Nakazaniye

Of all the things that I'd predicted about the place, one certainly turned out to be true. The coffee during breakfast really did taste like donkey piss. Not that I ever tasted anything similar to compare it to, but this coffee got me as close as my imagination ever wanted to carry me. Of course, it's not like I hadn't predicted it, either.

Apart from breakfast, Monday mornings in Manehattan seemed to be alright; at least, I felt more motivated than I usually did at that time of the week. I woke up as early as six in the morning, the thought of actually doing something with my life constantly in the back of my head, for once. It was more of an irrational feeling, since I didn't actually believe in any future success on my part at the time, but it was better than nothing.

After quickly brushing my teeth, I tucked yesterday's paper between my jaws, then headed downstairs for a bite to eat. They didn't provide any toothbrushes anywhere around here it seemed, so I just had to use the one I took from some other place a few weeks ago. I don't know whether they'd wanted to keep it or not, but neither could I imagine why anyone would do that. The thought itself sounded somewhat repulsive to me.

Breakfast was pretty much like I was used to have it. They had some baskets full of oats and apples, along with the coffee that tasted like donkey piss. I sat down at a lone table in the room's far corner, hoping to remain alone for the rest of my meal, too. I was sort of longing for some solitude right now, especially since none of the ponies in this place made me feel very eager to talk to them. I figured I'd somehow gotten myself into another wastebasket for all sorts of bums and town drunks, who wanted to at least spend the night in a bit of dignity. As I always did. Of course, I probably was one of them already in a way or another, even if I didn't like to admit that. Most of the time, anyway. I held the newspaper up to my face shortly after sitting down, hoping everyone in the room would take the hint that I wasn't one for conversations, right now.

I think I got that working for me just fine. At least, nopony else approached me for a good while. I skipped ahead through the daily news, looking instead for a hint about any possible employment ads. Every halfway decent paper usually had a whole page filled with those, almost all the time. And the Times wouldn't disappoint me, although I had to skim through the largest section before I got there.

I didn't have a pen with me. I used to have one, but  I couldn't find it when looking for it this morning. What I did find was a torn piece of cardboard at the bottom of my left saddlebag, joining the hole that had already appeared below. Most likely, the pen had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Which was just as well, only I couldn't circle any ads that interested me, as I normally would do at this point. This way, I simply had to go with whatever appealing suggestion I found first. It looked like an acceptable one, too.

The third ad in from the bottom seemed like the most appealing one. I always start reading them from the bottom, I don't know why. Probably because these would be most likely to accept me. Companies who paid most always got the top spots, meaning the lowest ones also had the lowest standards. Which, in turn, meant that they most likely couldn't afford anything better than me. Anyway, number three was the first one that really caught my eye. The other two didn't apply to me in the first place. Those were about some menial trash, and they always only look for stallions in those jobs. Because they've got more physical strength, I think that is. I don't know. I don't really agree with it, either. But there's nothing I can change about common misconceptions.

The third one wasn't like them, though. It mentioned something about cardboard packages. The company behind it apparently produced and shipped those, and they needed somepony to help with packing the packages...into other packages. So they could be sent overseas or whatever. Despite my recent experiences with cardboard, I decided to give it a try. The address provided wasn't so far off, either. Only about six or seven blocks away, that was. I could have taken a cab, but I didn't want to. I never used any means of transport more expensive than my own hooves, except maybe for long distances.

After successfully memorizing the address, I drowned the last bit of my coffee. The sour taste it left on my tongue made me feel sick even more. I briefly returned to my room to rinse my mouth with water from the tap, then immediately headed out. With a bit of luck, I could already run a full shift today.

The packaging company was located in a small factory building on West 34th. The pony who ran the business was a greasy, old stallion somewhere in his late fifties, I think. In any case, I figured retirement and everything connected to it would come for him sooner or later. Probably sooner, judging from some of his tastes which I noticed right away.

First off, he was a heavy smoker. The walls in his office were already fading to yellow near the ceiling, and a constant, sickening smell of tobacco hung all across the little room. I supposed the only way to remove the stench would be blowing the whole place to smithereens or something. And he seemed to keep at it. Even as I came in, he was seated behind his desk with a thick, brown cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. There was a framed picture in between two cupboards on the left-hand wall, showing him shaking hooves with some other stallion I'd never seen before. Probably a local big shot or something. He couldn't be all that impressive though, seeing how his mane looked like a corn crop or something.

Whatever. The stallion behind the desk looked up from his forms and papers with mild interest, as I walked in. "Bringing in the mail?" he asked. "What happened to the other guy? Did he get sick, again?"

"I'm not the mailmare," I retorted, somewhat professionally. Whatever that even meant.  "I just wanted to ask if that ad from the papers is still valid. The one you posted the other day."

His features lit up. "Ah! This is about the job. Yes, yes. Of course, it's still available." He motioned to the chair opposite from himself. "Why don't you sit down, and we'll discuss the matter?"

I did.

"Now, since you've gone through our ad, I trust you already have an idea what your task within our little organization would be. Still, I would be glad if you could tell me a few things about yourself. Future partners should know the worst about each other." He wandered off for a moment, giggling at his own joke. Or at least, that's what he probably tried to do. Halfway through, he began to violently choke on his own breath or something, blue smoke flaring out of his nostrils as he did. It wasn't a big surprise, really. If I had to sit in this room every day, I'd probably be suffocating after less than a week. Though he did make a rather quick recovery.

"Well...now, where were we?" He leaned forward, trying his best to look professional. "Ah, yes. I suggest we start with a few basic things, Miss..."

"Punch. Berry Punch." I did my best not to groan, as I told him. The old stallion showed little to no reaction, but I could tell it wasn't what he expected. Of course not. If only they didn't have to ask for my name first, every time.

"Oh, uh...well..." he stuttered, unable to compensate whether I was being serious or just making fun of him, it seemed. "...well, that's just as well. Rhombus Dodger, nice to meet you. Tell me, Miss Punch, what kind of job experiences did you make, so far? I trust there was something similar to our field?"

"It contains a broad variety of fields," I replied. Something that was much of an automatic response, by now. One that always worked, especially in interviews. It also sounded a lot better than 'I'm a mess who has no clue what to do with their life.' The stallion still arched an eyebrow at my response.

"A broad variety, you say?" he said. "That is a pretty far-fetched term, if I may say so. Could you...maybe elaborate on that a bit?"

"Oh, well. Where to start?" I lamented, with the tiniest bit of an ironic undertone. "I consider myself an artist of sorts. As such, I've worked in all sorts of industries, with all sorts of different ponies. Inspiration comes in the strangest places, I always say."

"An artist?"

"Yes. I paint. Expressionism and Neo-Avant-Garde, to be precise. I especially prefer drawing landscapes. The more photogenic, the better. They really capture the essence of a pony's soul from its innermost circles."

The stallion deadpanned at my description. Much like most ponies I met in positions like his, he hadn't the slightest idea what I was talking about. And to be fair, I didn't have a clue, either. I'm actually pretty sure neither of those two art styles have anything to do with landscapes. Maybe they weren't even connected to painting at all.

There was one thing about my words that was true, however. I really had some experience in bringing the art of nature on a piece of canvas. Said experience might be limited to a single picture of a tree that I did in fifth grade, but it still earned me the highest grade in my class. In short, there had to be some sort of talent resting with me, didn't there?

"Well...fantastic," Mr Dodger eventually continued. "Fantastic, no, really. I really do prefer to work with ponies who can envision themselves doing great things. Ponies like you tend to be much more motivated with what they're doing."

I suppose that was one way to look at things. And it seemed to go pretty well for me, so I decided to move along with it.

"You do have a vision, don't you, miss Punch?"

I snapped out of my thoughts. What did he even mean by that?

"Oh, of course," I replied, nevertheless. "Ponies sometimes tell me I could never be destined to go far in life because I don't have a proper education. But that kind of doubt is just all the more motivating. The more ponies there are doubting me today, the more faces I will have to laugh into, once my artworks will make it to the top. So, yes, I do have a vision. And I'm sure that, together, we can make it happen. My artistic vision combined with your expertise in running a business, I mean. This job I'm applying for might be simple now, but it can get both of us far up, that much I can tell you!"

I couldn't believe the words coming out of my own mouth. To be honest, had anypony else said them, I probably would have laughed at how ridiculous everything about it just sounded. But not him. Fascination was almost drooling from his eyes, as he hung at my lips with every further syllable I added. To be honest, no other employer of mine had ever made such a fuss about the simple lie I used as an excuse to cover up the actual mess my life was. Maybe, I thought, coming here wasn't such a good idea, after all.

"Well, I don't know about that," he finally added after due moments of consideration. "But you certainly are a motivated pony, and that's just what we're looking for! Plus, I don't see any competition lining up anytime soon. So I'd say: Congratulations! You got the job."

He extended one hoof across the table. It was the same with which he'd occasionally pour his cigar ashes into the nearby tray.

I felt somewhat hesitant to accept the hoofshake. But I also needed the money, so I did it, anyway.

"I'm ready to begin at any time," I added. The sooner I got a full pay the better, after all.

Mr Dodger nodded, seemingly pleased with my partly sincere enthusiasm. "Good. Very good. We'll just fill out a few forms real quick, and then we're good to go. The boys down at the line will show you how everything works. Just go down the outside stairs right after, and tell them you're the new kid."

He shoved a paper over to my side, along with a pen. Seeing the latter, I immediately felt reminded about the pen that I'd lost earlier. Which brought to mind several ideas on what to do with this one. They were all illegal of course, and they would cost me any chance I still had in receiving this job, so I dismissed them without further thought. Instead, I filled out the personal information he needed for whatever reason, then made myself ready to head out. Although I did notice a slight inconsistency while doing so. The form clearly stated something about a nine to five job. And yet, it was only still eight-thirty.

I knew this had been a bad idea. Starting off with unpaid overtime always was. And I already needed to fight the urge to call him a son of a...

Well, I didn't, in any case. I still needed his money, after all.