Ramblings of a Wooden Man
For once, I had grasped the future after going a few years—perhaps a decade—unaware of the advent of new paradigms which were unceremoniously built upon the model of the olden world—for better or worse. One day it simply struck me with the lightness of a leaf: Things had changed. It's a wonder most people find the willingness to walk through the shopping-centres, staring absentmindedly at goods in the great, neon light-laden display windows.
That's another thing about the city—neon lights. They are ubiquitous here; and great television displays; bundles of steel-braided wires; ventilation ducts; hastily-painted steel plates, opaque windows saturated by pale yellow glows; rivets; and the ever-dull sky in which the sun could hardly be seen—if, even, the sky could be seen beyond the buildings, impractically tall and stout buildings alike. In the industrial sector, the sky was always a full orange hue, evident of the fumes and smog which poisoned it. Among the drug-addled denizens residing beneath that sky in this overcrowded wasteland, I felt like the only one who really noticed.
I don't hate cities; I, myself spent a great deal of my youth living in the sticks, only relieved when I came to this town about 25 years ago. I make a decent living as a robotics software programmer at CyroTech, a facility just down the street—a street which grew narrower over the last two decades as the buildings swelled.
How can kids grow up in a place like this? They've probably never even seen grass before—apart from the shameless astroturf that shows up on golf channels. I've these kids around a lot; they idle about on the steel walkways on the upper stories of the Prescott Housing Complex. They'd probably all have a fit if they were ever separated from their mobile vidphones—fall to pieces. What do they even learn in those schools now?
One might ask why I haven't left yet. The truth is I don't know if I can. I have been there before everything began. I know only a few streets in my "neighbourhood", but the rest of the city is so vast, I could hardly make it to the post office if I need it. In those few crowded streets I only know how to navigate between CyroTech, the FoodMart and my flat. It's amazing I don't get lost when I have such a difficult time seeing straight while amongst the aggregate of people, looking through the haze of the perpetual rainfall and the light from the massive digital screens upon which indistinct merchandise is displayed.
Transportation is expensive—so, in my one-dimensional existence, I am relegated to "hoofing it", as they say. I had a motor until about 6 or 7 years ago, but it wouldn't pass "regulation". I'd be more specific about what that means, but they weren't specific about it either. Anyway, an old Mitsubishi Starion was the last set of wheels I had. I'm sure it's still in the parking bay under my complex, covered in dust.
CyroTech's the same as it’s always been, only I believe my job is being threatened by the introduction of more universally-compatible driver technology introduced by Motor Abstracts. Too bad they can't stop getting complaints from manufacturers about several lines of software causing welding robots to crash and burn holes through aluminium paneling. At least I know what I'm doing when I'm developing software to work with the newest models; I'll be safe until MoAb learns their cookie-cutter mentality isn't going to help them.
Still, a way out of this place would be nice, to say the absolute least. I wouldn't have to take pills every morning to alleviate the migraines invoked by that awful smog.
I often wake up very early in the morning in some kind of fugue, wandering about my flat. I arrive at my window and look down into the rain-hazed streets, benumbed by the sight of flashing, ornate neon signs mounted to the solid outer walls of the late-night cafés and the sushi joints that never seem to close; steam from the stir-fry and fumes from cigars can be seen in the ebullient glow of neon well into the dawn. Sometimes I forget when I'd last seen the sun—or the moon. The only plant I see on an ordinary basis is the artificial palm tree in the foyer at the office—so, not a plant. Vegetables at FoodMart? Those could probably called the closest thing to plants since genetically-spliced crops have taken over the market. But, something as simple as grass? Vines? Hedges? ...Moss? There aren't any outside plants in the city at all—what with the acid wash falling from the sky for several days at a time.
There might be a lot of colour in the great displays, the neon tubes, and a pair of dyed red chopsticks at the Chinese food counters downtown—but it's all an artifice. Everything around me is plasticated and schmaltzy. If it's not directly part of the cold architecture of this gritty metropolis, then it's been conceived as some diversion from the pallor of my surroundings. This town gets more and more unbearable with each passing day. The crowded buses, the long lines, and the smell of cigarettes wears on my nerves. Its a wonder my brain hadn't dissolved because of all that.
But that's life in the '40s.
I’ve been reassigned. Because I work alone in my office, I rarely hear anything at all about what goes on higher up. According to a memo I've received, CyroTech was just sold to MoAb and my position was going to be taken over my MoAb's own programmers. I wasn't being let go, however—just reassigned—to inventory manager. No pay cuts, all least—only now I have the most tedious job one could ever have. Still, MoAb surely had a considerable inventory. I knew this because I was also going to start my new position at one of MoAb's ware facilities in the industrial district. Breathtaking.
On the first day on the job, I found myself in the largest warehouse I'd ever been in. Soon, I learnt that MoAb does much more than deal with robotics; they must be a conglomerate of some kind. My inventory list points out some chemicals of the exotic variety— ferrous superfluids being one of the least in that respect.
The great, empty volume of the warehouse disorients me. Sometimes I forget I'm indoors and I wince when I suddenly find myself before a massive shelving unit at the opposite end of the warehouse. It also confounds me why I'm the only one in there most of the time—except when few lorries turn up at the beginning of the week to either append to or gather from the inventory. If it wasn't for all the walking I do in that place, I probably would've fallen asleep more than once already.
Seventy feet over my head was a sky made from fluorescent lights. I could hear the collective buzz—a perpetual electric chorus. From time to time I feel as though I'm falling asleep; the buzz ceases with frightening immediacy—and it resumes the same instant I notice. They almost sound like millions of robotic crickets—yes, crickets! I remember the sound of them: the eerie, mesmerizing hum of countless crickets, emanating from all about—like a summer night in a New England pasture.
My reverie was broken upon my arrival at a storage shelf devoted to some miscellaneous computer hardware related to something or other. The sterile scent of circuit boards permeated the cardboard boxes in which they are contained. I checked my database, scrolling through a list so long I'm glad I wasn't given a clipboard.
MA-ME2040775-3013Z was the prefix for the serial number of the items in question. I gazed at the shelving unit, letting my eyes sweep up and down for a large yellow card bearing the prefix. I looked hopelessly to the left and right, scanning the entire four hundred foot span for the card, squinting to find the prefix amongst the numerous others. Then I felt foolish, finally locating the card a few levels up near the rolling ladder I had climbed a few days ago.
The prefix card was mounted at the shelf no more than twelve feet from the floor, a mere four shelves high. I placed my digital list on the shelf and looked over the boxes, searching for 3013Z, evidently a component series for welding bots.
I could see numerous others there, but none bearing the serial in question. There was one box near the back, but for some reason it's label was not facing outwards.
Reaching in and taking hold of the cut-out handle, I soon learnt how heavy this box was, hardly able to summon the leverage to get it to move. I relinquished my other hand's grasp on the ladder and reached in, tugging at the box.
Suddenly I found myself with an empty left hand and a scrap of torn cardboard in my right—and falling backwards!
Twelve feet is hardly a great distance, but I could hardly register beyond the stab of pain against the back of my head as it met the polished concrete floor.
I fell, I thought. I think I just—
Hardly capable of the slightest motion, somehow I was preoccupied with the spectacle of dots cast off from the florescent lamps all across the ceiling. The electric buzz filled my ears, assuring me that something in my head suffered uncontrolled damage, much in the same way my optical sensory was slowly going completely awry, presenting me with the visage of innumerable white specks on a deep violet shade. I was certain I was dying at the point my tactile sensory was going; the floor beneath me was turning fuzzy but somehow cold. It was also peculiar that I was feeling a chilled air in that great open space of a warehouse without a roof—and the scent of fresh computer chips and verdant grass; crickets chirping and the sensation of lying on a slight hill with blades of grass prodding my arms and the back of my neck—and the brilliant sky of a breezy, midsummer night.
Since when could I afford a vacation?
Didn't really matter. I was sure to have the energy to move if I slept for a bit.
"Ya reckon he's gotta name?" A feminine voice.
"Don't you worry 'bout that. You go on, now."
Where had I gone on vacation, precisely? Surely not anywhere similar to the northern Vermont town I had gone to where I had bought my Starion. Still, not a bad choice, given the sunlight I hadn't felt in years. If only I had the strength to lift my eyelids.
"I'm pretty sure he's got one, sis!"
The second voice, Southern in accent, admonished, "Applebloom, Ah told you to go on to school!"
"But Ah wanna see!" There was some movement at the source of the higher-pitched voice, also Southern in accent. Once again, I wasn't sure if I had gone to Caledonia or somewhere more south—probably the latter given the coiled inflections. She pouted, muttering as she moved away.
With the exception of birds chirping and an intermittent thud in the distance, it had gone quiet. Then, I heard the movement of a hooved animal nearby.
Something nudged me against my cheek, against the bristle of my thin beard. "Come on, feller. Wake on up."
Had I gotten drunk or something? Had I numbly sauntered into someone's property overnight and passed out in their yard? Where was the warehouse? How long has it been since I had fallen from the ladder, until I decided to go on vacation, and until I became intoxicated, to the point I had wandered out to the middle of wherever-I-was and passed out?
"I sincerely apologise, ma'am," I mumbled. "I can understand if you want to have me arrested, but I cannot open my eyes—much less sit up. I fell off a ladder." How long ago was that?
I was nudged again. Hooves hit the grass softly, indicating the animal had moved. Was there already a police officer there? on horseback?
A chuckle. "A ladder? How'd ya get here?" I was then lifted to a sitting position, though I slumped forward. "I ain't gonna press charges, but don't tell me y'all can't open yer eyes, 'specially when ya got 'em open already!"
My eyes were open, indeed! At the moment I realised, the blackness before my sight began to fade into increasingly-shrinking dots much like a printed halftone pattern.
I saw two large, green eyes gazing at me. It was a horse—with a coat appearing to have a tinted-orange pigment, and a straw-coloured mane with a red band separating the very end into a loose, frazzled bun. There were a few freckles on its cheek—thing, looking tarnished on the coat. I noticed the rim of what appeared to be a Stetson hat and was immediately sure I was in Tennessee or somewhere—if I am to draw a stereotype. It was a miniature horse—a pony.
"Oh. Of course. I couldn't see," I said, certain I would have felt awkward if I wasn't so preoccupied with the prospect that I wasn't going to be arrested. I looked about, wondering if there was anyone else around, but saw there were trees in every direction and apple barrels placed about the trees. The sun gazed down in earnest upon it all from whence it shone beyond the empty blue sky. Once again, I was driven to contemplate my whereabouts beyond "an apple orchard".
"You alright, feller?" The voiced asked. I heard it come from the pony. Upon my second inspection, I knew it had made the inquiry. The—her big green eyes, complete with lashes, implied concern. I have a general disinterest for the news, yet I cannot recall animals, equine or otherwise, having a capacity for expressing emotion, much less speaking. Having said that, I found this encounter odd so far.
"I suppose. I did fall from a ladder at one point—or another. Can you tell me where I am— uh—"
"Ah'm Applejack! An' this here's Sweet Apple Acres, home of the finest apples in Equestria!" She reached out a hoof, a gesture I was perplexed by at first.
I grasped her hoof and shook it. "Spencer." In spite the reservation in my tone she seemed pleased.
I moved to stand up, but as I did I was overcome by a bout of nausea. I would have fallen on my face had Applejack not caught me. "Whoa, easy there, Spence!" I held on to her withers until my sudden fit of dizziness subsided. I moved away, vaguely ashamed having almost fallen for a second time.
At this point I noticed Applejack had a peculiar physiology as far as equines go. I was certain she had the height of any pony—perhaps smaller—I could recall, but she didn't possess the same 'gaunt' physique. While she stared at me as I gasped for air and fought for balance, I noticed her muzzle was much more of a rounded nose, rather than the elongated muzzle of whatever horses were as far as I could remember. Her legs were without the apparent musculature, either. There was more about her that had me wondering if she was a synthesised genetic construct, but it didn't really explain her apparent cognizance—and so far I hadn't noticed any other people.
"I apologise," I muttered, feeling as susceptible to the breeze as the leaves which rustled all about. I was almost made of paper.
"Come on, now," Applejack said. "No need to apologise, but you look sorta pale." As at this she moved toward one of the apple trees and give it a light kick with a hind leg. A single apple fell from the branches, and—amazingly—she caught it, balancing it deftly on the end of her hoof. "Have an apple."
I gave her a glance, noting a genuine friendliness in her smile, and accepted the apple with an unsteady hand.
"Now, Ah don't wanna be rude or nothin' but, Ah got plenty of applebuckin' to get done. My sister Applebloom found y'all out here. Ya'll can go on down to Ponyville if you like."
Sweet Apple Acres; Ponyville; Equestria. I hadn't the intellectual capacity to make a strong inference as to what I had gotten myself into—or where. Instead I stared dumbly at the apple—the reddest apple I had ever seen, complete with a leaf on the stem and no blemishes in the skin to speak of.
"S-sure," I finally said, taking my eyes away from the apple. Applejack maintained her genuine smile, even as I failed to reciprocate her earnest kindness with so much as some tact. "I think I'll do that. Thank you, Apple—jack—"
The dirt road cut through the orchard and continued down the hill as I walked it. Several times I had forgotten the apple but passively ate more time after time I remembered I even had it. By the time I was gleaning around the seeds for more fruit, the apple trees around me grew sparse enough for me to see.
I dropped the apple core at the visage before me: Open space. Outdoor open space. Upon seeing this, I suddenly realised how easy it was to breathe. The air was light, pure and fresh. Below the mountain-filled horizon, I saw a village across a bridge—undoubtedly Ponyville. At that moment, yet somehow no sooner, it had occurred to me that Applejack was not the only pony; this village, vaguely medieval-European in style, characterised by straw-roofed houses and clad with what appeared to be waddle-and-daub and pink-painted framing, was Ponyville.
By the time I reached the bridge I had been noticed by a few of Ponyville’s residents whom were trotting about. Most of them simply waved as though nothing was peculiar about me being the only biped in—Ponyville—Equestria. Hm.
I ambled into Ponyville. Having no knowledge of my whereabouts or what I was doing, it was probably better than standing about and biting my fingers, wondering when I was expected to resume my shift at the warehouse.
A gust of wind fractured my pondering. Several feet overhead, a figure adorned by a flurry of colours flew past. I could make out a pair of wings upon the figure, whose form matched the blue of sky. I would have certainly missed it were it not for the rainbow of colours of the mane and tail. Was that a flying pony? Also, blue? with a rainbow mane and tail?
The pony ascended until reaching a solitary cloud and landed upon it. The sight was baffling; I looked elsewhere.
There was a marketplace. Vendors sold great big lettuces and red ripe tomatoes; radishes; turnips; squash; cucumber—probably everything—all with such vibrant colour and seeming freshness, the likes of which I could never remember seeing at FoodMart. Ponies purchased with thick, gold coins they carried in their teeth, receiving their goods. I would have very much preferred to have bought something had I something other than an AMEX+, certainly useless given the time and place—wherever and whenever that—
Crump!
I had fallen again, but somewhere nearby I heard a short squeal. What've I just run into?
I was completely dazed, certain I had just garnered unneeded attention—but look up—over, rather—to see a pastel-yellow pony, also with wings, and a flourish of pink mane and nervous teal eyes stepping back and covering her mouth with a hoof. "Oh, my goodness! I'm so sorry!" she said, looking as though she were on the verge of crying.
Probably shouldn't admire vegetables and walk at the same time.
I intended to get up by myself, but, for the second time in a span of less than ten minutes, I found I was being helped to my feet, none other than by the pony I had run against. Given her state of remorse, I wasn't completely certain she would be willing to intervene. "No—no," I muttered, pressing one finger to the inner corner of my left eye. "My fault, wasn't watching where—" At that point I couldn't maintain eye contact, so I decided to move on at an awkward pace.
It must have been coincidental that I found a bench around the time I felt nauseated again, and I chose to sit for a while—or at least until I could recover my bearings to whatever extent I possessed them.
Where am I exactly? I was still unable to trace back through time, only able to recall the torn cardboard and the ladder. My arrival at my whereabouts was an enigma. Was I sent there? Frankly, I didn't mind the place, only I didn't understand the motive behind my being there.
Hoofbeats grew in loudness. I looked to see two ponies approaching. One of them had a coat of chlorine-green with a mane and tail of a similar colour, but with locks of white as well. She had a horn—so a unicorn, then. The other, so far not a unicorn, had a mane and tail of pink and violet with a coat of a very pale yellow.
"Excuse me," said the green one, beaming.
"Of course," I said, sliding over to the end of the bench so as to free the remaining two-thirds of space.
"Thanks!" They both climbed onto the bench and conversed idly.
I had no inkling of how long I had before I was expected to return to my job. Given the excessive rain lately, a little sunshine was pleasant. There were no buildings and there was no smog to occlude the occasional sun.
"Hi, Pinkie Pie!" The green pony called. I glanced up to find a pink pony with a vibrant pink name bouncing past the bench.
"Hey, Bon Bon! Hey Lyra! Hey—" The pink pony then gasped and approached me with extraordinary speed. "Who are you?! I've never met you before!"
"Oh, yes," I said. "Not really from around here."
Pinkie grinned. "Well, you must be new here! And if you're new here, I wanna be your friend! 'cause I'm friends with everypony! and I throw a party for my friends and since you're new here, you need friends, so I'm gonna throw a party—" she inhaled. "—for yoooou!
"W-well, I am on vacation, but not entirely sure what I'm doing here, so—"
"Omigosh, I'm such a silly filly, I didn't even ask for your name!"
"I'm Spencer."
"Pinkamena Diane Pie! But my friends call me Pinkie Pie! Or Pinkie!"
A short while later I found myself inside a building whose interior was virtually as befitting of the term 'gingerbread house' as much as it was on the outside. At first glance, Sugarcube Corner looked to be a massive cake complete with three candles on a roof lined with chocolate and framed by vanilla frosting. These kind of places were increasingly rare in the city. Confectioneries in general tend to be expensive.
"Well, Rarity and Applejack are kinda busy, but my friends Rainbow Dash, Twilight and Fluttershy said they'd come!" Pinkie mused. I wasn't certain by what means Pinkie was able to inform five of her friends of this party, having only disappeared for a few minutes and leaving me alone at the bakery; but a few moments later, 'Rainbow Dash' had appeared—the winged-pony I had apparently seen earlier. I think 'pegasus' is the appropriate term.
"Hey, Pinkie," Rainbow said as she drifted about near the door, maintaining flight for a good while. "Twilight and Spike are coming over in a bit!" She finally landed. "So what's the occasion? I hope this is the Rainbow-Dash-is-awesome-and-cool party I've been waiting fo—" She took notice of my presence at the cease of her words, immediately flying over to the table at which I was seated. "Hey, who's this?" She asked, pointing a hoof to me while looking at Pinkie Pie.
Pinkie was busy behind the counter, gathering what appeared to be a few confectioneries and paper cups.
"Oh, Dashie!" Pinkie exclaimed as she emerged from behind the counter, unbelievably carrying over a plate of muffins she'd balanced on her muzzle. "Everypony knows you're the awesomest pony ever! This is a party for Spencer! He's new here and on vacation!" She 'placed' the muffins on the table and returned to the counter.
"Well," I began, 'I—"
"Spencer, huh?" Rainbow said, eyeing me. "That's a cool name. Not as cool as 'Dash', but 'Spencer' would be a cool middle name.
Pinkie, at the moment, was pouring a beverage from a cask into several paper cups at once. She giggled. "Isn't your middle name Ashleigh?"
Rainbow tilted her head at the inquiry. "No? But it would make my initials R.A.D.! Yeah!—No, that's cheesy!"
Pinkie returned with six cups, all balanced precariously on her muzzle as though the prospect of spilling them was lost on her. She set them on the table. I gazed at them, smelling apple.
"Hmm. Well this is very nice of you to do for me, —Pinkie," I said, feeling vaguely accomplished at finally having articulated myself fully for once that day.
Pinkie, just preparing to eat a muffin, rushed over and drew me into a hug. I gasped.
"Aww, no problem, Spence!" She said.
I felt frozen for a moment.
"Pinkie," Dash began. "I think you're making him nervous."
Pinkie relinquished her hug and returned to her muffin.
"No, it's fine. I really appreciate it," I mumbled and summoned the courage to pick up a muffin and eat it.
The beverage turned out to be a cider as pungent and flavourful as the apple I ate earlier. I finished my muffin and listened as Rainbow and Pinkie chatted and giggled. "I wonder when Twilight and Fluttershy are coming." I pondered. Was Fluttershy the yellow pony I had run into earlier?
I stared at my coffee again, bored by its stale taste, not at all convinced the addition of sugar was helping. I had already brought my bowl of oatmeal to the sink, equally as bored with it. As I returned to my room to get my shoes, I stopped to ponder if I had guests over in recent years, but soon discarded the possibility. After all, I had to go to work, not having time to contemplate at my flat.
I clocked in at 7, happy to be out of the miserable rain, but then disappointed to be inside the warehouse again.
Ced, the man on the janitorial shift, was on his way out. "Hey, Spencer, good to have you back. You were out for a while. Try not to fall off any more ladders, okay?"
"I will," I muttered. Another uneventful day was upon me.
I ran the inventory programme all day, finding within the two weeks I was not there the inventory has fallen to disarray. It didn't bother me. Anything to do was better than ambling about to align boxes on the shelves on which they were stored. It wasn't truly necessary; it only diminished the possibility of a box of several-thousands of dollars in electronics being knocked from the shelves by MoAb's proprietary stocking bots. It was reasons like this my position was a necessity at all.
As I returned to my small office space, I caught site of one of the rolling ladders and paused. A note among my documents showed I was brought to a medical facility after I had been found on the floor in front of the ladder. There was no vacation. Upon that thought, I suddenly found difficulty in my power to recall, owing that defect to the apparent concussion. Something happened.
The shine of neon lights kept my mind off the people who gathered around the massive televisions as I walked home. One might say it's ironic that I would do that—seek distraction in the same way those throngs of people do. I would have agreed if I wasn't contemplating the details the entire time; why are most of the tubes yellow? How many feet of tubing alone is there on my walk home alone? How much electricity is wasted for that purpose? I wasn't content with the scarcely intelligent 'pretty colours.'
The ‘neighbourhood’ kids didn’t even acknowledge me as I passed them on my way to my flat. The remained hopelessly affixed to their vidphones, idly chipping away at tiny keyboards. Who cares? Why should I if nopony else does? What influence do I have at all?
I went to bed immediately after my arrival, intent on sleeping from that Friday evening all the way to Monday morning.
As much as I wanted to sleep, I remained suspended in waking consciousness with the veritable machine of my brain grinding away fruitlessly without any semblance of control. Despite this, I was beginning to feel as futile as the hoi polloi I scorned, only I was trapped in the brooding confines of my head and the personal space of my flat. The dim glow of neon in the street below was cast upon the ceiling above my bed, while my flat was usually dark on the inside; there was just enough light coming from the outside to illuminate most of the nothing I ever did.
I suddenly realised that any interaction I had with others was fleeting at best. Speaking to an employee at the FoodMart, my old boss at CyroTech, or Ced—who I hardly see to begin with—was a rare opportunity.
The neon shifted in chroma. For a short while it was violet, then it was blue. Green; yellow; orange; red; an incidental rainbow; awesome and cool.
There was a sudden flash of enlightenment. I pictured a verdant landscape capped by a brilliant blue sky, adorned with brightness and warmth; and I was noticed; individuals who cared I existed; individuals who knew I was there and waved; a pink pony with a frazzled mane who gave me a cup of cider, muffins, a hug; a pegasus who complimented my name; a pony wearing a Stetson hat who gave me an apple.
I sat up. My eyes and face were wet. You idiot. You stupid, numb idiot!
All the memories came back with the same vivacity of the experience; the fervent glow of sunshine; the sweet taste of apple cider; the gravel stuck to my face.
And I shunned it all, not even exhibiting the slightest joy or comfort. I was stolid, unmoved—even to an illusion I wasn't aware of, rather quite certain I had truly gone to that majestic place—all consumed by malaise and creeping self-loathing and lost in a permanent state of emptiness You idiot! Why? For once in your miserable life, why couldn't you just—let—go?
I got out of bed and moved toward the window, gazing at the unearthly visage of the street with tears in my eyes. It had stopped raining. The sushi joints were closed. A pallor of fog filled the space between the buildings.
I turned and went to my table, sliding a chair from underneath it.
I climbed onto the chair, drawing in steady bouts of air, staring through the haze of my wet eyes at the empty ceiling before closing them and leaning back.