“Nice to meet you, Nelly,” I say and pull the cheap suitcase I bought off Groupon for fifty bucks toward the sidewalk. “But it’s actually Greer.”
“What is?” She raises one of her bushy gray eyebrows.
“My name,” I explain in the friendliest voice I can manage. “It’s pronounced Greer.”
At a whopping five letters, it’s one of the simplest names in the greater New Orleans area. Thanks to a heavy Creole influence, I went to school with a Fabienne and an Adelaida and a Eulalie, and Nelly’s having trouble with Greer.
She must be new to the area.
“Oh, sorry about that,” she responds, and her smile turns apologetic. “Greer-er.”
“Greer.”
“Gree-ware,” she tries again.
Screw it. As long as she gets me to the airport in time for my flight, Nelly can call me whatever she can get past her tongue.
“You got it.” I force a smile and stop beside the hatch to the cargo area, but she gestures me toward the back-passenger door.
“Sorry, but the back is filled with stuff for my horses.”
I blink three times as if that simple movement might help me hear better.
Did she just say stuff for horses?
Living inside the city that hosts Mardi Gras, it’s safe to say I’ve experienced some pretty insane Uber rides, but I can’t deny this is the first time horses and stuff for horses have ever been an obstacle.
“So, if you don’t mind,” Nelly continues. “You can put your suitcase in the back seat and sit in the front.” She takes my bag from my hands. “I mean, you’re a petite little thing and could probably fit in the back with your luggage, but I figure you’ll be more comfortable up front.”
To be honest, I might be most comfortable if I called a new Uber, but I’m already running significantly behind schedule and have zero time to question the contents of her trunk.
Anyway, as long as it’s not an actual horse or a dead body or a dead horse body, we’re all set.
Once my suitcase is securely in her back seat and we’re both seat-belted into the front, Nelly pulls away from my place and out onto the main road.
Instantly, our drive has a soundtrack that includes the sounds of swishing and swashing coming from the cargo area. It’s like a sound machine, only it’s not raindrops or the ocean but some mysterious fluid.
And whatever it is, there’s a lot of it.
There’re not, like, jugs of gasoline back there, are there?
No way. That’d be ridiculous. She said it was for her horses. I’m no veterinarian, but I’m pretty certain they’re powered by hoofs and hearts. Not fossil fuels.
“Beautiful day, right?” Nelly asks, her eyes not on the road and staring directly at me.
I mutter a simple uh-huh and bury my face in my phone, hopeful that’ll encourage her to keep her eyes focused on driving and possibly save me from hearing about the history of the hoof or something similar.
But it’s hard to scroll through Amy Schumer’s Instagram page when my driver is speed-racing through yellow lights and fucking up the flow of traffic.
I look up to find my driver glancing around at the scenery like it’s a fucking Sunday morning walk.
“Oh! Look! It’s the new Target!” she exclaims and takes one hand off the wheel to point toward the right side of the road. “If you haven’t had a chance to check it out, you definitely should, Greer-ware! They even have a Starbucks inside.”
It’s not so much that my Uber driver is distracted but more I don’t think she is aware that she’s actually driving.
“Oh, uh, watch out!” The words tumble out of my mouth on instinct, and I point toward the vehicle right beside us. The one she’s mere inches away from side-swiping because, apparently, Nelly is an “I’m going to use all the fucking lanes” kind of broad.
“Hey there, buddy!” She honks her horn and jerks her wheel to the right. “Bastards don’t know how to drive!”
Simply put, her driving isn’t exactly aces, and I’m gripping the edge of my seat before we even reach the highway.
And, sadly for me, the ride doesn’t get any smoother.
The road is apparently a deterrent for Nelly’s eyes. Her foot consists of lead. Her turns are rough at best, and she sticks with the mind-set that everyone on the road but her is a terrible driver.
“What the hell!” she shouts toward the car in front of us. The car that she cut off no less than two minutes prior, mind you. “For goodness’ sake, no one can drive today!”
I grip the edge of my seat tighter and close my eyes and start chanting namaste in my head.
But my attempt at finding solace and calm is brief at best. I pop my eyes wide open when my body is catapulted toward the passenger door as Nelly takes a sharp left turn and accelerates onto the highway.
Whoa, Nelly.
All the while, the swooshing from the back turns into the equivalent of Niagara Falls, and I white-knuckle the handle above the passenger door and glance toward my driver. “What did you say you have in the back again?”
Please don’t say gasoline. Please don’t say gasoline.
“Two big tanks of water for my horses,” she answers like it’s the most normal thing in the world and switches lanes without the use of her blinker. A horn honks behind us, but Nelly gives zero fucks about other drivers’ horns. “I was at my mom’s place this morning, and I always get my water from there because it’s cheaper. She has a well.” She grins over at me. “And since I’m planning on seeing my horses after my morning Uber shift, I figured what the hell. Might as well kill two birds with one stone today.”
Metaphorical birds might not be the only thing she kills today.
On the bright side, I suppose, if I never make it to the airport, I won’t have to worry about my interview with Turner Properties.
Hah. My anxiety must be at a new, all-time high if I’m considering the possibility of death as an upside.
Yeah. But that’s because things are looking pretty damn grim from where I sit.
Even though I have plenty of happy return clients and referrals for small bathroom renovations or sunroom decoration available for work, the profit margin on those kinds of jobs is barely enough to keep my doors open for a month or two.
I need a large-scale job with notoriety and name recognition, and the new Vanderturn New Orleans hotel is it. The outcome of this interview is the difference between struggling to stay open for another thirty days without bankrupting myself and setting up my firm to thrive.
My stomach spasms.
Yeah, no pressure or anything.
Instantly, my stress level skyrockets, and Nelly’s driving only gets worse.
Not to mention, she keeps talking to me.
It’s the longest twenty minutes anyone has ever experienced, and all I can do is hold on for dear life and answer her questions. The last thing I want to do is upset her and cause some sort of accident.
Honestly, I never would’ve thought drowning was an actual possibility in a motor vehicle collision, but here I am, inside Nelly’s water bed on wheels.
By the time she pulls the Equinox into the airport entrance, I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes a good seven times, and I’ve run the conversational equivalent of a marathon.