Mrs. Reilly said in an angry voice. "Me and Mr. Mancuso here just having some coffee. You been nasty all afternoon. You don't care where I raise that money. You don't care if they lock me up. You don't care about nothing."
"Am I going to be attacked in my own home before a stranger with a false beard?"
"My heart's broke."
"Oh, really." Ignatius turned on Patrolman Mancuso. "Will you kindly leave? You are inciting my mother."
"Mr. Mancuso's not doing nothing but being nice."
"I better go," Patrolman Mancuso said apologetically.
"I'll get that money," Mrs. Reilly screamed. "I'll sell this house. I'll sell it out from under you, boy. I'll go stay by a old folks' home."
She grabbed an end of the oilcloth and wiped her eyes.
"If you do not leave," Ignatius said to Patrolman Mancuso, who was hooking on his beard, "I shall call the police."
"He is the police, stupid."
"This is totally absurd," Ignatius said and flapped away. "I am going to my room."
He slammed his door and snatched a Big Chief tablet from the floor. Throwing himself back among the pillows on the bed, he began doodling on a yellowed page. After almost thirty minutes of pulling at his hair and chewing on the pencil, he began to compose a paragraph.
Were Hroswitha with us today, we would all look to her for counsel and guidance. From the austerity and tranquility of her medieval world, the penetrating gaze of this legendary Sybil of a holy nun would exorcise the horrors which materialize before our eyes in the name of television. If we could only juxtapose one eyeball of this sanctified woman and a television tube, both being roughly of the same shape and design, what a phantasmagoria of exploding electrodes would occur. The images of those lasciviously gyrating children would disintegrate into so many ions and molecules, thereby effecting the catharsis which the tragedy of the debauching of the innocent necessarily demands.
Mrs. Reilly stood in the hall looking at the DO NOT
DISTURB sign printed on a sheet of Big Chief paper and stuck to the door by an old flesh-colored Band-aid.
"Ignatius, let me in there, boy," she screamed.
"Let you in here?" Ignatius said through the door. "Of course I won't. I am occupied at the moment with an especially succinct passage."
"You let me in."
"You know that you are never allowed in here."
Mrs. Reilly pounded at the door.
"I don't know what is happening to you, Mother, but I suspect that you are momentarily deranged. Now that I think of it, I am too frightened to open the door. You may have a knife or a broken wine bottle."
"Open up this door, Ignatius."
"Oh, my valve! It's closing!" Ignatius groaned loudly. "Are you satisfied now that you have ruined me for the rest of the evening?"
Mrs. Reilly threw herself against the unpainted wood.
"Well, don't break the door," he said finally and, after a few moments, the bolt slid open.
"Ignatius, what's all this trash on the floor?"
"That is my worldview that you see. It still must be incorporated into a whole, so be careful where you step."
"And all the shutters closed. Ignatius! It's still light outside."
"My being is not without its Proustian elements," Ignatius said from the bed, to which he had quickly returned. "Oh, my stomach."
"It smells terrible in here."
"Well, what do you expect? The human body, when confined, produces certain odors which we tend to forget in this age of deodorants and other perversions. Actually, I find the atmosphere of this room rather comforting. Schiller needed the scent of apples rotting in his desk in order to write. I, too, have my needs. You may remember that Mark Twain preferred to lie supinely in bed while composing those rather dated and boring efforts which contemporary scholars try to prove meaningful. Veneration of Mark Twain is one of the roots of our current intellectual stalemate."
"If I know it was like this, I'd been in here long ago."
"I do not know why you are in here now, as a matter of fact, or why you have
"Am I going to be attacked in my own home before a stranger with a false beard?"
"My heart's broke."
"Oh, really." Ignatius turned on Patrolman Mancuso. "Will you kindly leave? You are inciting my mother."
"Mr. Mancuso's not doing nothing but being nice."
"I better go," Patrolman Mancuso said apologetically.
"I'll get that money," Mrs. Reilly screamed. "I'll sell this house. I'll sell it out from under you, boy. I'll go stay by a old folks' home."
She grabbed an end of the oilcloth and wiped her eyes.
"If you do not leave," Ignatius said to Patrolman Mancuso, who was hooking on his beard, "I shall call the police."
"He is the police, stupid."
"This is totally absurd," Ignatius said and flapped away. "I am going to my room."
He slammed his door and snatched a Big Chief tablet from the floor. Throwing himself back among the pillows on the bed, he began doodling on a yellowed page. After almost thirty minutes of pulling at his hair and chewing on the pencil, he began to compose a paragraph.
Were Hroswitha with us today, we would all look to her for counsel and guidance. From the austerity and tranquility of her medieval world, the penetrating gaze of this legendary Sybil of a holy nun would exorcise the horrors which materialize before our eyes in the name of television. If we could only juxtapose one eyeball of this sanctified woman and a television tube, both being roughly of the same shape and design, what a phantasmagoria of exploding electrodes would occur. The images of those lasciviously gyrating children would disintegrate into so many ions and molecules, thereby effecting the catharsis which the tragedy of the debauching of the innocent necessarily demands.
Mrs. Reilly stood in the hall looking at the DO NOT
DISTURB sign printed on a sheet of Big Chief paper and stuck to the door by an old flesh-colored Band-aid.
"Ignatius, let me in there, boy," she screamed.
"Let you in here?" Ignatius said through the door. "Of course I won't. I am occupied at the moment with an especially succinct passage."
"You let me in."
"You know that you are never allowed in here."
Mrs. Reilly pounded at the door.
"I don't know what is happening to you, Mother, but I suspect that you are momentarily deranged. Now that I think of it, I am too frightened to open the door. You may have a knife or a broken wine bottle."
"Open up this door, Ignatius."
"Oh, my valve! It's closing!" Ignatius groaned loudly. "Are you satisfied now that you have ruined me for the rest of the evening?"
Mrs. Reilly threw herself against the unpainted wood.
"Well, don't break the door," he said finally and, after a few moments, the bolt slid open.
"Ignatius, what's all this trash on the floor?"
"That is my worldview that you see. It still must be incorporated into a whole, so be careful where you step."
"And all the shutters closed. Ignatius! It's still light outside."
"My being is not without its Proustian elements," Ignatius said from the bed, to which he had quickly returned. "Oh, my stomach."
"It smells terrible in here."
"Well, what do you expect? The human body, when confined, produces certain odors which we tend to forget in this age of deodorants and other perversions. Actually, I find the atmosphere of this room rather comforting. Schiller needed the scent of apples rotting in his desk in order to write. I, too, have my needs. You may remember that Mark Twain preferred to lie supinely in bed while composing those rather dated and boring efforts which contemporary scholars try to prove meaningful. Veneration of Mark Twain is one of the roots of our current intellectual stalemate."
"If I know it was like this, I'd been in here long ago."
"I do not know why you are in here now, as a matter of fact, or why you have
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