The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (16 page)

Gaylord was tall, with platinum blond hair and chiseled cheeks—facial and otherwise. He wore a muscle shirt and very tight—
very
tight—leather pants.

“Hi, Mary Bennett,” Gaylord said in a whispery baby voice. “I hope I'm not late.”

“You're right on time, hon,” Mary Bennett said. “This is my friend Jill, and this”—she waved her arm with a flourish—“is Gerald.”

Gaylord covered his cheeks with his hands. “Oh, she's adorable!” he squealed to Mary Bennett, obviously referring to Gerald. He smiled at Gerald. “You're adorable.”

“Thank you,” Gerald said, his eyes darting nervously.

“I understand you're having a hard time, sweetie,” Gaylord said. “A little birdie tells me your heart's been broken.”

Gerald looked panicked. “Mary Bennett.”

Gaylord clamped a hand on Gerald's knee. “Calm down, sweetie. I can help to ease your pain,” he said in a low, seductive voice.

“That's our cue to go,” Mary Bennett said with a wink. “Come on, Jill.”

“Mary Bennett,” Gerald said through clenched teeth, his face awash with fright and fury.

“Hush now,” Gaylord said to Gerald. “You're getting yourself all worked up—and THAT is MY job.”

“Have fun, boys,” Mary Bennett crooned as she departed the table. I followed behind her.

“I don't know about this, Mary Bennett,” I said. “Gerald was
really
upset.”

Mary Bennett turned around. “Don't you fret. Gaylord is a professional. My manicurist highly recommended him. I flew him in from Hollywood especially for Gerald. I'm putting him up in the penthouse at the Jackson Hilton. That's where he's supposed to take Gerald tonight.”

“You mean Gaylord's a prostitute?”

“They like to be called escorts these days, but yes, that's what he is. Don't look so shocked. He's very high-class.”

“I don't think Gerald's ready for something like that,” I said as we left the bar.

“It's exactly what he needs,” Mary Bennett said firmly. “Moping around hasn't done him a bit of good. He needs to cleanse his palate. Believe me—if there's one thing I know about, it's palate-cleansing.”

We'd reached my car in the parking lot when someone called out Mary Bennett's name. It was Gerald, stomping toward us.

“Hey, Gerald,” Mary Bennett said, squinting in the dusk. “What are you doing out here? Get back inside with Gaylord.”

“Don't you
ever
pull something like that again!” Gerald said, seething. “I've never been so pissed off at you in my entire life.” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “Were you in on this too?”

“Don't give Jill a hard time,” Mary Bennett said. “She didn't know diddly about this. I can't, for the life of me, understand why you're having such a hissy. Didn't you find Gaylord attractive? I thought he was cute. I even thought he kinda looked like a white William.”

“What is wrong with you?” Gerald said, the cords of his neck standing out. “Do you think you can just HIRE a replacement for William? That I can just switch my affections to some hooker, some streetwalker, some WHORE?”

“No need to shout,” Mary Bennett snapped. “I was just trying—”

“I should have expected this!” Gerald shouted. He was so upset I feared he was going to stroke out on us. “Look at you! You've only been broken up with Brian for a few weeks and you're already fucking every guy you know.”

“First off, Gaylord's not a streetwalker,” Mary Bennett said with a defensive jerk of her chin. “He's a high-priced call boy. As for me, I have never denied being a woman of loose morals.”

“No you haven't,” Gerald said, his tone getting more scathing with every word. “I used to find your behavior amusing, even when I knew it was just an act, but now it just seems pathetic. Maybe I could overlook your whorish behavior if you possessed other qualities I valued. But it's clear to me from your recent actions that you lack any sensitivity or empathy. You're as empty inside as that character you're going to play on TV.”

For the first time ever, Mary Bennett seemed too stunned to speak. The parking lot was so dark I couldn't read her face.

“Gerald really didn't mean that,” I said quickly. “He's just upset.”

“Don't put words in my mouth, Jill,” Gerald said. “You don't know Mary Bennett like I do. You have no idea what's she's capable of.”

 

It had been two days since Mary Bennett and Gerald's big blowup and I couldn't reach either one. I intended to go forward with the parade, even if it was just going to be Patsy, Tammy, and me.

I was pulling the seams out of an old prom dress when Patsy called to say she couldn't make it to the parade. Her son Mack had a fever, and although his condition wasn't dangerous, she didn't feel comfortable leaving him behind.

“I'm so sorry, Jill,” Patsy said, tearfully. “I can't tell you how much I was looking
forward
to this trip.”

My heart sank. That left just me and Tammy, and I hadn't heard from her in days. The float was going to look mighty sparse.

“Give the little guy a kiss from his Auntie Jill,” I said, trying to sound chipper.

 

The day before the parade, I came home from work to find my answering machine blinking. I sensed impending doom when I pressed the
PLAY
button and heard Tammy's voice.

“Hi, Jill. It's Tammy. I'll try to make it to the parade, but I'm not sure I'll be able to get off work. I'll try my best.”

“No! No! No!” I shouted, deleting the message. I didn't want to hear another word.

After Tammy's phone call, my mood grew darker than a stack of black cats. I was so down, it was the first time in my life that the thought of a big, sticky pan of Chocolate Stuff didn't cheer me up; but I made one and ate it anyway—preventive medicinal measures. I spent the next couple of hours boo-hooing into my pillow and listening to Babs belt out “Don't Rain on My Parade.”

Finally, after I'd drained out every last bit of moisture from my tear ducts, I felt the urge to spill my guts. I grabbed a pen and wrote until my arm ached and my fingers were numb. I scrawled about my disappointment over the parade and Mary Bennett and Gerald's fight, but then I moved on to questions that had been niggling at me for a long while: Why couldn't I find a decent man? Why did I settle for bums? Why had I stayed in the same crappy job for over twelve years? Why didn't I have any confidence in my writing ability? The only area of my life worth a flip was my friendships with the Queens, and now our friendships seemed to be falling apart.

Seeing all my disappointments in black and white was like being hit in the face with a wet squirrel. If I was so mizzable, why didn't I do something about it?

Pick something in your life,
I told myself.
Anything, just one teensy thing, and work to change it.

Ever since high school, when surrounded by friends, I had felt and acted like a Queen. The question was, could I be a Queen—for myself—all by myself?

W
hen I parked my car on State Street, my mouth went dry and my heart felt like it was playing the drum solo in “Wipeout.” I struggled with my carryall, which contained my wig, sunglasses, and some other necessary supplies.

My skintight prom dress hampered my walking as I approached the area where the parade participants were lining up. I waved at my client, Hamp Avery, who owned the flatbed trailer that was the base of the float.

“Hey, Jill,” he said with an easy grin. Hamp was in his mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, with a bit of beer belly we were trying to get rid of. “How does she look?”

A couple of nights before, Hamp had attached six-foot banners to each side of the trailer with duct tape. The space seemed so vast and lonely. It begged to be filled with a passel of prancing, waving Queens—a “bevy of buxom beauties,” as we liked to call ourselves. I would be a bux-less bevy of one up there.

“Looks sharp,” I said to Hamp. “I really appreciate your help.”

I glanced around at the other participants. The Shriners were lining up their miniature cars. There was a high school band dressed in green-and-gold uniforms, and the Rude Boys had a large float festooned with enormous papier-mâché shamrocks. The Krewe of Kazoo was out in full force, dressed as flamingos and randomly humming into their kazoos. I was the sole free agent in the mix except for a couple of kids on bicycles.

“When are the other girls getting here?” Hamp asked.

“They ain't comin',” I said, tugging my Tammy wig onto my head. “It's just gonna be me.”

The banners snapped in the wind. It was a typical March day, blustery as all get-out.

I adjusted my cat's-eye shades on my nose and stepped on the tongue of the trailer and clambered on board. Hamp handed me my carryall, saying, “Good God Almighty, gal. Whatcha got in here? Rocks?”

“A twenty-pound bag of sweet potatoes.”

“What for?” he asked.

“I thought I'd lob them at the spectators.”

“I think you're supposed to throw candy or beads. Who's gon' want a sweet potato?”

“These aren't
ordinary
sweet potatoes. They're autographed by me, the boss queen of the Sweet Potato Queens.”

Last night, after I made the executive decision to appear in the parade all by my lonesome, I also decided to appoint myself boss of the Queens for my extreme bravery. Obviously there were no dissenters.

The boom box was in place, and I slipped in a cassette tape of the song “Tiny Bubbles.” I'd hit the
PLAY
button as soon as we started moving. My plan was to toss taters with one hand and blow bubbles with the other. I'd also try to sneak in a little preening, hand-waving, and cavorting. I planned to be busier than a one-armed monkey with six dicks, leaving me no time to ponder to what extent I was making a world-class fool of myself.

“You look pretty regal up there, your majesty,” Hamp said.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” I said, trembling ever so slightly as I practiced my wave.

A few minutes later we were ready to roll, and my stomach lurched as we pulled out of the prep area.

It's not too late,
I thought.
You can still take a flying leap off this trailer if you want.

But I didn't. I stood my ground, bubble wand in one hand, sweet potato in the other. In moments, we were on the parade route proper, and passing by the skimpy crowds. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at me, and just as I was about to pitch a potato, I froze up—locked up, pulled up lame—as all Queenly thoughts vacated my brain.

I could almost read the onlookers' thoughts. Who was the weird lady in the red wig and prom dress, standing stock-still with a sweet potato in her hand?

I'd freaked out because something was missing. After a moment, it occurred to me what it was. I'd forgotten the music! I bent down to press
PLAY
and heard Don Ho singing, “Tiny bubbles in the wine. Make me happy. Make me feel fine.”

The familiar words and music served as an on switch, launching me into action. I tossed my potato, blew my bubbles, pranced across the flatbed, wiggled my hips, waved, and cavorted.

I could see people watching me. Some smiled. Others laughed. A few pointed. After a few run-throughs, I performed like a well-oiled machine. Toss, blow, prance, wiggle, wave, cavort. People started chasing after my sweet potatoes instead of staring at them with bewilderment as they landed near their feet—or dodging them as they zinged past their heads. They were scooping them up—they were catching them on the fly and laughing—they all wanted a little piece of me. I was a hit!

“Oh my God! You must want to skin me alive.”

I turned my head to see Tammy climbing up on the trailer, wearing a lime-green bridesmaid dress.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she said, righting her crooked cat's-eyes.

On the one hand, I was delighted to see her. On the other, I wanted to say, “Take a hike, sister, I was handling this gig fine on my own.”

“Never mind that,” I whispered. “Just do your thing.” After a short while, Tammy fell into rhythm with me and the two of us caused an even bigger stir in the crowd. Folks whistled and waved. Just before we reached the governor's mansion, site of the judging stand and the most important spot on the parade route, I heard a familiar drawl: “Give me a leg up, would ya?”

“Mary Bennett?” I said, leaning down to pull her aboard. Behind her stood Gerald and Patsy. All three were dressed in full Queen regalia.

“What the…?” I asked, but of course there was no time for them to answer. Our public was waiting.

With the five of us aboard the float we ran out of sweet potatoes almost immediately, so we started blowing kisses instead. It didn't escape my notice that Gerald and Mary Bennett kept to opposite ends of the float.

The parade ended all too quickly. We could have performed for hours. In my book, adoration is as good as Blue Bell ice cream. There ain't no such thing as too much of that, either. When the truck came to a halt, I dropped my regal facade and hugged the Queens' necks.

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Y'all made it after all.”

“Well, I called everybody to tell them I was going to miss the parade,” Patsy said. “Gerald said he'd decided not to go and Mary Bennett said she'd changed her mind. I couldn't get in touch with Tammy. That did it. I told Jack he was going to watch Mack. Luckily his fever was nearly gone.”

“After I talked to Patsy, I decided it wasn't fair to break my promise to be in the parade,” Gerald said.

“I couldn't bear to think of you doing this by yourself,” Mary Bennett said. “So I flew all the way back from L.A.”

“But she
was
alone!” Tammy said, eyes flashing with pride. “I was late too and there was Jill up on the float all by herself, shaking her booty. It didn't seem to bother her one bit.”

“That took some balls,” Gerald said.

“Looky here,” Mary Bennett said, bending over to pick something up. “Here's a sweet potato we missed.” She squinted at the message written across it in Magic Marker. “Hey, I didn't notice when I was tossing 'em, but this one is signed ‘Jill Conner, Boss Sweet Potato Queen.'”

“I held an election last night,” I said with an impish grin. “Guess who won in a landslide victory?”

Mary Bennett slung an arm around my neck. “Frankly, I can't think of a better person for the job. What's your first royal edict, Boss Queen?”

“Hmmm,” I said scratching my chin. “I proclaim the Queens go hence immediately and forthwith and engage in group consumption of copious amounts of fried food and adult alcoholic beverages.”

Mary Bennett cut her eyes nervously in Gerald's direction. “I don't know, I should probably—”

“I can't, Jill. I—” Gerald said.

“The Boss Queen has spoken!” I said, and then in a pleading tone. “Just for a little while. You owe me for being late for the parade.”

The guilt card worked like a charm, and both Gerald and Mary Bennett finally agreed to come along.

The five of us alighted from our float, only to be surrounded by a small knot of fans.

“That looked like so much fun,” said one young woman, holding a sleeping toddler. “Are you doing this next year? I'd love to be on the float with you!”

“Me, too,” said a silver-haired matron.

“Wannabes,” Tammy whispered to me in a snippy tone.

“The more the merrier, is what I say,” I whispered back. “Besides, what good is it being a queen, if you don't have a few subjects sucking up to ya?”