When 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?”