, “Okay. Get him.” “Get out your razor and slash me,” Ignatius said as Lana and Darlene went in. “Throw lye in my face. Stab me. You wouldn't realize, of course, that it was my interest in civil rights which led to my becoming a crippled vendor of franks. I lost a particularly successful position because of my stand on the racial question. My broken feet are the indirect result of my sensitive social conscience.” “Whoa! Levy Pant kick your a** out for trying get all them po color people throwed in jail, huh?” “How do you know about that?” Ignatius asked guardedly. “Were you involved in that particularly abortive coup?” “No. I hear peoples talking around.” “You did?” Ignatius asked interestedly. “No doubt they made some mention of my carriage and bearing. Thus, I am recognizable. I hardly suspected that I have become a legend. Perhaps I abandoned that movement too hastily.” Ignatius was delighted. This was developing into a bright day after many bleak ones. “I have probably become a martyr of sorts.” He belched. “Would you care for a hot dog? I extend the same courteous service to all colors and creeds. Paradise Vendors has been a pioneer in the field of public accommodations.” “How come a white cat like you, talking so good, selling weenies?” “Please blow your smoke elsewhere. My respiratory system, unfortunately, is below par. I suspect that I am the result of particularly weak conception on the part of my father. His s**m was probably emitted in a rather offhand manner.” This was luck, Jones thought. The fat mother dropped out of the sky just when he needed him most. “You must be outa your min man. You ought to have you a good job, big Buick, all that sh**. Whoa! Air condition, color TV...” “I have a very pleasant occupation,” Ignatius answered icily. “Outdoor work, no supervision. The only pressure is on the feet.” “If I go to college I wouldnt be dragging no meat wagon around selling peoples a lot of garbage and sh**.” “Please! Paradise products are of the very highest quality.” Ignatius rapped his cutla** against the curb. “Anyone employed by that dubious bar is not in a position to question another's occupation.” “sh**, you think I like the Night of Joy? Ooo-wee. I want to get someplace. I like to get someplace good, be gainfully employ, make me a living wage.” “Just as I suspected,” Ignatius said angrily. “In other words, you want to become totally bourgeois. You people have all been brainwashed. I imagine that you'd like to become a success or something equally vile.” “Hey, now you getting me. Whoa!” “I really don't have the time to discuss the errors of your value judgments. However, I would like some information from you. Do you by any chance have a woman in that den who is given to reading?” “Yeah. She all the time slipping me something to read, telling me I be improving myself. She pretty decent.” “Oh, my God.” The blue and yellow eyes flashed. “Is there any way that I can meet this paragon?” Jones wondered what this was all about. He said, “Whoa! You wanna see her, you come around some night, see her dancing with her pet.” “Good grief. Don't tell me that she is this Harlett O'Hara.” “Yeah. She Harla O'Horror all right.” “Boethius plus a pet,” Ignatius mumbled. “What a discovery.” “She be openin in a coupla three days, man. You ought to get your a** down here. This the very fines ack I ever seen. Whoa!” “I can only imagine,” Ignatius said respectfully. Some brilliant satire on the decadent Old South being cast before the unaware swine in the Night of Joy audience. Poor Harlett. “Tell me. What sort of pet does she have?” “Hey! I cain tell you that, man. You gotta see for yourself. This ack a big surprise. Harla got somethin to say, too. This ain jus a reglar strip ack. Harla talkin.” Good heavens. Some incisive commentary which no one in her audiences could fully comprehend. He must see Harlett. They must communicate. “There is one thing I would like to know, sir,” Ignatius said. “Is the Nazi proprietress of this cesspool around here every night?” “Who? Miss Lee? No.” Jones smiled at himself. The sabotage was working too perfectly. The fat mother really wanted to come to the Night of Joy. “She say Harla O'Horror so perfect, she so fine, she don't havta be coming around at night to supervise. She say jus as soon Harla be opening, she leaving for a vacation in Califonia. Whoa!” “What luck,” Ignatius slobbered. “Well, I shall be here to see Miss O'Hara's act. You may secretly reserve a ringside table for me. I must see and hear everything she does.” “Ooo-wee. You be real welcome, man. Drag your a** over in a couple of days. We give you the finest service in the house.” “Jones, are you talking to that character or what?” Lana demanded from the door. “Don't worry,” Ignatius told her. “I'm leaving. Your henchman has terrified me completely. I shall never make the mistake of even pa**ing by this vile pigsty.” “Good,” Lana said and swung the door closed. Ignatius gloated at Jones conspiratorially. “Hey, listen,” Jones said. “Before you be leaving, tell me something. What you think a color cat can do to stop being vagran or employ below the minimal wage?” “Please.” Ignatius fumbled through his smock to find the curb and raise himself. “You can't possibly realize how confused you are. Your value judgments are all wrong. When you get to the top or wherever it is that you want to go, you'll have a nervous breakdown or worse. Do you know of any Negroes with ulcers? Of course not. Live contentedly in some hovel. Thank Fortuna that you have no Caucasian parent hounding you. Read Boethius.” “Who? Read what?” “Boethius will show you that striving is ultimately meaningless, that we must learn to accept. Ask Miss O'Hara about him.” “Listen. How you like being vagran half the time?” “Wonderful. I myself was a vagrant in happier, better days. If only I were in your shoes. I would stir from my room only once a month to fumble for my relief check in the mailbox. Realize your good fortune.” The fat mother was really a freak. The poor people at Levy Pants were lucky that they hadn't ended up in Angola. “Well be sure you come aroun in a coupla nights.” Jones blew a cloud at the earring. “Harla be doing her stuff.” “I shall be there with bells on,” Ignatius said happily. How Myrna would gnash her teeth. “Whoa!” Jones walked around to the front of the wagon and studied the sheet of Big Chief paper. “Look like somebody been playing tricks on you.”“That is only a merchandising gimmick.” “Ooo-wee. You better check it again.” Ignatius lumbered around to the prow and saw that the waif had decorated the TWELVE INCHES (12”) OF PARADISE sign with a variety of genitals. “Oh, my God!” Ignatius ripped off the sheet covered with the ballpoint graffiti. “Have I been pushing this about?” “I be out front looking for you,” Jones said. “Hey!” Ignatius waved a happy paw and waddled off. At last he had a reason for earning money: Harlett O'Hara. He aimed the denuded prow of the wagon toward the Algiers ferry ramp, where the longshoremen gathered in the afternoons. Calling, entreating, he guided the wagon into the crowd of men and succeeded in selling all of his hot dogs, courteously and effusively squirting ketchup and mustard on his sold goods with all the energy of a fireman. What a brilliant day. The signs from Fortuna were more than promising. A surprised Mr. Clyde received cheery greetings and ten dollars from vendor Reilly, and Ignatius, his smock filled with bills from the waif and the mogul of frankfurters, billowed onto the trolley with a glad heart. He entered the house and found his mother talking quietly on the telephone. “I been thinking about what you said,” Mrs. Reilly was whispering into the phone. “Maybe it ain't such a bad idea after all, babe. You know what I mean?” “Of course it isn't,” Santa answered. “Them people at Charity can let Ignatius take him a little rest. Claude isn't going to want no Ignatius around, sweetheart.” “He likes me, huh?” “Likes you? He called up this morning to ax me if I thought you was ever going to remarry. Lord. I says, ‘Well, Claude, you got to pop the question.' Whoee. You two having a worldwin courtship if I ever seen one. That poor man's desperate from loneliness.” “He's sure considerate,” Mrs. Reilly breathed into the mouthpiece. “But sometimes he makes me nervous with all them communists.” “What in the world are you babbling about?” Ignatius thundered in the hall. “Christ,” Santa said. “It sound like that Ignatius come in.” “Ssh,” Mrs. Reilly said into the phone. “Well, listen, sweetheart. Once Claude gets married, he'll stop thinking about them communists. His mind isn't occupied is what's wrong with him. You give him some loving.” “Santa!” “Good grief,” Ignatius spluttered. “Are you speaking with that Battaglia strumpet?” “Shut up, boy.” “You better knock that Ignatius in the head,” Santa said. “I wish I was strong enough, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly answered. “Oh, Irene, I almost forgot to tell you. Angelo come around this morning for a cup of coffee. I hardly recognized him. You ought to seen him in that wool suit. He looked like “Isn't that awful,” Mrs. Reilly said sadly. “What Angelo's going to do if he gets himself kicked off the force? And him with three children to support.” “There are a few challenging openings at Paradise Vendors for men with initiative and good taste,” Ignatius said. “Listen at that nut,” Santa said. “Aw, Irene. You better ring up the Charity, honey.” “We going to give him another chance. Maybe he'll hit the jackpot.” “I don't know why I bother talking to you, girl,” Santa sighed hoarsely. “I'll see you tonight then about seven. Claude says he's going to come over here. Come pick us up and we'll take us a nice ride out to the lake for some of them good crabs. Whoo! You kids sure lucky you got me for a chaperone. You two need one, especially with that Claude around.” Santa guffawed in a voice huskier than usual and hung up. “What in the world do you and that old bawd babble about?” Ignatius asked. “Shut up!” “Thank you. I see that things about here are as cheerful as ever.” “How much money you brought in today? A quarter?” Mrs. Reilly screamed. She leaped up and stuck her hand into one of the pockets of the smock and pulled out the brilliant photograph. “Ignatius!” “Give that to me,” Ignatius thundered. “How dare you besmirch that magnificent image with your vintner's hands.” Mrs. Reilly peeked at the photograph again and then closed her eyes. A tear crept out from beneath her closed eyelids. “I knew when you started selling them weenies you was going to be hanging around with people like this.” “What do you mean, ‘people like this'?” Ignatius asked angrily, pocketing the photograph. “This is a brilliant, misused woman. Speak of her with respect and reverence.” “I don't want to speak at all,” Mrs. Reilly sniffed, her lids still sealed. “Go sit in your room and write some more of your foolishness.” The telephone rang. “That must be that Mr. Levy. He already rang up here twice today.” “Mr. Levy? What does that monster want?” “He wouldn't tell me. Go on, crazy. Answer that. Pick up that phone.” “Well, I certainly don't want to speak with him,” Ignatius thundered. He picked up the telephone, and in an a**umed voice rich with Mayfair accents said, “Yus?” “Mr. Reilly?” a man asked. “Mr. Reilly is not here.” “This is Gus Levy.” In the background, a woman's voice was saying, “Let's see what you're going to say. Another chance down the drain, a psycho escaped.” “I'm terribly sorry,” Ignatius enunciated. “Mr. Reilly was called out of town this afternoon on rather crucial business. Actually, he is at the state mental hospital in Mandeville. Since being so viciously dismissed by your concern, he has had to commute back and forth regularly from Mandeville. His ego is badly bruised. You may yet receive his psychiatrists' bills. They are rather staggering.” “He cracked up?” “Violently and totally. We had something of a time with him here. The first time that he went to Mandeville, he had to be transported in an armored car. As you know, his physique is rather grand. This afternoon, however, he left in a state patrol ambulance.” “Can he have visitors at Mandeville?” “Of course. Drive out to see him. Bring him some cookies.” Ignatius slammed the telephone down, pressed a quarter into the palm of his still sniffling, blinded mother, and waddled to his room. Before opening the door, he stopped to straighten the PEACE TO MEN OF GOOD WILL sign that he had tacked to the peeling wood. All signs were pointing upward; his wheel was revolving skyward.