The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (4 page)

Y
ou look so FINE, baby, fine as WINE!” yelled a young man leaning out the window of a passing Camaro.

“I've never felt so adorable,” Gerald said, dangling his hand outside Mary Bennett's Chevrolet Impala convertible. Gerald waved and blew a kiss in his direction. “Did you hear that?” he said, waving his hand in front of his face as if he were swooning. “I'm ‘fine as wine'!”

“Damn straight you are! But he was talking to ME,” Mary Bennett said, peering over the tops of her black cat's-eye sunglasses with rhinestone detailing. We were all wearing them. Mary Bennett had bought each of us a pair at Brent's Drugstore and charged to it her daddy's account. “He never questions the bill,” she said. “I don't think he even looks at it. Just writes the check.”

“Hey, Red! Wanta go to my place?” someone shouted as he streaked by in a banana-yellow GTO.

“Get the tag number of that car!” Mary Bennett shouted. Then she lovingly patted her long, curly red locks. “Who says ‘blondes have more fun'?”

We were all wearing matching long fiery red wigs (from the Ann-Margret collection) newly purchased from Sassy Styles in downtown Jackson.

“I've never had so much hair,” Patsy said, tossing it all around her shoulders. We were all fine-haired people (except for Gerald, whose abundant mane was too frizzy and uncontrollable to do him much good). Naturally, we couldn't stop touching, flipping, and bouncing our luscious locks.

The Beach Boys' “Good Vibrations” was playing on the radio, and we were all singing along and blowing kisses and waving to passersby.

“It's that house,” Gerald said, pointing to a white Greek Revival mansion set back on a hill. “The little road to the left goes to the cottage in back.”

“I hope this works,” Patsy said, checking her reflection in a compact mirror as Mary Bennett made the turn.

“How can it not?” I said, taking a swig from my bottle of Coke.

Mary Bennett parked in the gravel patch in front of a white structure that wasn't much bigger than a band's tour bus. It was small but welcoming, with shrubs and flowers that repeated the grand landscaping of the mansion, yet situated as it was in back of Jackson's equivalent of a castle—well, one couldn't help but feel the disparity, which I suppose was the point.

“I hope she's home,” Gerald said, staring intently at the house, looking for signs of life.

“Somebody's in there,” Mary Bennett said. “I saw a curtain twitch.”

None of us made a move to get out of the car.

“I'll go,” I said, my voice thin and uncertain, even to my own ears. I glanced in the visor mirror, expecting to see my familiar timid self, but the sunglasses and red hair made me look like another person entirely.

“Here goes nothing,” I said, exiting the car and swinging my hips as I strutted. Mary Bennett yelled out, “Shake it, baby! Don't break it!” which prompted me to exaggerate my walk even more.

I knocked on the screen door, straining to hear anything inside.

“Come on out, Tammy,” I coaxed. “We know you're in there.”

Still no response. I was about to knock again, when I heard a slight rustling. Then the door cracked open.

“Can I help you?” said a faint voice.

“Tammy?”

“Yes?” The door opened a little wider.

“It's me—Jill.” I lowered my sunglasses. “From school.”

“Jill?” Tammy said. Her face was bare of cosmetics and her eyes were puffy, but she still looked very pretty. “Why are you here? Wearing
that
thing?” She pointed to my wig.

My plan, skimpy as it was, had been to flatter her into joining our little group, hence the wigs. They were meant to resemble her own big, beautiful tresses. It seemed like a fun (although somewhat silly) plan when I'd concocted it, but now, standing in front of her, I wasn't so sure.

“I'm here to invite you to join a very exclusive society,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as confident as possible. “It's called the Tammy Club.”

“What?” Tammy said. She opened the door all the way and stepped outside, blinking like a mole just emerging from its hole.

The others had gotten out of the car and were now standing behind me.

“We're all charter members,” I said. “It's called the Tammy Club because all of its members are named Tammy. That's Tammy Gerald and Tammy Patsy from your English class and Tammy Mary Bennett. And I'm Tammy Jill.”

The others waved, flipped their hair, blew kisses, and pranced around like show ponies. They were truly getting into the spirit of things.

“Oh, and that's the Tammymobile,” I said, pointing to Mary Bennett's car, which had a banner affixed to the side that said
OFFICIAL TAMMY CLUB VEHICLE
.

“I don't understand,” Tammy said, shaking her head in confusion. “Why would anyone have a group called the Tammy Club?”

“Because you're fabulous and it's named after you!” I said.

“I'm not fabulous,” she said softly, shaking her head.

“Yes, you are,” I insisted. “First of all, you have big, fat, beautiful hair. I, personally, would murder my own mother for such hair!”

“You're kidding me, right?” Tammy said, looking even more perplexed.

“And it's also because your name is Tammy,” Gerald chimed in. “Tammy is the
best
name in the universe. Everyone knows God didn't make any ugly Tammys. They all have pert noses, small feet, and tiny waists.”

“That's right, hunny,” Mary Bennett drawled. “And ever since we've been wearing this big hair and calling ourselves Tammy, we've been as happy as pigs in the sunshine. Nobody should be more giddy than you, because you, lucky girl, get to be Tammy and have this amazing hair all the time!”

“I love being Tammy,” Patsy said, with such a vigorous hair toss I was surprised she didn't get whiplash. “Tammy isn't just a name, and it's not a wig and sunglasses, it's a state of mind.”

I decided Patsy's simple statement would define our group from that moment on.

“So, how about it, Tammy?” I said, brushing some excess bangs from my face. My entire head was sweating profusely from the wig. “You wanna come play with us?”

D
on't get me wrong,” Mary Bennett said. “I like driving around getting honked at by total strangers, but there needs to be more to our organization than that.”

We were all plopped down in beanbags in Mary Bennett's enormous rec room discussing the purpose of the Tammy Club. They had a Ping-Pong table, bumper pool, and a lit-up Elvis pinball machine. The pine-paneled walls were covered with posters of Tom Jones, who was Mary Bennett's current heartthrob.

“Are you saying the Tammys should plan to be more civic-minded?” Patsy asked, sliding out a pencil from behind her ear. She'd taken on the role of club secretary. “Maybe we should raise money for charity by holding bake sales or car washes.”

“No!” was the very vocal and very unanimous answer from the rest of us.

“I think Mary Bennett means we should come up with other stuff we'd like to do together—you know—‘activities,'” I said.

“Right,” Mary Bennett said. “So long as those ‘activities' are fun. That should be our official club motto: ‘If it ain't fun, we ain't doin' it.' Sound good to you?”

“Perfect!” Gerald said, and the rest of us murmured our agreement. Patsy recorded the motto in her spiral notebook.

“Suggestions, anyone?” I asked.

“Well, I can think of
one
thing in particular, but we'd have to ship in a few extra fellows,” Mary Bennett said with a grin. “Unless Geraldine thinks he's up to the job.”

“I'd have to eat my Wheaties before the meetings,” Gerald giggled.

“Polka's fun,” Patsy offered.

“Good suggestion, Swiss Miss,” Mary Bennett said. “I'm particularly fond of strip poker.”

Patsy frowned. “I didn't say poker, I said—”

“Food,” Tammy said softly.

“That's the best idea yet,” Mary Bennett said, lighting a cigarette. “We should open and close all meetings with the appropriate snack foods.”

“Do your parents let you smoke?” Tammy asked with wide eyes.

“
Parent,
” Mary Bennett said, tapping an ash. “All I have is my daddy, and he's hardly ever home. That's why we should have all our meetings here. The housekeeper's off on Saturdays, and we'll have the whole joint to ourselves.”

“Far out,” Gerald said.

“I was thinking out loud when I mentioned food,” Tammy said, rubbing her stomach. “Y'all picked me up before I had lunch.”

“Well, food is a helluva thought,” I said, feeling my own stomach rumble. “We should each bring something to eat at our meetings. I'm partial to anything fried.”

“I'll bring something sweet,” Tammy said, licking her lips.

“I'll do salty,” Mary Bennett said, and then she pointed a finger at Patsy. “Don't you be coming 'round here with those smelly little fish, Swiss Miss. Now, lemme think. We've got sweet, salty, and fried. Why do I feel like an important food group is missing?”

“Au gratin,” I said.

“Egg-zactly!” Mary Bennett said. “Patsy, that is perfect for you—you are now in charge of all cheese-related foods.”

“And I'll bring kosher,” Gerald said with a nod.

“I hope that's some kind of sausage,” Mary Bennett said.

“Kosher refers to Jewish dietary laws,” Patsy explained. “That means Gerald can't eat anything with pork.”

“Oh, hunny,” Mary Bennett said, patting his leg sympathetically. “You really ought to convert to Baptist. We don't allow drinkin' or dancin', but we sho'nuff do like to eat us some pig.”

 

Our Tammy Club meetings fell into familiar patterns. First we'd eat, and then we'd loll about planning what we were going to do the rest of the day. Shopping, swimming (in Mary Bennett's heated pool), gossiping, watching old movies, and cruising around town were some of our favorite pastimes. A Pageant Party was a must whenever a beauty pageant was on TV—Miss America, Miss Mississippi, or our favorite, Miss Hospitality. This was our favorite because instead of the fairly degrading “talent” competition in the other pageants, aspiring Miss Hospitalities had to dress as something representing the major industry in the county they were representing. So it was not unusual to see nearly grown-up women who
clearly
should have had more pride, if not sense, dressed as bolls of cotton, reclining chairs, or small aircraft. We'd call an emergency Tammy Club meeting so we could watch the pageant together and ridicule the contestants.

The red wigs ended up being too cumbersome (and attracted far too much negative attention in Gerald's case), so we wore them only when riding around in the convertible. We still donned our cat's-eyes whenever we felt a need to look mysterious—and trust me, five big ol' people wedged up in a car, wearing the same identical fancy sunglasses, did pose a mystery to any and all observers.

When Homecoming came along, I suggested we have our own float in the parade.

“Other clubs do it. Why shouldn't we?” I said at one of our meetings.

“That might be tricky,” Tammy said. “The football team sponsors the parade, and they have to approve all the floats. We're not an official school club.”

“Don't you worry your pretty little head 'bout
that,
” Mary Bennett said, batting her eyelashes. “I have
ways
of persuading the football team.”

True to her word, not only were we approved, but one of the players lent us a flatbed trailer, and a whole slew of them helped us build the float. They also brought the entire Tammy Club lunch from The Dog 'n' Suds.

“Man, those guys are helpful,” I said to Mary Bennett as we were putting the final touches on the float an hour before the parade. “Did you pay them?”

“Nope,” she said coyly. “They're motivated by the prospect of
other
rewards.”

“Such as what, exactly?” I asked nervously.

“I just made them all a little promise that made them all QUITE happy—and very willing to WORK, as you have seen. That's all you need to know right now—the float is perfect—you just leave that other stuff to me,” Mary Bennett said with a sly grin and a wink.

I'd suggested we appear as the Tammy Queens in the parade—sort of a spoof of the Homecoming Court. All of us, except for Gerald, planned to wear old bridesmaid and prom dresses that Patsy embellished with sequins and feathers. Gerald was to wear a baby blue tuxedo and matching ruffledy shirt and SHOES, if you please, that he'd bought at a thrift shop.

A few minutes before the parade's start, Patsy was finishing up painting the “Tammy Queens” banner when Gerald accidentally jostled her elbow.

“Sorry, Patsy,” he said, studying the banner. “Now the sign looks like it says ‘Yammy Queens.'”

“Too late to fix it,” I said, tucking a stray bra strap into my pink chiffon dress. A couple of football players affixed the banner to the float, and then helped us all get aboard. One of the players got behind the wheel of the truck towing the float.

“Those boys are leering at me,” Patsy said, patting her wig as she took her place on the float. “Maybe my dress is too tight.”

“I know what you mean,” Tammy said. “Their eyes were boring a hole clean through me.”

“It prolly had a little something to do with what I promised 'em,” Mary Bennett said, pulling a long, white glove up her raised arm.

“The usual reward, I suppose?” Gerald said with a knowing smile.

“Well, I sweetened the pot juuuusssst a weeee little bit,” Mary Bennett said, pinching her fingers together. The band had started, a signal for the parade line to begin. “I promised that all the Tammy Queens would give 'em blow jobs after the parade.”

“What?” Gerald said, holding his belly as if he'd been punched. The rest of us exchanged horrified glances.

“Excepting Gerald, of course,” Mary Bennett said. She grinned proudly. “Pretty effective, wouldn't you say?” with a palms-up swoop of her arms at the float and us.

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind!?” I exclaimed.

“Y'all put your eyeballs back in their sockets,” Mary Bennett said evenly. “Them boys ain't ever gon' collect. Trust me. I have tons of experience with this kind of thing.”

“Ummm, excuse me,” Patsy said, a bewildered look on her face. “But what
is
a blow job?”

The truck suddenly jerked forward, and we were on our way.

“Don't you worry about that, Swiss Miss,” Mary Bennett said. “Just smile pretty and wave your little Yankee heart out.”

I can't remember ever having a better time than I did on that first float. We pranced, waved, and blew kisses. The way the crowd waved back and carried on over us, you'da thought we were gen-u-wine Miss Americas on that float. I hadn't been so full of myself since I was the first-grade Valentine Queen.

I looked across the float at my good friend Patsy and recalled our initial encounter over that first-grade crown—and her Peculiar Prowess way back then. She caught me looking at her and when I burst out laughing, she gave me a look that promised death if I told what I was thinking but joined my belly laugh—which we both declined to explain to the other Queens.

After the parade, Darla Hopkins, a bespectacled girl from the school paper, approached us saying she wanted a photo and an interview. We were only too happy to oblige and posed on the float.

“Y'all caused quite a stir,” she said, after snapping a picture. “I think you gave the Homecoming Court a run for their money. Tell me, how did you come up with your name, the Sweet Potato Queens?”

“What?” Mary Bennett said, a confused look crossing her face. “That's not what we're called.”

“But I thought…” Darla glanced at the banner on our float. “You're right. I misunderstood. You're the
Yammy
Queens.”

“That's
still
not right,” Tammy said. “You see, Patsy messed up the banner—”

“Wait a minute. I
like
the sound of the Sweet Potato Queens. After all, we
are
as sweet as tea,” I said.

Patsy nodded. “And we sure put away a lot of potatoes.”

“I think it's time for a change,” I said, “especially since we were such a big hit. As a matter of fact—”

“What in the hell do y'all think you were doing?” a red-faced Marcy Stevens said, flouncing over to our float in a long, formal white gown. She was the current Homecoming Queen, naturally. Her tiara was askew on her blond head.

“Excuse me,” Darla said to Marcy. “I'm trying to conduct an interview here, and—”

“Look at the five of you,” Marcy spat. “You've got a giant, a slut, a pansy, a maid, and a damn Yankee. What kind of Queens could you possibly be?”

Boy hidee. Marcy was ugly when she was mad. I couldn't believe how insignificant and puny she looked from my perch on the float. I looked that little hussy straight in the eye and with a regal sweep of my arm said, “We are the Sweet Potato Queens, and YOU are NOT!”

To my utter and everlasting surprise, Patsy stepped over to the float railing and smiled down at Marcy and said in a voice as sweet and Southern as you please, “You know, Marcy, hunny, little girls who look like YOU gen'lly have to be NICE—you ain't NEARLY good-lookin' enough to be such a fuckin' bitch.” And then, as if to punctuate it, Patsy turned her back to Marcy and let one fly—the magnificent Poot had returned.

There was just the briefest moment of stunned silence as we all processed what had just happened, and then I'd have to say it was your basic pandemonium after that. We all blew Coke out our noses (which also seemed aimed at the hapless yet despicable Marcy), laughing until I thought we would surely pee our pants—and prolly THAT would end up on Marcy, too. She appeared to levitate for a split second, making unintelligible spluttering noises, and then she attempted to whirl around to leave in a big huff but of course she forgot she had on that big white dress. It didn't whirl quite as fast as she did, so she ended up practically hog-tied in her own homecoming gown and was flailing around in the grass trying without success to free herself, yowling in fury.

Gerald, whose mama raised him to be a gentleman always, even to mean-ass bitches like the one we saw writhing beneath us, jumped down from the float to help her. We thought we were gonna have to rescue HIM from HER. She reached out and grabbed one of his pant legs and hand-over-handed herself up off the ground, snarling like a crazed beast all the way. It looked like she might do him great bodily harm until she realized that Darla was focusing her camera on the Homecoming Queen in all her somewhat sweaty glory. With a venomous look and a parting snarl, she stomped away.

Then Darla looked up at us as if we really were Royalty. She even made a little curtsy as she asked if we would please, please, please—she would do ANYTHING—just let her be a Sweet Potato Queen. And just like that—a dynasty was born.