Chapters It was starting to get lonely, he and his box of cassette tapes. The CDs and records had been bought before Mister Bristle’s month was up. All that was left were colorful plastic tapes with all different genres of music on them, a box, and whatever fighting spirit was left in his body.
Things seemed bleak from the alleyway. Every day passed the same: wake up, gather things, beg on the street, use that money for a meal at McDaliah’s, find another alleyway, sleep. His shirt was beginning to stretch and rip, the collar becoming huge and loose around his collar bones.
Will today be any different? he thought, gathering his meager supplies into a bag he'd sewn from scrap fabric outside a boutique. It was a rugged patchwork with ugly seams, but it held what little he had aside from the sizable box of cassettes.
He looked up, the sun glinting off skyscrapers and making him squint. A clear late summer day. Mixtape knew he needed to gather warmer clothing if he was going to survive the colder seasons. The chill was already in the air; he had had to wipe dew from his hooves when he awakened.
With no calendar and no watch, he had no way to tell exactly when he was. Fall was looming, and he only had so much time before he froze. He needed money, and he needed it as soon as possible.
He slung his makeshift bag over his back and grabbed his cassette box in his magic. Hoof traffic divided around him. He hadn't bathed in days due to the lack of any sort of homeless facility. His brilliant purple hide was streaked with dirt and grime, the bottoms of his hooves caked in street ooze.
As he walked, the buildings turned from short, squat residential quarters into the tall, grandiose skyscrapers of businesses and hotels. Restaurants popped up on corners, along with high-end fashion stores. Reaching a particularly crowded coffee shop, Mixtape set up shop for his first in line of begging places.
“Do you have any spare bits?” he asked, hooves together in a way to pick up change. No one even glanced his direction.
“Please, I need money or I'll freeze." His eyes had been big for that one; some ponies stopped and dropped copper pieces into the hoofmade satchel.
“Want to buy a cassette? I have all the newest albums!” He levitated several colorful cassettes in front of him, occasionally thrusting them into the path of a businesspony. Nopony stopped. Nopony looked; not unless they had to move out of the way of the floating tapes.
“Sir,” somepony said, their leisurely feminine voice catching Mixtape’s attention, “you're bothering my customers. You need to go somewhere else.”
He turned to face who had spoken. A tall, graceful off-yellow earth pony with orange-and-yellow dreadlocks stood over him. Though slim in build, her muscular legs revealed the true strength of her body. Looking at her, Mixtape felt his heart drop. She seemed unable to be swayed by the sternness in her green gaze.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said, gathering his things. “I just need money for a coat. It's starting to get colder, and…” She nodded, then her eyes went wide as he turned to leave.
“Mixxy?”
The familiar nickname spun him back around to face the stranger, who then seemed much less strange. He lowered his eyebrows, looking her up and down, trying to figure out where he had known her from.
“I didn't recognize you without the tennis ball on your horn! Did you stop wearing it? Man, you look like your chakras need cleaned out.” She said it all so fast, yet in a simple nearly-monotone that barely betrayed any emotion. She frowned, then raised a hoof to her lips, saying, “Oh! Oh no. No more Mix’s Tapes.” She pointed to the cassette box, “Is this all that's left?”
Mixtape nodded. He said, “CDs killed my store, and no other job is right for me.”
“I understand,” she said. There was a pause. Ponies passed them by. “You probably don’t remember me after all these years, Mixxy. It’s Natural Remedy.”
The Remedy family had been particularly good customers of Mixtape’s store: two parents and a filly, Natural Remedy. Her parents had been the music-enthusiast, stoner types and had frequented the store on a weekly basis, pulling Natural Remedy, then a school filly, in with them. She had mozied between the shelves too tall for herself, pointing high up at lude album covers and demanding that she wanted “to hear that one!”
The Celestias were Baby Remedy’s favorite group. Their album covers were always in similar colors to herself: oranges, yellows and reds. She had every album except one that was always selling out.
It had been a typical fall day when the Remedys had came into the store. Stone Remedy, Baby’s mother, was a stocky earth pony, while Floral Remedy (maiden name of Floral Wing), her father, was a lofty, pale yellow pegasus. Baby Remedy had been in her adolescent years.
“Wow! When did you get dreads?” Mixtape asked Baby Remedy, smiling as she posed for him, showing off her new hair.
“Last week,” she said, hoisting them with a hoof so he could see. They were still fresh and new, hair sticking out every which way and each lock hanging slightly different. Baby Remedy’s grin told the whole story, though: she was immensely pleased. Behind her, Stone shook her head, a smile on her face as her own dreads bobbed with her head movement.
“She ain’t much of a baby ‘nymore,” Stone said in her peculiar island-dwelling accent, admiring her daughter as she ran off into the aisles. She was finally tall enough to see the albums on the top.
Mixtape chuckled as he walked from behind the counter, and said, “No, Baby Remedy’s really grown up on us, hasn’t she?”
“She sure has,” Floral said. There was companionable silence as Baby walked between the shelves, looking at albums.
“I guess I can’t call her Baby no more,” Mixtape said. Her parents chuckled, then Stone cleared her throat.
“Mixxy,” she said, her voice suddenly solemn, “we’re moving back to Jamareca.”
Back to Jamareca. Mixtape bit the inside of his cheek, then shook his head.
“She’s never seen it, has she?” he asked.
“No,” the parents said in unison, watching Baby pace in front of the ‘C’ section in the vinyl portion of the store.
“Hey, Baby, I got something for you!” Mixtape said, catching her attention. Her ears perked up and she came over, following him up to the counter. He excused himself, assuring her that he would be back, and stepped back behind the counter and through the bead door into his office.
It smelled musty. A single red lava lamp lit the small space. Records were kept in piles, pristine in plastic wrap. Every one was an investment in Mixtape’s eyes. He walked over to the most recent, smallest pile closest to the door and yanked a yellow album from toward the top of it. He levitated the Celestias album in his magic for a few moments, brushing any accumulated dust from it, and walked back out to Natural Remedy.
“You aren’t a baby anymore, Natural Remedy,” he said, then levitated the album out for her to have. It was the one that was always going out of stock, Shine On . Her eyes went huge, and she greedily reached out with her hooves and grabbed the album, holding it to her chest.
“Thank you so much, Mixxy!” she said. Tears began to well in the corners of her eyes. “I-I…”
“I hope you have a good time in Jamareca,” Mixtape said, smiling down at her.
It indeed was the last time he saw the Remedy family. He received a postcard from them, addressed to the store, about a month after they had moved. It had been radio silence since then, but he had kept the postcard, even after selling all his records and changing out the bead door on his office for a real door. The postcard still remained on the bulletin board in the office until the day the store closed.
He levitated his cassette box in the air, holding it, tilted, up to his nose. He rummaged through things and eventually pulled out the postcard. It was yellowing with age, but the picture of silhouetted palm trees and a striked-through orange sun were as vibrant as ever. He held it up to Natural Remedy.
“You kept this?” she asked, green eyes huge, as she looked over the card floating between them. “After all these years?”
“Of course,” he said. “You guys were more than just customers to me; you were friends. I watched you grow up.”
“I had a birthday party in your store,” she said.
“Yeah.” He smiled, then replaced the postcard inside the box. “I also just lost the tennis ball. I still wear one.” He tapped the tip of his long, spiral horn. It was chipped due to clumsiness. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too.” She smiled, watching him, then looked back to her shop. “Do you want to come in for a drink? On the house. We can talk.”
“That would be great, thank you.”
He followed her into the store, aptly named The Morning Remedy, and sat at the bar. Several patrons gave him dirty looks and demanded he be escorted out, but Natural Remedy held her ground in allowing him in the store. She served him hot tea and breakfast, and they talked. They talked about how much she hated Jamareca-- the heat had been too much, not to mention the helplessness when a bad storm would hit --and about her family and where they were-- still in Jamareca, happy and healthy. She talked about herself, saying the Celestias album was still safe and that she had discovered her special talent while brewing healing teas as a job in high school.
“I wanted to bring that knowledge here,” she was explaining. “I wanted to come back so bad . So I decided to sell coffee, tea and breakfast here in Manehattan. It’s been so popular that I’ve opened another one in Trottingham and a herb and metaphysical healing shop just around the block here.”
“Congratulations on all your success!” Mixtape said, holding his teacup in the air as an imaginary toast. She lifted a hoof and giggled. “I’m very proud of you, really. This is an amazing achievement. I know your parents are proud.” She nodded, quietly said a “thank you” and looked over the store. It was mostly empty.
“It’s about closing time,” she said. “Why don’t I take you to my healing shop? You can get a shower there.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Mixtape stirred the small, silver spoon around the bottom of the tea cup before him, then he raised the cup to his lips, emptying it. Behind the counter, Natural Remedy took off her white-and-orange apron and talked to her employees. It would have been nice, he thought, to see her parents again. But they were far away, and “far away” was a place he wasn’t going for a long time.
“So tell me about your shop,” Natural Remedy said as she stepped from behind the counter. “What happened?”
“CDs happened,” Mixtape said, jumping down from his stool and grabbing the cassette box in his magic. “I didn’t catch on to how popular they were going to be. Y’know, they were only for the rich for so long. I just didn’t pay attention to when they became affordable. By the time I caught up with the times, everypony had moved on to other stores, and I was left in the dust.”
“I’m sorry,” Natural Remedy said, walking from her store and out onto the not-as-busy street.
“When I was a foal,” he said, “I used to think my talent was in fixing stuff. I found out that wasn’t true when somepony asked me to fix their broken doll-- I couldn’t tell a leg from a tail!” They chuckled. “Then, I thought, ‘Hey, it must be in fixing music stuff.’ Well, that held fine for a long time. Then I got my hooves on a CD player and couldn’t recharge the gems in them. That really had me stumped. Then, I thought, well, maybe it was in just knowing what music technology will sell?” He shrugged. “They say that everypony who gets their talent knows what it is, but I… do not.”
It was silent for a while after that. He followed Natural Remedy past skyscrapers of metal and glass, past high-end boutiques and fancy restaurants.
“Mixxy, it’s okay to feel that way,” she finally said. “I didn’t know what my talent was either. For a long time, I thought it was just in brewing tea.”
“It’s not?”
She chuckled and said, “No. It’s in healing others. I didn’t get my mark until after my own blend of tea had cured an old mare of joint pain. It took me years to realize that one. Maybe there’s something in your own story that you’re missing.”
His eyebrows furrowed. Something he was missing. The street they were walking on turned from asphalt to gray cobblestone. The buildings seemed older, yet they were still the glass-and-steel skyscrapers from downtown, just smaller.
“Maybe,” he finally said. It just seemed so unlikely that he would be missing something about one of the most important scenes of his life. He had fixed a piece of recording equipment. What else was there to scrutinize?
Natural Remedy stopped, looking to a store to their left. Mixtape stopped as well, glancing toward the store. The window displays showed off hoof-woven bags and gaudy healing crystal necklaces, earrings and other jewelry. Inside the glass door, he could see rows of clothing racks, shelves of incense and tea, and crystals on display.
“Quite a place you have here,” he said. She nodded, leading him inside. It was dim inside due to dark tapestries hanging from the ceiling and walls, and the sweet, herbal scent of incense felt all-encompassing.
“I opened it shortly after realizing my true destiny,” she said. “It just… felt right.” She stopped mid-step to look around. Mixtape examined a yellow shirt on the rack next to him, using his magic to manipulate it as to not disturb the cleanliness with his dirty hooves. The tag read, “NATURAL REMEDY.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, following Natural Remedy as she began walking once more. “Mix’s Tapes felt right too when I opened it. Felt right all the way until it died.”
She nodded, her dreadlocks bobbing. She led Mixtape past a tapestry covering a doorway in the back, exposing an unoccupied sauna and bathing area. To the left, the sauna; to the right, three open shower stalls. The floor was made in mosaic tile, weaving intricate fractal images all across the area.
“I really dig the floor,” Mixtape said, tapping his hoof against a multi-colored piece of tile. Natural Remedy chuckled.
“It took a long time to lay out,” she said. “I’m glad somepony appreciates it! Let me get you some soap; I’ll be right back.”
Mixtape watched her go, then let out a long breath. He glanced to the cassette box at his side, remembering, again, Natural Remedy as an adolescent. Her grin when she took the Celestias album from him. One of their songs, “A Name Forgotten,” played in the speakers throughout the store. It was all ambient guitar and matched the atmosphere of Natural Remedy’s self-branded establishment.
Natural Remedy returned not long after the song had subsided into its ending notes, carrying with her a plush beige towel and two bars of purple soap. She carried it all over to Mixtape, balancing it on one hoof, and he gratefully took it in his magic.
“Thank you so much,” he said. She smiled at him and nodded, excusing herself to tend to the store with her employee while he showered. He laid his towel down on a nearby bench and trotted over to the nearest shower. The chrome fixtures were similar to a gym’s showers. He turned the dial, and cold water washed over him.
He sighed, feeling the water between the individual hairs on his body, pulling away dirt and grime from his skin. It gradually became warmer as the heating crystal warmed up. He turned around, allowing the strong jets to push up any grime from his hindquarters.
It had just felt right to Natural Remedy to open the store, just as it had felt right for Mixtape to open his store. Mix’s Tapes had been established on a whim nearly fifteen years prior. After working what felt like every job in the industry, the little shop on the corner of Canter and Numnah had been a fresh breath of air.
The winter sky had been cloudy, but a dim, blurry disc beyond the clouds betrayed the sun’s presence. The shopfront curved around both streets, allowing maximum viewing into the store and window displays. Mixtape grinned as Violet Myth handed him the keys to the store.
“You can’t take it back now,” she said, concern lacing her velvety voice. “Are you sure that this is what you want to do, Mixxy?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I took out the loan, bought my stock, had signs made. I’m ready for this.”
Violet Myth shook her head, but reached into her saddlebags, pulling out a set of keys with her teeth. She presented them to Mixtape, who took them carefully from her with his magic. The silver keys hung between them.
“Owning a business so young,” she said, shaking her head. “I hope you’re ready for tax season.” Mixtape beamed at her.
“I’ll make enough to not worry about how much Celestia needs in taxes.”
“That’s optimistic, Kid.”
Mixtape chuckled, saying, “I know, but don’t count me out.”
After some casual conversation, Mixtape bade Violet Myth goodbye and headed into his new establishment. The store had seemed huge when he had first viewed it, and it still held up to its vastness without shelving units taking up space. It was dark, and awfully blue. The walls were dusty; the ceiling tiles had caved in in places. The counter at the far end of the store was just a piece of plywood nailed to a wide support that may have once been a bar.
He had sold his apartment for the store. Glancing around at the flaws, he felt his heart sink slightly. It would be a major undertaking to get the store in shape and outfitted with merchandise, but… it was worth it.
It was his.
Never would he have seen the future coming: a piece of technology he couldn’t fix wrecking the whole industry he had built his store around. The present was completely unforeseen.
Steam rolled off Mixtape’s hide. He washed the remaining soap from his body and mane and turned the shower off. The chill of room temperature immediately hit him, and he floated the towel over to him to dry off. As it unfolded, something fell to the floor. Chill momentarily forgotten, Mixtape looked through the steamy room to where he had heard the quiet thunk .
A bright green tennis ball rolled against the leg of the bench. A hole about the circumference of his horn was drilled into it. Mixtape grinned and floated the tennis ball over to his horn, carefully sticking it to its tip. Then, he dried off. He looked for his box, but it was nowhere to be found.
Natural Remedy must have taken it so it didn’t get wet, he thought as he headed back into the main body of the store.
Natural Remedy was behind the counter with a dark brown pegasus mare who had extremely long black hair and painted, multi-color primary feathers. Natural Remedy noticed Mixtape and waved him over.
“Clivia wants some of your PNE tapes,” she said, balancing a tape on her hoof.
“Oh, those old things?” Mixtape said as he made his way over. The pegasus mare, Clivia, looked up and smiled. She had white and multi-colored tribal designs painted on her ears and neck.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for these tapes!” she said in an unfamiliar accent. It was similar to Ponish, but consonants were more pronounced and each ‘r’ was rolled. “They’re the last ones to my set. What would you like for them?” She stretched out a wing, displaying colorful, painted primaries in white, blue, green and red. Natural Remedy placed four tapes on the arm of Clivia’s wing. Mixtape examined the tapes from afar and nodded his head.
“Twenty bits for the set?” he said. PNE was an obscure band that nopony had heard of but fans; while the tapes may have been rare and valuable, Clivia looked genuinely enthralled to have laid eyes on them. Bits couldn’t buy the joy on the little pegasus’ face as she reached into a cloth sack tied to her side. She withdrew the twenty bits, and Mixtape levitated them over to his own change purse tucked into his mess of a mane.
“Thank you so much!” Clivia said, her green gaze lovingly set on the plastic rectangles resting on her wing. She carefully deposited them by the cash register.
“Any time,” Mixtape said. A broad smile stuck to his lips as he levitated his box of cassettes over to himself, and a happy warmth settled into his stomach: the feeling of doing something right. Natural Remedy said something under her breath to Clivia, then smiled at Mixtape and motioned for him to follow her out of the store.
They stepped out onto the street. It was oddly empty. Natural Remedy turned toward Mixtape. Her lips were bit together, and she avoided his gaze.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, reaching out a hoof and touching her shoulder. “Whatever you have to tell me isn’t going to offend me.”
“I… I don’t have a place you can stay,” she said. Mixtape nodded, a small smile on his face.
“I didn’t expect you to, Remedy. You have already shown me so much kindness. I… there’s nothing more you need to give.”
Natural Remedy raised a hoof to her chest and closed her eyes. Mixtape took his hoof from her shoulder. She immediately lunged, enveloping Mixtape in a hug. She said, “Come to my restaurant for your meals. I won’t let you starve!”
“I will,” he said. She stepped away, sheepishly looking away and wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’ll see you around, Remedy.”
She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture.
Many moons ago, he gave a filly a record. That day, the filly, by then grown, changed his life. It wasn’t just in the food and showers she offered, but also in the kindness she had shown. But, in the back of his mind, Mixtape wondered what would have happened if Natural Remedy hadn’t remembered him. She had been ready to kick him off the premises to starve, but just because he gave her that record…
No, it was unhealthy to think such things. He waved at Natural Remedy as he walked away, levitating his box of cassettes beside him.
The sun fell in the sky. Streetlights buzzed to life, painting busy streets orange. Mixtape glanced outside his store, keeping his yellow gaze away from the empty shelving units and “Everything Must Go!” signs. The streetlight adjacent to the storefront crackled and popped; with a hiss, the orange glow simmered into nothing.
“Man, your store is looking bleak,” Threadbare, a cyan-colored unicorn, said. She chewed thoughtfully on her gum, then blew a bubble.
Pop.
Back to chewing. Loudly.
Mixtape’s large, curled ears fell to the sides of his head as he examined his store. Everything was so empty. In the daytime, he could almost ignore the emptiness and pretend the shadowed areas of the store didn’t exist, but, come night, the fluorescent lights kicked on and lit up every corner in a medically-sterile glow.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at Threadbare. “Life’s going to be tough without this place.”
“Do you have enough…” she said her words between loud chomps on the wad of pink gum in her mouth, “...to retire on?”
“No. No I don’t. I have maybe three months’ worth of food money saved, but that’s not enough bits to get me anywhere here.”
Threadbare stared at him with her huge, blue eyes, and blew another small bubble. It cracked loudly, and Mixtape flinched.
“I guess you’ll just have to move out to the sticks, then, huh?” she smiled, then levitated a few cassette cases up to Mixtape. “I bet there’s somewhere out there called Ponyville or something.”
Mixtape tried to chuckle at the idea, but it fell flat, just like his smile. He looked into the box of organized cassettes next to him, and lit up his long horn. It glowed a pale yellow up to the tennis ball carefully stuck to its tip. The tapes had gathered dust in the amount of time they had been sitting in the box, unused. Mixtape’s ears drooped again.
Ever since the invention of the CD, VHS, vinyl and cassette sales had plummeted. He had tried to sell CDs to his clientele, but it had been too late; they had moved on to better things. A select few of his most loyal customers still trotted into “Mix’s Tapes” for cassettes for their Trotmans. Threadbare was among them, although Mixtape had seen the smooth silver of a portable CD player in her saddlebags. Her visit was nothing but a pleasantry; the cassettes she bought rang up for less than five bits.
“I didn’t know you liked F. Zipper,” Mixtape said, pointing a hoof to the cover art on one of the cassette cases. “This album might be somewhat abstract for your tastes.”
“It’s fine,” Threadbare said, waving a hoof dismissively. “They’re for my kid brother.”
His eyes grew big, and he nearly dropped the cassettes held in his magic.
“Don’t let him listen to that one!” Mixtape said, urgency in his voice, as she floated the bits up on the counter. “It’s pretty explicit.” He levitated the bits into the cash register, then floated the change to her. Threadbare shook her head and held up a hoof.
“You need the bits more than I do,” she said.
Mixtape couldn’t deny that. He put the money back into the cash register. Threadbare’s bits were the only golden color in the drawer. The rest were copper or silver.
They continued to talk for awhile, under the cold fluorescent light of buzzing bulbs. The light from the store’s windows dimly illuminated the street outside, showing the silhouettes of ponies walking from one orange pool of light to another. Despite the hooftraffic, nopony came into the store or even paused outside.
It would have been different years ago, before the CD. Ponies would bring their turntables and boomboxes into the store, playing tapes and records for the enjoyment of the whole store. The cash register would be full of golden bits. Mixtape would be… happy.
Yes, that was right. Happy.
It dawned on him as he spoke with Threadbare about her third foal that he hadn’t felt “happiness” in a good while. Not since the CD had overtaken the market. Not since the patronage to his store fell into nothing. His regulars kept him going, but he was soon to be without them as well. What was there left to do?
Threadbare began walking toward the door, and Mixtape walked from behind the counter to follow her.
“Goodnight, Threadbare,” he said.
She smiled, a sort of sadness hanging in her eyes, and said, “Goodnight, Mixxy. Please take care of yourself.”
Yeah.
Three days prior, Mix’s Tapes had closed for good. Mixtape sulked in his apartment, surrounded by obsolete technology. Boxes were stacked high in front of his only window, casting the whole studio apartment into darkness. He lay on his sofa, wrapped in a thin sheet, wondering where things had gone wrong in his life.
As a colt, his parents regarded him as a sort of miracle. A child born of a donkey and a unicorn? Unheard of. His goofy, large front teeth and silly donkey tail didn’t bother his parents in the least. To them, he was their little prize; some sort of odd present they received just for existing together. But to other foals… those traits were like red bullseyes to his fragile ego.
“Look at Buck-Teeth over there!” one of the mean foals had said, pointing at Mixtape’s teeth. He swiftly covered them with his hooves, pieces of his turquoise-and-pink mane sticking to his mouth as he did so. “He’s all a-wone. So sad, aww.” The taunting colt, a brown one with a white mane, trotted forward, pulling most of the rest of the class in tow.
“Why don’t you have any friends, huh?” the bully asked.
“I-I…” Mixtape stuttered, looking around the crowd for a friendly face. Violet Petal, Midnight Prance and Orange Fix, the ponies he regarded as his friends, were among the crowd, scowling at him. He bit his bottom lip and drew his elbows closer to his body, curling his tail around his hind legs. The sun beat down onto the sandbox around them.
“You what?”
“Don’t know,” Mixtape finally said, dropping his hooves from his face. Pieces of his shaggy mane stuck to the wet corners of his mouth.
“It’s because you’re a weirdo.”
A weirdo.
The insult had hovered over him throughout his life. There was always something “weird” about him, from his teeth to his gender to the bandaids places haphazardly over his body. Nopony at home ever questioned those things; his parents were saints. It was everypony else he had to worry about. They called him weird, wrong, queer.
He pulled the sheet closer to his chin, revelling in its clean scent and cooling touch. That was when things went so wrong, he decided. The day that he learned he was different and that different was bad .
Clomp-clomp.
Somepony was at the door. The sound echoed in Mixtape’s ears, a dull, hollow noise. It continued when he didn’t answer immediately. With a long sigh, he tore himself from his sheet and forced himself off the couch. He trotted to the door and looked through the peephole.
“Fuck.”
His landlord, Mister Bristle, stood outside. Rent was late by at least a week; he had paid six months in advance, and Mister Bristle was expecting six more months’ rent. Despite having saved money, Mixtape knew that he had a month or less left in the cramped apartment. He had money for food and that was it. He couldn’t pay six months’ rent even if he used his whole savings.
Steeling himself with a giant breath in, Mixtape opened the door with a crooked grin on his lips.
“H-hi, Mister Bristle.”
Mister Bristle was a hefty, tall light blue earth pony. A crisp goatee settled on his chin, distracting, perhaps, from his balding mane. A navy blue suit coat was wrapped around his form, open from a missing button.
“Skip the pleasantries,” he said. Mixtape inhaled deeply, attempting to calm himself. “You have to pay up.”
“I don’t have the money,” Mixtape said. Mister Bristle’s thick eyebrows drew down.
“What do you mean?”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Mixtape’s notched ears began to droop while his heart pounded against his ribs.
“I-I…” Mixtape struggled to form words, rolling his front hooves onto their sides. “I- Mister Bristle, I don’t have the money. I won’t have the money. Mix’s Tapes is out of business, and…”
Bristle sighed. On the exhale, his demeanour went from demanding to solemn. His features softened, his pink eyes opening slightly, his ears swivelling to the sides. He said, “How long will it take you to get another job? I’d hate to lose a tenant like you, Mixtape, but you can’t live here for free.”
Another job. The idea had, of course, crossed his mind since his store plummeted into bankruptcy. He shook his head. There was no way he could land another job and keep it; his special talent, he had learned over the years, was in vintage recording technology. He had a hard time getting CD players to work, by far anything as complex as the soundboards in the recording industry or even a modern microwave.
“I don’t think I can,” Mixtape said. “Find another job, that is.”
Mister Bristle frowned. He asked, “Then how are you going to make money?”
Mixtape shook his head, his messy cyan-and-pink mane flopping around as he did so.
“I can’t. I can move out today if you need me to.”
Mister Bristle frowned and bowed his head, his ears flattened against his head.
“You have until the end of the month,” he said.
Obsolete. That was the feeling as Mister Bristle left. As Mixtape closed the door on the outside world; to the smells of asphalt in rain and hayburgers; the sounds of the ponies walking down the street and the taxis roaring on by. The world kept on moving. Obsolete. The odd feeling of emptiness coupled with the stirring of his heart and a half-smile on his lips. It wasn’t so bad; in fact, it felt nice. There was a certain kindness about the feeling, about knowing his time was up.
He returned to his place on the couch and pulled the sheet up over himself once more, again enjoying its softness and clean scent. How much longer did he have with such a luxury?
“Hey! Do you want to buy a CD? Cassette? Rec--”
“Fuck off!” The mare shoved Mixtape, knocking him into a nearby brick wall. She muttered something about the homeless as she trotted away. The CD in Mixtape’s yellow magic had fallen onto the sidewalk.
He pushed himself back to his hooves, picking up the disc in his magic and replacing it in its case after examining the back. It had nearly been ruined by the stranger’s gesture, and he was lucky nopony stepped on it on the busy street.
Determined, he set out again to offer his box of CDs from his store to the ponies walking the streets. Someone had to buy. They were popular, he had good artists. It would just take a few moments of their time! If only he could just… have a conversation with them.
Among the ponies on the street, he once again felt obsolete. The feeling had become all too familiar in the past few days as he attempted to sell the remainder of his store stock. Hardly anypony had bought anything at all. They were too busy on errands to slow down; to talk. Had it always been that way?
“CDs for sale!” Mixtape yelled, hoisting a disc and its case in the air, catching the attention of nopony. His ears laid back against his head, and he let out a long sigh. He stepped back until his flank was against the wall, then sunk to his haunches next to the large box of cassettes, records and CDs.
He looked to his flank, finding the crossed cassette tapes permanently pictured there. Their colors, cyan and pink, clashed against his purple pelt. When it had first appeared all those moons ago, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. It had been a storming on a summer vacation, and he had been cooped up inside instead of playing with his friends.
His childhood bedroom was a sparsely-decorated room that took up the whole attic of his parents’ home. A bed sat under the window, and, that particular day, it had been dark due to the storm. The lamp on the desk against the right wall was on, casting a yellowish glow. Raindrops could be heard striking the wooden shingles in the overarching silence.
“Come on,” Mixtape said, hovering a small screwdriver in his magic as he tinkered with a cassette recorder. The sprockets in charge of spinning the cassette’s spools had jammed up, and he had to take apart the entire assembly. There was no guidebook to the cheap recorder; his parents had bought it for him from a yard sale.
He pulled small and delicate parts from the skeletons of the recorder, carefully observing each one before setting it aside. A few tedious minutes later, he had disassembled the entire dock from the recording mechanism. He placed an elbow on the table and rested his cheek against his hoof. It was time for the hard part.
The sprockets had jammed from a buildup of lint and dust. Where it had came from, he had no idea. He took a tissue in his magic and carefully cleaned each one, then smiled when it was finished. Outside, thunder rumbled and the cascade of rain increased to a deafening roar inside the tiny house.
After a brief break, Mixtape took to reassembling the cassette dock. After much trial and error, he finally twisted the last screw tight and gazed down at his work. It was done! Finally done! It hadn’t recorded very well before, but he knew from the light feeling in his chest and the grin stuck on his face that it was fixed. Fixed! He pulled over a white blank cassette from the corner of his desk with his magic. He placed it into the dock, closed the lid…
Suddenly, a white light enveloped him. His grin fell, suddenly on high-alert and his pulse pounding in his ears. Where was he? He looked around, trying to find something tangible to grasp onto, and found nothing. A cry for help was ready to escape his lips when the light suddenly abated.
His heart was racing, his chest heaving. The fear still held fast to his eyes; he felt frozen to the spot, yet something told him to look to his flank.
Two cyan cassette tapes with pink stickers graced his flank.
It took a moment to register. Then, a huge grin split his face, showing off fully his buck teeth. That feeling of elation, of lightness, took him over, and he sprinted from his room down to his parents.
“Ma! Dad! I got my cutie mark!”
That had been the day he thought fate had graced him. As a hinny, it was uncertain if he could even receive a cutie mark. But he did, and he had been ecstatic. He and his parents decided his mark was in restoring technology, so they quickly found him a repairman to train under.
Looking at the cassettes crossed on his flank in the street bubbled up old emotions. A half-smile crossed his face. All those years repairing technology… he didn’t think it would end. The idea of the cassettes on his flank going out-of-date never crossed his mind. They had been his whole life. Even when new technology came out, he could fix it.
CDs came onto the market, and he assumed that he could fix them and their players with the same ease as any tape apparatus.
He had been wrong.
The first time he saw a disc player, it had seemed simple enough; yet, the piece that actually read the disk-- a small rose quartz crystal --needed to be fixed by a unicorn. There was a certain spell to cast to reset and be fixed. Mixtape had never been one for magic, and, even after attempting the spell for days, he simply could not cast it.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice pulled him from his reverie. He looked up. A coral-colored pegasus stood in front of him, a smile on his face. “What’re you selling?”
Mixtape stood, then looked to the box. He hovered a cassette over.
“I have cassettes, CDs and records,” Mixtape said, plastering on a fake smile. “They’re all brand new. My shop just closed down.”
The coral pony frowned and said, “I’m sorry to hear that. What kind of music do you have for CDs? Any of The Elixir?”
Mixtape nodded, then trotted over to the box, rustling around the disorganized stacks of cassettes and CDs. He said, “Any album in particular? I know they’re very popular; I actually own all their albums!”
“Oh, awesome!” the pony said. “I’m looking for the newest one, Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me if you have it. It has a great single on it… uh, ‘Just Like Cloudsdale,’ I think it is. It’s been out of stock everywhere.”
Out of stock. Mix’s Tapes had been on decline for a long while, although it wasn’t until that year that CD sales really outnumbered the cassette tape sales. It had been at least three years since he had had anything out of stock. He usually was good at predicting numbers, but, as his store declined, it was harder and harder to guess what would fly off the shelves.
“Here it is!” Mixtape said, pulling a CD case from the box. The album art was odd: a close-up of somepony’s lips with tiny, cursive text written on it. It wasn’t very aesthetically-pleasing, Mixtape thought as he turned and stepped closer to the patron, whose green eyes went huge.
“Wow,” he said, his wings unfurling slightly. He stepped forward and squinted at the album, then smiled. “I haven’t even seen the cover art for this. It looks great!”
If you say so , Mixtape thought, keeping the fake smile on his face. He said, “It’s twenty bits.”
The stallion nodded and grabbed his changepurse from under her wing. He pulled out twenty bits and handed them to Mixtape, who floated the album over to him. He made a happy, high-pitched noise and grabbed it from the air with his teeth, then placed it carefully in his sizeable changepurse.
“Thank you so much…?”
“Mixtape,” he said, “but if you see me again, you can call me Mixxy.”
“Mixxy…” he said it like he was trying on a new suit. “I like it. I’m Coral. Thank you so much for the album! I have to get going, but maybe we can talk again?”
“I’ll be here,” he said, nodding to him as he joined the crowd once more.
There hadn’t been much to the interaction, but after his day going so long without any at all, he felt a little better. There was hope in Equestria; hope in selling his box of overstock. He glanced at his watch, noted the time, and grabbed the box in his magic. It was lunchtime; time to move elsewhere.
In Mixtape’s corner of the city, he had erected a home of sturdy boxes and crates. Dirty blankets and clothing lined the ground, and he had even managed to find a lightly-used pillow to rest his head upon. Living without a true roof over his head was, honestly, no real problem. Until it started to get cold. After his time with Natural Remedy, he had forgotten his goal to collect enough bits for a coat before fall and winter came.
He realized, again, that he needed bits for a coat when he woke early with freezing-cold dew coating his pelt. He knew that colder times were coming. He needed something warm to wear or he would freeze. The cassettes had sold slowly, just as they had in the dying months of his store. Natural Remedy had been supplying him his meals, but he demanded to pay when he could, leaving him bitless.
The cassette box was looking dingy. It had been wet and dried many times, and had came apart on more than one occasion. It was wrapped together with tape and was too large for the amount of cassettes inside. The box hovered beside Mixtape as he looked into a shop’s window.
One hundred bits for a coat. He looked into his box, and his heart sank. There was no way to make one hundred bits off the few tapes he had left; not without selling the tapes for too high a price. Natural Remedy had offered him a job in her metaphysical shop weeks ago. He had initially turned it down, but with winter on its way…
The stitching on the coat was exquisite. It was unlike what he was wearing in every way: clean, white, no holes. His college buckball tee had finally worn with the elements; the yellow and orange looked so similar to each other they were nearly indiscernible, and holes riddled every part of the shirt. Natural Remedy had offered him a shirt as well, which he had also turned down.
It was getting cold. He shivered. Somepony bumped into him, then scowled back at him when they made eye contact. The absolute hatred shown toward him by the select few of the population never ceased to amaze him. He trotted to The Morning Remedy, box in tow, thinking about something she had said to him the first day they had been reunited.
She had said that her talent was in healing, not in brewing tea. The comment had simmered in the back of Mixtape’s mind for what felt like an eternity. He had dreamed of the day he received his cutie mark; he scrutinized it in his free time; yet, there was no answer for what his talent was. It certainly wasn’t in sales, nor was it in repairing technology. He entered Natural Remedy’s shop brooding and sat at the bar.
“Your usual, Mixxy?” Natural Remedy asked. Her dreadlocks were pulled back into a ponytail.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, waving a hoof dismissively as he tucked the box under his stool. He placed his elbow on the countertop and rested his face in his hoof.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Just thinking,” he said. She cocked her head, then, after a pause, he said, “How do you feel when you use your talent? Do you get a warm feeling inside?”
Natural Remedy frowned, her eyebrows drawing down. She excused herself and said she would “be right back.”
There were few times in his life that Mixtape had felt a warm tingle in his belly. Not the same as doing a good deed, but a different feeling; something he could only explain as “warm accomplishment.” They had come at random times and seemed to have no relation to what had been done. Selling his tapes to Clivia weeks ago had given him such a feeling, and he felt as though he didn’t understand it.
Natural Remedy came back on the customer side of the bar, sitting beside Mixtape. An unreadable expression was on her face: one eyebrow cocked down and her head tilted ever-so-slightly.
“I do feel warm when I use my talent,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve just been feeling it a lot lately,” he said. “Every time I sell a cassette, I get that feeling in my stomach like I’ve done something… like I’ve accomplished something. But I just sold an old hunk of plastic.” He frowned. “I don’t think that it has to do with earning money, because I’ve never felt warm or happy over bits.”
“Analyze the situation?” Natural Remedy said. “I only learned my true talent after thinking back to when I got my cutie mark. But you’ve done that, I bet.” Her ears lay down. “Why don’t we go to Natural Remedy whenever you’re done eating? I think you could use some quartz to really open up your mind.”
He didn’t believe in the hocus pocus that Natural Remedy’s other store spouted, but she was his friend. It wouldn’t hurt to try, anyway. While he had never known true depression, a sadness had settled over him after his store had closed. It wasn’t because he missed the job-- in retrospect, it had been tedious and exhausting --but because he had lost a part of himself. He thought his destiny was in music sale or production. When it turned out to be neither, he fell into a void.
Other ponies knew their destinies; their talents. He thought he did, and then it was ripped away from him just as his job and home were. Optimism had been hard to keep up in his homelessness. Without Natural Remedy’s help, he knew he would have died on the streets of starvation long ago.
Survival of the fittest.
Was he really the fittest? Natural Remedy placed a hoof on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “We’ll get you out of this funk. And my offer to work at my other store still stands.”
“I need a coat,” he finally said. She smiled.
“I can give you an old one of mine.”
Mixtape smiled at her. The young pony’s kindness knew no bounds.
The coat Natural Remedy had given him was much too big on his tiny body. It was brown with orange fluff on the inside. More than one passerby on the street complimented the coat and mistook him for a mare. It had been a long time since anypony had misgendered him, and it was a punch in the gut to know he didn’t pass for a stallion when wearing something feminine.
“What, so you’re just a stallion now?”
The voice of his high school bully echoed in his head. His ears lay down, and he frowned.
“Mixxy, wait!” It was Natural Remedy. He turned around, the tennis ball on the tip of his horn colliding with her leg. She tripped. Mixtape fell to the side, head reeling, and tumbled to the concrete.
“I’m so sorry!” she said.
Mixtape’s vision swam. His head ached. He blinked a few times, then looked up at Natural Remedy. She was fine, not even a scuff on her body, and she had a paper shopping bag held in her teeth. He pushed himself to his hooves, then rubbed his temple as pressure throbbed behind his eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said. “That’s why I wear the tennis ball, by the way.”
Natural Remedy gave a crooked smile and said, “Yeah, I guess that saved me from being mauled.” They both chuckled. She leaned forward, offering the handles of the bag in her mouth to Mixtape. He levitated it carefully from behind her teeth.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The quartz crystal from earlier,” she said. “You left before I could give it to you.”
That had been for a reason; he didn’t want to insult her by declining the offer in the store. He opened the bag, peering in at the tissue-wrapped contents.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t really know what to do with it, and…” Natural Remedy held up a hoof.
“You can give it back when you find what you’re looking for.”
There was silence. Mixtape looked at Natural Remedy, then back down into the contents of the bag floating before him. The way she looked at him… she was so sincere about the crystal working. Earlier, she had had him “meditate” with it.
“Reach out your mind to the crystal,” she had said. She was sitting across from him, forehooves in the air. Mixtape sat with his hooves on the ground, his gaze intent on the crystal before him. Even though he didn’t believe in the whole “healing crystals” thing that Natural Remedy’s whole store was based around, she was his friend. He owed it to her to try.
He closed his eyes and imagined, through the blackness, that his mind-- tangible, now --was touching the crystal.
Touching. The. Crystal.
Nothing happened. He frowned. Across from him, Natural Remedy began to hum. He cracked open an eye to see her with her hooves level with her chest, eyes closed, mumbling something along with her hums. The dirty piece of quartz sat between them.
He hadn’t been receptive to the crystal, or so Natural Remedy had told him later. Then, she proceeded to tell him how to clear out his chakras so the crystal could “connect” with him. Or something. The same crystal floated in the bag between them on the street, still covered in its native dirt, which evidently gave it some sort of extra “power.”
“Okay,” he said, finally. “Thank you.”
Natural Remedy beamed at him, then bid him goodbye as she turned to walk away. He watched her for a moment, then turned and continued his way toward his humble abode: a stack of boxes full of warm blankets. He placed the bagged crystal into his cassette box, contemplating the meaning of the crystal itself.
Natural Remedy had said that quartz was receptive to making change happen, and that it would “help clear out” his chakras-- something she was all too insistent about since their first meeting. Evidently, he seemed too “broody” and that was “totally whacking up” his system. She was a strange one, that was for sure. But her cutie mark was a medicine jar from Jamareca. Surely it meant that the crystal nonsense actually had some meaning?
He shook his head as he rounded the corner of the business building into his alleyway. His box home remained intact, and he crawled inside, floating his box in front of him. Inside the boxes, it was dark. The yellow glow around the box was the only light, then it fizzled out into darkness as he sat the box in the corner. He moved into the center of his pile of dirty blankets, then focused on pushing a light out of his horn. After a few moments of trying, a tiny, glistening yellow mote erupted from his horn and floated in the center of the box, glowing dimly. It was just enough light to see by.
He grabbed the crystal bag out of his cassette box, then unwrapped the quartz from its tissue paper. It glittered in the magic light.
Maybe holding it in his magic would do some good?
He frowned, then closed his eyes. He tried to empty his mind, but troubles from earlier swam around his head. The one stallion who called him “Ma’am,” the others who said he had a nice coat-- did they see him as a he? --and Natural Remedy, humming, her hooves to her chest. Falling into her… his head still ached slightly. He focused on the rock intently, trying to push all his worries into its crystalline depths, but finding no solace in it.
He opened his eyes, staring at the rock before him, and shook his head. What was he doing? He put it away, resting it in the corner with his one other item: a Flock of Pegasi cassette that matched the ones on his flank.
Outside, he became aware of hoofsteps coming closer to his abode. His heartbeat leaped into his throat, and the dim, hovering light popped out of existence. A hoof came down on the box that served as his door, smashing through it.
“Mixxy!” somepony yelled. The voice, it was… familiar somehow. Despite all parts of his body telling him to retreat deeper into his home of crates and boxes, he simultaneously felt drawn to the presence outside his home. The female voice was so familiar, and it stirred deep memories in him.
“Yes?” he asked from within his safe box walls.
“Come out, it’s Threadbare!”
Threadbare. It took him a moment to recognize Threadbare as one of his old regulars. How had she found him? He had been all but invisible since losing his home. Nopony asked for the homeless stallion’s name in the streets; the most inviting thing that others had done for him-- aside from Natural Remedy --was to drop bits into a nearly-empty can after buying a cassette tape. He frowned. Outside, Threadbare yelled for him again.
He took a deep breath and exited his shaggy home. The cyan unicorn was just outside the entrance, staring intently at him.
“H-hi?” Mixtape said after a long bout of silence. Threadbare’s expression didn’t change. She was looking him over with intense scrutiny.
“Why are you living like this?” she demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’ Mixxy, what the hell are you doing? You can have a job! You can have a life! What the fuck are you doing here?”
The words struck him. He frowned, then his eyebrows drew down. What was he doing? There was nothing fulfilling about being homeless. There was nothing good about mooching off his friend. There was nothing… nothing to be proud of about himself.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her, his voice quiet. Threadbare glared at him, opening her mouth wide to yell once more. Then, instead of yelling, a long, drawn out sigh escaped her.
“Remedy sent me,” she said, the rage falling from her tone. “Mixxy, you can’t keep doing this. Remedy’s too nice for her own good; I know, I’ve been her friend for ages. You’re just some past figure in her life that did her a favor once, so sh--”
“I know.”
“What?”
“I. Know.” Mixtape raised his gaze to meet Threadbare’s. “I know the favor’s been repaid tenfold. No, even more than that.” He sighed. “There’s just… no way I can make it up to her. Threadbare, I’m useless. All I am is an obsolete pony with an obsolete talent. I ruined things at my own store, and I’ve ruined things now. I’d say that I let my pride get in the way, but that’s a lie-- I’m not proud of this. I’m just trying to figure out who I am.”
Silence enveloped them. Threadbare frowned, her gaze suddenly avoiding his. A taxi trotted past on the street, filling the air with the sounds of creaking wooden wheels on stone pavement, then it was gone as fast as it came.
“I can’t possibly go back to work without knowing what… what my cutie mark means,” he said. The selfish statement took him off-guard, and he recoiled back from his own words. “You’re right. What am I doing?” He scowled, kicking a rock in front of him. “That’s kid stuff.”
“Wait, you… don’t know what your cutie mark means?” Threadbare asked. Mixtape shook his head. Her eyes widened, and she stepped toward him, enveloping him in a hug. “No wonder you feel lost.”
“I thought I knew what it meant,” he said. “I thought it was in selling music or fixing technology, but I was wrong.” Threadbare withdrew from the hug, but remained close to Mixtape. “But, Threadbare, the weirdest thing happens out here. Every time I sell one of the leftover tapes from the store, I feel warm. I feel happy. I feel right . I felt it sometimes when working at the store, when selling an old album, but not often.” He frowned.
“I think all the pieces are there,” Threadbare said. “You just need to put them together.”
“Yeah? You think so?”
“Yeah.”
They smiled at each other.
“I think I’ll take Remedy up on her offer to work at her gem store… if that’s the right thing to do?” Mixtape said.
Threadbare nodded and said, “I think that’s a good idea. Until then… didn’t she give you a rock to meditate with?”
Mixtape’s smile fell, and his gaze went blank. Her too? He said, “Uh, yes?”
“I know it sounds stupid, but that shit really works. Give it a try.” She paused, then said, “Or at least think about the times you felt right giving out those tapes. That’s your body telling you to pay attention. Everypony feels that way when they use their talent, I think.”
“And what’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Your talent.”
“Oh, that.” She grinned wickedly. “It’s doing this.”
Mixtape laughed, and she joined in with him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I have to get back to my kids. Medallion isn’t great with getting them to bed.”
“See you around.” Mixtape waved his hoof at her as she walked from the alleyway and back into the street. Once she was gone, he retreated back into his stack of boxes and crates, cast his light spell, and took the quartz back out of its bag. The very tips of the crystals were completely transparent, but they became cloudier the closer to the matrix they became. The whole thing was covered in clumps of dried, tannish clumps of mud. He had never noticed how dirty it really was, nor how the yellow light passed through the clear parts and reflected off the cloudier parts.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the crystal enveloped in his magic, and focused on it. He focused on how happy Clivia was to receive her PNE tapes; how the coral-colored pony on the street looked after receiving the rare album. What did those things have in common? The smiles; the happiness; an old, obscure thing.
An old, obscure thing. Something that had been lost and those ponies had never hoped to lay their hooves on. Something that was old and familiar, but new to them.
Mixtape’s eyes shot open. The crystal fell out of his magic. A grin spread across his face and tears began to pour from his eyes.
He did it.
He actually did it.
“Thanks for taking me up on that job offer,” Natural Remedy said. “Nopony wanted to clean crystals for the shop, even for benefits.” She frowned down at Mixtape, who continued to scrub dirt off a cluster of amethyst. “You know your shift’s over, right?” She chuckled.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, mimicking her laugh, and put the scrub brush back into a cup of water. “Time flies when you’re doing something you like!” He pulled the apron he was wearing off and put it on the back of a chair. The black material was filthy with dark spots of mud and orange streaks of iron.
“Thank you for asking Thre--”
“No, no I didn’t ask her to do that,” she said. “I was just telling her about you, and she got the idea in her head all by herself.”
“Regardless, thank you,” he said. Natural Remedy smiled at him and nodded, her dreadlocks bobbing. She motioned for him to follow, and passed through dark aisles of racks of rocks, crystals and old jewelry to the back door of the shop. They exited into the alleyway, the canyon of buildings casting deep shadows in the evening light.
“I lined something up for you,” she said as she led Mixtape out of the alleyway and out to the edge of the crowded street. “Mister Bristle was willing to give you another apartment back, first month free, after I let him know you got a job with me.”
“How do you know everyone?” Mixtape asked. The young pony seemed to have a vast network of ponies that she knew well enough to do business deals with. Did her parents pass the network down to her? Did she do it all herself? Her business dealings were a mystery sometimes.
“I don’t. He just knows you, and that’s enough. You must have been a pretty excellent tenant.”
“I liked to pay six months in advance.” He chuckled.
“Well, I don’t think that monthly rent is going to bother him much so long as you pay it on time,” she said. Then she frowned, looking at the box floating beside Mixtape. He had brought it into work with him, sat it by his work station, and proceeded to not pay any attention to it until he left.
“Why does that go everywhere with you? You only have two tapes left,” Natural Remedy said.
“You never know when somepony might want one of them,” he said.
“But… why the box?”
“I don’t know,” he said, eyebrows drawing down as he looked to the beat-up, broken box floating beside him. “It feels wrong to leave it.”
“You… probably should.”
“You’re right,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s no reason to keep it now anyway. Thank you, Remedy. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you, but I will! Maybe I’ll make enough bits to open a vintage store. You’ll get unlimited store credit.”
Natural Remedy laughed. Mixtape chuckled and shook his head, then sat the beat-up box down. He took the remaining two tapes-- albums by Gray Pink and Pop Rocks --and floated them before him. He pushed the box into the alleyway by them, then looked back up at his friend. She started talking again, this time about metaphysical properties of crystals and which ones to put into his apartment. Mixtape patiently listened, following her into the crowd of ponies on the street toward his new life.
Author's Note
me, finishing something? wowza!
