It was before dawn that I made the way down from my flat to the small shop I called my own. The wide streets had been washed clean of summer’s dust by an evening shower, the clouds of which still obscured the sky. A warm August breeze whisked through my mane and coat, bringing the dampened pennants on the sides of buildings to dance on their posts and strings. The snapping tips flung droplets of water from their ends that splashed across the stone walls they occupied, along with sprinkling the canvases and streets below.
The dawn chorus echoed around me, and passing under the canopy of an old birch tree I spotted a pair of small wrens leaping from branch to branch. A smile tugged at my lips and I imagined their chirps to be the fervent gossip of the morning’s news. The wren on the higher branch would carry on about the latest nonsense of the rooftop birds while his counterpart on the lower branch lamented the state of Canterlot’s lower ward in recent years.
Leaving the birds to their business, I continued down the cobblestone streets to my shop. I channeled a bit of magic into my horn and retrieved the key from the breast pocket of my white chef’s jacket and unlocked the door. It wasn’t that I was in a bad part of Canterlot, but one could never be too careful these days.
Using the blade of the key to flick on the lights before tucking it back into the safety of my pocket, I walked into my shop. The sweet smell of sugar filled my nose as I made my way to the coffee pot. After putting in a clean filter I sprinkled a light dusting of ground cinnamon into the bottom, followed by several hefty scoops of coffee grounds. I tamped it down with a flat-ended muddler I’d bought at a cocktail shop and added the water. While the coffee started to brew and fill my shop with its mouthwatering bouquet, I trotted back to the door and carried the sandwich board sign out to the sidewalk.
Once that was done I went back inside, nudging the door closed with my rear hoof, and walked into the kitchen. I paused for a moment beside the gramophone I kept on a counter beside the door.
Built into a mahogany cabinet, it had been a gift from my parents when I opened my shop. ‘Never work without a song in your heart,’ they’d always say, and I couldn’t disagree. I opened the doors of the cabinet, exposing the powerful speaker to the air and selected a record at random from my admittedly small collection. I never bothered reading the label as I set it on the platter and lowered the arm.
Static pops were the first sounds it made, but I paid them no mind as I went to the opposite counter and gathered my supplies. Some ponies maintain that old records sounded “bad” because of all that static, but I like the old school feel. It’s just another reminder that my parents looked at the world a little differently back when they were my age. Some low-key reflective blues guitar piece floated around the edges of my awareness as I set to work on making my batter.
Most ponies don’t think much about a doughnut. After all, what’s to think about, really? Some fried dough with a dousing of frosting over the top. Maybe some filling if the cook is feeling a touch fancy that day.
As with music, they’re certainly entitled to their wrong opinions.
While the bases of each are largely the same, I set out a few special ingredients for the others. Yeast for the oven baked doughnuts, semi-sweet chocolate, fruits for filling mixes, and of course a large vat of oil on the stove for frying.
I hummed along to the music while I mixed the batters, using my magic to work several bowls at once. Setting the baking mix aside for the yeast to rise, I loaded the other batters into separate pastry bags and laid out the first batch of classic doughnuts onto wax parchment.
Every morning went like that. I would make my doughnuts, set them out on wire racks to cool, and by then the baking batter would be ready to put in the oven. Those always took longer, and I took the time to change the record on the gramophone.
The first song on the new one was a choral piece, and I paid it little mind as I moved on instinct. I set out a single doughnut, plain with a drizzle of chocolate frosting onto the corner table along with a fresh cup of coffee. Almost immediately I felt a pang of regret hit me, and my gaze lingered on the table while the melancholic strains of music echoed through the empty room.
It was a familiar song to my ears, and, while beautiful, it brought a frown to my face. A lone violin played a haunting waltz, joined by an acoustic guitar. They played off each other, trading melody and harmony like a pair of old friends forced to bid one another adieu.
The melody never failed to elicit a shudder from me, and this morning it hit me harder than usual. I found myself sitting opposite the plate and cup while the music played. My head lowered and my hoof pressed against my forehead just below my horn, lest my head feel like it might split in two.
It must have been near six years ago now, a Wednesday, I remember. I had been in business only a few months at that point, at least in my own shop.
Memory is a funny thing. I can recall the fragrant smell of coffee, lightly seasoned with a hint of cinnamon. It was a fitting counterpoint to the sweet scent of the doughnuts, frostings, and cupcakes I’d baked early that morning. I recall the vivid colors that painted the morning sky; rich shades of warm violets and blues shining off the spotty cloud cover. Some slow jazz riff played on the gramophone that I hummed along to while polishing the counters with a rag.
That was when he walked in. When I was in the moment I hardly paid it any mind. I certainly never thought it was a moment that would leave a lasting impression on me. But at barely twenty years of age, who would? I was thinking about the mare I was dating at the time. Where she and I would go for dinner, and, if I was a lucky stallion, what might come after. Scenery had been the absolute last thing on my mind.
He was a unicorn, like myself, but unlike most of the midtown residents he wore no jacket, jewelry, or accessories of any kind. His pale gray coat seemed dirty and bags had settled under his eyes. I remember his mane being bluish and short with a ragged look to it like he’d spent half his life sleeping in alleys. Still he was a customer, and customers were what I needed. If I really focus I can remember his face. A notched ear, weary brown eyes, a bit of stubble on his chin that he refused to trim week to week, and a small scar at the corner of his mouth.
He looked around the room for a few moments before marching over to the corner table. A quiet sigh escaped him after several moments, and he seemed to settle a bit with his back against the wall.
Why was it that those were the things that stuck with me most?
“Good morning, sir,” I said with the best smile I could manage. “What can I get for you?”
“Um, coffee please, and a doughnut with chocolate frosting if you got it,” he answers.
“Sure thing. You want room for cream and sugar in the coffee?”
“No.”
He never looked me in the eye when he spoke. I don’t know why that always stuck with me, but it did. Nodding my head, I walked to the glass cabinet where I kept the doughnuts and placed a chocolate frosted ring onto a tea plate. I poured him a tall cup of coffee and brought them both over at once.
I’d like to say I had the good sense to leave him be after that, but I was young, and I wanted to make an impression on my clients. So I watched him for a moment, at least until he had taken a sip of the coffee, then busied myself with wiping off the closest table.
“Good coffee,” he says under his breath, like a private observation he hadn’t meant to share with anypony else.
“I do my best, thanks,” I answered with more pride than I cared to admit. I turned to face him once more, leaving the cleaning rag on the table. “I’m Joe, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Don’t suppose it much matters, does it?” he answered, wiping his lips on his fetlock.
I chuckle and shrug “I s’pose not, but it makes life a bit easier when you got a name.”
He looked at me for a good long while, like he was searching for something in my stance or demeanor, sizing me up. Finally he seemed to relent, and with an almost invisible shrug he answered my query. “Call me Regular.”
Nodding, I took his empty plate and smiled once again. "Can I get you another doughnut?"
Regular nodded after a moment. “Sure… Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
I brought him a second doughnut and topped off his coffee. We said nothing else to each other that morning, and he left a few bits on the table to cover his bill before heading out. At the time I had simply taken the dishes and put them in the bin for cleaning later and didn’t give it another thought.
The very next Wednesday he came in again and took the same empty seat in the corner. I put on my best smile once more and walked over to him. “Well, well, look who’s back,” I said with a playful chuckle. “What can I get for you today?”
“Same as last time,” he answered, leaning his head back until it pressed against the wall.
I nodded and struggled for a moment to remember his specific order. “Black coffee, regular doughnut with… which frosting? Chocolate, right?”
“Chocolate, yeah.” He looked up at me, seemingly surprised. “You got a pretty good memory, Joe.”
I shrugged. “Well I always try my best. I’ll have that right up for you.”
More customers came in, and I didn’t have a chance to speak to him again before he left. Once more he’d left me a few bits to cover his bill plus a nice tip, and once again I filed him out of my mind as the day went by and more customers trickled in.
It became our routine. Every Wednesday morning he would come in, right at seven on the dot. He would take the seat in the corner and order the exact same thing: a black coffee and a cake doughnut with chocolate frosting, nothing more, nothing less.
Some days we would talk a little, most days we didn’t. He never told me much about himself, though I’m sure he had more than enough of hearing me blather on. Still, he never complained or told me to sod off, and every so often I’d get a tidbit of his life in return.
I learned that Regular worked the night shift, though at what job, he never said. He called it menial work with a stressful boss. I called it a steady paycheck. Regular laughed pretty good from that one.
“Doesn’t look to me like the night shift is agreeing with you,” I remember saying to him one morning as I added some coffee to his half-drained cup. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
He snorted and rolled his shoulders once. “It pays the bills.” Nodding, I started to turn away assuming our usual brief dialogue had expired, but I stopped when he spoke again. “Your business seems to be doing well.”
“It’s picked up, definitely.”
“Save up while you can, Joe,” he said, nodding to himself and raising the cup to his lips. “You never know when life’s gonna pull the rug out from under you.”
I turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “Had it pulled out on you once or twice, Reg?”
He chuckled softly. “Something like that, yeah.”
I didn’t pry more, my mind having been more occupied on a new deep fryer I had been thinking of ordering, not to mention a loan payment coming due soon. Then more customers walked in, and I hurriedly moved behind my counter to serve them.
Then, two weeks ago, Regular came in and took his normal spot once more. He seemed tired, far more tired than usual, and as I placed his usual order down I made note of it.
“Long night on the Golden Street?” I asked with a wry grin.
“If only,” he groaned softly and took a bite of his doughnut.
I frowned a bit and took a seat across from him. “You alright, Reg? City life getting to you?”
“Never let the glitz and glamour fool you, Joe,” Regular said, pausing to sip from his coffee. “Canterlot’s just a dirty old town under the nice paint. No better than the Kitchen in Manehattan or the slums of Baltimare.” He scoffed and tapped the edge of his cup with his hoof. “Around here nopony will even remember you when you’re gone.”
“Well, that seems a bit bleak.”
He made a laugh, but there was no humor in his tone. “Maybe, maybe I’m just getting ornery in my old age.”
“Oh come on now,” I said, prodding his shoulder with a hoof. “You’re not that old, Reg.”
“I feel old,” he admitted with a sigh and looked up at the ceiling. “I could go for a very long vacation. Somewhere remote. Like… I don’t know. Maybe camping out near Vanhoover or something.”
“Got a special somepony you can take with you?
He grew quiet and his gaze turned distant. “A few years ago, yeah. But now, with my job… Well, there’s just no room for that in my life.”
The idea struck me as bizarre, and I recoiled slightly from the surprise. “How so?”
“There just isn’t, Joe,” he said, shooting me a glare that set a chill down my spine. “Maybe one day. Maybe one day soon, even. But not now.”
I held up my hooves in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
To my surprise, Reg asked me a question. “What about you, Joe? Do you have somepony special in your life?”
“Me? No,” I answered too quickly. “I got my shop, I got my friends, that’s all I really need.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Reg’s mouth and he leaned towards me. “Ooh, Joe, ooooh you’ve got it bad for some mare.”
“Shut up, Reg,” I shot back with a laugh.
He checked the time on the wall and took one more sip of his coffee before standing. “Go for it, Joe. You’re a good pony.” He chuckled softly and sighed. “Celestia knows we could use a few more around here.”
I stood and smiled to him as he got ready to leave. “Same to you, Reg. See you next week?”
“You know it!”
That next Wednesday came and went, with no sign of my regular. I thought nothing of it at the time and took the doughnut I had set out at his usual table for myself, although the coffee that had grown cold got poured down the sink, and I carried on with my morning; my little routines were a comfortable way to start the day. After closing I even went and asked a lovely mare out; an offer that to my glee and horror she accepted.
Another Wednesday came, and I’ll always remember what a slow day it was. There was a palpable mood in the air, chased by an unseasonably cold wind that cut to the bone. I set out a cup of coffee and a doughnut at his table and went to the gramophone to put on a record.
Nopony came in that morning; I saw few ponies wandering those wide gilded streets and even less came in to my humble shop for a doughnut and coffee. At the very least I could feel justified in the choice of album I had put on. I had forgotten about the doughnut and coffee I’d set out for Regular, and around lunch time I slipped out of the shop to get a newspaper.
When I came back, it must have been maybe twenty minutes or so that I was out, the music playing was that same farewell waltz. I thought nothing of it at the time, my interest more on skimming the headlines for an interesting article to read. It only took four words to bring my world to a halt.
Undercover Guardspony Found Dead
I looked to the neglected plate and cup, and all at once I knew what had happened to my regular.
Almost a month has passed since that day, and every Wednesday I still set out a place for him. He never comes in, and every time I have to remind myself why. Nopony else seems to notice he’s gone, and none would seem curious for his absence either. On occasion I find myself staring at the empty table and wondering if I was the only one who cared for Regular.
The door opened, and I looked up to see a filly walk in. Her coat was the color of lilacs in full bloom, with rich purple hair streaked with pink and violet streaks. Across her back were a student’s saddlebags, laden with so many books that I wondered if she’d robbed a library. I quickly wiped my eyes and stood to greet her.
“Good morning, little lady,” I say with a practiced smile and tone. “What can I get for you?”
She walked past Regular’s table and took a seat in the center of the room at one of the larger round tables set near the windows. Her horn glowed for a moment and the bags floated off of her back and to the floor beside her. “Could I have some Equiish tea please? And a doughnut?”
I nodded and made a quick laugh. “Got a preference? I have lots of choices.”
“Whatever’s good,” she said, plucking a book from her portable collection and opening it up.
“Let Old Joe see what he can do for you,” I said, turning and heading back to the kitchen to start the water. While that heated I grabbed a silver tray and loaded it up with a selection of doughnuts from plain cakes to frosted and fruit filled concoctions. Once the water was ready I poured it into a white teapot and steeped a couple teabags. Gathering the tray, a cup, and the pot in my magic I carried it out to her table and set them down.
She was looking at the empty spot where Regular always sat as I poured her tea, and paused for a moment to select a doughnut. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
I left her be for a while, mostly to check the doughnuts baking in the oven. They had risen nicely and turned a lovely golden brown in color. I pulled them out and put them on a rack to cool while I checked in on the filly. She was slowly working her way through a plain cake doughnut and had sipped away near half her cup of tea.
“Who’s that for, mister?” she asked, casting a glance towards Regular’s table.
“Please, call me Joe.” I smiled, though my heart ached at the sight of the untouched plate and cold coffee. “Well, kiddo—“
“My name’s Twilight,” she interrupted. “Twilight Sparkle.”
This time the chuckle I let out was genuine, and as I poured her a fresh cup of tea I answered her question. “Well, Twilight, let me tell you about this Regular.”
