by Monroe, Max
After a night of going over my company’s books, there’s nothing I want to do less than make up stories to entertain some stranger with a lot of questions this early in the morning.
Nelly in a silver Chevrolet Equinox is here.
The Uber notification thankfully says nothing about Nelly’s conversational skills, but I have no idea what an Equinox is. The last time I had a car was never, and the last time I was interested in them was sometime before that.
I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life, and most everything I’ve done has been possible on foot, on public transportation, or via taxi.
And now that ride services are a thing, I just pretend I’m rich enough to have personalized chauffeurs all the time.
Which, after what Hudson Designs’ accounting records had to say last night, I am not. If those fuckers get any redder, the New Orleans homicide division will be confiscating them as evidence.
Thankfully, though, when I open my front door and drag my suitcase over the threshold, my driver is out of her vehicle and introducing herself.
“Gree Hudson, right? I’m Nelly.” She flashes a toothy grin my way and crosses her arms below her chest, revealing a giant, sparkly-silver horse head on her white t-shirt.
“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.
I know the names of all five of her horses, her retired parents’ favorite vacation spots, and that her sister Marion makes her money by selling homemade scarves on Etsy.
Once she pulls the SUV to a stop at the departure curb, I hop out with about six times as much energy as the carcass formerly known as my body feels, but also, I hop the hell out.
Five stars. That’s what you do with Uber, right? Just be thankful you arrived at your intended destination alive? What the fuck do I know.
I’m tempted to get on my knees and kiss the concrete, but my body isn’t up for that kind of physical challenge. My legs and lower back ache as I yank my suitcase out of the back seat, and a sigh escapes my lungs of its own accord.
I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and put away in one of Nelly’s water tanks.
Simply put, my mood is shit.
My business is failing. I’ve had zero sleep. And I’m headed to New York for the biggest interview of my life.
But I put on a smile for Nelly’s sake. It’s not one hundred percent her fault I’m such a bitch today. I mean, she could’ve not been such a shitty driver or asked me so many questions or told me her whole life story, but still, she is just a woman trying to earn a living and keep her horses hydrated.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say and grip the handle to my luggage with my right hand. Thank you for not killing me.
“Have fun in New York, Gree-ware! And good luck with Hudson Designs!” She offers a little wave and a big ole grin before hopping back into her SUV.
And not even a minute later, she sloshes her way back toward the highway.
Good luck with Hudson Designs, her words repeat in my mind.
Yeah. Pretty sure I need a hell of a lot more than luck, Nelly.
Hudson Designs is my baby. The company I birthed from my proverbial womb. It is my pride. My passion. And the biggest reason my shoulders feel like I’m walking around with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hanging on, piggyback-style.
Normally, I have nothing against The Rock.
He’s big. He’s handsome. And if I had to smell what he was cooking, I’d venture to guess it would have an aroma of success and a multimillion-dollar bank account.
But his weight perched on my shoulders is no fucking joke, and everything I’ve ever worked for is at risk of crashing into the fiery pits of hell if I crumble under it.
It’s almost hard to believe it all went so wrong.
When I graduated college, I was practically high off excitement over the possibility of future success. I mean, I had landed a huge internship turned full-time employment with Clarise Beaumont, one of the foremost interior designers on the Gulf Coast.
It was a big fucking deal, and in my naïve eyes, success skyrockets were already in flight.
After a few years working under her, I realized how impressive her work ethic and accomplishments were—and how much better they could be if I’d done them my way.
Eventually, I opened my own firm, motivated and hopeful about what opportunities being in business for myself could bring. And for the first couple of years, I chalked any and all hard times up to getting started. I had a client base to build, infrastructure to get in place. A few bumps in the road were more than understandable—they were expected.
Unfortunately, the next few years didn’t improve.
The design business isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, and everyone in the industry has taken a hit.
But when you’re a one-woman show like me, there’s a lot more overhead involved in making suppliers happy by taking sample stock at wholesale cost and keeping the daily operations of the office running.
Other than my assistant, Rosaline—who I had to let go three months ago—I couldn’t afford to keep a staff for the work I couldn’t spend my time doing personally. As a result, I had to outsource most of it, and the markup on the cost doubled.
And the bottom line of my books this morning confirms what I already knew—without a miracle, the last five years of my life might as well have been for nothing.
I haven’t dated, I haven’t traveled. I haven’t even been to the Cheesecake Factory they built at the mall. All I’ve done is work, desperate to build something I’m proud of, and now it could be over.
My lip quivers unexpectedly, and I grind the gears in my mind straight into reverse.
Do not cry, Greer. Breaking down on the sidewalk of the New Orleans airport is not acceptable.
Besides, other than the whole my business is failing thing, today isn’t all bad.
For one, I didn’t die in Nelly’s Equinox, and secondly, New Orleans is playing its most impressive hand of cards on what should be a cold winter day. The sun is surprisingly strong, and it makes my skin feel crisp, like I could crease it down the middle to match my slacks.
It feels good. Warm. Cozy.
This is my favorite city. The place I grew up. The place I started my business. My home.
And today, I’m minutes away from seeing my best friend Emory and flying first class to New York with her, courtesy of her family’s money. They have old money, new money—all the fucking money—and Emory never flies anywhere in the back of the plane.
Luckily for me, she also doesn’t like to fly alone, and her boyfriend is already there.
The loose wheel on my bargain luggage clatters behind me as I drag it up the ramp to the automatic door and inside the bright lights of the ticket area of Louis Armstrong International Airport.
People scurry back and forth around me in varying states of distress, but it’s there, in the center of the chaos, that I find Emory, waving wildly from her spot in front of a pile of Louis Vuitton luggage.
Her red hair is so big, it’s got to be full of something—I’m guessing money—and her signature blood-red lips pop against her ivory skin. She’s got a look all her own, and each detail is centered around making her light blue eyes look misty gray.
I know this ridiculous information because she told me one night when we were a bottle deep in wine.
“Greeeeer!” she yells, obnoxiously enough that everyone in the vicinity turns to look.
My cheeks burn and sting as I make my way toward her reluctantly, avoiding any and all eye contact from the curious gazes she’s garnered due to her big fat mouth.
I am a people person who kind of hates people. A conundrum in any country, on any day, in any language, but all the more complicated when you do what I do for a living.
But the work is what I love. The art, the creativity—the chance to do something different with each and every design.
It’s what gives me life.
“Hello, hello,” I greet as I pull my bag to a stop next to her five, and I smooth a hand down my wrinkled blouse and slacks. “Have you been here long?”
Automatically, her eyes engage, sliding into their default setting whenever I am around—an intensely obvious roll. And I can’t even really blame her.
Her palate is refined, her heart is endlessly open, her workweek consists of occasionally going into the office to do god only knows what at one of her family’s successful marketing firms, and her idea of discount shopping is a sale at Bergdorf’s. I eat ramen at least two times a week, avoid men at nearly all costs, spend eighty hours a week in my office, and splurge at Target. But when it comes to personality, I am, without a doubt, the high-maintenance one of the two of us.
“You know I have. You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Well,” I respond. “I think we should
both just be happy I didn’t drown.”
She scrunches up her nose. “What?”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “And I’m twenty minutes late from the time you told me. Which is exactly what I always am. You know this, you’ve known this for years, and you should totally be able to factor that into your arrival time. So, really, it’s like you’re early.”
She guffaws, and I transition my smirk into a smile. “You only have yourself to blame.”
“Sometimes I really hate you.”
I wave off the comment as if it is no more than a buzzing fly. “Yes, but that’s nothing new either. And yet, you keep coming back for more.”
Emory and I have been friends for what seems like forever—we’re talking since tutus and closet costumes and an innocence the world had yet to crush. With only the all-male influence of my grandfather and my brother to guide me after my parents died, I clung to Emory like a female beacon of hope.
“Must be brainwashed.”
“Hmm…” I pause for a moment and grin at her. “Pretty sure if I were going to brainwash you, I’d definitely use it for something other than this. Like convincing you to give me all of your money.”
She rolls her “misty gray” eyes. “Why is it I wanted you to fly with me again?”
“My wit and charm, mostly.”
“No. It’s definitely not that.”
I pretend to purse my lips thoughtfully. “My delicately angelic good looks?”
“No.”
“My—”
“Oh, right. I have no other friends. That’s why.”
“I wonder why that is. Maybe you need to reevaluate how demanding you are,” I say sarcastically. Sarcastic or not, Emory’s glare is hotter than a thousand suns. “I’m joking, E. Geez. You’re a gem. The purest form of—”
“Shut up, Greer.”
“Fine,” I say with a laugh. “Go on, lecture me. I know that’s what you’ve been waiting on.”
“I’m not going to lecture you.”
I scoff. “Sure, you’re not.”
“Well, if you don’t want me to lecture you, you could at least show up in clothes that don’t look like you slept in them. Did you even shower this morning?”