2011 Ultra Flash Fiction Contest Winner

Old Friends

by Barrie Kirby

They first met at Lake High, John and Ed did. At the end of school, they got jobs at the steam plant and rode to work in Ed’s blue car. The make of car changed with time, but not the blue. Looks like the night sky, Ed would say. John gave Ed two bucks for gas, then three, then five, then eight, then ten. The price of gas went up more than their pay, John would say. Ed would say thanks and give a nod.

They shared tales of girls and sex as they rode to work, then of their wives, and of babes who spit and shit, then of kids and toys, and then teens who wished for more than their dads. John would curse the boys who came to his house to pick up his girl Jane. Ed would laugh and then say his sons drank too much beer. Too young for beer, he would say to John who would nod and take a drag. The men shared their hopes and dreams and fears while they sucked on their cigs and rode. They grew old that way—day in, day out—on their way to the steam plant.

When Ed’s wife died so quick that night, John drove his old red truck to see him. They sat in the den, side by side. Ed tried, but failed, to choke back his sobs. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped off his chin to land on top of his thin legs. It pained John to see Ed tore up that way. He looked down, filled with shame.

They were friends as boys. Now they were old. Two score and eight years they rode to

work in Ed’s car. This was the first time one cried.