WHAT EVERYONE KNOWS

    I turned right at Billy's pool hall. then left at God's Lighthouse and right again at Kathy's Kwality wigs, then drove down the road through the low water crossing and turned right at the dead end, putting me in the faculty parking lot of Little Whitetail High School where I'll be teaching a duel-credit-college class  this fall. The weather is nasty, but I was in luck: an empty space in the first row, near the back door to the school was empty

     I eased into the space, half opened my door, and turned to gather my equipment from the seat beside me--purse, umbrella, satchel of books and first-day hand-outs.

      "Ma'am." What sounds like  the voice of God boomed from above my half-open door. Startled, I jerk around, only to have my vision blocked by a large male torso. The head and shoulders were so close that was hard for me to see his face, but his voice continues in slow, measured syllables. "Ma'am,  you've parked in my secretary's place. These two spaces are for the principle and the secretary."

     My head bobbed like it was on a string as I look around to see if  there was something I missed. 

    "There isn't any sign," I protested.

     His voice went deep, "Everyone knows."

     I glanced out of my back window to see where else I might park, but, but I must not have been moving fast enough because the menacing voice addresses me again. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

     "I'm just trying to find out what spaces are available, " I explained. "Oh, God--what other local dignitaries might I offend? Who else had invisible dubs on choice parking spots?

     "They are all open," ma'am, the headless voice replied.

     Then why can't I stay where I am, runs through my mind, but instead, I just say "Oh," close my car door, and back out of the parking space. I settle into a nearby spot, and God knows who's parking space it is.

By the end of the day, there are were two laminated paper signs designating the principle and secretary's  parking places hanging from shiny new posts. 

The flip-flap-flapping held up through several perfunctory mild pitter-pats, but the signs finally blow away in a truly magnificent Thanksgiving gale, only to be replaced by metal signs

"Those signs are totally unnecessary," I told local teacher I'd become friends with. "I'm the only one who didn't know the local custom, and now I know not to park in those two spaces. Beside, I'm not even parked out back today. I couldn't get through the low water crossing so I parked in one of those yellow-striped spaces out front."

My friend's eyes bugged out in alarm. "Out front? Those spaces are reserved for the coaches and the controller!

"There aren't any signs," I protested.

My friend  looked at me in horror, "EVERYONE KNOWS!"

    

THIS IS A TRUE STORY, BUT SOMEHOW, I'M NOT TELLING IT RIGHT....