Neighbors
The sun rises above a desert mountain range. Its golden glow banishes the shadows in front of two gas stations paralleling a lonely freeway.
A man, still clinging to the horseshoe head of hair he has left, stoops under the empty garage door of one of the stations. He straightens up and breathes in the fresh morning air.
A rusty red pickup truck and a white van approach from the distance.
The balding man follows their progress. As the vehicles approach, he passes his tongue over a chapped upper lip and flashes a yellow-tinged megawatt smile.
Both vehicles turn into the gas station across the street. The man’s smile disappears quicker than shadows in sunlight. He looks at his gas prices and glances at the station across the street. They are three cents lower than his. With a slump of the shoulders, the balding man retreats to his garage.
…
A man with a thick handlebar mustache limps out of a small snack shop attached to the gas station across the freeway. He looks at his two unoccupied pumps and then glances up and down the road. He sighs and leans back against the station wall.
A truck engine’s roar prompts the mustachioed man to take a staggered step forward.
The mustachioed man gives a friendly wave to an oncoming truck, but the truck ignores the welcoming gesture and turns into the station across the street.
The man’s hand falls limply to his side. His neighbor’s freshly cleaned gas price display sparkles in the sunlight. It reads five cents cheaper than his prices.
Across the street, his balding neighbor’s yellow smile flashes. The mustachioed man limps back to his garage.
…
The balding man takes a rag from his back pocket and wipes the top of his head. He smiles at the red pickup and the white van returning from their journeys and watches them drive back toward the mountains. A shuffle and clang from across the street divert his attention.
His neighbor limps toward his gas price display, holding a ladder. The neighbor gives him a feeble wave, and the balding man answers the gesture with a wavering smile.
…
The mustachioed man pulls his wool-lined coat tight with one hand and grips a clipboard with the other. He limps across the deserted nighttime highway. A lone bulb from his neighbor’s garage casts a dimmed light outside the station.
…
The balding man slumps at a desk, staring at a gas price ledger with red-rimmed eyes. At the sound of a shuffle, he cranes his neck toward the garage entrance and notices the clipboard in his neighbor’s hand.
Their eyes meet. The balding man stands up as the mustachioed man limps over. They each raise a hand and grasp the other’s in a warm embrace.
…
The sun rises in the valley, banishing the last tendrils of nighttime from the front of the stations. The balding man and the mustachioed man wave at each other. Their gas prices are identical, ten cents higher than they first were the previous day.
In the distance, the red pickup and the white van approach, slowing down as they reach the stations.
Both vehicles stop in the middle of the road. The mustachioed man and the balding man step forward with a friendly wave toward the vehicles.
The pickup turns into the balding man’s station, and the van turns into the mustachioed man’s station. Each man steps forward with a smile to attend to their respective customer.
As the men approach, the red pickup and the white van rev their engines.
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