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Kings, Baby Dolls, Zulus, and Queens --3 from the Geddes and Moss Undertakers, always accompany him to the Royal Barge at the New Basin Canal and South Carrollton Avenue. Cannons are fired, automobile horns blast, throats grow hoarse acclaiming him. Many a white face laughs upward from the sea of black ones, strayed far from the celebration just coming to life down on Canal Street. There was suspense this morning. Impatient waiting! At last, about nine o'clock, a tugboat pushed the Royal Barge away from its resting place. Whistles shrieked. The horns and the applause of the admiring throng increased. The King took a swig from a bottle, yelled to one of his assistants, 'Listen, you black bastard, you can help me all you want, but don't mess 'round with my whiskey.' Then he turned and bowed graciously toward the shore. The other Zulus helped His Majesty greet the crowds. 'Hello, Pete. We is in our glory today.' 'What you say, black gal.' 'Ain't it fine?' Never have any of the Zulus been highhat. Ed Hill, one of the organization's overlords, said:

Kings, Baby Dolls, Zulus, and Queens --- 5 Gloom was in the air before Johnny Metoyer went to glory. He had been president and dictator of the organization for twenty-nine years, but had never chosen to be king until now. And this year he had announced his intention of being king, and then resigning from the Zulu Aid and Pleasure Club. This, everyone had agreed, probably meant disbanding. It just wouldn't be the same without ole John. Even the city officials were worrying. It seemed like the upper class of Negroes, had been working on Johnny, and had at least succeeded. The Zulus had no use for 'stuck-up niggers.' Thier membership is derived from the humblest strata, porters, laborers, and a few who live by their wits. Professional Negroes disapprove of them, clamiing they 'carry on' too much, and 'do not represent any inherent trait of Negro life and character, serving only to make the Negro appear grotesque and ridiculou, since they are neither allegoric nor historical.' When, in November, 1939, word came that Johnny Metoyer was dead, people wouldn't believe it. The news the night came, the Perdido Street barroom was packed. Representatives of the Associated Press, the United Press and hte local newspapers rubbed shoulders with Zulus, Baby Dolls and Indians. The atmosphere was deep, dark, and blue. Everybody talked at once. 'Ain't it a shame?' 'Poor John! He's gotta have a helluva big funeral.' 'Put him up right so his body can stay in peace for a long time to come.' Somebody started playing. 'When the Saints Come Marching In,' written by Louis 'Satchmo' Armstrong, MEtoyer's bosom friend. Then it is suggested that a telegram be sent to Armstrong. He's tooting his horn at the Cotton Club on Broadway, but it is felt he'll board a plane and fly down for the funeral. A doubt was voiced that any Christian church would accept the body for last rites. 'John was a man of the streets, who ain't never said how he stood on religion.' Probably, others left condiently, if there were enough insurance money left, one of the churhces would be persuaded to see things differently. Of course, he would be buried in style befitting a Zulu monarch. Members must attend in full regalia, Johnny's body must be carried

6 -- Gumbo Ya-Ya through headquarters, there must be plenty of music, coconuts on his grave. Maybe Mayor Maestri could be persuaded to proclaim the day a holiday in Zululand. But Johnny had a sister; Victoria Russell appeared on the scene and put down a heavy and firm foot. All attempts to make the wake coorful were foiled. 'Ain't nobody gonna make a clown's house out of my house,' said Sister Victoria Russell. Even the funeral - held on a Sunday afternoon, amid flowers and fanfare and a crowd of six thosuand -- was filled to disappointments. Louie Armstrong had not been able to make the trip down from New York. Sister Russell banned the coconuts and the Zulu costumes. At the Mount Zion Baptist Church Reverend Duncan mumbled his prayers in a whisper, peeping into the gray plush casket every now and then. He opened with a reprimand. 'Does you all know this is a funeral, not a fun-making feast?' A drunken woman in the church yelled: 'I knows. It brings a pitiful home.' Reverend Duncan went on, while pallbearers raised Zulu banners. 'In the midst of life we is in death.' Reverend Horace Nash knelt and prayed: 'Lawd, look at us. Keep the spirit alive thatm akes us bow down before you. Keep our hearts beating and our souls ever trustful today and tomorrow.' Somebody shouted, 'Don't breakdown, brother.' Outside waited a fourteen-piece brass band and eighteen automobiles. Thousands marched on foot. The band struck up 'Flee as a Bird,' and the cortege was on its way toward Mount Olivet Cemetery. Everyone was very solemn, and there was not a smile visible. All Zulus wore black banners draped across their chests and their shoulders. Then, after the hearse had vanished into the cemetery, the entire aspect of the marchers changed. The band went into 'Beer Barrel Polka,' and dancing hit the streets. Promenading in Mardi Gras fashion lasted two hours, ending in MEtoyer's own place of business, where the last liquor was purchased and consumed. Sister Russell, returning to the scene, then ordered all Zulus out.

Kings, Baby Dolls, Zulus, and Queens -- 7 Later a meeting was called in Johnny Metoyer's bedroom. His belongings had been removed, but his razor strop still dangled on one wall. A member, gazing at this sadly, remarked, 'John was the sahvingest man you wanted to see.' At thirty-eight Reverent Foster Sair opened with a prayer. 'Lawd, we is back within the fold of the man who caused us to be. We is sittin' here in his domicile. Help us never to forget John L. Metoyer. Let us carry on the spirit of our founder. O Lawd, preserve our club. Make it bigger and better. Let no evil creep into it. Amen.' Inspired by this, it was immediately decided that the ulus would 'carry on,' that there would be a parade this year, any way. Then Vice-President Charlie Fisher announced he was steppinginto the presidency, and that all other officers would advance in office in proper order. Definite insults followed from those who disapproved. 'Shut up!' someone admonished them. 'You is talkin' about the President now.' There was more argument and bickering in the meetings taht followed. Manuel Bernard, friend of Fisher, was at last chosen to be the 1940 king. AT this meeting the music box in the front bar wailed forth with 'The Good Morning Blues,' and dancers were kicking and stomping, twisting their supple bodies the way they felt. It disturbed the meeting a little, but someone said: 'Let the music play, 'cause the mournin' is over. We is all gotta do some flippin' around now.' So the Zulus didn't fade out after all, but marched in high style in 1940, and Manuel Bernard, rocking back and forth on the high throne of his float, was a proud and happy man. Finally the parade reached the City Hall and paused before the crowded stand. The white mayor wasn't present, but a representative recieved coconuts and a boy from his majesty. The band played 'Every Man a King,' Huey P. Long's song, and the dancing was wild. It was King Zulu's day. The next long stop was at Dryades and Poydras Streets. A proprietor wof a beer parlor at that intersection presented the King with a silver loving cup containing champagne. 'Damn, that's good,' said His Majesty, and smacked his lips.