Whorl of the rails

. original writing and photos ___ ![IMG_2167.jpeg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/d-pend/30Jx7ll5-IMG_2167.jpeg) ___

The slightly pudgy hand with slightly dirty fingernails peeled the sticker from the striped shirt which had been its home for two hours and fifteen minutes. It was a white rectangular sticker with a red border and bold, black text that proclaimed "My name is..." in the top-left corner, below which was written rather sloppily "Ronald." The sallow hand crunched up the offending sticker into an uneven ball and tossed it at the waste bin in the corner near the door — which missed. The owner of the hand sighed, let the door which he had been in the process of opening fall shut again, and clumsily bent down to pick it up and deposit it into the bin. "See ya Monday, Ron." a co-worker's voice called from behind him, startling him into missing the bin with the crushed sticker a second time.

Ronald, who hated being called Ron or especially Ronnie, hated corporate meet-and-greets even more. He knew this one had lasted exactly two hours and fifteen minutes because he had checked his watch exactly seven times after confirming another quarter hour had passed on the analog clock on the wall which was supposed to be quaint and give the office some character. He hated that clock and everything it stood for. He hated the banal talk and the stupid, pointless flirtations with women he found uninteresting. He hated the ridiculous boasting poorly camouflaged as ironic and the forced sports-team-esque loyalty to each person's respective corporation as if it were the best thing since sliced bread.

He hated the air of strained benevolence the higher-ups assumed which reminded the employees that this was an especially generous gift and they ought to be grateful for getting off work an hour early and not having to work a quarter of the day besides; he hated the way his office transformed in his own mind from being merely purgatorial to actively hellish as he was forced to make painful small talk instead of burying his head in more familiar administrative jargon, and daydreaming as much as possible in between. Ronald was in his mid-thirties: fair-skinned, freckled, red-haired, of average height, and having a peculiar build which gave equal impressions of being muscular and decidedly unfit simultaneously. He had made his way into the driver seat of his plain, white car while commiserating with himself about all the reasons he hated meet-and-greets: realizing that he had left out many things he ought to be upset about and eagerly prepared to milk his grievances further to entertain himself.

However, as the key turned in the ignition he realized he wasn't, and oughtn't be anyway, upset anymore. The idea of complaining now suddenly struck him as boring, anyway. It was the weekend now, after all. He could forget the woman whose name he couldn't recall who had made a stupid joke about him looking like someone who would be named Ronald as if it were terribly clever and the chagrin he felt when he had stood awkwardly silent in response. Can it be that I am even less witty than those I judge to be daft? he wondered, beginning to perspire slightly.
Then the car was driving. Structures natural and manmade whizzed by in the movie of Ronald's life. He was teleporting by holding his right foot down on a cheap plastic pad attached to slightly-less-cheap metal pedal that made the vehicle go. I ought to be happy it's Friday, he realized, and the permission to be glad gladdened him.

The radio was on so quiet you could not even tell what kind of thing was playing, which gave the proper after-work feeling in his opinion. Something metal was irritatingly vibrating somewhere in the car frame, which he found did not bother him, though it normally would have. His paycheck was to come tomorrow, which was another reason to be glad, until he realized it was merely an arbitrary collection of sums gained dronishly day after day. He frowned briefly. More harsh forms blazed past his sight, and shadows changed as the road curved eastward. A few long seconds passed. Suddenly, he realized he had not been thinking about anything at all, which disturbed him so profoundly he turned abruptly off the main road into an unknown parking lot.
What, actually, is the matter with me? He asked himself. An inner anguish was gathering force, normally quashed by the comfortable drudgery of work reports and fruitless wanderings of thought. He felt that the intelligence was rapidly draining out of him; he was stupid — far more idiotic than anyone had ever guessed, most of all himself. His mind remained in this terrified torpor for a few more eternal seconds.

My god, he thought, Have I been disturbed my whole life? Did everyone else know and merely refrain from telling me out of pity? Did my boss hire me as an act of charity, knowing my fundamental brokenness and giving me such a repetitive position to fill a sort of idiot quota? And why, at last, does it all lead me here to this parking lot, where the fuel drains completely from my thinking and splashes noxiously on the concrete to surely evaporate into nothingness? And with that train of thought, for some reason, he was parking the car, arising from his seat, and nearly floating towards the old defunct railroad beside the parking lot.

___ ![IMG_2157.jpeg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/d-pend/h1wsDbxG-IMG_2157.jpeg) ___ . This post is original content created by Daniel Pendergraft to be published on STEEM on March 16, 2020 . ___ ![IMG_2185.jpeg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/d-pend/Ap5xLj8c-IMG_2185.jpeg)