A Thunderlane Trip

Last night at four in the morning, I went to the ice cream place across the street from my apartment and I bought an ice cream cone. The guy behind the counter seemed really excited that I was there doing that.

I wanted to ask, “What day is it.”

I judge my health now by how hard my hooves feel. And I find myself grinding my teeth all the time now.

The front window of the place I buy my dinner at tonight has this shitty-looking computer-designed logo of a stallion in a chef’s hat, winking. Underneath the logo it says, “Jimbo’s.” The place is called Jimbo’s.

And here’s Jimbo, all his features drawn in circles on the front of a window, for the city to see. It’s terrible; I hate it. And I can barely stand I’m so sick opening the door to go in.

A stallion somewhat resembling the logo works the register.

“You must be Jimbo,” I say, pointing to the logo on the storefront window. “You have the same circle face and everything.”

The stallion at the register wipes his hooves on his apron and he nods. “Yup,” he says. He turns and gets the order from an oven behind him.

Paying, I say, “Wink for me man.”

The stallion behind the register winks. I smile and nod.

He says, “Bingo, baby.” Then he winks again and says, “That’s Jimbo, baby.” He wipes his hooves off on his apron, smiling. He hands me my order and I hold it and I don’t remember what it is.

“Alright,” I say, looking back and forth a few times from my order to the stallion at the register. “Bye, Jimbo baby.”

“Bye.”

At home I eat. When done I pick up the phone and dial. Somepony answers.

“Hello, Jimbo’s, how can I help you.”

I can barely breathe. I say, “Jimbo baby—”

There is a pause.

“Yeah, what is it,” he says.

“Nothing man, what’s up with you.”

He says, “Who is this.”

It’s very hard to breathe. “Jimbo, it’s me. Jimbo baby, it’s me. I was in before. Come on. Just—I’m calling to say, I really fucking appreciate the quality of the tomato you used in my sandwich.”

“Who is this.”

“Jimbo, baby, just, for real. Just listen. Most of the time when you get tomato from somewhere, it tastes like pencil erasers smashed together. Not yours though, Jimbo. Know, Jimbo baby?”

He clears his throat. “Fuck that,” he says. “I’m Jimbo baby. Believe it.”

“Exactly. Not you Jimbo baby. I mean it. When I bit into the sandwich—I mean—something happened deep inside me. A detonation. Does that make sense?”

“Hell yeah,” he says.

I switch ears with the phone. “Yeah, really good,” I say. “Like some slice removed from the inside of an angel’s thigh you know. I kept thinking, ‘How could it be this way’. I couldn’t tell if it was normal reality, or something I’d transcended.”

“Hell yeah, it’s like that.”

“Hell yeah,” I say. “I expected more portals to be involved though, know Jimbo baby? I didn’t know if I’d survive. I thought I had become the spirit.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Hell yeah is right Jimbo,” I say.

He clears his throat again.

I say, “You all right, Jimbo baby?”

He tries to clear his throat again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just got this dry-throat thing going on. It’s painful.”

“Shit man, need to get some water quick then, yeah?” I say.

“Yup,” he says. “Alright I have a customer. I have to go.”

“You going to remember to get that water, Jimbo baby?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Ok, bye Jimbo baby. Keep being wonderful. Don’t forget that water.”

“Ok bye,” he says.

“Bye Jimbo baby.”

I press the button on my phone and end the call. Then I look inside the garbage can. There in repose, the sandwich wrapper.

I touch the wrapper and breathe out, saying “Jimbo” in a halfwhisper.

Today I tell my roommate how I’ve been regularly taking a multivitamin.

He tells me to prove it by punching through a car window as we walk the streets back from the grocery store.

I am carrying more groceries than him.

I’ve been shaving my mane for a while now.

That’s my manecut. That’s the manecut I have now. I like it because it causes ponies to leave you alone more. They just assume you’re a mean asshole. I’m serious. Try it. It feels good.

The other day when I was shaving my head I used an old disposable razor I found in the bathroom. I don’t know whose it was. I cut my head badly—in front, in back, and behind my ear. There were long lines of blood coming out of like maybe four cuts.

The bathroom was cold. And I just stood there looking at myself in the mirror, wearing underwear—my head bleeding down my neck and face, my hoof holding a blue plastic razor with pink foam all over it. It felt really sexual. It felt like practice.

At one point I made direct eye contact with myself. I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pass out. Like, I’m thinking what if there is a secret organization of ponies who just make small changes in my life without me knowing it, like folding a page or two in a book I own, or putting a footprint underneath some clothes in my room.

What if somepony is leaving me messages in small pieces of folded paper. What if I’m actually a flower or some kind of plant but I don’t realize it.

The grocery store I interviewed at a while ago has asked me to come to a second interview. For bagging groceries. They said there might be a third interview too. For bagging groceries.

At the first interview two ponies were called from the breakroom when a boss wearing a headset said, “I need two team managers out front.”

One of the team managers, as an interview question, asked me what I thought of as a strong quality of mine.

I said, “I am good at things.”

And so I was invited back for this second interview. For bagging groceries.

That’s why I am in my room buttoning on a shirt right now. Because there is more chance of me getting the job if I don’t go shirtless to the interview. Because I want there to be a third interview and I want to be hired. Because everything else. And also because I remember that it is cold outside. Oh my.

Hopefully I can convince the ponies at the grocery store that I can bag groceries with sustained success. That is my goal. I want to have money so I can buy food and not die. And I want the world to see my ability as a bagger.

I want people to hear my name and say, “You mean the bagger?” I want customers to see me bagging groceries and regain all hope for themselves because of how inspired I am. I want people to almost faint when seeing the beauty of my ability to bag groceries. Lastly, I want to accidentally overhear a customer talking to the manager and mentioning my ability as “swan-like.”

My roommate walks down the hall. He comes up to my doorway and stands there and he watches me finish putting my shirt on. He’s smoking a cigarette with a brand name like “Highway” or “Eagle” and he is ashing the cigarette into an empty glass jar of shrimp sauce.

I am cornered. No I don’t know.

He says, “Hey I need some help.”

I agree by saying nothing.

He puts the cigarette into the glass jar and lids the glass jar and puts it on the ground. Then he stands rigid. “Which half of my face looks stupider today,” he says.

He moves just his head side-to-side, once, still standing very rigid. “Seriously tell me,” he says. “I want to take a picture of myself and give it to my marefriend. I just feel dumb-looking right now.”

I stand there. My shirt is almost all-the-way buttoned. Just like a grown-up. I touch my chesthair and a pimple beneath somewhere. This is my destiny. Everything leading up to right now has destined me for this.

“Just look,” he says. “Just, take your time, and tell me. Which half do you think looks stupider right now. I already decided what I think, but I won’t tell you yet.” He turns his head side to side to show me both halves of his face. “I need to know,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I like them both.”

I feel doubt that I will actually go to the interview now, for some reason. Then I almost retch because I imagine having a stomach full of nail-bitings for some reason. That seems terrible to me. Why am I thinking that.

My roommate stands in the doorway turning his head side to side and I finish buttoning my shirt.

“This side,” he says. “Or this side.”

If I ran into him I could push him down and get out of here. Ok, so do that. No, I don’t want to—I’m scared. Fine, do what you want.

“Both sides look so wonderful,” I say. “I wouldn’t be able to choose. I couldn’t possibly choose. Don’t put me in that position.”

Somewhere somepony is teaching me to another pony. And the teacher uses a metaphor involving a garbage truck that has run out of gas halfway to the garbage dump. And the student nods.

“I just can’t decide,” I say again. “I love everything about you.”

My roommate stops turning his head side to side and looks at the ground. I look at the ground. It feels like practice.

Leave your apartment. Your apartment is bad. Ok I will. Ok good.

“I have to leave,” I say. I leave.

Outside, I experience a bad feeling and I realize it is because I haven’t been outside for a few days so now it’s uncomfortable. On the way to the Blue Line train, I pass an apartment with a dog in the frontyard area, walking around unchained. I stop and stare at the dog. The dog stares back. We are in love yeah. It is love.

For some reason I want the dog to attack me. Yes, please attack me. Will you attack me dog. Dog, attack me. I want you to try to kill me. I want that. Don’t be afraid dog. Just, attack me.

The mail carrier comes around the corner down the block. I hide behind a bush until she passes, whew! The word “secret” scrolls through my head in neon letters and I am happy.

My heart is beating very fast.

When she’s fully gone down the block, I take the mail from the entryway to the apartment building last visited. I walk the mail to the post office. At the post office I buy a large envelope and put the mail inside. I mail this new mail to the address on the original mail haha!

And somewhere, somepony is forging a gold medal in honor of how I have lived my life.

I leave the post office and walk to the street bridge a few blocks away. The bridge overlooks the expressway, and I stand there and watch the traffic for a while. Feeling like shit. I decide not to continue my walk to the interview. It is not necessary. Feels good to just quit before trying. Feels like practice.

No one is out now and I am cold on the bridge watching traffic. Not sure what month it is but it is cold yeah. Probably January.

And I’m still one pony and I have nothing to do. No pony expects anything of me right now. It’s weird but really comforting to say that. And it is hard to decide things.

I want badly to take off my clothes and walk down the street, but I remember that it is cold. And plus I think I would get sick from not having clothes on. Whew! I don’t want to get sick and die.

On the walk back I stop and stare at the same dog again. Now, in various places in the snow where it walks, there are rust-colored piss holes. Piss holes. I stare for a long time and I feel discharged.

No I don’t know.

I see a long version of the word “No,” one with many many o’s, scrolling through my ears holes, in one then the out the other and I’m the pilot of it. Alright.