Nothing Special

I find a cheap place, well, as cheap as can be in Manehatten.  It had three rooms; a kitchen, a bathroom and a den. I sign the lease for just over a year, to hopefully give me enough time to find another place or renew the lease before the landlord kicks me out.

After getting my few things unpacked and placed, I find my way to Bridleway. They’re just beginning rehearsals when I show up. I tell a big guy at the door that I heard about the internship and he leads me in. I get the internship, but internships don’t pay.

After about a day of searching and starving, I found a job at a café. They had just lost a waitress for reasons I was told were none of my business. I don’t care, it’s my job now.

My training started the next day, but of course I had to take afternoons off for my internship. Things were going well, except for the undeniable fact that it would undoubtedly become a rut that I would have to crawl out of, if I wanted to survive.

I wanted to see how long I could last.

It took about two weeks, but after I had had enough and was desperate for anything to change my schedule, I dug up the paper that Mr. Green had given me upon my arrival.

I write a simple letter, telling him where I work and things like that. I specify how I need something to take my mind off things. When I finish I notice that I never bothered packing or buying envelopes, so instead I make one myself. It’s not bad, but I’m afraid it will give away too much about my life. I don’t want him to give me any charity.

The next day I receive a response:

Dear Page,

It’s good to hear you’re getting along so well!

However, there are a few things bothering me about the things you wrote.

For instance, the way you dodged the specification as to why you wish to “take your mind off things” leads me to believe you have a fear of consistency, you don’t like the way life is repeating itself. I would be happy to meet with you whenever you’d like. Having somepony to talk to, even on a regular basis, can help a pony realize the distinctive things that go on in their life, and can easily break them out of their “rut.”

It just so happens that I pass that café at least twice a week at the hours you work there. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stop by on those days to visit and have some breakfast with you.

Oh, and another thing. I noticed you didn’t use an envelope. Perhaps you are having trouble getting on your hooves? Remember, I’ll be here for anything you need! As long as it’s within reason, of course.

Have a nice day,

Grassy Green.

I knew he’d get way more than I’d expected from a few sentences. He is a professional, I suppose.

As it happened, he showed up at the café just after I did, just after opening. He ordered a coffee with three creams and one sugar, and an onion bagel with butter. He sat at the bar that was Justin front of the little kitchen-area where I prepare all the drinks. The actual kitchen is around back, through a door. There is a window from my area leading to the kitchen for me to pick up orders.

He sits in this place particularly so that he can speak with me while I work.

Sad to say, it didn’t change much. It was nice to talk to someone friendly, but as I continued working there, many ponies started recognizing me, as I did them. I learned to fetch regulars, and more frequently got higher tips.

But there was one night shift…

Basically, another waiter didn’t show, so I had to send a notice to Bridleway and get a night off to pick up the late shift. It was awful.

A bunch of middle-aged ponies fell through the door, drunk, and find table closest to the door. I groan and canter over to the table.

“May I take your order?” I say, trying not to sound disgruntled about serving drunks.

One of them starts, “Yes, I’d like – hiccup – I’d like your sweet cheeks – “ he stops and passes out on the table. I back up a few paces.

Another one speaks up. “I believe my friend was trying to ask if you were on the menu.” They all start laughing hysterically.

One of them seems to have a little sense left in him and asks for black coffee and fried celery. I write it down and turn to walk away.

“Where’re you going sweet-cheeks?” The first one woke up and shouted. “I thought you were gonna take my order.”

I take a deep breath, thinking of using some witty comeback to see if I could-

No, that wouldn’t end well.

I sigh and turn back around. He leans away from his chair. “I ain’t gonna shout it to ya,” he nearly whispers. So I take a step forward and he shouts, “I’ll have you!”

They roar again, all except the one who seems to have a migraine. Perhaps this was his first time getting drunk, and he didn’t like it. He turns to me and speaks quietly. I step up to him to hear him better. “They’ll just have the same,” he tells me.

“Yes, sir,” I respond. I write it down and turn to walk away when I feel a sharp slap at my left flank. I yelp and jump away. I turn back at them and glare while they all laugh riotously. I prepare the coffee while our chef fries the celery. He can hear their drunken party from the kitchen, and tells me that ponies often believe that fried celery can shorten the length of hangovers.

I bring them their coffee and celery and politely ask if they’d like anything else. They say no and I leave cautiously, so as not to get another perverted smack on my hindquarters.

Unfortunately, it did not get better.

After cleaning a few mugs and listen to the group’s senseless banter, one of them calls out for a refill. When I get to the table, he acts obnoxiously stubborn and insists I come all the way around the table to get the mug. I glare at the first fellow, and he just whimpers.

I step around the table to collect the mug, and before I can grasp it, the drunken idiot jumps on me. I nearly fall forward with his weight, but I’m glad I keep myself up.

Just then, Grassy Green bursts through the door shouting for the stallion to stop. I don’t wait another second. I slip about an inch forward and raise my right hind leg up in between both of his, then shove him off me as he squeals. I jump away from them as his buddies pick him up off the ground. All except for the newbie, who seems to have fallen asleep in his seat.

Mr. Green dashes to my side. “Oh my goodness, Page. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Dr. Green, I am quite all right,” I try not to sound sarcastic, but I don’t think I did too well. I save myself quickly, “What are you doing here?”

“I was on my way back from work and saw, or moreover heard the commotion from inside and was worried. I burst in to find this moron assaulting you. I’m glad to see you came out unharmed.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, faking an exhausted sigh.

Suddenly the chef comes running out. “What in Equestria is going on?”

Long story short, the drunk was arrested, and his buddies sent home. Celestia knows if they made it. I was given the next day off and was invited to Dr. Green’s office in case I needed some mental help.

It was pretty basic. I told him everything that happened from beginning to end. I showed no fear or signs of trauma, so Grassy gave me a compliment on my mental stability after a traumatic experience.

I told him I’d had a lot of practice, and he simply responded “Oh.”

However, no matter what I had gone through in the past, nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

That afternoon, I arrived home to notice a letter in my mailbox sent from home. I grew excited; it had been days since I sent my letter to them, also in a makeshift envelope.

As I read the letter, my elation dwindles. Mother wrote to me to tell me that Pa had been loaned a mechanical reaper to assist in harvesting while I was away. He didn’t know how to use it properly. They could get to a hospital in time.

My father had died in an instant, and I wasn’t there.

It was then that I learned the most terrible lesson about life:

It ends.