A Confederacy of Dunces (36 page)

Our first step will be to elect one of their number to some very high office-the presidency, if Fortuna spins us kindly. .Then they will infiltrate the military. As soldiers, they will all be so continually busy in fraternizing with one another, tailoring their uniforms to fit like sausage skins, inventing new and varied battle dress, giving cocktail parties, etc., that they will never have time for battle. The one whom we finally make Chief of Staff will want only to attend to his fashionable wardrobe, a wardrobe which, alternately, will permit him to be either Chief of Staff or debutante, as the desire strikes him. In seeing the success of their unified fellows here, perverts around the world will also band together to capture the military in their respective countries. In those reactionary countries in which the deviates seem to be having some trouble in gaining control, we will send aid to them as rebels to help them in toppling their governments. When we have at last overthrown all existing governments, the world will enjoy not war but global orgies conducted with the utmost protocol and the most truly international spirit, for these people do transcend simple national differences. Their minds are on one goal; they are truly united; they think as one.

None of the pederasts in power, of course, will be practical enough to know about such devices as bombs; these nuclear weapons would lie rotting in their vaults somewhere. From time to time the Chief of Staff, the President, and so on, dressed in sequins and feathers, will entertain the leaders, i.e., the perverts, of all the other countries at balls and parties.

Quarrels of any sort could easily be straightened out in the men's room of the redecorated United Nations. Ballets and Broadway musicals and entertainments of that sort will flourish everywhere and will probably make the common folk happier than did the grim, hostile, fascistic pronouncements of their former leaders.

Almost everyone else has had an opportunity to run the world.

I cannot see why these people should not be given their chance. They have certainly been the underdog long enough.

Their movement into power will be, in a sense, only a part of the global movement toward opportunity, justice, and equality for all. (For example, can you name one good, practicing transvestite in the Senate? No! These people have been without representation long enough. Their plight is a national, a global disgrace.)

Degeneracy, rather than signaling the downfall of a society, as it once did, will now signal peace for a troubled world. We must have new solutions to new problems.

I shall act as a sort of mentor and guide for the movement, my not inconsiderable knowledge of world history, economics, religion, and political strategy acting as a reservoir, as it were, from which these people can draw rules of operational procedure. Boethius himself played a somewhat similar role in degenerate Rome. As Chesterton has said of Boethius, "Thus he truly served as a guide, philosopher, and friend to many Christians; precisely because, while his own times were corrupt, his own culture was complete."

This time I shall really confound Myrna minx. The scheme is too breathtaking for the literal, liberal minx mind mired in a claustrophobic clutch of cliches. The Crusade for Moorish Dignity, my brilliant first attack upon the problems of our times, would have been a rather grand and decisive coup had it not been for the basically bourgeois worldview of the rather simple people who were members of the vanguard. This time, however, I shall be working with people who eschew the insipid philosophy of the middle class, people who are willing to assume controversial positions, to follow their cause, however unpopular it may be, however it may threaten the smugness of the middle class.

Does M. Minkoff want sex in politics? I shall give her sex in politics-and plenty of it! No doubt she will be too overcome to respond to the originality of my project. At the very least, she will seethe with envy. (That girl must be attended to. Such effrontery cannot go unchecked.)

A debate between Pragmatism and Morality rages in my brain.

Is the glorious end, Peace, worth the awesome means, Degeneracy? Like two figures in the medieval Morality play, Pragmatism and Morality spar in the boxing ring of my brain.

I cannot await the outcome of their furious debate: I am too obsessed with Peace. (If any perceptive film producers are interested in buying the movie rights to this Journal, I might here make a note on the filming of this debate. A musical saw would provide excellent background accompaniment, and the hero's eyeball may be superimposed upon the debate scene in a most symbolic manner. Certainly some attractive new discovery could be found in a drugstore or a motel or in whatever den people are "discovered" to play the Working Boy. The film may be made in Spain, Italy, or some other interesting land which the cast may wish to see, such as North America.)

Sorry. Those of you who are interested in the latest bleak frankfurter news will find none. My mind is too preoccupied with the magnificence of this design. Now I must communicate with M. Minkoff and make some jottings for my lecture at the kickoff rally.

Social note: My truant mother is gone again, which is really rather fortunate. Her vigorous assaults and blistering attacks against my being are negatively affecting my valve. She said that she was going out to attend a Crowning of the May Queen at some church, but since it isn't May, I tend to doubt her veracity.

The "sophisticated comedy" featuring my number one female film favorite is opening at a downtown palace momentarily.

Somehow I must be there on opening day. I can only imagine the film's latest horrors, its flaunting of vulgarity in the face of theology and geometry, taste and decency. (I do not understand this compulsion of mine for seeing movies; it almost seems as if movies are "in my blood.") Health note: My stomach is getting out of bounds; the seams of my vendor's smock are creaking ominously.

Until later, Tab, Your pacifist Working Boy

Mrs. Levy helped the renovated Miss Trixie up the steps and opened the door.

"This is Levy Pants!" Miss Trixie snarled.

"You're back again where you're wanted and needed, darling."

Mrs. Levy spoke as if she were comforting a child. "And how you've been missed. Every day Mr. Gonzalez has been on the phone begging for you. Isn't it wonderful to know that you're so vital to a business?"

"I thought I was retired." The massive teeth snapped like a bear trap. "You people have tricked me!"

"Now are you happy?" Mr. Levy asked his wife. He was walking behind them carrying one of Miss Trixie's bags of scraps. "If she had a knife on her, I'd be taking you to the hospital right now."

"Listen to the fire in her voice," Mrs. Levy said. "So vigorous.

It's unbelievable."

Miss Trixie tried to break away from Mrs. Levy as they entered the office, but her pumps did not give her the traction that she was used to with sneakers, and she only wobbled.

"She's back?" Mr. Gonzalez cried heartbrokenly.

"Can you believe your eyes?" Mrs. Levy asked him.

Mr. Gonzalez was forced to look at Miss Trixie, whose eyes were weak pools edged with blue shadow. Her lips had been extended in an orange line that almost reached her nostrils.

Near the earrings a few gray wisps of hair escaped from beneath the black wig, which was slightly awry. The short skirt revealed withered, bowed legs and small feet that made the pumps look like snowshoes. Whole days of napping under a sunlamp had baked Miss Trixie to a golden brown.

"She certainly looks fit," Mr. Gonzalez said. His voice was false and he smiled a broken smile. "You've done her a wonderful service, Mrs. Levy."

"I am a very attractive woman," Miss Trixie babbled.

Mr. Gonzalez laughed nervously.

"Now listen here," Mrs. Levy said to him. "Part of this woman's trouble is that kind of attitude. Ridicule she doesn't need."

Mr. Gonzalez tried unsuccessfully to kiss Mrs. Levy's hand.

"I want you to make her feel wanted, Gonzalez. This woman still has a sharp mind. Give her work that will exercise those faculties of hers. Give her more authority. She desperately needs an active role in this business."

"Definitely," Mr. Gonzalez agreed. "I've said that myself all along. Haven't I, Miss Trixie."

"Who?" Miss Trixie snarled.

"I've always wanted you to assume more responsibility and authority," the office manager screamed. "Isn't that correct?"

"Oh, shut up, Gomez." Miss Trixie's teeth clattered like castanets. "Have you bought me that Easter ham yet? Answer me that."

"All right. You've had your fun. Let's go," Mr. Levy said to his wife. "Come on. I'm getting depressed."

"Just a moment," Mr. Gonzalez said. "I have some mail for you."

As the office manager went to his desk to get the mail, there was a crash in the rear of the office. Everyone, aside from Miss Trixie who had begun napping on her desk, turned around and looked in the filing department. There an extremely tall man with long black hair was picking up a file drawer that had fallen to the floor. He stuffed the filing roughly back into the drawer and slammed the drawer into its slot in the files.

"That's Mr. Zalatimo," Mr. Gonzalez whispered. "He's only been with us for a few days, and I don't think he's going to work out. I don't think we'll want to include him in the Levy Pants plan."

Mr. Zalatimo looked confusedly at the filing cabinets and scratched himself. Then he opened another drawer and fumbled through its contents with one hand while the other scratched at his armpit through his threadbare knitted shirt.

"Would you care to meet him?" the office manager asked.

"No thanks," Mr. Levy said. "Where do you find the people that work in this place, Gonzalez? I never see people like this anywhere else."

"He looks like a gangster to me," Mrs. Levy said. "You don't keep any cash around here, do you?"

"I think Mr. Zalatimo's honest," the office manager whispered.

"He only has trouble alphabetizing." He handed Mr. Levy a sheaf of mail. "These are mostly confirmations on your hotel reservations for spring practice. There's a letter in there from Abelman. It's addressed to you and not the company, and it's marked personal, so I thought you'd better open it. It's been around for a few days."

"What does that crack want now?" Mr. Levy said angrily.

"Maybe he wonders what happened to a brilliant, growing concern," Mrs. Levy observed. "Maybe he wonders what happened since Leon Levy died. Maybe this Abelman has some words of advice to a playboy. Read it, Gus. It will be your work for Levy Pants for the week."

Mr. Levy looked at the envelope, on which "personal" had been written three times in red ball-point. He opened it and found a letter on which some attachment had been stapled.

Dear Gus Levy,

We were shocked and grievously injured to receive the attached letter. We have been a faithful outlet for your merchandise for thirty years and have heretofore always had the warmest affectionate feelings for your firm. Maybe you remember the wreath we sent when your father died for which we spared no expense.

This will be very short. After many nights without sleep, we have given the original letter to our lawyer, who is instigating a libel suit for $500,000. This may do a little to compensate for our hurt feelings.

Get a lawyer. We will see you in court like gentlemen. No more threats, please.

Very best wishes,

I. Abelman,

Manager, Abelman's Dry Goods

Mr. Levy turned cold as he flipped the page and read the Thermofaxed copy of the letter to Abelman's. It was incredible. Who would go to the trouble of writing things like that? "Mr. I. Abelman, Mongoloid, Esq."; "your total lack of contact with reality"; "your blighted worldview"; "you may feel the sting of the lash across your pitiful shoulders." Worst of all, the "Gus Levy" signature looked fairly authentic.

Abelman must be kissing the original right now and smacking his lips. To somebody like Abelman that letter was like a savings bond, a blank draft on a bank.

"Who wrote this?" Mr. Levy demanded, giving the letter to Mr. Gonzalez.

"What is it, Gus? A problem? Are you having a problem?

That's one of your problems. You never tell me your problems."

"Oh, my goodness!" Mr. Gonzalez squeaked. "This is horrible."

"Silence!" Miss Trixie snapped.

"What is it, Gus? Something you didn't handle correctly?

Some authority you delegated to somebody else?"

"Yes, it's a problem. It's a problem that means we could lose the shirts off our backs."

"What?" Mrs. Levy grabbed the letters from Mr. Gonzalez.

She read them and became a hag. Her lacquered curls turned into snakes. "Now you've done it.

Anything to get back at your father, to ruin his business. I knew it was going to end like this."

"Oh, shut up. I never write the letters around here."

"Susan and Sandra will have to quit college. They'll be selling themselves to sailors and gangsters like that one there."

"Huh?" Mr. Zalatimo asked, sensing that he was being discussed.

"You're sick," Mrs. Levy shouted at her husband.

"Quiet!"

"And will I be any better off?" Mrs. Levy's aquamarine lids were trembling. "What will become of me? Already my life has been wrecked. What happens to me now? Prowling in garbage cans, following the fleet. My mother was right."

"Quiet!" Miss Trixie demanded, this time much more fiercely.

"You people are the noisiest I've ever met."

Mrs. Levy had collapsed in a chair, sobbing something about going out to sell Avon products.

"What do you know about this, Gonzalez?" Mr. Levy asked the office manager whose lips had turned white.

"I don't know a thing," Mr. Gonzalez piped. "It's the first time I've seen that letter."

"You write the correspondence around here."

"I didn't write that." His lips were quivering. "I wouldn't do something like that to Levy Pants!"

"No, I know you wouldn't." Mr. Levy tried to think.

"Somebody really had it in for us."

Mr. Levy went over to the files, pushed the scratching Mr.