Fires burned in the fields across the highway. The fall harvest was over and life in their farming community was restarting once again. Smoke wafted across the road and blanketed two small houses that sat side by side. Two men walked out to their mailboxes together as a small Air Tractor crop duster buzzed overhead.
“Mornin’ Bill.”
Bill Franklin was 58-years old who worked for the county and was a veteran of the first Gulf War. There he had won a Silver Star for gallantry in battle. On the first night of the war, he saved his squad from a Republican Guard ambush. He was quiet and walked like the former soldier he was. An African-American, his family once worked the fields surrounding his home. He and his wife had divorced after his PTSD had caused him to start drinking. Now sober for 20 years, he was grateful for the blessings God had given him.
“Morning, Jim.”
Jim Johnson was 55 years old, farmed and was a county supervisor. His family had owned land in the county for years. He dabbled in state politics and was widowed. Like his good friend Bill, Jim had definite opinions about the directions the world was going.
When online.
Both men put their bills in the box and went inside. There they got on Twitter and posted under fake names. And unbeknownst to the other, they did battle with each other. One was a godless liberal and the other was a MAGA tyrant. Hatred flowed from their fingertips as they sparred like the country depended on it.
And then they’d walk back outside and talk sports and family.
“How’re your grandchildren, Bill?”
Bill Franklin’s kids had all graduated from college and now were working in Atlanta and Huntsville as a lawyer and rocket engineer.
“They’re doing great, Jim. Thank you for asking. How is Shannon?”
“Shannon is doing really well. I’m so proud of her and her family. Her new accounting job is really paying her well. Want to have dinner tonight? I’m cooking steaks. You bring the beer?”
“Sure. But why don’t I bring iced tea. And tell Shannon I’m super proud of her the next time you FaceTime her.” Jim smiled. Bill knew Jim’s sobriety was core to who he was.
Shannon was Jim’s only daughter. She had survived the car crash that had killed her mother. They were at a crossroad off Highway 1 when a drunk driver ran a stop sign. He had raised Shannon by himself — but she also considered Bill Franklin her uncle. Jim struggled with grief, though. That had driven him online — and nearly insane.
Both men walked back inside, sat down at their computers and started insulting the other’s online persona. The fires of hatred ignited once again. Their keyboards burned red hot as the fields across the street.
It was a modern tale of friendship — one part reality and one part driven by an algorithm.