Disclaimer: I don't own Kim or Ron
When one sees oneself as only finite one becomes a number, just one man more, one more repetition - Kierkegaard
…
"Traffic leading into the city is bumper to bumper, but there are no major accidents to report yet. It's 65 degrees outside this morning, expect a high of 72 degrees and it's going to get sticky. It's 7:32 AM and this is 93.5, here's an oldie, 'People are Strange' by the Doors."
Ron wiped the sweat off of his forehead and adjusted his rear-view mirror. He stuck his arm out the open window, tapping his fingers against the door, and glanced at the sea of cars around him. The man in the minivan next to him was dancing back and forth in his seat, lips moving to the song, while munching on a donut, ignoring crumbs as they tumbled out of his mouth and down his shirt. The woman in the Ford Taurus to the right was yelling, with all of her windows rolled up, honking every few seconds, and flipping the driver in front of her off.
The car in front of Ron scooted forward and he lifted his foot off the break to follow, the car behind him doing the same, and the car behind that one, and the car behind that one, and the car behind that one, and so on for miles. There was no visible beginning to the traffic, and no end, the only change was the skyline slowly coming into focus from inside the layer of smog.
"Boy I tell ya, Bill, it may be only 65, but with that sun all ready half up and the humidity, it feels like I'm baking in the oven."
"Couldn't agree more, Sue, and the smog sure doesn't help. I feel like I'm in a swamp."
Ron rolled his eyes, hitting the seek button. "Not helping, guys. Doesn't anyone play music in the morning?" The radio settled on a boring melody with a light accompaniment. Ron turned on his right blinker, scooting with the traffic, listening to elevator music, and riding the break.
…
Ron parked his neon in the twelfth spot in the last row of the third floor of the garage and headed for the elevator. He waved at an older man in a gray suit who held the door for him.
"Morning, Ron." He stepped inside.
"Morning, Phil." The doors closed.
"First floor?" A finger pressed the '1' button.
"First floor." Elevator music floated to their ears.
"How's work?" A shift of the briefcase.
"Fine. You?" The elevator slowed.
"Good. See you later?" The doors opened.
"Later." They stepped out and parted ways.
Ron filtered into the crowds of suits, walking three blocks north, surrounded by gray and blue and black. Near forever the street went on, lined with buildings who's upper stories disappeared into the unnatural clouds, filled with the yellow and green of taxis, swollen with the swarms of people. Ron shoved his way to the left and walked down the stairs to the station, brushing shoulders with people he'd never know, pulling out his keys and sliding the subway pass through the slot. One of the guards nodded to him.
"Mornin', Ron." Ron slapped two dollars down on the counter of the food stand, ignoring an elbow shoved into his back as someone hurried by.
"Mornin', Dave." He grabbed the newspaper and coffee Dave set out and started for the train car, dodging a little girl running through. "See you at five." He slid between the doors just as they were closing and let out a tired sigh. The car was packed, leaving Ron to lean against a seat. Somewhere close by a baby cried, piercing the dull chatter. He flinched as the train jerked to life, spilling a bit of the coffee onto his hand. On and on the train went, people filing off, people filing on, all black or blue or gray.
…
Ron pulled open the glass door to the office building and entered the lounge, his shoes clicking on the metal floor. The security guard glanced at him before going back to his morning paper. "Morning, Stoppable."
Ron hit the 'up' button on the elevator. "Morning, Mr. Peters." He stepped in and hit 15, sliding to the front corner as a few more people filed in. As the doors slid shut Ron watched his reflection come into focus. His gray suit looked tired and worn, and his hair clung to his forehead with sweat. His paper was tucked under the arm that held his generic coffee, already wrinkled, while a black brief case dangled from the other. He sighed as the doors rolled open and stepped into the hallway.
"Morning, Mr. Stoppable." He walked past the secretary, giving her a nod.
"Morning, Nancy." He opened the door to his office and stepped in, nodding at the man in the other desk. "Morning Mel."
The man grunted, shifting through papers absentmindedly. Ron sighed, the pile in front of him calling out for help. He pulled out pen and started filling out orders.
"Request 1,000 orders of lot #5127, do not exceed 1,500 orders, require 500 orders. Request 800 orders of lot #5813, do not exceed 1,200 orders, require 600 orders." Ron rubbed his eyes, filling out the form with 900 and 750. There was no logic to the process, only repetition. He put the form in the out pile and grabbed the next one. "Request 1,500 orders of lot #5394, do not exceed 1,600 orders, require 1,200 orders, require over-night delivery…"
…
Ron chewed a bite of his ham sandwich slowly, watching the people drift between the yellow taxis below. He admired the large window for a second, enjoying the view of the business district. Everything blended together 15 stories below, to the point where it was impossible to tell where one person ended and the next started. He swiveled around in his chair and picked up his pen, going back to work. In four hours he would be down there, lost with all of those people, drifting through the streets, indistinguishable from 15 stories above. He hated to think about it.
…
"Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Stoppable."
"You too. See you tomorrow, Nancy." Ron hit the 'down' button, his briefcase in one hand and newspaper in the other. The doors opened with a ding and he joined the crowd of the slowly filling elevator.
"Hey, Ron." A chorus of tired voices rang out.
"Hey guys." Elevator music drifted from the speakers as people passed in and out.
"You have a nice evening, Ron."
"Thanks Mr. Peters, say 'hi' to Mrs. Peters for me."
The security guard chuckled. "Doubtful, she hates you." They traded grins and Ron stepped out onto the sidewalk, falling into the crowd.
Swipe the card, enter the train, tuck the newspaper under an arm, grab the handle. Blue and black and gray drift in and out, in and out.
"Evening, Dave." Ron slapped a dollar on the counter.
"Hey Ron, got time to chat?" Dave handed him a coffee. Ron shook his head, taking a sip, ignoring the burn. "Dinner night, eh? I'll see you tomorrow." Ron nodded and headed for the stairs.
Ron entered the sidewalk, breathing in the congested air. He sighed, drifting into the crowd of people for the three block walk to the garage.
Phil was in the elevator, holding the door. "Nice evening, Ron."
"Not bad, Phil." He stepped inside.
"Third floor?" The doors closed.
"Third floor." A finger hit the '3' button.
"How's the family?" Elevator music drifted down.
"Fine, you?" A shift of the briefcase.
"Good. Poker Saturday?" The elevator slowed.
"Saturday." The door opened and they parted ways. Ron unlocked his neon door and crawled in, unrolling the window. Down ramp after ramp, fifteen dollars for parking, and into the sea of cars and people and buildings.
"Traffic leading out of the city is bumper to bumper, but no major accidents to report yet. It's 74 degrees outside this evening with 84 percent humidity. It's 5:03 PM and this is 93.5, here's an oldie by the Rolling Stones, 'Satisfaction,' stay cool."
Ron wiped the sweat off of his forehead and adjusted his rear-view mirror, sticking his arm out the open window. The drivers acted the same as ever and Ron feared being lost in the shuffle back and forth. Would he be here, in this very spot, ten years from now? How many hundreds of days would he do this? To him all of the cars, all of the people, they were just there, like background noise or obstacles to be avoided. Was that what he was to them? Just another car, one more person tossed into the swarm? Ten years from now would his temporary office job be permanent? Would Kim be sitting in this traffic, too, just one more car on the highway?
It was only after he had turned the car off and put his foot on the driveway pavement that Ron realized he was home. How could he do that, where had the last hour gone? Where had his day gone? He stood up and shut the door, taking off his suit jacket for the first time since eight o'clock this morning. He could feel his shirt sticking to him with sweat and vowed to fix the air conditioning, just like yesterday. Up the driveway, along the walkway, open the door, drop the briefcase, glare at the piles of full boxes, toss away the coffee cup, head for the bathroom, grab a towel.
Ron rubbed the fluffy purple towel between his fingers, his other hand still on the closet doorknob, staring at the wall. Why did they have purple towels, anyway? Why didn't he put his foot down at the store, while they were staring at shelves and shelves of towels, and demand blue towels? Was a blue towel what he wanted, would it really make him happy? And what was wrong with him, anyway, getting upset over towels? It was a purple towel, not a minivan, or some cat named Mr. Bubbles...
…
Kim turned the corner into the hall to find her husband standing still, with his hand on the door, staring at the wall. "Ron?"
Ron blinked and turned, dropping his hand from the door. He gave a slight smile. "Hey, Kim." He watched mutely as she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. Ron's arms dropped to his sides as he looked down at the girl whose head was pressed against his neck. "I'm… all sweaty."
Arms just hugged him tighter. "I don't care." The purple towel fell to the floor as Ron draped his arms around Kim, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He felt her sigh. "You ok?"
Ron nodded, "Getting there again." His eyes drifted to the fallen towel. "I'm still all sweaty." Kim lifted her head, raising an eyebrow to hide her amusement, but Ron just smirked.
…
PotatoMaiden: Nice to know I'm worth keeping an eye on… I think
gargoylesama: Heh, yeah. Who knew domestication was so challenging?
LKillingsworth: I freakin' hate UPS! You're right, I made them way too… useful.
Pokey: You and me, both, computers can really suck.
CPO3: I concur, and have actually had the 'any key' message fail on me, although I didn't set my computer on fire.
Miss Piratess: Squee! A thousand thanks for reviewing my other KP fic, I'm quite proud of it. And thanks for reading and reviewing after just waking up, that's never easy.
The Desert Fox: Well, when he gets that adrenaline running…
Imperial Navy Officer: Ditto to that, like this thing is kind of pissing me off right now.
Mist: We may never know who won… ah, I'm just kidding, Wade gives Ron a little too much credit.