Since our worlds collided, it’s been mostly earth ponies I’ve had the chance to interact with. I don’t know if it’s negative stereotyping, or whatever, but out of the pony races it seems the earth variety are the most… well, down-to-earth. Generally calm, personable (ponyable?) and stoically hardworking. I’ve known them to happily pull around multi-tonne loads on the daily and use the fact that they barely seem to need sleep to pull insanely long shifts in jobs where that’s a plus. Like trucking.
It’s among the trucker ponies that I’ve found a kindred spirit; a friend. I’m an insomniac, working all afternoon and staying up all night, hibernating for half a day maybe once or, if I’m lucky, twice a week. She drives trucks up and down the state for twelve, sixteen, eighteen-hour stretches. We keep in touch via the modern equivalent of CB radio— that is, computerized VOIP chat— and meet up for drinks on the nights we can.
Or, we did.
She got fired yesterday.
I mentioned how most earth ponies are, personality-wise? Yeah. She’s not like that.
“An— *hic* —now I havta eith’r move to adiffer’nt state, or find another— *hic* job! Nopony’s gonna hire me aroun’ here any more! ‘S horseapples!”
I just nod, taking a long swig of my hard cider. It’s probably around the tenth time Windleaf has reiterated her situation to anybody who’ll listen, which is pretty much down to just me. The rest of the bar’s patrons have either called it a night or moved away from the ranting little green pony. A couple of women are surreptitiously videoing her with their phones. I shoot them a pointed glare and they quickly pretend to be doing something else. When I don’t look away they leave.
I turn back to Windleaf with a sigh as she finishes off her own bottle of cider; I’ve lost count of the number she’s had. It’s a good thing she makes—well, made—such good money because the pony can put alcohol away with frightening ease for someone so small. She’s probably around twenty bottles deep.
“Issa— whadjacallit— traversty,” she says to me, waving the bartender over. “Yeah so I prob’ly shoulda noticed. I shoulda. I know that. But they really gotta— *hic* fire me overit? Nopony’s gonna hire me—”
“—around here anymore, I know, Windy.” I shoot the bartender a look as he approaches, subtly giving him the ‘cutoff’ signal with my free hand. “And that’s enough cider for tonight.”
“Awwww, c’mon,” Windleaf says, blinking with one eye then the other. “The night is— *hic*— young.”
“It’s really not,” I say, glancing at the bar’s clock. “And anyway, didn’t you say you were tired of driving trucks around?”
“Yeeeeaaah,” the pony says, pushing her little army of empties away and pouting a little. “But issnot like there’s any better jobs out there. An’ I don’wanna go back to ‘Qestria. This world is… bigger.”
“If you like how big the world is, maybe take this chance to see a little more of it. You’ve been driving up and down Michigan for years now.”
“Ech.” She waves a hoof. “Don’ need to actually go places. Jus’ knowing they’re out there is good enough. Truckin’s easy.”
“I mean,” I say after a pause, “you say that but you did, like, steal a truck by accident yesterday. And two months ago you didn’t notice your trailer wasn’t actually hitched.”
“It was dark!” she shouts. “I’d like to see you do it, misser I-can-tell-two-identical-trucks-apart, bucking asshole, talkin’ likeiss my— *hic* fault that pony left his keys inna ignition—”
“Woah, alright,” I say with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Look. Say you didn’t move out of state. What else would you want to do for a job?”
She suddenly looks sullenly bashful. “...I’on wanna say,” she says. “‘S dumb.”
“Nah, c’mon. Tell me.”
“...wanna race cars.”
“What was that?”
“I wanna— *hic* —race cars, okay?!” She folds her forelegs and looks away. “Go on an’ laugh.”
“I ain’t laughin’,” I say after a surprised pause. “That’s fucking cool. You think you could do that?”
A shrug. “I only ever drove trucks. But I got inna car once and I could just about reach evverthin’ with the seat way forward. I jus’ wan’ed to take it as fast as it could go.” She frowns. “Didn’t turn out to be— *hic*— very fast. Wassa shitbox.”
“I mean,” I say, “There’s places around here to give it a try. Dirt tracks, you know.”
“Maybe for humans,” Windleaf says. “I called one before. They said no ponies cuzza insurance or somethin’. ‘S embarrasing anyway.”
“Nothing embarrassing about it. Driving is fun. Real fun.” I realise something. “I never told you ‘bout my, uh… investment, did I?”
“No?” she responds after a moment of thought.
“Well. I gotta car. A, uh… fast car.” I know being a little buzzed is fuelling my next words but I can’t quite stop them. I feel an overwhelming urge to cheer up the little pony. “I bought it as an investment. It’s in a garage, but… I could get it out for you. Show you what it’s like in a fast car.”
Her eyes widen. “You for serious??”
I nod.
Before I know it the wind’s knocked out of me and I’m falling fast to the floor. Windleaf had lunged out of her stool to hug me and taken us both down, along with both stools and my half-full bottle.
There on the floor we laugh, me at the absurdity and her in happiness over my offer.
We get kicked out of the bar.
⠀
***
Two days later
***
⠀
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I know you’re confident, but…” I look back at my Nissan. “She’s a little bit hard to handle.”
“Come onnnnnn!” Windleaf is adamant. We’re stopped on the side of a winding road next to my Japanese import GTI-R. I just took the little pony on the ride of her life. Her eyes are wide and she can’t keep a grin off her face. I wish I could go back to my first time experiencing boost like that. “You said you’d let me back in the bar!”
“I did not,” I counter. “I remember better than you, believe me. I said I’d show you what it’s like to go fast. I never promised you driving privileges.”
“But how else will I know if the driving thing is for me?” The pony is doing her annoyingly-effective pleading face now. “I swear if this goes well I’ll just get my own car and never drive this one again!”
I sigh. Would it really be that much of a risk? She is a professional driver, after all. And I can turn the boost down. And tell her to take it easy. The four-wheel drive makes it pretty safe, even at speed.
Internally I feel myself relent.
“You have to promise,” I say, “to take it slow in the corners. And don’t redline.”
Again I’m being hugged by something with far too much weight for its size. I stagger a little.
“Thankyou thankyou thankyou! Let’s go!”
Before I can say anything else she’s hopping in the driver’s seat and putting the belt on. Sighing, but not unhappily, I get in next to her. “Okay. Now, the thing about this car is—” but she’s already done adjusting her seat by the time I start talking.
Before I know it the clutch has been dumped and we’re jolting into first at 3500rpm. “—ohhfuck!” is what my statement becomes.
The pony laughs as we careen into the first bend, already in second gear and starting to absolutely fly. “Windleaf TAKE IT EASY—”
“I am!” the pony lies.
“Dammit Windy I’m not gonnaaaaa—!”
“Wheeeeee!” We’re taking another bend as she shifts up into third. The wheels squeal angrily but the grip holds. “I’m a leaf on the wind!”
“This isn’t the time for references, Windy, you’re gonna kill us—”
“Stop being dramatic.” We’re on a straight now and about to hit 100mph.
“Look just STOP—”
At my word she hits the brakes, hard. It feels like my face is being pulled off; I have good brakes and we’re at a standstill in a matter of seconds.
I turn angrily to the giggling pony in the driver’s seat. I open my mouth but she’s faster.
“Hard to handle, my flank.”
