The Little Man

Part 1

"No Parking 6am-6pm Mon-Sat"

reads the sign through the still rain drops. I look down at my dashboard and the time reads 4:36. I sigh and look back out the windshield, my hands hanging limply on the steering wheel. I look back at the sign, almost expecting it to tell me that its okay and that I can park here. There is a little man in a small suit sitting on the sign so that his left foot covers the "o" in "No". We sit and blink at each other for awhile. After a few moments, he gets up and carefully balances on the edge of the sign. He grabs his briefcase, puts his hat back on top of his head and turns away from me. His right foot moves forward and he steps off the sign. I put the car into park.

I look over to the passenger seat, grab my apron, and tie it around my waist. When I put my hands back on to the steering wheel, they grip the leather so tight that my bones shine from underneath my skin. I take in a deep breath. When it starts to hurt from holding it for so long, I let out a long scream and shake the steering wheel. I can feel my face grow red from the volume of anger in my body but I eventually run out of breath. I look at myself in the rear view mirror, tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear, smile with a lot of teeth, and turn off my car. 

Once I'm in the street, I forget to lock my doors and walk towards the restaurant. I can smell the marinara from a block away and I can see the red Christmas lights from space, probably. My hands are buried deep inside my apron, using my wine key to pick at the dirt under my nails. Because I'm so focused on my nails, I trip a little bit over the unevenness of the sidewalk and scuff my new black velvet shoes.

"Shit," I say. 

I take my hands out of my pockets and look up in front of me. There are people all around; families, couples, homeless people, students. I tuck my hair behind my ear and turn left into the entrance of the restaurant. 

"Hi," I say to the hostess as I walk in. 

"Welcome back," she says.

"Ha. Yeah, thanks."

I log into the computers, check to see if what my section is, and then lean on the bar. 

"Hi," I hear from behind me.

"Hi, Sean."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. Can't complain. How are you?"

"Somehow drunk and hungover at the same time," he says. 

"Yeah, seems right," I say with a soft laugh rolling through my words. He doesn't hear my response, he's already taking a drink order from someone new at the bar. 

When I look out the front windows of the restaurant, I can see myself reflecting on the glass. I think about how I kind of like the uniform. As I'm staring at myself, I picture myself growing old here and I'm suddenly at a loss of breath. I look down at the ground and the forest green carpet seems really big. I stay like that for a few moments, staring at the ground and thinking about being old and waitressing here. But when I hear the door open, I know they are going to be sat in my section so I reach into my apron and grab my notepad. I tear out all of yesterday's orders and throw them away. I click a pen, tuck my hair behind my ear and walk over to my table.

"Good evening, you two," I say with a smile. "How are we this evening?"

"Oh, we're good. And yourself?"

"I'm doing well. Can't complain. Can I get you started with anything to drink? A glass of wine? One of our signature cocktails?"

"I'm okay with water," says the woman.

"Um... can I get a Jack Daniels on the rocks?" says the man. 

Gross. 

"Of course," I say. "I'll get those for you, now."