The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel by Jill Conner Browne Page B

later the four of us pulled into the parking lot at the Sleepy Time Motel.
    â€œWhat a dive,” Mary Bennett said as we took in the string of decrepit cinder-block buildings with peeling paint, the drained and mildewed pool, and the yellowed grass littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts. “If there’s anything worse than a lying jerk, it’s a cheap lying jerk.”
    â€œI’m going to find Tammy’s room,” I said, bounding out of the car as soon as it came to a stop. I heard the whine of a siren getting closer. “Y’all go to the office, and see if you can get a key.”
    I didn’t wait for a response, but instead ran around until I saw a faded “107” painted on a rusty metal door. It was slightly ajar.
    â€œTammy?” I said, pushing it open. The only light in the room came from an orange-shaded floor lamp in the corner. Tammy was stretched out on the bed, wearing her wedding dress. There was a foul odor and a bib-shaped vomit stain down the front of the dress.
    â€œTammy,” I said again, shaking her shoulders. Her nostrils flared as she took quick, shallow breaths. Panic fluttered in my belly when I saw that her lips and fingernails were a deep shade of blue. “Come on, Tammy! Wake up.”
    I heard footfalls behind me. Two male paramedics rushed into the small, dank room.
    â€œDo you know what she took?” asked one. He had to shout to be heard over the wheeze and rattle of the air conditioner.
    â€œSome kind of pills.” I spotted a small brown vial on the nightstand table, and pointed. “I bet this.”
    I stepped outside to let the paramedics do their work. The rest of the Queens approached me, accompanied by a scowling man with a basketball midsection.
    â€œDamn-it-to-hell,” he said, breathless from the short walk. “This ain’t good for business. Why’d your friend choose my motel to off herself?”
    â€œMaybe she got depressed staying in such a rat hole,” Mary Bennett said.
    â€œHe’s not worth the energy,” I said to her just as the paramedics were rushing out of the room with Tammy strapped to a gurney.
    â€œHow is she?” I asked as they passed.
    â€œHer vital signs are weak, but she’s alive,” the paramedic said briskly, as he and his partner loaded Tammy into the ambulance.
    A couple of other sleepy-eyed motel guests had come out of their rooms to see what the fuss was about.
    â€œThe lady fainted,” the owner said to them. His pockmarked skin was the color of Swiss cheese under the neon glow of the Vacancy sign. “Go back to your rooms. There’s nothing to see.”
    â€œCan I ride along?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the spinning red lights on top of the ambulance.
    â€œNot enough room,” said the same mustached paramedic who’d answered all my other questions. “But you can follow us to University Med Center.”
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    The Queens and I perched on the plastic chairs under the overly bright fluorescent lights of the emergency room waiting area. The pungent smell of rubbing alcohol and anesthetics made my nose run. I kept glancing at the entrance to the examining rooms, waiting for Tammy’s doctor to appear.
    â€œI’ve been reading the first paragraph of this article, ‘I Am Joe’s Prostate,’ for the last hour,” Mary Bennett said, tossing aside a year-old copy of Reader’s Digest .
    I nodded. None of us had been able to do much but stare into space.
    Two seats down, a baby with an arm wrapped in gauze shrieked while his mother tried to soothe him. He’d been crying on and off since they’d arrived.
    â€œI need to get out of here for a minute,” Gerald said, abruptly standing up. “I saw a vending machine in the hall. Can I get anybody anything?”
    â€œNot unless they have Scotch and water,” Mary Bennett said with a yawn. An unshaven, gin-doused old man who’d been