The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel

by Jill Conner Browne

  “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 li
fe.

  “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.”

  The best part of this deal was that they wanted the Sweet Potato Queens to be the judges. We both squealed in delight and did a major happy dance, causing the float to pitch and roll alarmingly—getting the attention of the other Queens, who then, of course, joined in the squealing happy dance so that we were nearly thrown from the float by the force of our own exuberance. Perfect.

  “Gerald, hunny, go get Clyde—we need all our sistahs with us on this float today,” I said.

  “Really?” Gerald said, eyes lighting up.

  “Hey, y’all!” Mary Bennett hollered. “We need to practice our routine!”

  “Go get Clyde and join the others,” I told him. “I have a little sumpen to take care of.”

  I motioned over a Spud Stud named Steve and whispered in his ear.

  “I’m not sure if there’s enough time for that,” he said. “The parade’s going to start in a few minutes, and—”

  I pulled him closer and whispered a little something else.

  Steve’s face took on an almost ethereal glow.

  “Right away,” he said, taking off to do my bidding, leaving Ked marks in his wake.

  I took my place in the center of the float as Boss Queen and my court flanked me on either side. It felt grand to have all the Queens back together again. We were bebopping around like a bunch of June bugs from the sheer thrill of it.

  A few minutes later, a winded Steve appeared at the float. He handed me a cassette tape and a cold bottle of Dom Perignon. “I hope I got what you wanted. I flew to the record store so fast it felt like my Chevy was on fire. I nearly ran over a guy in the liquor store parking lot. Is there anything else I can do? You can just name it and claim it, baby!”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” I said, tossing him a wink. “But I think everything’s under control now.”

  Mary Bennett, who’d been observing the whole interaction, sidled over to me. “What’s up with the slave boy?”

  “I had an errand for him to run. He dragged his feet at first, but then I made him a little promise.”

  Mary Bennett hooted. “The Promise! I had forgotten about it. I don’t think I’ve used it since high school.”

  “Me either,” I said with a wicked grin. “Figured it was high time to dust it off. Turns out it’s as potent as ever—I guess blow jobs never go out of style.”

  “Time to roll,” yelled out the driver of our truck.

  “I made a little last-minute change in the music,” I announced to the Queens, slipping the cassette into the player. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No ‘Tiny Bubbles’?” Tammy said with a pout.

  “It’ll come later. This is a little somethin’ special for this occasion. First, a quick toast—this is truly OUR day, Queens,” I said as they all put a hand on the bottle and joined me. “HERE’S to US!” we shouted with unbridled joy. “And FUCK everybody else!” And we really did mean it as we passed the Dom bottle around the float.

  The unmistakable whiskey voice of Delbert McClinton boomed out of the speakers: “GIVIN’ IT UP FO’ YO’ LOVE—EVERY DAY—I’M GIVIN’ IT UP FO’ YO’ LOVE RIGHT NOW!”

  Mary Bennett grabbed Brian around the waist and said, “Hunny, they’re playing our song!”

  “It’s for ALL of us!” I shouted as the float once again rocked and rolled with ecstatically dancing Queens.

  “Perfect choice,” Tammy whispered, and then she added her own clear, strong voice to Delbert’s, and I thought, “Uh-huh—and that’s our NEXT Queenly project: getting your happy ass back on a stage with a microphone, little Missy.”

  I looked out into the mass of spectators, who seemed positively stupefied by our newly enhanced costumes. Was it possible that somewhere among all those worshipful onlookers there was a man for me?

  My entire life I’d been looking for Prince Charming and taking home toads.

  Obviously, I’d been setting my sights too low. Toads—and even Princes—just weren’t going to cut the mustard anymore. They were too weak-willed and wet behind the ears. I needed a MAN. One strong enough to appreciate and celebrate the Queen I’d finally grown up to be. Until that man came, I was going to keep on living and loving my own life and I wasn’t going to settle for anyone else, no matter how scared, tired, or needy I happened to be.

  Some day my king will come, I thought to myself. For the very first time, I thought I might be willing to let it happen.

  Recipes from the Rest in Peace

  I simply cannot offer you a book from which you cannot expect to gain ten or fifteen pounds—it just wouldn’t be right. So here you go, Queenies!

  If me and the Queens were to open our ideal restaurant, we would call it the REST IN PEACE, and we would only serve food that you might (and would certainly hope to) find at the home visitation after any decent Southern funeral. I know that you (like us) get tired of sitting around WAITING for somebody to die just so you can get something wonderful to eat. At the Rest in Peace, our customers will be able, at any time, to drop by for some Southern comfort whether anybody’s died or not.

  The Queens occasionally like to gather ’round with this kind of food and contemplate all the folks we sometimes WISH would die—I expect you will enjoy this innocent pastime as well. COME AND GIT IT! (That’s y’allbonics for bon appétit.)

  WHO CROAKED? CROCK-POT PORK

  If you’ve got a big enough Crock-Pot, you can double up on this, and if there’s a morsel left, it freezes great. It’s yummy over rice (especially if you cook the rice in chicken broth instead of water), and it’s supposedly got only about 8 grams of fat per serving, not that we give a shit.

  Into the Crock-Pot dump: one 16-ounce can whole-berry cranberry sauce; 1 medium onion, chopped; one 5.5-ounce can apricot nectar; ½ cup Splenda; ½ cup chopped dried apricots; 2 teaspoons white vinegar; 1 teaspoon dry mustard; 1 teaspoon salt; and ¼ to ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper (I like it spicy, but that’s just me). Stir all that up pretty good and then put about a 2½-pound boneless pork loin roast in there and spoon the sauce over it. It’s even better if you put it all in the fridge overnight to marinate, but it’s sufficiently wonderful without that step. Cover and cook on low for 6 to 8 hours. It will be literally falling apart and you will be bathing in the sauce. It is so gratifying to put this on to cook in the morning and then to come in and see what the Crock-Pot hath wrought in your absence.

  PROMISED LAND PASTA SALAD

  Okay—me and my precious neighbors, Laura and Angie, made this up. Well, we didn’t make up the WHOLE thing, but the part we did make up sure does make it even MORE fabulous than it is in its original state and we are taking total credit for the transformation and that’s just that.

  The
basic foundation for the Promised Land is this: 4 cups (or so) cooked pasta—rotini or something else fairly substantial—we like to CHEW; one 4-ounce jar pimientos, drained; one 2-ounce can sliced black olives (also drained); ½ cup (or so) chopped onion; ¾ cup Splenda; ½ cup white vinegar; ¼ cup Enova oil (you can use canola, but this is so much healthier, so why not?); and ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper. So, you just stir all that stuff up together—the good thing about Splenda is that it dissolves instantly in cold stuff, so you don’t have to fool with heating it—and then stir it all into the pasta. It needs to sit a spell in the fridge and then you’ll need to stir it all up again real good before you eat it. I know it sounds awful, but trust me—it ain’t. BUT THEN, what WE do is this: same thing pretty much except omit the chopped raw onion. Now, chop up a bunch of asparagus and 1 or 2 Vidalia onions and the best tomatoes you can find (cherry or grape will do if tomatoes aren’t in season) and toss ’em with a little oil and throw ’em in a grill basket and grill ’em up. Obviously, the asparagus and onion will need a little while, so hold off on putting the tomatoes in there till the last few minutes. When you add the tomatoes, also add some pre-grilled chicken breasts, chopped up in bite-size chunks. You just need the tomatoes and chicken to get hot—they won’t take long. Then sling all that into the bowl of pasta with the other stuff and stir it up. This is TOO GOOD to serve to most people you know, so be VERY particular about who’s invited over.

  TINY BUT POWERFUL GRIEF-RELIEVING MEAT LOAVES

  Not only is this the best meat loaf EVER—and by the way, as far as I’m concerned, the ONLY reason to make meat loaf is for meat loaf SAMMICHES, which will make me feel better no matter what—but you can also have these meat loaves IN YOUR BELLY in a little over 30 minutes. Now, I call that downright miraculous and a boon to all mankind.

  Mix an egg with a little bit of milk. Chop up about 1½ stalks celery, half a bell pepper, and an onion. Mix all that with 1 cup bread crumbs, the egg and milk, and about 1½ pounds ground sirloin. I like to put some salt in it, too, but that’s just me—I’m a salter.