Hamilton General Hospital has lousy parking. So every time mom and I go, we have to vie for space in the public lots across the street. 

There’s this guy, just shy of five feet maybe, rotund, grumpy, elderly, and he sits in a little booth adjacent to the payment machine. Now I COULD just go to the machine, stick in my card, opt in for some time, and take my ticket, but no. 

What I will hear instead is “hold it right there missy.” in a gravelly voice that implies I was about to do something totally, hopelessly, above my pay grade and I had better, gosh darn it, pump my brakes.

So I pause, as I always do. Sometimes I’ll even act confused, you know, lay it on a little thick. 

This little dude looks out from inside his booth and sighs dramatically. I’ve ruined his day. I’ve obliged him to get up. He looks pointedly at his watch “another one? Geez”. He eases his way gingerly off his seat, accompanied by all the audible hallmarks of both pain and exasperation, and makes the two-step effort to get to me. He looks up. Oh! you again! Well, now things are marginally better. He straightens up to his full 4 ft 9, grins roguishly and asks me for me card in a thick Italian accent.

I give him my card, bemused but charmed. Then, he puts it in the same machine we’re both standing in front of. He asks in a gruff voice “hospital again, honey?”. I nod, then I sigh, it’s our routine. Maybe I cuss offhandedly. He sighs in solidarity and mutters “be there all fuckin’ day then” in disgust. Like he always does. Then he presses the same button I could have pressed.

Then he removes the card and gives it to me. He takes my parking slip and gives it to me. I say “so long, handsome”. He says “so long, honey”. I wander back to the car. 

Basically, this guy is technically a totally unnecessary middleman for the parking machine, but one that adds so much cantankerous charm to my pre-hospital parking experience. And you know what? He’s my hero. It’s the little things (pun intended).