All day Saturday I had worked the mule carriage (my day job if you haven't heard by now) showing off my city to Super Bowl guests. Then Rock (the mule I'm driving these days) and I headed back toward the stable, threading through the throngs of football fans who were choking the narrow French Quarter streets, moving as quickly as we could without trampling anyone. Back at the barn I unharnessed Rock and put him in his stall; dropped the day's earning in the safe; hopped on my bike and pedaled furiously back through the crowded streets to the Bike Taxi Unlimited shop where I quickly changed into my uniform and set out on the big yellow tricycle just in time for the beginning of the 6 PM shift.
The money was flowing, which was nice because the last couple of months have been brutal. I worked through the night allowing myself just enough time to bike home for a quick shower and a 30-minute nap before biking back to the stable to work the carriage again on Sunday morning. That was the plan. As it turned out, I was about 15 minutes into what was supposed to have been that 30-minute nap when I got a phone call from an old friend in Kosovo. How was he to know? And what difference does 15 minutes make anyway?
All that to say that I was sleep deprived. It's important to mention that before I start to tell my story. I don't know exactly how things might have turned out if I had had a good night's sleep and all my wits about me, but I'm pretty sure that it would have been different.
Anyway, it was late in the afternoon on Super Sunday. I had done a few tours, but by this time the crowds were streaming up Decatur toward the Superdome, a counter current to the Mighty Mississippi just across the levee. Under different circumstances I might have been looking forward to watching the big game that evening, but on this occasion the thought didn't even enter my mind. All I wanted was sleep.
I was standing there by my buggy waiting for the word from my supervisor to head back to the barn, when a man walked up and asked, "How much to take my friends and me down to Canal? We just don't feel like walking."
I looked up at him. He was a couple inches taller than me, attractive, fit, about my age or maybe a few years older. I knew this guy from somewhere, I was pretty certain of that. But in my sleep-deprived state, I couldn't quite place who he was. We must have met before, but he wasn't showing any sign of recognizing me. Maybe it was an old friend testing me to see if I would remember him.
I hesitated, almost ready to say: "I'm really sorry. I know that we've met somewhere, but I can't quite place you. I'm Mark..."
But at the last second I aborted that plan and decided to simply address his question. Which raised another issue. I wasn't at all sure know how to address his question.
"Uh, we don't usually do drop-offs," I said. "I mean, I could take you if you want, but I would probably have to charge you for a full tour." This is company policy under normal circumstances, but we had been given a little bit more discretion over the last few days. I could have consulted with my supervisor, and he probably would have allowed me to offer this guy some kind of deal. The truth was that I wasn't sure I really wanted to.
He stood there waiting for my answer, and I began giving mumbled voice to the debate inside my head. "Traffic's really bad now. I don't even know how long it might take me to get down to Canal and back. And with everything so crowded it might be a little bit dangerous..." I trailed off, still unsure of myself. All the while in the back of my mind I was still thinking: Where do I know this guy from?
"How many of you are there?" I asked. If I was going to quote a price, I needed to know.
"Nine," he answered.
"Oh, well that settles it then," I said, relieved that the decision was made. "I can take a maximum of eight passengers. It's the law. It's for the protection of the mules."
"OK, thank you anyway," the man said as he turned to walk away.
I looked back and realized that the buggy driver behind me was grinning and pointing excitedly at his carriage. "Oh!" I said quickly. "It looks like my colleague would be willing to give you a ride if you'd like to go with him."
"Thanks, but that's OK," the man said. "We'll just walk."
Just as he and his friends passed out of earshot, I heard a stranger in the crowd comment, "Damn! If Joe Montana had asked me for a ride, I would have figured out a way to make it happen!"
Joe Montana?
JOE MONTANA!
I considered running after him, chasing him down, pleading with him to get on my carriage. But that impulse vanished as quickly as it had flared up. It was better to let him go, to preserve what was left of my dignity, to face the fact that I had blown my big chance.
Looking back on the incident, I've been consoling myself with the thought that even though I missed the chance to be the guy that gave Joe Montana a buggy ride, I ended up placing myself in another elite category: I'm the guy who told Joe Montana no. I'll bet it had been a long time since anybody did that.
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