“So you’re a journalist?” The question snaps me out of my hung-over trance. The landscape around Detroit Metro Airport isn’t terribly fascinating, but even the bleakest horizon is a welcome anchor for my primary senses while the parking shuttle trundles along as only domestic passenger vans are want to do.
I didn’t catch his name; my inquisitive chauffeur offered me a lift across DTW to the North terminal after passing me half a dozen times as I waited for the terminal-to-terminal shuttle—a brotherly gesture punctuating an otherwise inhospitable morning.
I don’t answer immediately. I prefer not to introduce myself as such, but I put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it blows a whistle that will further stoke the three-alarm Jack-and-Captain number that is still beating my nerve endings like bongo drums. Too deep. Too early.
“Nah, I’m a blogger,” I finally deliver in my most refined turn-that-freaking-sun-off-so-we-can-all-go-back-to-bed grunt. “I write for a Web site.”
“A blogger?” he responds as he pulls the shuttle into its stall and hops out to retrieve my bag. “What’s the difference?”
I hand him a fiver I’d plucked from my back pocket on my way to meet him behind the van.
“Journalists don’t tip. Thanks for the lift; I appreciate it.”