The Search for Ignatius

When I put down A Confederacy of Dunces, I breathed a sigh of relief. Had 394 pages of my life been wasted on as trivial a matter as the life of the obnoxiously-eccentric Ignatius J. Reilly, or was this something that would be set aside mentally, as so many things are, until one day I would stumble upon why it really mattered? Days after finishing the book, I was struck with two urges; the first to completely rid myself of such a loathsome character, the second to try and truly understand the reasons why Ignatius had become such a seemingly-important figurehead of the New-Orleanian lifestyle.

My "quest" to find Ignatius began quite unintentionally. Frequent solitary trips through the French Quarter would lead me to various characters, identities that would capture my imagination for a split second whether by means of a simple verbal exchange, a hanging glance, or some sort of intriguing attire. Whatever it was, often times this brief interaction would lead my thoughts back to this literary character, and my curiosity of whether or not he truly existed.



At times, I found myself running through the Quarter trying to spot the elusive Ignatius. The man strumming his guitar and singing at the gates of Jackson Square, after it had been locked for the night, was a likely candidate, with his friendly smile yet seemingly contentious air towards whatever tourist or local he decided to despise. Legs crossed seated in a small chair, he would strum his guitar, eyes sometimes locking with mine and at other times so distant that I felt as if my presence was an interruption. These times that he played for his own enjoyment rather than that of the passersby, as if realizing the charitable people had turned in for the night.



And then there was the dancer, wild stringy red hair, black jeans, and the checked flannel shirt that pulled his attire together. He appeared at a local music festival as if a beacon for those happy to be alive; shuffling feet, shaking hips, all without breaking his intent gaze upon whatever soulful performance was going on. Inhibitions removed, these moments reminded me of Ignatius...a man gluttonous only through the description of others, proudly flaunting his strange outfits and unnatural movements.





Next there was the old man resting on a bench under the flagpoles of the French Market, gazing intently at what I perceived to be nothing. So I sat and watched him sit. And all he did was sit. He clung to a black leather satchel, enough to warrant its importance yet loosely enough to show his leisurely approach. His disheveled appearance and rigid stance - fist cocked against what appeared a full belly - seemed fitting of my perception of Ignatius. It was a portrayal of forcible readiness mixed with a somewhat content knowledge of his existence. At that moment I could envision Ignatius ditching his hot dog route after indulging quite heavily for the day, instead deciding to spend the afternoon under his favorite tree and admire all the ridiculous tourists and undeniably-hideous workers.


It was at this point that I realized that these observations were no longer happenstance, but instead were meaningful and real. So, rather than put them aside and wait for the next encounter with an Ignatius-like character, I decided to go find him. Naturally, the first stop on my journey was the infamous hot dog company, employer of our now-beloved character. Though named Paradise Vendors in the novel, New Orleans has long been served by a company under a different name; Lucky Dogs. This profitable company began shortly after World War II, when brothers Stephen and Erasmus Loyacano began marketing their invention of a cart that could "steam cook 100 dogs, buns, and chili..." as well as "store everything for 300 more". Though their business was short-lived, it was purchased many years after its demise by Doug Talbot and Peter Briant in 1970. After implementing a series of new health regulations within their vending appliances (i.e. the sneeze guard and hand washing system), Lucky Dogs and everything they stood for were put back on the market. Since, they have thrived, or, as Ignatius would put it, "Fortuna" had "smiled down" upon this poor-mans business.


"Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, was housed in what had formerly been an automobile repair shop, the dark ground floor of an otherwise unoccupied commercial building on Poydras Street. The garage doors were usually open, giving the passerby an acrid nostrilful of boiling hot dogs and mustard...The powerful stench of Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, sometimes led the overwhelmed and perplexed stroller to glance through the open door into the darkness of the garage."(152) Ironically, as I should have assumed, Lucky Dogs was located a mere 3 blocks away, at 517 Gravier St. Because the hours of operation stretched until 3:30AM, I began my exploration in the wee hours of the morning. What I found was precisely what I had envisioned: a rundown, seemingly-abandoned building basked in the green glow of the street lamps. Though there was no visible sign defining its current use, a thread of light crept from under the front door of the otherwise-dark building and from somewhere inside mens' voices erupted in coarse intervals. I hesitated until a man approached from the bar across the street; I dared ask if this was, indeed, the Lucky facility. He grinned and replied with a nod, stating that he, in fact, had been an employee of the very business almost 15 years prior. When asked about its history, he told me that it had been open almost 40 years yet had never had a single marking to advertise its presence on the block. He continued to say that their luscious dogs were no longer cooked at the place - all Lucky Dogs did was distribute the fine goods to the public by use of the Loyacano-brothers design. Affirming he knew nothing more of their mode of operation, this slight Ignatius withdrew into the shadows, and I retreated back into mine.


At this point, there was one spot left to visit, a place that, over the summer, had often become a detour during my various bike rides between Calhoun and Canal: the Prytania Theatre. The building itself dates back to the early 1900s and is the last single-screen theatre in Louisiana. At first, I had been drawn to it purely out of curiosity, but now I envisioned Ignatius creeping inside to escape the rigors of work, his loving mother, or simply the day itself, in order to catch a movie he would soon belittle.


During this visit, however, it wasn't the red brick finish, the domed entry, or any other elements of its storybook majesty that struck me. Rather, it was the sign placed in front of the business which read, "Prytania Theatre: STILL OPEN". Those words struck a chord, at once compounding the vast number of intangible ideas I had been trying to grasp. Maybe looking for Ignatius was merely an excuse for understanding a much larger idea: the stubborn resilience of a culture creating an unwillingness to give up in the face of tragedy and destruction. Due to the events little more than a year ago, thousands of people's lives were completely disrupted and they had been forced to start anew. The message on the sign seemed the slogan of all those who had stuck it out and refused to give up; we're still here.

As I walked back to my car, I wondered if Ignatius J. Reilly really ever mattered.



-TonySaba Shiber