The Little Man- A Short Story

In the summer of 1965, the California Bay Area was a kaleidoscope of sun-drenched afternoons and the distant hum of cars whizzing by on the two-lane highway that bordered our suburban neighborhood. I was ten years old, a typical boy with a bicycle, and the world around me was an endless tapestry of exploration and wonder.

Our small house, painted a faded blue that matched the sky on clear days, stood just a block from that highway. I could hear the distant roar of engines from my bedroom, a constant reminder of the life that rushed past our quiet suburb. My friends and I often raced across the two-lane road, dodging cars like we were in some kind of game. The shopping center, with its bright neon signs and enticing window displays, was our ultimate destination, but there was a pit stop we always made on the way: the little white shack.

The shack was an unassuming structure, barely larger than a tool shed, with peeling paint and a crooked sign that read “Bing Cherries.” It stood alone in a field that swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, a solitary sentinel amidst the encroaching suburban sprawl. The only person who ever inhabited that space was a man we simply called “the little man.” He was a fixture of our summer days, a small, stooped figure with a friendly smile who would sell plump, ruby-red bing cherries in the peak of the season.

“Go to the little man and get some cherries,” my mom would say, handing me a couple of crumpled bills. And off I would go, my heart racing with excitement. I’d cross that two-lane highway, the asphalt warm beneath my feet, and arrive at the little shack, where the air was thick with the sweet scent of cherries. 

I would approach him, and with a nod and a smile, he’d scoop the cherries into a brown paper bag, the crinkle of the paper music to my ears. I’d hand over the money, and he’d always give me a few extra cherries “for being a good boy.” I never asked him his name, where he lived, or why he only sold cherries. It was a simple exchange, just the two of us, a moment suspended in time. 

As the summer days rolled on, my friends and I would gather around the big oak tree in my backyard, spitting cherry pits and laughing as we shared tales of our adventures. The little man became a part of our lore, a magical figure in a world that felt both small and boundless. 

But time has a way of changing things. One day, I rode my bike to the shack, only to find it locked up tight, the sign faded and sagging. I waited, but the little man never came. The next time I ventured that way, I was met with a different sight. The highway had transformed into a four-lane beast, swallowing the little shack whole, paving over the memories we’d woven around it. 

Years passed, and the shack was replaced by a gleaming park, where families picnicked under the shade of new trees, and children played on the swings. The only remnants of the past were the whispers of nostalgia that floated in the air, like the sweet fragrance of cherries long gone. 

As I wandered through the park one afternoon, I couldn’t help but smile at the memories of that little man and his shack. Perhaps he had moved on, or perhaps he was a figment of our youthful imagination—a symbol of simpler times, a fleeting moment of joy amidst the chaos of life. 

Though the shack was gone, the spirit of the little man lived on in the laughter of children, in the scent of summer, and in the hearts of those who remembered. He had given us more than just cherries; he had given us a piece of our childhood, a slice of magic that would linger forever, like the taste of sweet bing cherries on a warm summer day.