I travel a bit in my work. This often means that someone else is driving me.
Early on a Sunday morning, the sky is clear and the sun already bright. I listen to a tale my driver, Lance, tells me as we zoom North on I-405 from Laguna Niguel.
I often stand at LAX, waiting to pick up a passenger, Lance, a retired air force pilot, explains. I stand in the baggage claim area, hold up the name sign, and nobody sees me. They walk by, their faces glued to their smartphones. Yesterday, I saw a woman walk right by me five times. Back and forth.