Chapters Braeburn doffed his cowboy hat and waved it for one last enthusiastic time at the older mare standing on the front stoop of the narrow two-story gray house, before rejoining his friend Cheese Sandwich, who was rolling his eyes. They fell into a side-by-side trot, hooves ringing on the pavement, Braeburn in a broad, shoulder-squaring gait that wasn’t all that noticeable in the desert, but was noticeable in Bayroan, where the streets were a lot narrower, and where, in fact, there were streets.
Bayroan was very unlike Appleloosa. Its buildings were set so closely together that a young colt could actually stand on two neighboring porches at the same time. The air contained puffs of whatever smell happened to be floating inland from the neighboring island of Manehattan; sometimes smoke, sometimes fish, and sometimes things you really didn’t want to know about. Still, Braeburn seemed much more at home in Bayroan than Cheese Sandwich did, which was odd, considering Cheese had been born there.
“Well, wasn’t she nice!” Braeburn said, with a wide smile, waving at passers-by who were staring at the Western vest and cowpony hat. “Your mama seems like real good folks.”
“Um, well,” Cheese hedged.
“And so interested in your career.”
“No, Ma, it’s not a set of ledgers, it’s an accordion, yes, I’m pretty sure,” Cheese muttered in a monotone.
“And how you spend your time!”
“No, Ma, I can’t just do this on the weekends, it doesn’t work like that,” Cheese muttered again.
“And your personal life,” continued Braeburn.
“Balcony Flowerbox, known her since I was a colt, we hate each other.”
“Well, I could certainly use a mama who would set me up. I wouldn’t have had to put an ad in the Western Hay, Grain and Feed ,” Braeburn said, trailing after him as he slowly shook his head. “Dunno where I planted my first wrong hoof, but it coulda been there. Where’s your Pa, if you don’t mind me asking? And what happened to your serape?”
“He’s at the office, or hiding,” Cheese explained. “It’s pretty much the same thing. And the serape doesn’t feel right in Bayroan.” Nothing really felt right in Bayroan, Cheese thought, and he avoided it as much as he could, but Braeburn seemed thrilled to be here. He was glad somepony was thrilled to be here.
~~Western Hay, Grain and Feed , inspired by the severe shortage of eligible mares in Appleloosa, had led to a whirlwind romance by mail and an impulsive proposal. He’d been so confident that he’d sent for Cheese to throw the biggest wedding in Appleloosa history, without the formality of having met his fiancé first. It had been a total disaster, and had ended with Cherry Jubilee taking the train back to Dodge Junction, the wedding definitively called off, and the two stallions holed up in the local saloon on an all-night bender.
Braeburn had awakened from their night at the Salt Block with an enormous salt hangover. Once he’d drunk enough water and his tongue was operating again, he began using it to express how extravagantly sorry for himself he felt. He had a lot of other thoughts, too, like the way no true gentlecolt would have led a fine lady like Miss Cherry Jubilee to expect marriage and then backed out; worrying whether he’d shown off Appleloosa in the best possible light, considering; anything except regretting that he’d dragged Cheese into the mess in the first place. When his jaw muscles finally gave out, he went on long, aimless walks, eyes wide with pain he couldn’t express, because his throat was sore. Cheese delayed his departure for several days, reluctant to abandon Braeburn in a crisis, but it was more than time for him to go. And in a moment of generosity that he’d probably regret for years, he’d said, “Well, I guess you can always come along with me for a while.”
Traveling with Braeburn was a mixed bag. He was much better at finding food and cooking it than Cheese was, and stew was a pleasant change from leftover cake and cheese dip that was beginning to turn. He was also an appreciative audience, and it was nice to play for somepony when he wasn’t in full throttle party mode. On the other hoof, it meant he couldn’t play everything he really wanted to. There were a lot of things he wanted to say that he could only say with his accordion, and he couldn’t say them at all with somepony else around—it made him feel self-conscious.
After he’d puffed out his thick brown tail last thing at night and curled up on it, trying to get some sleep, he’d hear “psst! Cheese! Cheese! Psst! You awake, buddy? Pssst! You awake?” It defeated the purpose to say “no,” so he’d developed a defensive snore and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get rid of it. He’d been camping once with Pinkie Pie, and he could listen to her voice forever. High-pitched and jingling, like a set of little bells, you could fall asleep to that. It could run all night long and you’d wake up in the morning, feeling refreshed, and enlightened, too. Braeburn’s baritone “pssst!” was not cutting it.
Braeburn was good-humored and friendly at parties, almost too friendly. If he could murder a joke by trying to tell it, that wasn’t really his fault. But he wasn’t good at knowing when to move on. The time to leave a party was when everypony was having the most fun, and Cheese always knew it. There was a last run of the accordion on his flank, a slackening of tension, and the Cheesy Sense let him go. His work was done, and he could rest assured he’d done his bit and leave without looking back. In fact, he’d only even paused once, and that was to give away a rubber chicken he’d been hanging onto for years. It had been such a small thing, and probably one of the most important things he’d ever done. He’d been reliving that moment for months: placing his only childhood friend in a nice box, getting the pink mare’s attention and her wide blue eyes focused on him, or at least on the box, sliding it over, and then an internal click, as something inside him snapped shut. Braeburn wanted to shut the party down, and help clean up, and put away the leftovers, and then promise to write to everypony who was still awake.
That was another thing: Braeburn’s “kin.” No matter where they were, Braeburn wanted to visit with his kin, and he had kin every few miles. This drove Cheese crazy, and when he tried to explain, Braeburn mutinied and said he’d go it alone if he had to.
“Look—if Cheesy Sense goes, I have got to go, right then. I can’t wait around. I have to make other ponies laugh. I have to make them happy.”
Braeburn pulled off his hat and threw it on the ground. “Over kinfolk? Just for a party? That don’t make sense, Cheese. Nothing’s more important than kinfolk.”
“Just for a party?” Funny was serious business, but nopony understood that anyway, except for Pinkie Pie, of course. Then Braeburn was unhappy, so Cheese was forced to juggle and dance on balls until he cheered up, which took ages. Luckily, the problem hadn’t come up yet, and the parties were better than ever: birthaversary levels of epic every time. He could feel pure happiness exploding under his hooves, more powerful than twenty party bombs; he was so full of transferrable joy that he lit up the night sky like fireworks. Something had fired him up so much that he probably wouldn’t have to go back to Ponyville to reconnect with Pinkie for months, maybe years. He really ought to be happier about that.
Maybe it was a good thing that he’d had to come back to Manehattan to throw a few parties and felt obliged to go to his parents’ house for lunch, because his mother could suck the fun out of anything in no time. And it was also a good thing Braeburn was along, because nothing could dent his sunny attitude. Braeburn loved Manehattan. His saddlebags were jammed with “I Heart Neigh York” souvenirs, and he’d insisted on going to tourist traps no native would ever dream of going to. The Great Park was one of his favorite places; he liked chatting to the carriage horses and the horses in the carriages, telling everypony who would listen about the horsedrawn carriages in Appleloosa and how tickled they’d be to learn about the latest fashions in harnesses.
“Right at the corner, Braeburn; the terminal’s down that way.” He was already turning, his gait speeding up to match everypony else’s.
“Right you are, compad—ugh!” Braeburn replied, gagging. “Why don’t you warn a pony when there’s stuff on the sidewalk? I can’t see it ‘till I’m right up on it.”
“Hmm?” Cheese’s hooves just naturally avoided garbage, spills, old newspapers, and places pigeons had been. It was great training for dancing. He looked up just in time to see Braeburn drifting out into the middle of the street, again. He gripped his teeth on his leather vest and pulled him back onto the sidewalk as a line of heavy eight-wheeler carts rolled by. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he expostulated, his voice leaping up nearly an octave. “Because if that’s the idea, I can relax and quit saving you from yourself. Just tell me where I should mail the hide after you’re scraped up.”
The apple rancher locked his leg around Cheese’s neck and scrubbed his curly mane affectionately with one hoof. “Aw, you’re such a kidder, buddy. You always make me bust out laughing. I was fine. I knew what I was doing.”
Cheese doubted that, but didn’t want to argue with him. He’d done such a great job distracting his mother and telling her stories about real-life cowponies that she’d forgotten to ask Cheese a lot of questions, and there were some he particularly didn’t want to discuss right now. Besides, they were now at the ferry terminal.
Braeburn looked up at the ferryboat and whistled. “She’s big. Bigger than I was expecting. And a beauty, too.”
“Yeah, isn’t it great?” Cheese enthused, as they trotted onboard. “You can see the whole island from there. It’s still free, too, if you can believe that. I used to ride it all day when I was a colt: drag my accordion on somehow and play. The passengers were great about it, and I even picked up some money. Drove my mother crazy.”
“Dragged? Why’d you have to drag your accordion on?”
“Well,” Cheese explained, “back then I had to carry it on, and it was heavy. That was before—“
—before I ran away from home because I couldn’t stand it anymore , he almost said. “Before I got my cutie mark,” he finished, instead. “Now,” he said, winking, “I’ve got other methods.” He picked out a good spot, dropped one of his hats on the deck, and then the accordion was just there, between his hooves. He played a few experimental scales and made sure its bellows was functioning. Hmm. What was he going to play this time? He really didn’t have to ask himself that, because there was a perfect song, by the most perfect of party ponies. She’d even left her name in it. He always played it everywhere he could, and it never failed to make everypony smile, including him.
He wound up with a whole boatload of happy ponies and a hat full of bits. He put the accordion away and joined Braeburn, who was sitting on the port side, watching the island of Manehattan get closer.
“I always like that one,” said Braeburn. “Uh, Cheese? I kinda have a favor to ask you.”
“Sure, what?” Cheese replied, not really paying attention.
“I got some kin.”
Here it was, Cheese thought, the good mood washing off him. He could feel it drain off all the other ponies, too, and that made him irritated. “What, more? I thought you already visited the Oranges.”
“Well, I did, but these are up in the Broncs.”
“The Broncs? I don’t want to go to the Broncs, Braeburn. That’s a long way from here.”
“We don’t have to go today,” Braeburn said anxiously. “Tomorrow’s just as good, but I gotta, Cheese. It’s important.” He had removed his hat and was twisting it around in his hooves. “See, Miss Cherry Jubilee—she’s got kin up in the Broncs, too. I oughta look ‘em up. It’s only right.”
“Do you even know who they are?”
“Just that there’s a little filly, Cherry Blossom, and she’s got a white coat, and a curly red, pink and white mane and tail.”
“How were you expecting to find her, exactly?”
“I dunno—maybe knock on some doors? Ask the neighbors? I’ve gotta do it, Cheese. It’s only right.” Braeburn was looking at him with big, sad green eyes, as though he’d been kicked. Now was not the time to point out to him that this was a bad idea, and besides, he sort of understood how Braeburn probably felt.
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow, ok? We’ll figure something out. Dinner. Something with cheese on it. Pizza? There’s a place I know in Little Neightaly. I used to go there all the time.”
“Sure thing,” said Braeburn, as he trotted off after Cheese.
“You’ll like this place,” said Cheese, as they trotted past carts selling alternative magazines and neon signs in windows. He slid easily between the crowds of other ponies. There were some times when a narrow set of shoulders was an advantage. This was where he remembered it, but instead of a plain storefront and a glass window with a picture of a pizza slice on it, there was tastefully exposed brickwork and tastefully placed stones and a line going out the door, with a tasteful moon-shaped sign reading “Slice of Life.” He recognized the symptoms.
“Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no,” he muttered, as he felt his temper rising. “I cannot believe this! They’ve ruined this place! Absolutely ruined it!”
“Why? What’s happened to it?” asked Braeburn in bewilderment.
He turned sharply to Braeburn and snarled, “What’s happened? What’s happened ? It’s been Trenderized!”
Author's Note
The map of Manehattan I've been using can be found here . I've always thought it was weird that in Pony terms, New York = Manhattan, because that irritates New Yorkers so much. The Oranges are Upper East Side; Babs Seed is so obviously from the Bronx; and while I briefly considered the possibility that Cheese could be from Staten Island, he clearly could not be from anywhere else but New Jersey. I've moved the Staten Island Ferry for my own purposes.
Next chapter: how to ruin a Manehattan pizza place and wind up in Gallop and Prance at the same time.
It was the last straw. Visiting his family, saving Braeburn from himself, promising to visit total strangers in the Broncs—nothing had gotten under Cheese’s hide like the defilement of his favorite pizza place, and he said so at length.
Five minutes later, they were settled at a big circular booth, noticeably invisible to anypony standing in line for a table. One of the hosts standing at the front desk had kept them chatting with a bright, cheery smile, barely hiding his worry, while the other bolted for the manager. They’d decided that it was easier just to let Cheese in and give him a table. If he wasn’t precisely a celebrity, his brilliant yellow shirt made him at least recognizable, and it was better to have him inside than outside on the sidewalk looking irritated.
Cheese was still fuming. “This used to be a nice place. You came in, got a slice or two, paid your bits, and that was it. Nopony bothered you. It was all about the pizza. And they used good cheese,” he lamented. “I liked it the way it was. Where are the wobbly tables with the grease slicks? Where are the troughs around the sides? What happened to atmosphere?”
Braeburn looked around at the brick ovens and their open flames, the white tablecloths, and the waiters in black bowties and white aprons moving quickly and quietly through the crowds of casually chic ponies. “I dunno?”
A waiter trotted up to them, nosed the menus closer, and dropped his knees down so that his head was almost even with the tabletop. “Good evening, welcome to the Slice of Life, my name is Arugula, and I’ll be your server this evening. Now! Have either of you been here before?”
“Yes,” said Cheese sourly.
“Are you aware of how our menu works?”
“Am I— what ? How the menu works? I read about food on it, I tell you what I want, and you bring it to me. That’s how a menu works.”
Arugula ignored this, picking up a pencil in his mouth and pointing several columns out to Braeburn, talking around the pencil. “We have our crust options here—everything is made fresh in-house, and it’s all locally sourced—“
“Locally sourced?” asked Braeburn, pushing his hat back and scratching his mane. This was going over his head.
“Locally sourced, Braeburn. You know how in Appleloosa, you pick an apple off a tree and eat it? That’s locally sourced. Look,” Cheese said, turning to the waiter, “what happened to good old Median Strip?”
“I’m sorry,” Arugula said, shifting from hoof to hoof and laughing nervously. “We’ve only been renovated for a few months, and I don’t know what the staffing was like before then. Now, we have several different options for garnishing—a lot of ponies like the white truffle oil. It’s very good.”
“There are five things you put on a pizza, and only five,” Cheese said between gritted teeth. “Red pepper flakes, garlic powder, pepper, salt, and your mouth. You do not use cutlery, and you do not put white truffle oil on top of perfectly good cheese. Good pizza cheese makes its own oil. Truffle oil. I ask you.” He coughed, and then glanced down at his tongue, which still had some damp confetti clinging to it. “Uch. I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Um, we’ll just have whatever’s nice,” said Braeburn. “Something simple for my friend over here. And two Appleloosa Golden Harvest Late Autumns, if you’ve got ‘em.”
“Make it three,” said Cheese.
“All righty, then,” said Arugula. “I’ll just put those in for you. Oh, my goodness, gentlemen, do excuse me. I forgot to bring you the amusement!”
“I’m not amused!” Cheese called after him. “Trenderized,” he muttered. “Completely Trenderized.” He caught a glimpse of a puff of spiky blond mane carelessly arranged around a unicorn horn, just visible over everypony’s head, and then a skinny flank with a patch of green argyle as a cutie mark. “Look at him, the stallion of the hour,” he went on, jerking his head to indicate the pony he’d spotted to Braeburn. “It’s not enough to kill the place. Oh no, he had to return to the scene of the crime.”
“Who’s that again?”
“Trenderhoof,” spat Cheese.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Cheese rolled his eyes to the ceiling and mouthed, Thank Luna . “Trenderhoof,” he said, “is Equestria’s biggest party pooper. He can ruin a party just by being at it. Well, ok,” he admitted, seeing Braeburn’s confusion, “technically, he’s a journalist, but the second he’s at a party, it’s not a party anymore, it’s an Event. Everything about it is going in Stallion’s Journal or The Neighlantic .” The waiter brought three cider bottles and three mugs, smiled nervously again when he saw the expression on Cheese’s face, and moved hastily away.
“I see,” said Braeburn, nodding sympathetically. “It’s gotta be bad for a party pony, a bad review.”
“No,” said Cheese in exasperation, “the worst thing that can happen is a good review!” He waved his front leg around at the other diners. “Do you think these ponies are actually enjoying themselves? They’re not eating here because they like the food. They’re eating here because it’s trendy. This used to be a hole in the wall with great pizza, until Trenderhoof came in and,” Cheese made air quotes with his hooves, “ ‘appreciated’ it. The next thing you know, it’s all ‘locally sourced’ this and ‘authentic’ that. Then he loses interest, and whatever it was is done for. Don’t get me started,” he finished darkly, “on what he did to cupcakes.”
They nursed their ciders in silence for a moment.
“Ok,” Cheese burst out, “if you’re going to twist my tail about it. Cupcakes have always been cupcakes. They’re sweet, and little, and a lot of them have pink frosting—anyway, they’re perfect the way they are. But then Trenderhoof had to go and notice them and write about how fabulously retro they were, and suddenly there were cupcakes everywhere. Every party I threw, everypony wanted cupcakes: birthdays with cupcakes, weddings with cupcakes, even funerals with cupcakes. Trenderhoof got tired of them, wrote an article in Gallop and Prance about how yesterday cupcakes were, and now you can’t give them away. Only little places like Ponyville have the good sense to love them anymore. Poor old cupcakes,” added Cheese sadly, deliberately spilling some cider onto the floor. “You had a good run.”
Suddenly, he noticed that Trenderhoof wasn’t just standing and talking somewhere across the room. He was table-hopping, and getting closer. “Oh, Stilton,” he moaned, “there he is, and he’s coming this way. You keep an eye on him, because I am not going to be here.” He began frantically searching through his inventory for a hat that was both concealing and inconspicuous. He was up to the full widow’s weeds with matching veil before he remembered, too late, that Boneless 2 was sitting on the table, enjoying his own drink in his quiet way.
Trenderhoof didn’t seem to feel awkward about this meeting, whatever Cheese thought about it. He lifted his head, sighted Cheese, and rapidly made his way to the table. He leaned on the surface with both front hooves, so that the leather patches showed to full advantage. Waiters tried to get past, and had to detour around him. “Cheese!” he exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure. And you’ve got that amusing little prop with you, too, whatever it is.”
Cheese narrowed his eyes, his curly mane bristling. “Boneless 2 isn’t an it. Boneless 2 is a he.”
“You see?” Trenderhoof said, beaming. “Priceless! And where have you been? Out somewhere rustic, no doubt, bringing simple happiness to simple ponies. How I envy you sometimes. I flatter myself I found a little undiscovered gem here. I’m glad you decided to give it a try. And who is this?” he added, noticing Braeburn for the first time.
“Braeburn,” said the rancher, tipping his hat, and clinking horseshoes with Trenderhoof. “I’m from Appleloosa. Finest place in Equestria, if I do say so.”
“Appleloosa,” said Trenderhoof, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”
“Well!” boasted Braeburn, “it’s just the biggest apple ranch in all of Equestria, that’s all!”
Trenderhoof slid his glasses down his nose and peered over them at Braeburn. “Reeeeallly ,” he purred.
Cheese glanced over at Trenderhoof and noticed that he was taking it all in: the loose, long blond mane, the leather vest, the deep chest, and a whole lot of other things Cheese had never noticed about Braeburn because they weren’t that interesting to him. He smacked his forehead with one hoof.
“I think I’ll join you," said Trenderhoof, and dropped down on the seat next to Braeburn, forcing Cheese to slide over. “Do go on, Mr. Braeburn,” he said, leaning his chin against his hoof. “I’m particularly interested in apples.”
“You are? Well, that’s awful nice of you. Nopony else in this whole city seems interested in apples, Mr. Trenderhoof.”
“Please,” said the journalist, flashing his teeth, “call me Trend.”
The evening, which was already terrible, had just become exponentially worse. Not only had Trenderhoof come to their table, they would never be able to get rid of him. There was one possible solution that came to mind. It was simple, it was drastic, it was effective, and above all, he thought with an evil grin, it would be funny. He motioned to the waiter and asked in a murmur if there were any drinks on the menu that were more or less the kind of thing he had in mind. Of course, there were lots of them. It was that sort of place. Meanwhile, this hat wouldn’t do at all, and he sorted through them quickly, drawing the stares of curious diners, until he settled on a beret. Then he leaned casually around Braeburn, caught Trenderhoof’s eye, and smiled an intentionally insincere smile.
“Like apples, do ya?” said Braeburn. “I don’t want to go tootin’ our horn, but we grow the best cider apples in all of Equestria. Even Sweet Apple Acres can’t match ‘em, though I say it as shouldn’t. But I guess a big time city slicker restaurant critic like yourself wouldn’t be bothered tellin’ the difference.”
“Au contraire . It is my business to ‘tell the difference,’ and vive it, may I say.”
“Oh, really, now. Betcha couldn’t tell where these apples are from,” said Braeburn, sliding his mug over to Trenderhoof. “No fair lookin’,” he added, and swept the bottles off the table with a crash. Everypony’s eyes swiveled in the direction of the sound, and then they went on with their conversations as though nothing had happened, while six members of the waitstaff darted in and silently removed the mess. It was that sort of place.
Trenderhoof blew a bit of blond mane off his horn, levitated the mug to his mouth, and took a small sip. He glanced to the side and up, running through different possibilities at lightning speed, then responded, “Golden Harvest Late Autumn. ’08,” he added. “Appleloosa! Of course. I had simply assumed it was part of the name. It hadn’t occurred to me that it was a place. Silly me.” He pushed the mug back towards Braeburn and began tracing little figures in the spilled cider on the table with his hoof.
“Lucky guess,” scoffed Braeburn. “Betcha couldn’t do it with any other cider.”
“I assure you I could. I have a very sensitive palate, and considerable experience, and I am willing to try nearly anything once.”
Cheese, trying to get control of the conversation, shot in, “He really is. Like that Tatzelwurm entrail casserole he wrote about in the same issue of Gallop and Prance where he gave up cupcakes. He’ll eat anything. Not because it’s good; he’ll eat it because he can.”
“Well!” exclaimed Braeburn, slapping his hat down on the table. “We’ll just have to test that out. We’ll try every cider in the place!” He lifted one leg in the air and began gesturing for a waiter.
“No!” Cheese exclaimed in horror. “Um, Braeburn,” he winced, and forced himself, “honey , we don’t want you to overdo it, do we? You know how you get when you overdo it.”
“Now, don’t you fret none, Cheese. I’ve been drinking cider since I was a foal. It’s like mother’s own milk to me.” He threw one palomino leg around the nearest waiter’s shoulders. “Three bottles of everything!”
“Two,” muttered Cheese in defeat, and banged his head on the table, knocking Boneless Two over. “Oops, sorry,” he said, and carefully leaned the rubber chicken back against his almost full glass.
“Your Cotton Candy, sir,” murmured Arugula, the waiter, and placed a cocktail glass in front of him.
The glass had a little puff of real cotton candy in it, and pink sugar crystals around the rim. He knew he should have tried harder to act like a jealous boyfriend, but looking at it took all the resolve straight out of him, and he just didn’t have the heart. It didn’t really matter anyway, since Arugula and another waiter were lining up bottle after bottle in front of Braeburn and Trenderhoof. He gave up, put the beret away, and scrubbed both hooves through his mane.
Arugula brought their pizza. It wasn’t bad, Cheese acknowledged. It just wasn’t pizza. Meanwhile, he seemed to be the only one who was still interested in eating anything. Braeburn and Trenderhoof were too busy tossing down yet another round.
The rancher slapped his hooves over Trenderhoof’s eyes. “Now, you stop peekin,’ compadre! You’re too good at this!”
“Hollow Shades October Special, ’09. Really. You’re going to have to try much harder than this.”
“Oh, really, now. Is that so?” said Braeburn, slapping his hoof down on the table. “Well, then, now we move on to the hard stuff!”
Author's Note
For clarity’s sake, I should say that Trenderhoof isn’t a bit confused about being bisexual. That’s crystal clear to him, and okey-dokey-lokey with me. But if he doesn’t learn to start distinguishing between ponies and fruit, he’s going to be in serious trouble.
You Go Your Neigh, And I'll Go Mine
“Now this here,” said Braeburn, pointing to the first small glass with the tip of his hoof, “is Calvados. This here is scumble—that’s mostly apples—and then these four over here are applejack.” Trenderhoof flinched. “You know applejack?”
“We’ve met,” he said.
“If you want to be introduced to your drinks, don’t let me stop you. Now see if you recognize this one.”
The journalist placed his hoof over Braeburn’s. “You are not looking at this the right way.”
“What do you mean, tenderhoof?” said the apple rancher, talking as though he had a mouth full of molasses. “I mean, Trenderhoof? I mean, Trend?”
“It isn’t a question of where it’s from. It’s a question of what food it ought to be paired with.”
Cheese had more or less given up by now. He’d eaten a disappointingly expensive flat thing that someone had decided to call pizza as a cruel joke, and now he was staring at a piece of pink cotton candy dissolving itself in a cocktail glass, and feeling utterly depressed.
“---and that one,” he heard Trenderhoof’s voice, filtering through the fog, “only ought to be served with artisanal vanilla ice cream. This one would be best with a nice Camembert.”
Camembert? What were they saying about Camembert? That one was personal. It was his most serious oath. He couldn’t hear it without thinking of when he’d said it last and what pony he’d said it to. He glanced up at Braeburn.
“So,” he was saying, “wouldja say that one was a good cheese pairing?” He elbowed the party stallion in the ribs. “Cheese pairing , geddit?”
“Snnrrk!” said Trenderhoof, and then “ow,” as apple brandy went up his nose. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“Leave comedy to the professionals,” Cheese muttered bitterly.
“Whaddya say, Hoofatrend? Wanna try ‘em all again?”
“Sh. . .sl. . . yes,” nodded Trenderhoof, pushing the sleeves of his argyle sweater up. The leather patches made it stick. “Say, I’m beginning to feel inspired.”
Green eyes, shaded deep, like a deer fern, Knows apples, at least, and he can learn, Surprisingly wise, Did I mention those eyes? That interesting stallion named—hic!—Applejack.
Cheese began to worry again. Their hotel room was small, and this was not in the contract, not even in the fine print. By Cheddar, he was not taking the ferry back to Bayroan. He’d rather sleep on the ferry—or in the park—or just about anywhere—but he was hard pressed to know whether Bayroan or piling in with both Braeburn and Trenderhoof would be worse. And now he had the eerie feeling that the pink cocktail was staring at him. Instinctively, he shoved it behind a menu.
“I’m no expert on fancy poetry,” said Braeburn, shaking his head, “but I don’t reckon that one rhymes.”
“I have always wanted,” Trenderhoof said, eyes watering, “to live on a real farm. An honest, authentic, working apple farm. I love apples. Absolutely adore them. Do you know I once had an apple so rare that they thought it was extinct? Have I told you this before? I ate,” he glanced down at his hoof, which was moving around on its own, “four of them.” Braeburn smacked his hoof on the back of his head. “Ow!”
“Why in the hay would you do a fool thing like that? Why didn’t you plant it?"
“I can’t,” said the journalist, sniffing. “I’m not an Earth Pony. I’ve got a black hoof.”
“Then why didn’t you give the cores to one of us?” Braeburn scolded. “We would of known what to do. Then everypony could of enjoyed one, instead of just you!”
Trenderhoof hung his head. “I didn’t think of that.”
Braeburn snorted again. “Guess you didn’t.”
“Of course I didn’t!” Trenderhoof said tragically. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a napkin. “What good am I, anyway? Just a—hic!—s’unicorn—journalis’—Cannerlot elitist, everypony says. And I have so much respect for you Earth Ponies, ‘cause you’re so strong and competent an’ all. Even him,” he added, pointing at Cheese. “An’ I just wanna live the simple life on a simple farm—hic!—with simple ponies.”
“Well, then, why don’t you?” said Braeburn, efficiently tidying up the glasses.
“Really?” breathed Trenderhoof.
“Um, Braeburn?” said Cheese, suddenly anxious, “you do understand this—stuff, don’t you?”
Braeburn rolled his eyes. “Why does everypony assume I’m so naïve? I come from a small town. Everypony knows everything about everypony else’s business. You couldn’t keep a secret if you tried. Mr. Trenderhoof, I could tell you I’m sorry, but I just don’t like stallions, and that would be the truth. I could tell you I’m sorry, but I just don’t think you’re all that pretty, and that would be the truth, too, only it would be kind of mean to say so. But the real truth is that I just got my heart broken pretty bad, and I think I broke somepony else’s, which is worse. I did some stupid stuff, and I’d be really stupid if I did some more.”
“Oh,” said Trenderhoof. “The good ones are never interested,” he lamented, “and I don’t know why.”
Cheese opened his mouth to tell him why, but Braeburn interrupted.
“You say you want to live on a farm; well, you can come on out and live on a ranch. We have everything anypony could ever want in Appleloosa, but one thing we don’t have is tourism, and we could sure as hay use some. Here,” he said, slapping his leather vest, “let me give you one of my cards.”
Cheese’s jaw dropped. “You have business cards?”
“Of course I do. What do you think I wear a vest for? Here,” he said, sliding a card across the table to Trenderhoof. “Now, you listen, Mr. Trenderhoof. Come on out and see Appleloosa for yourself. Find out what it’s really like to live on an apple ranch. Send those articles back to your editors—Trenderhoof living the Simple Life. What the hay, make it a book. Be a real Appleloosan, be one of us, for a while at least.”
“Come and live with you?” said Trenderhoof, eyes wide. “For real?”
“Yep. You take that card to Silversaddle, Duke of Appleloosa. Biggest ranch in the area. He’ll be more than happy to take you in, stay as long as you like.”
“There’s a Duke of Appleloosa? I never heard of that,” said Cheese, “and I’ve been there a few times now.”
“Is it a new title?” asked Trenderhoof.
Braeburn shrugged. “Beats me. Around Appleloosa, we’ve always just called him The Duke.”
Trenderhoof put his glasses back on and looked at the card for a moment or two. “You couldn’t have any idea how much this means to me,” he said finally. “But I don’t see how I could possibly be any use. I’ll be in your way, and I can’t do any work.”
“But you will be doing something useful,” said Braeburn. “You’ll be writing about us and telling your readers, because I can practically guarantee that you’re going to love it. As for doing work, don’t you worry. We’ll get some work out of you, one way or t’other. We’re good at that.”
The unicorn levitated Braeburn’s card into the breast pocket of his sweater. “I really must get back to my guests,” he said. “You’ve given me something to consider.” He rose from the bench a bit unsteadily.
Braeburn rose and caught him under one leg. “Are you sure you’ll be ok? You want me to walk you over there? Come to think of it, maybe you oughta go home.”
“Oh, no. I’ll be fine,” Trenderhoof said, patting Braeburn on the chest and straightening himself up. “After all,” he added with a rueful smile, “what kind of travel writer would I be if I couldn’t function when I’d had too much to drink?” He turned and disappeared into the crowd of ponies.
Braeburn dropped back down onto the bench. “You’re mighty quiet, Cheese. You haven’t been yourself all day. What’s rustling your oats?”
Cheese drew a deep breath. “You really want to know what it is? There are too many ponies here, and too many of them are miserable. They make each other miserable, they make themselves miserable, and some of them are miserable for very good reasons I can’t do anything about. I want to make them all happy, and that’s impossible. Even if I threw the biggest party in Equestria in the Great Park, there would still be too many miserable ponies, and it drives me crazy. After a few days, I’m miserable, too: miserable on the inside, and miserable to everypony else. That’s the effect it has on me. I’ve been a bad host, and a bad friend, Braeburn, and I’m really sorry about that.” He tossed the pink drink he’d ordered earlier down in one gulp, and gagged. “Eurgh.”
Braeburn shook his head, clicking his tongue. “I’m surprised at you, Cheese. You’re an Earth Pony. You know how this works.” Seeing Cheese’s perplexity, he explained, “You start small, and make it grow. Everything’s gotta start little before it grows big. You said it yourself: the ponies here aren’t really enjoying themselves. Why don’t you start with them?”
Cheese felt the spasm in his flank as the sandwich accordion began its runs, louder and louder, squealing high over the tasteful mood music. His leg banged the underside of the table, rattling the glasses, and then the spirit of laughter punched through him, blowing him high like a geyser. He exploded over the table in one bound, pulling out his accordion in one smooth gesture, and screamed the battle cry of his mentor, the Great Ponyacci, “Wa-hey-hey! Who’s ready to laugh? ”
And that is how, as Trenderhoof wrote in a later column, The Slice single-hoofedly was turned into a comedy club.
~~
“Whoo!” sighed Cheese, as they stood outside the Slice of Life, and stretched his legs. “That was a good one.” He pulled out his straw hat and tilted it on the back of his head as they began to walk back to the hotel.
“Aren’t you tired?” asked Braeburn.
“Are you kidding?” Cheese said exultantly. “I feel great.” He leapt up on the railing surrounding the nearest brownstone townhouse, and strolled along, balancing and jumping from railing to railing as he reached the end of each, whistling. Every party pony in Equestria has got to have felt that one , thought Cheese. Whoo! He spun himself around a lamppost and spiraled down to the street.
They had walked straight past the street they were supposed to turn on to go uptown. Cheese had been too exuberant to notice, and Braeburn easily got lost. Now they had reached the end of the street on the river side of the island. The moon was huge and brilliant, hanging low, with its light doubled by its reflection in the water. At length, Cheese said, “You know, if you look at it just so, it sorta looks like a pizza.”
Braeburn frowned. “I can’t see it, myself.”
“You’re probably right,” Cheese acknowledged. “You probably have to be in a certain kind of mood. Do you think Trenderhoof will really come out to Appleloosa?”
“I think he will,” said Braeburn, leaning against the wall that bordered the water.
“Isn’t it going to be awkward having him around?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” said Braeburn, chuckling. “You said it yourself: he gets tired of everything. He’ll lose interest in me fast enough. But I don’t think he’s going to lose interest in Appleloosa. Appleloosa’s going to be real good for him. Call it a hunch. Besides, who said I’m going straight back to Appleloosa?”
Cheese pushed a pebble off the wall, and they watched as its rings spread out, larger and larger, until they disappeared.
“I miss her letters,” Braeburn burst out. “I don’t think I did right by her. I wish I could make it up to her. Sometimes I think about the mare I know she is, and the filly I thought she’d be, and I don’t know what I think. But I miss her letters, and that’s a solid fact. I love you like a brother, buddy, but it’s just not the same.”
“Yeah, well,” said Cheese, and pushed another pebble into the water. They didn’t speak for a while.
“Is it true that you party ponies have to make other ponies happy?” asked Braeburn. “I mean like, you have to, have to?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then what in the name of sour apples makes your mama so unhappy, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Probably me,” admitted Cheese. “She’s unhappy about my being a party pony at all. It’s what you call a vicious cycle. The more she sees me, the more unhappy she gets, and then I have to try to make her happy, but then that reminds her I’m a party pony, and she’s more unhappy. If I stick around, I’ll try to make her happy until it kills me, so it’s better not to try. I don’t think about it much. I may be from here, but it stopped being home a long time ago.”
“And where’s home?”
Good question, but one he couldn’t answer, and wouldn’t if he could. “Home is where I hang my hat.”
“But you don’t hang your hats,” Braeburn pointed out. “You just stash ‘em somewhere and when you need ‘em, you pull ‘em out of your—“
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m home everywhere.”
Braeburn snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it to me. No home, no kin—sounds like sheer misery.”
“It does to you, but you’re not a party pony,” Cheese said, his voice going upwards, one horseshoe anxiously clicking against the wall as he tried to explain. “You’re a rancher. You need kin. To be honest, this whole city is probably full of ponies I’m related to, and I don’t even want to know. I don’t want more kin. I don’t even like the ones I’ve got.”
“Not even me?” murmured Braeburn.
Cheese was speechless.
“I told you I love you like a brother. You think I was just blowing smoke? I’m telling you, you have kin in Appleloosa. You don’t come see me, I’m gonna come and see you, like it or not. You know how I am about kinfolk.”
It was stunning—the idea that he might have a brother, even a borrowed brother, especially one he actually liked. “Hold it,” he said. “Does that mean I have to be kin with the whole Apple family now? Because I don’t think I’m up for that.”
“Nope,” said Braeburn, pulling off Cheese’s hat, putting him in a headlock, and hoofing his mane. “We’ll say for now it’s just me. One relative at a time. Baby steps.”
“Shh!” he said, pushing Braeburn away, and holding up a hoof to silence him. There was something coming through.
It wasn’t Cheesy Sense: definitely not. There was no party he had to worry about.
He obviously didn’t need to have his party pony magic re-ignited. He was practically incandescent with it.
It wasn’t—that other thing that kept pulling at him. That wasn’t anything new, anyway. He always felt that. He thought about her more or less all the time. So what was this, this tiny blip, blip, blip?
. . . what did they call that? A homing signal?
“So, I was thinking, Cheese—I’m heading West pretty soon. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Not tomorrow, Braeburn, remember? We’ll say goodbye day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’re going to the Broncs.”
It turned out not to be too hard to find a little white filly with a curly pink and red mane and tail named Cherry Blossom after all.
Author's Note
As of the Celestia and Spike Friends Forever comic book, there is indeed a Silversaddle, Duke of Appleloosa.
This turned out to be a bit longer than the little detour I planned! But I enjoyed it, and I hope you did, too.
---also, I would probably commit insecticide to see art of Braeburn, Trenderhoof, and Cheese hanging out in a bar, so if you're dying to do that, don't let me stop you.
