“Thanks, little lady.” The fellow pats my shoulder. “You be safe out here.”
“Yes, sir!” I nod, waiting as they climb out and get their footing.
A new ride lights up on my screen, and I quickly accept it. It’s a five-star older woman, booking a ride from Antoine’s restaurant to one of the nicer hotels on Canal Street. I anticipatea lot of stop-and-go traffic getting in and out of the Quarter.
Turns out the woman has a little girl with her, who carries a pink football along with her pink dress, and her fawn-brown hair is styled in matching pigtails.
“You played football?” the little girl calls from the backseat after I took a chance and told her a bit about my history with the sport.
“I sure did.” I meet her eyes in my rearview mirror with a smile. “They called me the Quarterback Princess because I was obsessed with this old movie where a girl played quarterback on her high school football team.”
“I remember that one,” the older lady, who I assume is her grandmother, says. “Wasn’t Helen Hunt the quarterback princess?”
“She was!” I laugh.
“How in the world did you find that old show at your age?” Grandmother Moreau asks.
The rideshare app told me her last name isMoreau, but I’m still guessing on thegrandmotherpart.
“My friend’s dad let us watch it on YouTube.” I fondly remember how completely blown my three-year-old mind was by the possibility I could be a princessanda quarterback.
“Still, it’s a stretch from watching a movie to playing football in real life,” the woman notes.
“Yeah, I think I knew even as a little girl it was reaching for the impossible, but I always loved football. Then I saw Helen Hunt on the field.”
“Who’s Helen Hunt, Nana?” The little girl is on her knees between the seats, putting her small hand on the lady’s shoulder.
“You need to buckle up, now,” I caution gently. “If I had to slam on breaks, you’d fly through the windshield like a field goal.”
The little girl’s eyes widen, and she hops into her seat again, pulling the belt across her lap and shoulders. “Are you the quarterback princess, Miss…”
“Melody,” I supply, not worried about giving my name to two complete strangers in the French Quarter.
Everybody talks to strangers in New Orleans. As they say inA Streetcar Named Desire, it’s a city built on the kindness of strangers. It knows no bounds when it comes to interacting with others.
“Miss Melody,” the little girl finishes.
“That’s what they called me when I was your age. The Quarterback Princess.”
“And now you’re an Uber driver.” Her grandmother’s voice holds a warning.
I don’t think she’s trying to dunk on me. I imagine she’s more trying to caution her granddaughter against getting something outlandish in her head like pursuing a career in football.
“Actually, Iwasa sports podcaster, but I’m kind of in between jobs at the moment. My friend thought I could do this until I found something new.”
I don’t mention the second overdue rent notice sitting on my dining room table. It’s the whole reason I’m out here taking as many rides as I can tonight. Anxiety tightens the base of my throat, but I do my best not to let it show. It doesn’t help with tips.
“What’s a sportspodcaster?” Nana asks.
“It’s like a sports journalist, but streaming.” I can tell she still doesn’t understand. “It’s like a radio show where we break down the weekly games. I worked with my friend Susan… until we had a sort of disagreement on our approach to interview subjects.”
“What type of disagreement?”
If I were anywhere but here, I’d think she was prying, butI opened this can of worms. I can’t fault her wanting to know more.
Or I don’t know, maybe I want to talk about it, get it off my chest, only not with people I know. A complete stranger won’t judge, and I can speak freely.
“Susan thought we would get higher ratings if we took more of a shock approach with the questions.”
