True Short Story

EVERYONE BUT ME

I turn right at Joe Bob's pool hall, left at God's Lighthouse, right again at Della's Quality Wigs, then proceed down the bumpy country road, navigate the low-water crossing, and turn in at the end of the asphalt, putting me in the faculty parking lot of Little Whitetail High School, where I'll be teaching a dual-credit college class this fall.
     The weather is nasty, but I'm in luck--there's an empty space near the back door of the school. I ease into it carefully, half open my door, then turn to gather my umbrella, purse, satchel of books, and first-day hand-outs.
     The voice of God booms over my door.
     "Ma'am."
     Startled, I jerk around, only to have my vision blocked  by a large male torso, the head and shoulders of which are above my view.
     "Ma'am, you're parked in my secretary's space." The man waves at the parking area. "These two places are for the principle and the secretary. Everyone knows.
    My head bobbles like it's on a string as I look back and forth to see what I missed.
   "There aren't any signs," I say as I glance out of my back window to see where else I can park, but I must not be moving fast enough because the voice addresses me again.
     "Everyone knows."
     "Oh."
      I glance around for another open spot.
      The voice is getting irritated. "May I help you , ma'am?"
     "I'm just trying to figure out what spots are open."
     "They're all open, ma'am."
     "Oh."
     If they're all open, then why can't I stay where I am? runs through my head, but I accept my fate, say Oh in acknowledgment, close my door, back out of the secretary's space, and park in the back row in God-only-knows whose-else's space. A gray-haired woman pulls in beside me, glares, and dings my door as she gets out of her car.
    When I return to the parking lot at the end of the day, there are now two new, bright and shiny, metal posts from which are hanging two new, bright and shiny, laminated paper signs identifying the parking spots of the principal and his secretary.
     The laminated paper signs flip-flap through several perfunctory autumn storms, then blow away in a truly magnificent Thanksgiving gale. The next week, they are replaced by new, bright and shiny, metal signs.
     "These signs are totally unnecessary," I tell another teacher. "I was the only one who didn't know where not to to park, and now I do. Besides, I'm not even in the lot today. I couldn't get through the low-water crossing so I took one of those yellow-striped places out front."
    "Out front? " she gasps. " Those spaces are reserved for the coaches!"
    I stand my ground. "There aren't any signs."
    She gives me an astonished stare.
    "Everyone knows."




































     "Those signs really aren't necessary anymore," I remarked to one of the high school teachers. "I'm the only one who didn't know where I was supposed to park, and now I do. Besides, I'm not even using the lot out back today. I couldn't get through the low-water crossing so I took one of those yellow-striped places out front."
   Her eyes widened with horror.
  "Out front? Those spaces are reserved for the coaches!"
   I gazed at her in confusion.
  "But there aren't any signs."
  "Everyone knows!"