The Cold Shoulder

Flash Fiction (A Quantum Piece)

The Cold Shoulder

Each morning at six,
I schlepped myself down
the shoulder of Interstate 270
to my job at MasterCard
before I could afford a car.

Winters in St. Louis
were snow-packed, fifteen below.
Drivers laughed from their windows,
hooting as they swerved through slush
to drench you as they passed.

At work, still more wet than dry,
I took calls from irate customers
needing authorization
to clear purchases in Dubai.

I let winter flow through the phone—
a snarky breeze, sharp as icicles,
freezing cards mid-call
instead of helping people,
even when it was my job.

After work, I marched the same frozen road home,
hoping to avoid the next pickup truck
that might swerve for sport,
soaking a carless man
in the middle of December.

It took over a year to save enough for a car.
I bought a used Chevrolet,
blasted the heater through winter,
ran my hands beneath the vents,
remembering the cold—
how hard life can be
without something as simple
as four wheels to get to work and back home

Later, I’d see others walking the shoulder,
not yet able to afford a car.

I never splashed them.

I slowed down, pulled over,
asked if they needed a lift.

They said, “Hell yes.”

Then climbed in.

Miles from the shoulder,
I let them out.

Then drove away,
heat humming through the car—
my shoulders finally warm.