A piece of frozen time

You might be surprised to learn that downtown Detroit, in the early morning sun, looks like a picture on a postcard. A lime green steeple climbs above Fort Street near the building where I work, and potholes gut the road, swallowing tires and giving drivers a nasty jolt that doesn't require any caffeine. Flags fly high on skyscrapers, and the man who runs the parking lot across the street from the newspaper motions me on with his hands. He finds the perfect spot - as the owner, he has the spacing down to an art - and directs me to come closer to him, back up, readjust and move closer to the car beside me. I'm afraid every morning that I'm going to hit him, because he stands so close to the truck as he is motioning, and every morning I park just fine, with his help, and he is fine.
This morning, he asked me about the newspaper, what I do there. I told him that I work on the Web site.
Full-time, or part-time? he asked. Part-time, I responded. It's an internship.
Do they pay well? he asked. Yes, I responded. They pay well. I'm very thankful for that.
He sits on a folding chair near a white booth just inside the wire gate and continues asking questions. I respond with answers, trying as best I can to explain what I do. It's not always easy. People often wonder whether I'm writing (as I matter of fact, I got to do a little today, and loved it), or if I'm going to be on TV one day.
It might be fun, I usually say, and I'd like to try it. But I like my newspaper, and I like the Web site.
When we are done talking, I tell the owner of the lot to have a good day, and I wave, and then I see that the 'Walk' sign is lit. I cross the street, and walk along a second parking lot, to the end of the one-way street. I look for traffic, step across the pool of water that is forming on the asphalt against the edge of the sidewalk (it rained on Thursday) and walk toward the shadow of the Detroit Free Press/Detroit News building. Generally, there are a few employees outside smoking and talking, and today is no different.
I enter through the sliding glass doors, my bright, yellow-and-blue badge with grinning mug pinned to the upper-right corner of my shirt. I motion to the security guard, and take a right, through the linoleum tiles and then the carpet that will lead me to the Web desk. I pass the copy editors and the graphics department.
Situated somewhere in the middle is the Web desk. I have arrived.