Marquette Street
The Day the Breeze Shifted
Eddie Marquette’s hotdog cart had seen better days—specifically, the days before half its paint peeled off and the mustard dispenser started wheezing like a depressed accordion. Still, it was his cart, and on most summer afternoons in New Orleans’ Jackson Square, Eddie pushed it along the cobblestones with the determination of a man who had resigned himself to small dreams and lukewarm sausages.
The heat was merciless that day, the kind that convinced tourists to buy anything cold, anything salty, anything within reach. Eddie was wiping sweat from his forehead with a napkin that had already given up absorbing moisture when a sudden gust of wind hissed through the live oaks, knocking over the tip jar. Eddie lunged for it, slipped on the cobblestones, and collided with the side of the cart, which lurched forward like it had places to be.
The rogue hotdog cart rolled straight toward a lavishly dressed woman feeding pigeons. Eddie scrambled up, sprinting after it, yelling, “SORRY—IT’S GOT A MIND OF ITS OWN!” The cart stopped just short of the woman’s feet, but the momentum launched a single hotdog bun into the air. It spun like a confused frisbee and landed perfectly in her lap.
Eddie froze. The woman stared down at the bun. Then she laughed—an elegant, ringing sound that made nearby tourists assume she was someone important. She lifted her sunglasses, revealing sharp, amused eyes.
“My, my,” she said. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
Eddie, panting, wiped his hands on his apron. “Ma’am, I swear it don’t usually do that. Not most days anyway.”
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” Eddie replied honestly, “but you seem real understanding about airborne bread products.”
She laughed again and handed him a business card—sleek, gold-edged, the kind Eddie assumed only bankers or magicians used.
“You come find me, Mr. Marquette,” she said. “I think I have a proposition you’ll want to hear.”
Eddie blinked down at the card, unsure whether he’d just been praised, flirted with, warned, or recruited into some secret bun-related society. But when he looked up, the woman was already strolling away, pigeons scattering in her wake like she commanded even the birds.
He scratched his head, returned to his cart, and went back to selling hotdogs—blissfully unaware that the gust of wind, the runaway cart, and the airborne bun had just knocked open the door to the biggest opportunity of his life.
The heat was merciless that day, the kind that convinced tourists to buy anything cold, anything salty, anything within reach. Eddie was wiping sweat from his forehead with a napkin that had already given up absorbing moisture when a sudden gust of wind hissed through the live oaks, knocking over the tip jar. Eddie lunged for it, slipped on the cobblestones, and collided with the side of the cart, which lurched forward like it had places to be.
The rogue hotdog cart rolled straight toward a lavishly dressed woman feeding pigeons. Eddie scrambled up, sprinting after it, yelling, “SORRY—IT’S GOT A MIND OF ITS OWN!” The cart stopped just short of the woman’s feet, but the momentum launched a single hotdog bun into the air. It spun like a confused frisbee and landed perfectly in her lap.
Eddie froze. The woman stared down at the bun. Then she laughed—an elegant, ringing sound that made nearby tourists assume she was someone important. She lifted her sunglasses, revealing sharp, amused eyes.
“My, my,” she said. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
Eddie, panting, wiped his hands on his apron. “Ma’am, I swear it don’t usually do that. Not most days anyway.”
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” Eddie replied honestly, “but you seem real understanding about airborne bread products.”
She laughed again and handed him a business card—sleek, gold-edged, the kind Eddie assumed only bankers or magicians used.
“You come find me, Mr. Marquette,” she said. “I think I have a proposition you’ll want to hear.”
Eddie blinked down at the card, unsure whether he’d just been praised, flirted with, warned, or recruited into some secret bun-related society. But when he looked up, the woman was already strolling away, pigeons scattering in her wake like she commanded even the birds.
He scratched his head, returned to his cart, and went back to selling hotdogs—blissfully unaware that the gust of wind, the runaway cart, and the airborne bun had just knocked open the door to the biggest opportunity of his life.