She's A Rebel, Then She Kissed Me
I met a mare on a Monday and my heart stood still, driving my van — rusted and cranky — ‘long the Sixty-Six. Not quite a car’s body a good coat of paint couldn’t wipe. But that paint job, like a rainbow, brought a smile to me. To my face and to the nameless ponies that zoomed past me.
I did meet her on a Monday, her mane in a trill. That filly, a hitchhiker, a lone pavement bystander; my eyes were totally caught. I kicked the brakes, slid the door, and all my stuff spilled out like a joyful labrador. She didn’t have goldilocks and blue eyes, but rather blue eyes and a wild pink mane.
“So, where do you wanna go?” I asked her.
“Home. The Westest Coast,” she told me; her fur, dark, purple; and her voice, rough. She sat in, pulled a map, and showed me her charted path. She was quite a wonderful sight: taut legs, strong hooves, and a face marked by a recent past and filled with hopes for a far away place.
So I drove in my van painted with lei, through deserts and past mobile homes. With the popo at our heels and lives to outrun! She told me her name — Tempest — and my heart grew roots around it. Tempest, wasn’t that the very best? When I took the wheel and drove us to the horizon, I drove us home.
Home to the sandy beaches of gold. As we’re told, where happiness bathes and swims in the sun and waves! She looked so quiet but — oh my, oh my — her leg, out by the rolled window, caught the wind, dust, and beaming sun. Her lips, a thin-puckered line, her eyes, pensive, and her humming of a song.
She was looking out to the scenery, as if to find serenity, and I asked her, “what’s up!?”
Yeah, she caught my eye. Yeah, her name wasn’t Tempest but, could you believe it, Fizzlepop Berrytwist. Yeah, my heart’s roots stood still. She told me her story: how she got that nasty scar. That wasn’t a feat of glory. It’d been messy and so she’d fled from the East, hitchhiking from city to city.
She was out to find the western sun and a new place to be. So when we drove to the horizon to find the Golden State’s promises, we chatted and we opened and we joked. Yeah, we did open and have a lot of fun. We spun and lull under the sky, moon and stars, and through the deserts and rest areas we drove by!
She woke me at six in the morning and looked so fine. Yeah, oh my, oh my, so fine in the drowsy light of Las Pegas. With coffee through our veins and smoke-filled nostrils, we drove away, free and without a sigh. Something told me the dry sun of Neighvada will shine over the gleeful road in front of us!
It doesn’t matter that one wheel popped if we’re together. With her, there’s nothing I can’t weather. Someday soon, I might make her mine! Fizzlepop Berrytwist, oh jolly, that’s a name I definitely can’t resist. And with the light of the shiny, sinful city at our backs we drove away, through barren parks and towards distant mountain ranges.
“Pinkie, that can’t be your name.” She told me. “Is that all there is?”
“Mine’s Pinkamena!” I beamed. “But I prefer Pinkie.”
“Do you–”
“Yes!” I said, smiling at her, one hoof on the wheel, the other on her shoulder.
“–like me?”
“Oh, silly.” I’m so bubbly. I tickled her nose and smiled brighter. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s that…” A sigh. “You and I we’re…”
Not a word. I pressed her lips and my smile grew wider. No matter the nasty words ponies might lob at us, love is mightier. Yeah, my heart stood still. Meanwhile the City of Flowers and Sunshine is waiting. We knew La-La-Land’s story: where angels intertwine and rise to be stars. And she’d be my estrella.
Yeah, she looked so fine. Yeah, oh my, oh my. Didn’t matter we couldn’t stay at motels. Been there, done that, got called that mean two-syllable L-word, so we drove away, hoping to find the promised coast, where hope and dreams get spurred. And far after the end of the long Sixty-Six, we kept meeting eyes.
Yes, I'll make her mine. To the tune of music, to the rhythmic of our roadtrip’d maroon. Up, down, back and forth, it doesn’t matter if wheels or gas or ponies are crass, or if we’re at an impasse. We’re not confined to the Pony’s line. And so we drove to the horizon, to reach home: the Westest Coast!
Yeah, she looked so fine. Yes, I’ll make her mine. Lost from the preserve of Marejave to Tartarus Valley, we drove, we walked, we hoped for home. Down in the City of Motion Pictures and TV where who she was would never make a fizz, she’d sure be mine. Oh mine, oh mine.
We passed the massive trees to reach the plains of Pastriesfield, where the sea waited not far from us a fifty miles West. We drove down the Hay-Five and, as the sun closed down, we finally saw the massive sea. Was she finding peace in the big Harmonic ocean, I couldn’t tell. But her fizzly eyes caught the shine of the sunset.
Our final stop: the dry hills over the Mosaic, the shining lights of Sanctified Clarity further down the Valley. We lay on the van’s roof, peering at the stars, huddled, resting in the chilly evening breeze. And as I yawned, she took my hoof and pulled me close and I wasn’t cold anymore. Red like a hot iron.
“I love you,” she told me, spurring a whinny out of me.
“Me too,” I breathed and tugged her close. “What do we do now?”
“I wouldn’t mind… being with you.” We met eyes and she sputtered, “If you don’t mind, of–”
“I love you,” I said, a hoof on her lips.
“Me too.”
The day after, she took the wheel and drove us down to the city of angels, down to home! Bright blue sky, ablaze with promises, and lit up eyes as we looked out for the city name’s sign. I was hers. She was mine. And — oh my, oh my — on the way down, we sure turned the music on!
