What Was Your First Clue, Bubba?

Fort Lauderdale International Airport. Midnight. My hotel shuttle bus creeps along the front of the terminal, preparing to exit to the road. We pause at a stop sign. Nearby, five sideways-baseball-capped, unshaven, mouth-breathing Einsteins in baggy shorts are waiting for a vision. They look up at the van, on which is embossed an enormous letter "S" and the word SHERATON. They stare at the van for a long time. Then they yell out to the driver, through his open window, "Hilton?"

(Actually, it came out more like "Hill-in? You goin' to the Hill-in?")

And me without a two-by-four handy.