Disclaimer: I don't own Kim, Ron, Monique, Felix, Starbucks, Sears, JC Penny, Dick's, Lazarus, or gameboy.
Chapter Quote: "As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there's a twilight where everything remains seemingly unchanged, and it is in such twilight that we must be aware of change in the air, however slight, lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness." - William O. Douglas
…
Ron fiddled with the radio, waiting for the light to turn and the dozen cars in front of him to move. Monique and Kim chatted in the back seat, catching up, while Felix played his gameboy in the front. With a sigh Ron clicked the radio off. Lately he detested the mall and shopping in general, not to mention the stress of the four lane highway and the fourteen traffic lights between the off ramp and the first entrance to the parking lot. In high school the mall was where he and Kim went to take their minds off of things, but lately there had not been anything to take their minds off of. It became habit, and habits became chores.
Out of the corner of his eye Ron saw the car in front of him move and he lifted his foot off of the break. The neon crept forward dutifully, Ron's foot switching to the gas, when a blue motorcycle swerved in front of him and sped through the light as it turned yellow, flipping Ron off. Ron cursed the traffic.
…
Ron let out a sigh and stared longingly at the Ice Cream Factory in the shopping complex to the right. He could feel his back sticking to his seat, his hair slowly going limp. He listened to the engine's jerky idle, to the Tetris music coming from the gameboy, to Kim's voice. Ice cream sounded good right now. Ice cream was like the perfect word: creamy ice. Who could say no to that? Any ice, really. Stupid heat. The neon shook once, jerking Ron out of his reverie, and died. Biting back a good howl Ron turned the engine over. "Come on… come on…"
"Give it some gas."
"Put it in park."
"Want me to get out and push?"
Ron sighed. "Funny, Felix." He geared to park as horns started honking behind him.
"The light's green, asshole!"
Ron stuck his arm out the window and gave a thumbs up, tapping the gas and turning the engine. With a few puffs the engine came to life and Ron slammed it into gear, cursing his neon.
…
Ron drifted past the rows and rows of cars, biting his cheek. "How are all of the handicap spaces in use! I didn't think it was physically possible."
Ron passed JC Penny, Sears, Dick's, and Lazarus, constantly searching for a spot. "I can drop you guys off at the door and find a regular space, if you want."
Felix waved him off. "I don't mind wheeling."
"There's one."
Ron pulled into row H and put his blinker on, waiting for the red sports car coming toward them to pass. To everyone else's shock, and Ron's slight disappointment, the car swerved into the spot, instead. Ron bit his knuckle for a second to calm himself before flipping the car off. "You don't have a license to park there!"
The doors of the sports car opened and two large, muscle toned, arms that could snap a redwood like a twig, young men stepped out, laughing. Ron grabbed the door handle but Kim's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"I can take them." He held back a growl.
"I know, but security cameras, Ron." Ron cursed bad drivers and mall parking.
…
It appeared that every car in the parking lot had four people in it: two teenagers, an old person with a hearing aid and a cane, and a crying child. Every clothing store blared a mix of funk, hip hop, and 80s, the sound escaping the shops' wide doors and converging in the packed hallway. A thousand different smells drifted from the food court near the center of the three story mega mall, and Ron was sure his head was going to implode. The general chatter was pierced every few seconds by the shrill, high-pitched scream of a child, and Ron cursed all children.
…
"Can I take your order, sir?"
Ron stared at the menu for a few more seconds, his teeth grinding. "Uh… yeah." He looked down at the cashier, a thin teenager with pale skin and a mop of blonde on his zit covered head. "Gimme a large French Vanilla cappathingy."
The pimple faced stick sighed and rolled his eyes, pointing vaguely at the left menu. "We don't have large, sir."
Ron blinked. "What? Why not? What happened to large?"
"McDonalds has large, sir, we're a café."
"No you're not. You're a coffee chain." Ron motioned at the food court behind him. "There's another Starbucks on the other side of the escalators, I can see it from here. What capitalist chain is too good for the basic system of measurement 'large?'"
The teen eyed the growing line broodingly. "Large isn't a measurement, sir."
"It's a representation of one, though. You can't measure ugly, but if I said 'wow, she's ugly,' you could probably pick out who I was talking about."
The teen looked back at Ron. "Sir, are you going to order anything?"
A few seconds of silence. "I did."
"Anything that's actually on the menu?" The teen made a sweeping gesture at the menu with his hand.
Ron debated jumping over the counter and giving the punk kid a good scare. "Fine, do you have different sizes?"
The teen was just as frustrated. "Like, duh. …Sir."
"Then give me the largest one!"
The teen hit a few buttons on the register with a thin, pale hand. "Would you like your cappuccino wet or dry, sir?"
Ron opened and closed his fists. "What the heck does that mean?"
The teen sighed and glanced at the clock. "Dry means that you want less milk, sir, wet means more."
"Dry, then."
Another few buttons. "What kind of milk do you want, sir?"
Clench, unclench, clench, unclench. A vein throbbed in Ron's forehead. "The heated kind that you make coffee with, now just pick a percent and make me my dry French Vanilla Cappuccino and put it in the largest size cup!"
"That'll be nine dollars and twenty three cents, sir."
Ron cursed the Starbucks menu.
…
Android k/18: Excellent point, I was not aware that Ron was Jewish and will correct the chapter immediately. Good eye and please point out any other errors you happen to find.
Digisim and Japanesejewel: Aw, thanks, that's what I was going for.