AWOL

Who does Mr. Piggly Wiggly think he is, blowing off the Memphis holiday parade like that?

by ASHLEY FANTZ

PHOTO BY ASHLEY FANTZ

A winged pig representing Memphis barbecue drifted snout-first down Second Street during the city’s annual Christmas parade.

“Where’s the pig?”

The man wearing an Event Staff rain slicker is growing impatient. He squints underneath a navy baseball cap and grips his walkie talkie.

“Just keep your eyes open for him,” he says. “He’s pretty big, kinda ugly, and, I hear, very demanding.”

The pig -- Mr. Piggly Wiggly -- that elusive swine slated to be one of the stars of the annual Memphis holiday parade is a no-show. Worried parade officials pace around, exchanging fruitless ten-fours. It doesn’t take long for rumors to circulate.

There is talk on the toy soldier float that Wiggly is probably stuck in traffic, commuting from his Germantown estate. The crew from Phantom 96.1 says they saw him at the High Point Pinch downing mudslides. Panic spreads when it gets around that Jack Belz is holding the pork icon hostage in a desperate attempt to get Mr. Wiggly to relocate his chain to Front Street’s failed City Grocery. And no one has seen the Rendezvous people for at least an hour.

Others are pretty ba-hum-bug about the portly trademark.

“He’s always had an attitude,” says Sherry, a high-school stepper.

It is 10 minutes before showtime. Children line Second Street from Exchange to Linden. Little ones perch on their parents’ shoulders. Bundled in scarves, mittens, and hats with those dangerously cute pouf balls, the children do not yet know that throwing candy is strictly forbidden this year for still-unclear reasons. Crowd control is partially the pig’s responsibility. Parade officials were betting Wiggly’s guy-in-a-pigsuit shtick might distract the children before they discover the candy ban and start a riot.

Some suggest that Wiggly’s lack of punctuality implies that he is tired of playing second fiddle to the chronically jolly fat guy.

But glory comes to those take pride in their supporting roles.

The inflatable 60-foot Bengal Tiger and the winged barbecue pig give bloated a regal air. Parade organizers from Memphis in May are counting on these enormous balloons to gracefully duck power lines and give the parade a Macy’s Day sophistication.

And who wouldn’t give credit to the Memphis Fire Department’s waving dalmatian? Always accepting of his bit parts, the dog has a reputation for working the crowd like an overzealous Shriner.

However -- and forever -- Santa Claus is the star. He consistently draws the crowds and always receives top billing. His team of lilliputian assistants have worked for centuries with their fat, jolly boss, and they know how to keep him happy. They have already stocked the sleigh with Evian and space heaters. Wolf Gang Puck has flown in cookies made of Alsatian chocolate, Berliner Kranzer, and, befitting the locale, Dixie sugar cookies.

But where the hell is Wiggly?

I call the Piggly Wiggly on Madison to find out. I talk to Mark, the store manager.

“Do you know where the Mr. Wiggly is?”

“Um … no,” Mark answers. “But I can give you a number to call. But I wouldn’t count on getting a reply until Monday. You will be called by a Ms. Mitchell.”

“Who’s that? His agent?” I ask.

Mark wouldn’t tell me who Ms. Mitchell is or whether she represents Mr. Wiggly. But he assures me, “She has all the answers” to any questions I have about Piggly Wiggly.

The parade is about to start. Someone suggests I call Shaboygan, Wisconsin -- Piggly Wiggly headquarters. I think they are kidding, but I dial anyway.

No answer. Maybe under his new contract, Wiggly’s not required to work weekends either.

During the desperate last seconds before the floats cruised down Second, no one has heard a word about the shoat. Yvonne on the Kwanzaa float doesn’t know where he is. Steadying a giant elephant head on a toy float, Rachel and Kevin say they haven’t seen Wiggly either. Amy of the Mid-South Volkswagon Club knows what Mr. Wiggly looks like and suspects that she has “seen him somewhere.” Testifying to Wiggly’s character, Amy says the icon was scheduled to ride in the back of a Volkswagon bug during the Lakewood parade two weeks ago, but by the time club members got there, Wiggly was already in the back of someone else’s truck.

That backstabbing pig.

Knowing that the parade must go on, floats inch down the street accompanied by the heart-jolting drum beats of 100 high school bandmembers. I jump on an antique fire engine carrying peppermint-armed members of Memphis Interfaith Association. A red banner proclaiming the arrival of the Piggly Wiggly Pig is crumpled on the floor. It’s good for shelter when it begins to rain again. As the parade ends and the sun comes out, no one seems to notice that Memphis’ number-one grocery store sow hasn’t delivered the kind of performance for which he is respected. Unusual for a city that often prefers its pork well done.

You can e-mail Ashley Fantz at ashley@memphisflyer.com.