The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (25 page)

W
e're going to need waaaay more padding in the boobs and butt, Clyde,” I said as I studied one of the emerald green Sweet Potato Queen costumes he'd constructed. “I want people to see us coming from a loooong way off, and I want 'em to remember us coming and going.”

“More stuffing coming up, sugar lump,” said Clyde as he plucked a straight pin from his mouth. “You'll be so dazzling, the masses will simply be struck dumb by the sight of you.”

“The more attention, the better,” I said, holding up a costume next to my body as I looked in a mirror.

I'd finally gotten over my lifetime aversion to the color green. I was light-years away from being the Jolly Green Giant. In my to-die-for Queen costume, I would be the Glittering and Gorgeous Green Giant.

“I almost forgot,” I said. “This year we're having a special consort to the Queens. He'll ride on the float with us.”

“Who's the lucky boy?” Clyde asked, carefully hanging up one of the Queens' costumes on a long rack in the back of his shop.

“Brian. He's Mary Bennett's fiancé. They're getting married in a few months. She told me she's coming to see you later on this week to talk about designs for her wedding gown.”

After Brian met Mary Bennett at the airport, they immediately took up where they'd left off. He moved into Mary Bennett's house, and the two of them were as giddy as goats in clover.

“What's your vision for the Queens' consort?” Clyde asked. He was impeccably turned out in a pair of Italian leather pants and a tight silk shirt that showed off his whippet-thin physique.

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “I see a gold lamé smoking jacket with a green hankie poking out of the pocket. Nothing too swishy. Brian's a man's man. Oh! I almost forgot. Gerald's coming over in a few minutes to be measured for his costume.”

“Right. You want him in a vest in the same fabric as the Queens' and a green cummerbund. What do you think about a matching green top hat to complete the ensemble?”

“You're a genius!” I said, pecking his cheek. “Thanks to you, the Queens will be more titillating than ever before.”

“Thank you, sweetie, but frankly you Queens are so fabulous you'd look darling in flour sacks,” Clyde said, which, of course, was the main reason I'd hired him to make our costumes. Besides being a genius with fabric and a Singer, he instinctively knew there was no such thing as too much sucking up.

The bell above Clyde's door jingled, and Gerald strode in with a book under his arm. His mop of frizz had been trimmed and moussed within an inch of itself, and he was tan and happy and mighty handsome.

“Hi, Gerald!” I said. “Come on to the back.”

“Hi, hunny. Hope I'm not too late. I was two doors down at the salon and—” He stopped talking as soon he as spotted Clyde.

“Gerald, this is Clyde,” I said. “He's making the costumes this year.”

“Are you reading
The Road Less Traveled
?” Clyde asked, pointing to Gerald's book.

“Yes. I usually have to wait in the salon and all they have is hairstyling magazines, so I thought—”

“‘Life is difficult. This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths,'” recited Clyde, hand pressed against his heart. “When I read those first lines in the book I nearly swooned. I said to myself, ‘Scott Peck gets it and he
gets
me!'”

“I had the exact same feeling,” Gerald said, eyes filled with wonderment. “It was as if he was speaking directly to me.”

“Have you read
Way of the Peaceful Warrior
?” Clyde asked, exhilarated.

“Not yet, but I heard it's worthwhile,” Gerald said.

“Omigod! If you think Peck's on the money, then you
have
to read Millman. Your life will be transformed!”

“I'll get it today,” Gerald said softly. “May I ask a personal question?”

“PLEASE!”

“Are you a friend of Dorothy?”

“Guilty.” Clyde stared at Gerald as if transfixed.

Pheromones were flying in the shop like Roman candles on the Fourth of July. It was time for me to beat feet on outta there.

“I guess I'll be moseying along, then,” I said. “Clyde, I'll drop by in a couple of days for the final look-see. Y'all have fun.” I might as well have been elevator music for as much attention as they paid me.

 

“I can't get over how big it's gotten,” Tammy said, marveling at the crowds of people buzzing around our float, which now sported a fourteen-foot papier-mâché sweet potato wearing a green-and-pink-polka-dot bikini and a giant silver crown.

“Everyone wants to be a Queen,” I said. “They come from miles away. They beg, bribe, and bawl their eyes out, wanting to be one of us.”

“I'm so grateful you didn't give away my spot,” Tammy said.

“A few Wannabes were working overtime for it, but I knew in my gut you were coming back to us.”

Tammy donned her rhinestone sunglasses. “I don't know why I chased across the fucking ocean trying to get a title when I've been royalty in Jackson all along.”

“A Sweet Potato Queen is the best kind of queen to be,” I said, checking my coat of Revlon's Love That Pink lipstick in a compact mirror. “You get all the glory and none of the bullshit.”

A woman wearing a leather jacket and skirt strode by, menacingly wielding a loaf of French bread.

“SPQ Security,” I said. “Wait until you see the crowds. We have so many fans now we need protection.”

“Queens! Gather 'round for a final costume check!” called out Clyde from a small temporary tent that had been put up exclusively for our use. Over the years we'd become the runaway stars of the St. Paddy's Day parade.

Tammy and I went inside. Clyde was making a final adjustment to Gerald's tie. Gerald was giddy and positively beaming. I knew there was something going on between them, but Gerald hadn't said boo. I figured he'd tell us when he was ready.

“Look at my dashing man,” Mary Bennett said as she entered with Brian, who was fairly stunning in his gold lamé jacket.

Patsy followed behind, saying, “My tits are just about to leap out of my dress.”

“Come here, kitten,” Clyde said. “I have some double-side tape that will reign those babies back. Turn, everyone! Let me have a look at you.”

“I was talking to a group of Wannabes who came all the way from Maryland just for the parade,” Mary Bennett said. “They started their own Queen group called the ‘Crab Queens,' and there's a group from Plano, Texas, calling themselves the ‘White Trash Lingerie Coconut Queens'; the ‘Raspberry Queens' are from about six states; the ‘Reel Divas'—their motto is ‘Whip me, strip me, tie me, fly me,' they all like to fly-fish, get it? And have you seen NuClia Waste? Hunny—you cannot miss HER, she's on STILTS, pulling an inflatable alligator, ‘Gaytor,' in a wagon!”

“That is fuckin' amazing,” Tammy gushed. “Jill, you really oughta write a book about the Queens and this parade.”

“A book? Get real—just 'cause I managed to get a few columns published doesn't make me Jackie fuckin' Collins,” I said.

“That mealymouthed bullshit won't fly anymore, Jill,” Mary Bennett said. “We all know damn well that you can do anything you set your mind to.”

“That's for sure,” Patsy chimed in. Gerald was too busy being turned into a MoonPie by Clyde to comment.

I threw up my hands. “It's such a helluva burden being Boss Queen. Plan the parade. Design the costumes. Write a book. Will it never end?” But while I was ranting, I was also thinking a book wasn't such a half-bad idea after all. Didn't the whole world deserve to hear about the Queens?

“You look
de-vine
!” Clyde said. “Time for places!”

The Queens and our swashbuckling consort all marched out of the tent (except for Gerald, who was likely lingering for a last-minute smooch) and made our way toward the float.

“Queens!” A very stout blond woman waved and waddled over to where we were standing.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I've been hearing many outrageous things about y'all,” the big woman said. “You're the talk of the town.”

“Yes,” I said with a haughty little yawn. “I suppose.”

“I was wondering how
I
could become a member. I just think y'all are precious.”

“Join the Queens?” I said, clutching at my chest. “That's impossible.”

“You have to be born a Sweet Potato Queen,” Tammy explained. “The only way a position opens up is if one of us dies. And then you'd have to be a Wannabe first, and bow and scrape your way in.”

“Couldn't I skip the Wannabe part?” the woman said, chins a-jiggling. “I'm Marcy Highsmith. My husband's quite prominent in Jackson.”

We were so dumbfounded we nearly toppled over like bowling pins.

“Well,” I said stroking my chin. “I knew a Marcy in high school. Did we happen to be in the same class?” It seemed as if Marcy wanted us to believe that she didn't remember the Queens from high school.

“It's possible,” Marcy said. “I went to Peebles High School and graduated in 1969.”

“Oh, well, that makes a
huge
difference,” I said.

“Goody! I'm so glad to hear it,” Marcy said. “I
was
popular in high school.”

“Well, hunny, I just BET you've heard that ol' sayin'—you know the one about THAT was THEN and THIS is NOW,” I said, bearing down on her short, squatty self. “The Marcy Stevens I knew in high school was the most black-hearted, name-calling, snoot-ass skank who ever trod the earth.”

“That was eons ago,” Marcy said with a flippant wave of her hand. “Surely after all these years—”

“After all these years, you ain't any more popular on THIS float than you were way back then,” I said. “Where's Patsy? Patsy!”

“The Boss Queen has spoken!” Tammy said with a flawless hair toss.

“Why not let bygones be bygones?” Marcy continued. “I'll even start off as a Wannabe, if you insist.”

“Security!” Mary Bennett shouted. A phalanx of woman carrying loofahs, Nerf bats, and bread sticks immediately charged in our direction. I pointed my scepter at Marcy a.k.a the Heifer from Hell.

“My husband will help pay for the costumes!” Marcy said, just before she was swallowed up by the leather-suited SPQ Security squadron—but not before Patsy appeared on the scene.

“Patsy!” I exclaimed gleefully. “You remember Marcy Stevens, don't you?”

The evil gleam in Patsy's eyes answered in the affirmative as she said, “Why, hello, MARCY!” She turned to assume launch position, and suddenly Tammy hunkered beside her. “I've waited my whole life for this, Marcy Stevens! Here's what I think of you and your whole fucking KEY CLUB!”

Marcy was last seen fleeing the scene with her hair and ears slicked back from the blast. Howling and high-fiving broke out on the float at the spectacular return of Queen Poot—and the Final Revenge of Tammy—and all truly seemed right in the Queendom this day.

“I've got pictures! I've got pictures!” Danged if it wasn't Darla Hopkins, who had captured our first assault on Homecoming Bitch Marcy back in high school. Darla was in full Queenly regalia, including a sequined camera bag. We dubbed her PhotoQueen and named her O-fficial Photog to the Sweet Potato Queens—for life.

“Come, Queens!” I said when we finally quit laughing. “Our subjects await.”

A couple of Spud Studs were standing by to help us onto the float. As the others climbed up, a grinning Gerald emerged from our tent and joined us.

“Nice hair,” I said sarcastically.

“Oops,” he said with a blush as he attempted to rein in his tousled mop. “I suppose you've guessed by now that there's something going on between me and Clyde.”

“I had my suspicions,” I said.

He smiled shyly. “I think I might be in love again.”

“Oh, darlin', I'm so happy, I could just squeeze your guts out,” I said, drawing him into a hug.

“After William died I didn't think I'd ever be able to laugh again, let alone love again. But I was wrong.” He paused. “Guess what else?”

“What?”

“I've decided to let the Pink Panthers have their drag show. It was Clyde's idea—to honor William, who did love the occasional dress-up, as you know! It's gonna be a PAGEANT—we're calling it ‘The Night of the Hundred Gowns.' Contestants will pay an entry fee and we'll sell ads in the full-color program. The winner will be crowned Empress for the entire YEAR—she'll win a gorgeous crown—and all the money will go to the Grace House AIDS Ministry.”