Adventures in Equestria: My Little Place

The alarm on Tyler’s phone screamed to life. Thursday, 6:23 pm. Pushing dismiss, he blinked slowly to life, raising up from his bed and scanning the familiar confines of a trashed room. A television, several overflowing bookshelves, a bass, and his floor futon were the only furniture populating the room, giving it a feel of Spartan necessity, though many clothes and dirty dishes scattered across the floor kept it from feeling empty. He stood to his feet, the smell of an apple cinnamon plugin masking the lingering smell of McDonald’s and IHOP that now permeated everything he owned.

Tyler fumbled around in the dark, searching for a path toward the light switch that didn’t involve tripping or stepping on a fork. With only a near stumble, his hand stretched out and met the push switch, illuminating the room again, only for him to immediately push it back off. “Everytime” he mumbled, shaking his head and opening the door out of his room. The hallway was equally dark, though much cleaner, a condition he maintained to hide his sloppiness from his roommates, one of which was never there, and the other of which wouldn’t have cared regardless. Opening up the drier stationed in the hall next to his room, Tyler pulled out his red and yellow McDonald’s shirt, hat and pants and began to climb into all of them at once.

It took several groggy minutes of twisting and turning for Tyler to finally stand triumphant, if slumped, in the uniform he wore every night. Walking half asleep towards the door, he managed to unlock it, leave and lock it behind him, before staring at the dented, multicolored car that rested in the driveway. The air was crisp and cool, warming than most late November nights, but still cool enough to elicit a shiver without a jacket. Tyler shuffled into the driver’s seat and drove off to his McDonald’s.

At 4:17 am, his car pulled back into the driveway. Now wet from dishwater and covered in grease, ketchup and dehydrated onions, Tyler climbed back out of his car, unlocked the door to his home, limped through the hall toward the washing machine while rubbing his knee’s, and removing his uniform, dropping them into the machine, setting it to heavy duty and falling into his room, into his bed.

The alarm on Tyler’s phone screamed to life. Friday, 5:23 am. Pushing dismiss, he blinked slowly to life, raising up from his bed and scanning the still familiar confines of a trashed room. It felt less Spartan this time, more just empty. There was no feeling of necessity to the items he saw, and the clothes and dishes made him feel dirty and unwelcome. His knees ground together as he stood up, his feet sore and his head pounding. Picking up the black IHOP uniform that lay on his floor, he began to dress in a slow, methodical process. First the black undershirt. Then the cook’s overshirt. Black pants. Cushioned socks. Slip resistant shoes. Despite taking it slow, Tyler’s knees still groaned with each step. When finished dressing, he walked slowly and gently to the door, unlocking it and stepping out, locking the door and climbing into his car. He pulled out of the driveway and turned toward his IHOP.

At 3:47 pm, his car pulled back into the driveway. Now wet from mop water and covered in egg, hashbrowns and grease, Tyler stumbled out of his car, into the unlocked front door, waving silently at his roommate Mila, and into his room. There he undressed, pulled a pair of sweatpants and a robe on, and moved back into the hallway. He moved the McDonald’s uniform into the drier, and put the IHOP one into the washing machine. Starting both, he stepped into the bathroom, ran scalding water over his burned arms, sore knees and greasy hair. He no longer hoped to remove the smell of pancakes, burgers and sausage. After several minutes, he stepped out of the shower, dried off and returned to his room, falling back into bed. Before his eyes forced themselves shut, he checked his phone alarms. It said Set: Friday 6:23 pm.

This is how Tyler lived his life. From Thursday at 7pm, until Tuesday at 4 am, his life belonged to IHOP and McDonald’s. From Tuesday at 4 am until Thursday at 7 pm, his life belonged to his university. Each week, he pushed through another grinding shift making burgers and biscuits and cleaning dishes, making hashbrowns and omelets and cleaning plates. In this way, he eked out his meager existence, spending his time writing papers and eating ramen, saving money to pay for college, rent, and whatever new bills may appear to claim another portion of his life. In the few spare moments of time he could snatch from either, he spent smoking a Marlboro Red short, the burning reminding him that there was a life inside, even as he killed it with each breath, reading whatever book his spare change could pay for on the dying nook he’d received as a gift several years before.

Horrible as it may have seemed to him, this was Tyler’s routine, and he rested in it, feeling safe and comfortable in what was familiar, rather than risk losing his path. Each day, to get through the pain, he reminded himself of the goals. Political Science Major. Master in Global Studies. Learn Chinese. Law Degree. Lawyer. Representative. Governor. President. This was his mantra, the last words he thought before his mind went blank each night, and the first he would intentionally think each morning. Whenever his knees groaned louder than normal, it was the mantra he would tell himself. Whenever his head’s pounding was worse than normal, it soothed something inside. It kept him going.

As with all routines, something must eventually disrupt them.