Jiving Miss Daisy

Plaquemine is a city of roughly 7,100 people located in Iberville Parish, Louisiana.

I had never heard of the place until recently and I have since learned that the city, which is also the parish seat, hosts an annual International Arcadian Festival that draws people from all over the world.

Plaquemine is also known for a number of antebellum structures, and is the birthplace of the jazz pianist and composer Clarence Williams, who recorded such classics as “I Can’t Dance, I’ve Got Ants in My Pants,” and “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You, Rascal, You.”

But I know of Plaquemine because it is apparently the home of Daisy Louise Tendergrass.

I recently connected with Miss Tendergrass while researching a story about a large company, which I will not name, that is in deep financial trouble due to the coronavirus pandemic.

I wanted to get into touch with a particular industry analyst but I had virtually nothing in the way of contact information except for his Twitter account.

I almost never use Twitter, despite its massive popularity.

It seems like every other week some celebrity or political figure will say something crass or stupid and then be forced to apologize, pull down the tweet, and usually shut down their account.

I’ve got enough aggravation with Facebook and Instagram—I should ask for more?

And now with this idiot in the White House, I have really come to dislike this particular platform.

However, on this day I was stuck, so I left a message on the analyst’s Twitter account asking to call me at his earliest convenience. And that was the end of that. Or so I thought.

My boss also said he would patch me in with other sources for the story. All I needed was one of two and we could nail down the story.

My phone rang about 15 minutes later and when I answered, this rather strange voice poured into my ear. I noticed Plaquemine, LA., as the caller’s hometown and wrongly, as it turned out, assumed my boss had referred her to me.

“Hey, Rob, how the hell are ya?”

Okay, not the usual greeting, but maybe this person is a bit of a free spirit. I pressed on.

“Could I have your name?”

“Miss Daisy Louise Tendergrass.”

I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, so I asked her to repeat name, noting that I have a hearing problem.

“OKAY, I’LL TRY TO SPEAK UP!”

That I heard. Pressing on, I asked her for affiliation, what company she worked for.

“I can’t legally disclose that information.”

“Well,” I said, “then I can’t quote you.”

“Why not?

“People will want to know who you are.”

“Exactly,” she said, “and that’ll cause investigative journalism to happen on your part, and you can unravel, who is Daisy Tendergrass.”

You know, interviewing can be a lot like dating. You really want to believe the person you’re speaking with is sane and helpful.

And sometimes you might ignore some early warning signs in hopes of getting that killer quote.

Get Me Rewrite!

But make no mistake. I was getting quite uncomfortable and it had nothing to do with ants in my pants. It was Daisy making me crazy.

“What is your title?”

“Phd.”

“Really…?”

“I would not lie to you, sir.”

Of course, you wouldn’t…

“Where do you work?”

“I work for the morgue.”

“As where dead people go?”

“Indeed.”

Now keep in mind, I still thought this person was an expert in her field and that my editor had given her my contact information.

“Sir, are you judging me right now?”

Me, judge you? Oh, gosh, no. That’s for the folks at the state mental ward to do.

“What do you think about this company?”

“I think it’s not very good

“Do you want to elaborate?”

“It’s not good.”

And then there comes that moment in both dating and interviewing when you have to pull the plug and send this carcass off to the morgue with a rousing chorus of “I’ll be Glad When You’re Dead, You, Rascal You.”

“Well, I really appreciate your time on this,” I said. “And we’ll talk to you soon.”

I hung up and shot off a message to my boss demanding to know who this lunatic was and why he had given her my number.

“She was stoned, for Christ’s sake!” I Slacked at the top of my voice.

“What are you talking about?!?” was his response.

Really? Then I remembered that message I left on the analyst’s Twitter account.

Apparently, this person had nothing else better to do than dial a random number she saw on Twitter and harass a total stranger.

Paranoia started to take over. If one nut called me, would there be others? Is there a field of daisies just waiting to crank call me into the next millennium?

I finally got in touch with the analyst and finished the story. I never heard from Miss Daisy again.

I’m looking forward to the day when the pandemic passes and we can travel again without fear.

I have a long list of places I want to visit, but I’m in no rush to visit Plaquemine any time soon.