The Thong Also Rises

by Jennifer L. Leo

  When the performance was over and the puppeteers emerged for their applause, it was clear from their pink cheeks and broad smiles that they took immense pride in their art form. I stood and clapped like a stage parent.

  As we walked back to our hotel after the show, Angela said, “I’m glad we’re not like those people who don’t try new things because of fear or because they think something is beneath them.”

  “Me, too,” I said, gazing at the gold reflection of the city’s lights in the river.

  “Sometimes, it just takes learning about something to appreciate it,” she reasoned, sounding like the host of a children’s television show.

  I concurred, thinking of all the times in my life I’ve passed up opportunities because of fear, snobbery, or pre-conceived notions. I thought about how often I’ve let closed-minded assumptions color my enjoyment of an event. I thought about how foolish many of my long-held, but unexamined, fears and judgments really are. Maybe Magic had been so scary because I was eighteen when I saw it and, frankly, a lot of my life was tinged with terror at that point.

  As we neared the hotel, Angela made one final comment about the show. “You know,” she declared, “those puppets didn’t scare me at all.”

  “Me neither,” I said, secretly wondering if I’d have time at the airport to purchase a souvenir marionette.

  Shari Caudron is a Denver-based writer whose work has appeared in Sunset, Reader’s Digest, USA Today, and other publications. She is also the author of What Really Happened, a collection of stories about the lessons life teaches you when you least expect it.

  JILL CONNER BROWNE

  His and Her Vacations

  Think about it—Mars is cold and dusty, Venus is hot and steamy.

  THERE IS A DISPARITY BETWEEN WHAT WE (FEMALE types) think is a great vacation and what they (male types) think is a great vacation. Now, me, I think a cruise is just about your perfect vacation. One of the main selling points of a cruise is the time available for not doing Jack Shit. You can not do Jack Shit for the entire duration of a cruise. One reason is there is nothing that you can possibly need that is not on that boat. Add to that the staggering number of lackeys; as a passenger, you have at least twelve to fifteen of them assigned to you personally, and their sole reason for being is to prevent you from having to do Jack Shit. In addition, a whole covey of free-floating lackeys will come to your aid should your own personal set be out performing some other task for you when another urgent need arises—maybe a new umbrella for your drink. I do so love lackeys, and there are just hardly any at my house. Truth be told, there is only one—and she is me.

  Another great thing about a cruise is the excellent food. The first qualification for food to be excellent, in my book, is that somebody else prepare it, and all I have to do is show up and eat it. And there needs to be plenty of it—especially if other people want some of it, too. On a cruise, somebody else does all the cooking and apparently they do it round the clock because there is food everywhere you look, whenever you look. You can even order every single thing on the menu at every single meal and nobody will bat an eye. I love to do this because I always want to taste everything, and plenty of times I want to eat every scrap of it. But then, I am a notorious pigwoman….

  What I’m saying is that the [Sweet Potato] Queens like vacations that are luxurious and pampering in nature, ones that involve lots of lolling about in lush surroundings. Guys, on the other hand, do not.

  The following is an absolute true-life example of what can happen if you give a guy a bunch of money and a travel agent. It should provide all the proof you will ever need to support this ironclad rule: Never Let a Guy Plan a Vacation.

  A good friend of mine recently returned (by the skin of his teeth) from a “dream vacation” that cost a gazillion and a half dollars. My friend Bill and his friend Ron put their heads together to figure out the farthest-away place that would cost the most possible money and time to reach, and would offer the worst accommodations imaginable, where they could go to and try to kill something big. Hmmm. How about Bearplop, Alaska?

  So Bill and Ron coughed up big bucks and went to an inordinate amount of trouble to go to this godforsaken place in the nether regions of Alaska in order to hunt moose and grizzly bears. See, this is what the other women and I think qualifies this trip under the stupid category. Who of sound mind would go out of his way to try to have a confrontation with a grizzly bear? A guy, that’s who. And clearly, a guy with not enough fiscal responsibility weighing him down. These guys have got that old problem (I never have it myself):You know what I mean, when you get too much money in your checking account, it will start backing up on you. You have to keep it moving freely through there in order to avoid the backup problem. When the money gets backed up, you resort to absurd measures to clear it out in a hurry.

  My mother buried three husbands, and two of them were just napping.

  —Rita Rudner

  Anyway, they have to fly for a couple of days to get to the part of Alaska that has people living in it, before they can head out to their forsaken vacation spot. Forsaken may be a misnomer; somebody would have had to live there in order to then forsake it, and I don’t think anybody ever has or ever will live where these guys went. And don’t you just imagine there’s a good reason for that? I mean, look at Gulf Shores and Destin—you can’t sling a dead cat without hitting a condo with a thousand people in it. That’s because those are desirable locations. Where Bill and Ron went, you could sling a dead cat for a couple of thousand miles and not even hit a gas station or a mobile home park. Which, in and of itself, doesn’t sound all bad, but the climate isn’t exactly what you’d call a big draw.Y’know?

  Wheee! They are on the trek to their final destination, getting on progressively smaller airplanes at each leg of the journey, until finally, it is just Bill and Ron and the pilot in this itty-bitty plane which the pilot informs them is still too big to fly into where they’re going. They land on this bald knob on top of a mountain and the pilot tells them to “get out and wait right here ’cause I’ll be right back.” And with that, he took off, leaving Bill and Ron on top of the bald knob with no food, no water, no nothing, including no idea when the pilot was coming back. Ostensibly he was going to get yet a smaller plane, but his parting words were no comfort to our intrepid travelers: “There’s a tent in that box over there. You guys can put that up for shelter, in case I don’t get back.” Now, I gotta tell you, I’d have been stroking out big time. No way would I have let that guy fly merrily off into the wild blue yonder without my person being on that plane.

  So Bill and Ron were stranded on the bald knob, somewhere in Alaska, and several hours later, the pilot returned, circled the knob, and flew away. This was perplexing to our heroes, a radio being high on the list of the things they did not have, along with food, water, shelter, guns, toilet facilities and/or paper. But by and by—then hours later—the pilot came back and landed, and took Bill away with him, with promises to Ron to “be right back.” Happy Ron. “I’ll be right back” is my all-time favorite line. And when I use it, what I really mean is: “Good-bye! If you’re looking for me— I’ll be the one that’s gone! Just try and catch me! If I ever come back, it will be one chilly day, buckwheat!”

  Eventually both made it to their vacation home, and were they ever happy then. “Home” was a Quonset hut on the side of what we in Mississippi would call a mountain or an Alp; the indigenous folk of Alaska liked to think of it as a “Hill.” Meals would be taken “down the hill.”And down the hill it was, too—300 feet straight down the hill. You practically had to rappel down three times a day. Meals were then followed by the inevitable climb back up the hill. Now, our boys were both in what I would call really good shape, but nothing they had done here in the relative flatlands had prepared them for this “hill.” For the first two days, they threw up whatever meal they had just eaten, getting back up the hill to the Quonset hut.

  Remember, they came on this fire drill to hunt, specifi
cally moose and grizzly bear. A fool’s errand, if you ask me, but, of course, nobody did.They hired “major-league hunting guides,” who sound an awful lot like garden-variety igmos to me. (But again, that is strictly my totally unsolicited opinion.) In the whole two or three weeks they were stuck off up there in the exact center of nowhere, how many moose and/or grizzly bears do you think they saw? Well, let me put it this way: I saw just as many in my very own backyard. “Hunting” with these wily woodsmen—these very expensive wily woodsmen—consisted of either (1) crashing through the brush, making enough noise to alert every bear and moose within a 200-mile radius, or (2) sitting by themselves on a stump, personally selected for them by their wily woodsmen, for ten to twelve hours at a time. Sure makes me want to take up huntin’. Boy hidee, it just sounds like a bucket o’ fun. I envision Bill and Ron off warming stumps, while all the bears and moose were in the Quonset hut playing cards with the wily woodsmen….

  But, as luck would have it, the pilot did, in fact, return for Bill and he did, in fact, make it to the actual airport where they have big airplanes.This brought up another issue. Out in the wilderness, it was either unnoticeable or irrelevant, but in the relative confines of the big airport, Bill could not help but notice that he smelled like a goat, although perhaps that reference is slanderous only to the goat and flattering to Bill. Bottom line: he had not had a shower in a long time and it showed—so much so that he himself could not bear it. And so, as if it made perfect sense, he goes into the men’s room handicapped stall and strips. The man is completely naked in the men’s room at the big airport, trying to de-funk himself with lavatory soap and wet paper towels. Quite a picture, no?

  Several days late and somewhat scruffy, Bill did make good his return, amid great rejoicing by friends and family, who had no idea whether he would make it back alive or they would be claiming a box containing his stinky remains. All’s well that ends well. Alaska is safe once more for the grizzlies and the moose.

  If we were going to spend tens of thousands of dollars on a vacation, there would be things called “Sea Goddess” and “Ritz-Carlton” figuring prominently. Hell, we could have plastic surgery and recuperate in a fancy hotel for that kind of money. All we can think of is how very glad we are men don’t try to make us go with them and how hilarious it is that they seem to think they are pulling something over on us by slipping off on these expeditions without us. We are laughing ourselves sick all the way home from dropping them off at the airport, are we not?

  Here is the Queens’ ideal vacation: Delbert McClinton’s Blues Cruise. Delbert, as you may recall, is one of our very most favoritest musicians in the entire world, living or dead, and he sponsors a cruise every January and books all the rest of our very most favoritest musicians in the entire world, living or dead, to go on this cruise with him.They all perform just night and day the whole time, so you can be on a cruise, getting waited on hand and foot, basking in the sun, even seeing exotic ports of call if you’re so inclined. (But I warn you, the lackeys do not follow you ashore to wait on you hand and foot there.) You can have all this plus you get to dance with Delbert and his buddies all night every night. I cannot imagine a circumstance under which you could possibly have more fun unless you happen to own a monkey that I don’t know anything about.

  For all you Wannabe Wannabes out there who have been clamoring for a Sweet Potato Queen Convention, here’s the deal: We’re all going on Delbert’s Blues Cruise! All you have to do—I’m completely serious—is call this number: 1-800-DELBERT and tell them you want to book yourself and your cohorts for a week of Sweet Potato Queens and Delbert. Don’t bother paying your bills before you leave— you won’t be wanting to go home, anyway.

  Jill Conner Browne, royal boss of Jackson, Mississippi’s own glorious Sweet Potato Queens, introduced them to the world in the bestseller The Sweet Potato Queen’s Book of Love. She is also the author of the bestselling The Sweet Potato Queens’ Financial Planner and God Save the Sweet Potato Queens, from which piece was excerpted.

  KATIE Mc LANE

  The Yellow Lady

  I’ll have what she’s having, bartender.

  PAINTED WITH WHAT LOOKED MORE LIKE BROWN sludge than paint, the sign stated proudly:

  Don Chongs Camping

  Camp by River

  $3 US a night

  Dust flew up around me as I made my way under the fronds of towering date trees, ripe with clusters of their sweet oblong fruit. Eagles circled above, serenading me with the rustling of their wings. Nestled amongst the palms, I found a spot near a sandy beach to unpack my things and establish my new home. Little did I know that near this oasis town of San Ignacio on the Baja peninsula, I was about to find an elixir that would change my life. Well, at least alter my way of thinking for a few hours.

  In town, an immense eighteenth-century Catholic Church loomed above me. Locals loitered in the small plaza.Trailers selling fish tacos littered the streets. A liquor store occupied the corner, and when I entered all talking stopped. The weathered Mexican men turned to stare. They whispered. They laughed. I went about my business, wishing I had learned more Spanish before embarking on my journey.

  “You just have to try the yellow lady liqueur, Kate,” some friends suggested before I left home.

  “Yellow lady?” I asked.

  Even though they could not remember the exact name of it, they assured me that I had to try it. I searched the dusty, whitewashed shelves. No yellow lady was to be found. As I turned to walk out of the store, I spotted a bottle shaped like a thick-bodied woman, hands resting on her swollen belly. Filled with a gleaming yellow liquid, she shimmered as the sun from the windows hit her full breasts.

  The bottle was high on a shelf. I couldn’t reach her. I took a deep breath, tried the little Spanish I knew, and asked the old man behind the counter for help. He sighed and meandered towards me.

  I pointed at the bottle.

  He smiled.Then he breathed, “Damiana.”

  “Damiana?” I asked.

  He smiled and winked at me as we walked to the register.

  “Ooohhhhh, Damiana!” cried his friends when they spotted my bottle. Each one slapped me on my back, chuckling, as I left the store.

  I arrived back at camp and slowly poured some of the glimmering, flaxen liqueur in a shot glass, a little leery after the men’s reaction. The liquid was sweet, smooth, and went down easy. Don Chong, in work boots and faded blue jeans, sauntered through the palms. His graying sideburns and mustache stood out against his olive skin. He flashed a sweet smile as he eyed my bottle. We chatted, and soon he put his arm around me and sat close. His friendly advances worried me, so I told him that I was turning in and bid him adios.

  The next day I drove south to a fishing village called Mulege. A dusty dirt road led me down to a small beach with cappuccino-colored sand, a dollop of froth on its rim from the spray of the turquoise sea. I rented a palapa for $3 a night. Made from dried palm leaves stretched across frail poles, this three-sided shack was a perfect shelter from the hot afternoon sun.

  On a palapa near mine a dozen small paintings were hung. Underneath them, a young blonde woman sat at a table painting another work of art. I looked over her shoulder and watched as the image of a worn collapsing building began to appear, revealing the decay and disintegration of an otherwise solid structure. She had frozen the moment in time, and her out-of-slant perspective made the scene look somewhat psychedelic. She kept looking up to study her subject when I realized she was painting the outhouse.

  “¿El cuarto de baño?” I asked.

  She smiled and nodded. “Hi, I’m Lorna.”

  “Nice to meet you, can I offer you a drink?”

  “What, is it?” she asked as she eyed my bottle.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s real good,” I confessed.

  “You’ve had some?”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  After a little coaxing, she said she would try it.

  I poured us both a drink, and went to use el b
año. As I walked back to our makeshift cantina in the sand, I saw Lorna trying to generate enough courage to take a drink. She picked up and looked at the bottle, sniffed the glass, and finally took a feeble, tiny taste. She smiled, and then took one long, slow swallow and it was gone. Suddenly, the manager of the palapas was at her side. Pablo, with a white cowboy hat covering his eyes, and short-sleeved plaid shirt, buttons bursting at his paunch, kept smiling his lusty smile at her. Although the language barrier made it hard for them to have a conversation, he was persistent.

  She glanced at me, her eyes pleading, “Help me.” I asked if she wanted to walk to town. With an enthusiastic “Yes!” she followed me, thanking me profusely.

  “What got into him all of a sudden?” Lorna wondered out loud.

  “I don’t know, but there seems to be a lot of it going around lately!”

  Arriving in town, we pulled the yellow lady out of my daypack, and took a couple of big swigs. We walked into the small, dingy corner store, the top of the bottle sticking out of my bag. A short, dark-skinned, wrinkled man walked up to us and smiled.

  “Pedro, Kissy Pedro,” he said, jutting his weathered hand out for us to shake. He might have been eighty or maybe just sixty and had led a hard life. We smiled back, it was hard not to, looking at his infectious, toothless grin. His hands had a permanent shake to them, but the gleam in his eye when he smiled at us was that of a twenty-year-old man.

  Lorna rolled her eyes and groaned, “Oh brother, not another one!”

  When we left the store, Kissy Pedro was right behind us with bloodshot eyes, quivering voice, and big black holes in place of bicuspids. We came to an intersection. Pedro insisted on helping us. He held out two boney elbows and we grabbed on. Behind us, Kissy Pedro’s friends watched as he took two American women across the street. Lorna winked at me, and gave him a kiss on the cheek for all his friends to see. I followed suit. Cries and catcalls came from the men on the corner. Pedro smiled, then pulled me down to his level and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. I leaped away, grabbed Lorna’s arm, and we ran, laughing all the way back to our palapas.