Getting Shy

Patrick, or 'Pat', as he called himself to save time, was a more or less average dude, at least by his own description. His life was perhaps a tiny bit boring, but he was doing okay; working a call center job and drowning memories of irate customers in alcohol every weekend. There wasn't a whole lot of money, but the economy being what it was he couldn't complain. The paychecks were never late and his boss wasn't too much of an asshole. Life was comfortable and didn't require a whole lot of effort, which suited Pat just fine. He'd probably have continued in the same way forever, if something unbelievable hadn't happened.

Technically it hadn't happened to him, but rather to his neighbor, a certain Mr. John Mason, a big, important businessman who liked to work. As far as Pat could tell, Mr. Mason had absolutely no hobbies, a job which took him twelve hours a day and most weekends, and a butt-load of money.

Oh, and suddenly Mr. Mason had a pony.

Pat's bedroom overlooked the neighboring house, a blocky, post-modern eyesore which didn't quite fit with the rest of the buildings on the block. He could see some of the inside, often grimacing at what was clearly nonfunctional and uncomfortable furniture, meant only to impress. It wasn't the kind of place someone lived in, it was just a house they showed off. That was just as well, because Mr. Mason spent most of his days at work. It explained his wealth and the fancy car out front, and perhaps it also explained the lack of any family or social life whatsoever.

Except... Pat wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Mr. Mason got one of those pastel wonderhorses which had made news some weeks ago. No one knew exactly where they were coming from, but apparently there was already a black market. More importantly, the law hadn't yet caught up and simply defaulted to treating them like livestock, so people could own them.

Friggin'. Talking. Horses. Speaking English, no less! The first few times Pat had seen that news he thought it was a hoax or something. It had to be, right?! Even on supposedly professional cameras the creatures looked like cheap special effects. Surely nothing biological could be so vividly colorful?

Anyway, the hubbub died down, but the pictures and videos multiplied on the Internet, so after a fashion Pat had been forced to accept the truth of the matter. There were talking technicolor ponies, no one knew where they came from, or how, and some people owned them. It was utterly preposterous, of course. His great country had gotten rid of slavery and now it was coming right back! True, most of the news articles called it 'pet ownership', but in Pat's opinion, if it could talk, it was a slave.

For some reason, he wanted to touch one. Only with its consent, of course, but he really wanted to. That fur looked like it would be incredibly soft. Well, Mr. Mason had one now. A yellow one with wings and pink hair. When he first saw it being unloaded from a nondescript white van, Pat couldn't help thinking that the hair must've been dyed. No way that was a natural color. He wondered if Mr. Mason would have to reapply the dye occasionally, which would mean giving the thing a bath or something. Weird, why did that make him jealous?

Anyway, when the news spread there were onlookers. Most of the neighborhood came to stand in front of Mr. Mason's house at one point or another. Children squealed and pointed and even adults chattered excitedly among themselves whenever the pony dared glance out the window. They thought it was exciting, but it was not. It was bloody annoying! All that racket under Pat's room when he was trying to sleep.

One day it suddenly stopped. The lack of noise when he woke up made Pat go out to the balcony, which was overlooking the cul-de-sac, to make sure. The street was empty. Pat lit a cigarette, happy that he had his peace back, but still intrigued about the pony. He leaned over the railing and tried to see, but the creature was nowhere in sight.

"Mornin'," came the greeting from the porch below him. Pat hadn't even noticed his landlord, Mr. Petrinov.

"Oh, hi. People finally gave up?"

The dark, hairy, blocky man shook his head and chuckled. "Nope. Mr. Mason threatened them with lawsuits if they kept... what did he call it?" It took Mr. Petrinov a moment to remember the English word. "Ah, 'loitering'. That's what he said. Shut them right up!"

Pat shared the next chuckle before taking a drag on his cigarette. Mr. Petrinov sipped from his glass, which looked like it was full of scotch, or maybe whiskey. The man was quite a drinker, although after Pat had heard his story it kinda made sense. "Anyway, how are you doing, Mr. Petrinov?"

The man waved a dismissive hand. "I told you this before, Pat. Just 'Anton' to you, okay? You are living in my house long enough, we are almost like family, no?" His accent was almost completely gone, but Mr. Petrinov still sometimes betrayed his Eastern European origin. Well, the name didn't help there, either. From what Pat had been able to gather, Anton had moved from wherever it was he used to live to America, 'the land of freedom and opportunity' as the foreigner usually called it.

He came with his wife and spent a number of years in a shit hole apartment downtown, both of them working until they could afford the house. The very house Pat was renting now. Unfortunately the missus died. Anton didn't like to talk about it a whole lot, but Pat's working theory was cancer. His dream of having exactly two children thus ended. Strange how Anton sounded so certain. Two kids, not one, and certainly not three. Two, to replace him and the missus, thereby neither adding to overpopulation, nor letting the number of humans fall. Weird reasoning, but to Pat it sounded as good as any he'd heard. He didn't remarry, nor did he return back to his home country, which left Anton with a big house, debts to pay, and alone.

He tore down the stairs between the ground and the first floor, adapted the upstairs into a livable apartment, built a staircase on the outside and put an ad in the local paper. It hadn't even been that much work. There were two bedrooms, originally planned for the kids Mr. Petrinov now might never have, a bathroom, to which he simply added a washing and drying machine, and a living room, where it had been rather trivial to install a kitchen in one corner. Pat had been the person to bite and, the place and its owner being to his liking, had taken it. It was his first job and the first time living away from his parents.

"At least it's going to be quiet again. I work nights sometimes, I like to be able to sleep in."

The landlord nodded, even though he kept his gaze on his drink. "Same for me, Pat." Mr. Petrinov worked as a bartender nearby, which also meant some late nights.

After Mr. Mason's threat at the meeting, there were still children sometimes pressed against Mr. Mason's fence, but at least the adults refrained from these gatherings. In time, even that interest faded and things went back to normal. Except for Pat. His bedroom and his living room windows looked directly into Mr. Mason's house. Pat couldn't help it; whenever he stood up, his eyes strayed to his neighbor's house, seeking out the yellow pony. Every time he saw it, he quickly ducked out of sight, as if he'd been doing something weird or wrong. Why did if feel like peeking in on a girl showering? At least Pat guessed that was how it felt. He'd never done the thing, so he had no basis for comparison.

The pony was a maid. Maybe that was the most incredulous thing of the whole situation. An actual alien, shaped like a colorful miniature horse, and Mr. Mason used it as a maid. Well, Pat hoped like hell that was the only way Mr. Mason used it. Something in the creature's demeanor just screamed 'female' at Pat and of course he drew conclusions. Unwelcome conclusions, even though it technically wasn't any of his business. The matter nagged at him to the point where his attention at the call center had started to slip and his boss, one Mr. Harris, had to invite him into his office and explain to him the requirement to focus on his work. It took some doing, but Pat made sure to improve the quality of his performance. Losing the job was the last thing he wanted. Unfortunately, that just meant twice the fretting and worry when he was home. His gaming and movie watching suffered and he spent more and more time at the window, just waiting to catch a glimpse of the horse.

She - Pat had decided it was a girl after all - didn't look maltreated. Just resigned, perhaps a touch sorrowful, and infinitely bored. She swept, vacuumed, washed dishes, mopped, brushed and a million other things which ensured the house was kept livable. Before the pony Mr. Mason had had a professional maid over twice a week, but it looked like he didn't need one anymore. Annoyingly, that was another reason for Pat's jealousy. House work was a pain in the ass. Sometimes, when Pat worked nights at the call center and spent the day at home, he could watch what the pony did when Mr. Mason was out of the house. Sure, most of the time she got on with her work of tidying up, but every now and then Pat saw her lying on the couch, reading a book or watching TV. The angle didn't let him see what she was watching, though. Once or twice he thought he saw her smile, or laugh. That put some of Pat's darker worries to rest, at least for a while.

His obsession was slowly consuming him. Pat knew that, yet he couldn't stop. He could have moved away, or at least switched bedrooms to the other side of the house. Maybe then he'd be less tempted to watch Mr. Mason's house so intently. Except he didn't want to. Thinking about that stupid horse became his whole world. Reading about them filled the time while he waited for the creature to make an appearance. The strange fascination was exacerbated by sudden feelings of isolation. Perhaps he led a lonely life, but dealing with irate customers nearly every day had left Pat soured to human company. He preferred to spend his 'freedom hours' either playing games, watching movies or drinking, the latter only if it was the weekend. The few friends he had mostly liked the same things, so Pat saw them more in the multi player games than in real life. Every now and then one or the other would celebrate their birthday and they'd meet in person. He didn't feel a particular need for socialization and the occasional chat with Mr. Petrinov was enough to fulfill that urge.

At least it had been, until this damned horse.

Eventually Pat mustered up the courage to walk around in Anton's backyard, trying to get a closer look at the pony and perhaps get her to notice him. Maybe if he could speak with her it would be better. The articles said they were highly intelligent. Maybe she'd say something to finally put this craze behind him and he could get on with his life. Unfortunately, the pony never went outside in that first month. Or, if she did, Pat never saw it. He still had to work eight hours and commute for a cumulative hour and a half every day. He tried not to think about the pony frolicking in Mr. Mason's backyard while he was stuck in the call center. It just made him fret, which caused him to fumble the calls.

On one particular Saturday, Pat was on his third beer when he heard a sound at the same time familiar and unusual. Lawnmower. It was clearly coming from Mr. Mason's yard. That much wasn't unusual because the man employed a gardener to come and keep his lawn and flowerbeds in order, but said gardener hadn't been over since the pony had come and started doing everything else around the house. It stood to reason she might also have to deal with the yard. Pat jumped to his feet and rushed to the living room window to see.

Yes! He ran to his fridge where he had a small bottle of strawberry-flavored fizzy juice stashed for just such an occasion. He sometimes saw the pony drink one of those so he got it as an ice-breaker. Then Pat hurried out his door and down his stairs, before coming to a stop in the backyard. He had no idea what to do next.

Yes the pony was out, pushing a lawnmower around, but the thing was loud. No way he could talk with her until she was done. It wasn't a very comfortable situation, but some curiosity could be excused, right? Besides, the day was uncomfortably warm, so the icy-cold drink in his hand might even be welcome. Maybe he should go back inside, wait until the job was nearly done? Except he ran the risk of missing it, which Pat was unwilling to take. Too late he remembered that he hadn't brought a drink for himself, which made rushing out with a beverage for the pony who wasn't even his really weird. Hopefully she wouldn't think him a creep, even though she would be justified to it in Pat's case.

The noise changed and Pat saw the pony awkwardly turning the mower. That brought her face to face with him and she cast him a curious look. It sent his heartbeat into the two hundreds, at least, and Pat's grip on the bottle tightened. He gave a little wave, which the pony didn't return. Perhaps that was just because she couldn't, with both her forelegs being employed in guiding the mower. Pat opted to understand it that way. The approach gave him a chance to observe the pony from up close, which he gladly took. She was yellow, but it was a bit pale in the sunlight. It nicely complemented her pink hair and tail. There was also a pink and blue tattoo on her butt. Pat had seen that splotch before, but from this distance he could make out stylized butterflies. Strange. Was it her own idea, or something some human had come up with to make her look more cute for potential buyers?

Realizing he was staring right at her butt, Pat dragged his eyes away. At first he couldn't believe such a thing as winged horses existed. Surely no mammal had feathers, right? Those were a reptile or bird thing, if he remembered his natural history. Nevertheless, there they were. Wings with feathers the exact same shade of yellow as her coat. As she struggled with the heavy lawnmower, walking on her hind legs, they were partially outstretched, jerking this way and that to help her keep her balance. Above all, it was incredibly cute. Pat wondered if the horse could really, actually fly. The wings did look functional. Further up was her hair, quite long. It didn't look like a horse's mane at all. It was more like human hair, Pat thought. It reached down to her... shoulders? He couldn't see any discolored ends or streaks, so it really was pink, or Mr. Mason was doing a superb job keeping it dyed. The hair swung out of the way and Pat saw a collar. Well, he'd seen it on her before, but from up close he could see a bulge at the back of her neck.

Some online articles mentioned a GPS collar and there were even rumors of electric shocks. It'd explain how she didn't just run away now that she was outside, especially if she really could fly. Pat suddenly realized that the pony had finished the row and was looking at him with undisguised curiosity. When she caught his gaze she quickly looked down, pretending to be focused on her work. That moment had been there, though. She was curious, if a little scared of him, but she also had a job to do. The last thing Pat wanted was to have the pony scared of him. He wanted to be good with animals, but his efforts usually yielded complete disinterest at best, or fear at worst. Maybe, since this one could talk, he could make a better impression than on some crows he'd tried to befriend outside of the office.

It was something of a surprise when she stopped at the end of the row and reached a hoof to a small lever on the handle. The mower sputtered to silence. Apparently Mr. Mason, or someone, had taught her how to work the thing. Pat also noticed that the grip of the mower was much thicker than usual and looked to be made out of some kind of soft foam. It was low enough for her to drive either by resting her forelegs on the bar and pushing, or by gripping it with her teeth.

He lifted up the strawberry drink as a kind of a shield and stepped closer. He thought about smiling, but Pat knew whatever expression he summoned up would probably end up grotesque, rather than reassuring. He waved at the pony and leaned his elbows on the fence, as if idly lounging there for no real reason.

"Um, h-hello?" she ventured, carefully keeping the mower between them.

"Hi! Uh... I'm Pat! I got you a strawberry drink! Y'know, since it's hot."

The pony didn't make a move, though her eyes took in the bottle of what Pat had assumed was her favorite drink. She was probably weirded out and his hand with the drink lowered. Pat was about to excuse himself and go, but she spoke up. "T-Thanks," she mumbled, pointedly not looking at the bottle anymore, "but I'm not, um, thirsty right now."

"That's okay," Pat said as nonchalantly as he could manage, "uh, want me to leave it for later? It's cold!"

"I'll... um, I have to finish mowing the lawn..." she said, dodging his question.

At that moment Pat became aware of Mr. Mason walking over and his blood ran cold. The man had seen him talking to his pony and was undoubtedly angry. There had been that homeowner meeting, after all. A part of Pat had been hoping the man was away, but it looked like this was one of those rare Saturdays when Mr. Mason wasn't working. He'd also been keeping an eye on his new pet, it seemed. Either that, or he'd heard the mower stop. Still, Pat didn't move. He kept his elbows on the fence and steeled himself for being yelled at.

"Hi. Is there a problem?" Mr. Mason asked. "You don't mind the noise, do you?"

"No, not at all, sir. I was just-"

Pat hesitated, but luckily the other man jumped in: "Patrick, right? You're renting the upstairs apartment from Petrinov?"

"That's right." Mr. Mason didn't seem to be hostile, so Pat decided to try his luck. Good thing those years in a call center had taught him how to control his voice. He was able to make it completely steady and casual. "I was just curious when I saw your, um... pony, mowing. I didn't know they could do that."

This finally made Mr. Mason look away from him and down at the creature. "Yeah, quite versatile. Cleaning, washing, laundry, they can do anything. Gardening, too."

Pat nodded, as if actually considering getting one for himself, even though both he and Mr. Mason knew it was way out of his price range. "So, do they have names?"

The man reached down and patted the pony's hair. Pat had been watching and saw her flinch a little, but she stood her ground and waited, motionless, until it was over.

"Sure thing," Mr. Mason answered. "This one is called Flutter Shy. Suits her, too. Thing goes to hide in the closet if I watch an action movie. A real scaredy-cat." The man laughed at that, not noticing how the pony shrunk in on herself a little. Pat grinned, but he didn't feel like joining in. He lifted up the bottle and said the excuse he'd come up with just in case.

"Anyway, it's hot and I had one of these rolling around the fridge. Bought it by accident; I don't like it myself." Before the neighbor could reply, Pat added hastily: "Thought your pony might like it."

"Mighty neighborly of you, Patrick," Mr. Mason said, perhaps warming up just a touch. He nudged Flutter Shy with his shoe. "What do we say?"

The pony looked at Pat, then at the bottle, before lowering her gaze to the ground and murmuring: "Thank you, Mr. Patrick." She even walked around the mower and took the bottle with both hooves. She balanced it skillfully while she sat down, then dropped it in front of herself. Pat was about to ask what she was doing, but Flutter Shy gripped the bottle with her hind legs and used her forehooves to untwist the cap. Quite clever, actually. She only took a quick sip, then put the cap back. "Um, I'll- I'll have the rest when I'm d-done with the yard, Mr. Mason," she intoned, casting a slightly guilty look at Pat.

Once again the man patted her hair. "As you wish, just don't leave it out on the grass, okay?"

She nodded and began to inspect the mower. She didn't turn it back on, allowing her owner and Pat to talk without shouting.

Acting purely on some half-remembered movie scene, Pat stuck his hand out. "Well, nice meeting you, Mr. Mason. I didn't mean to pry, just- um, curious. They were all over the news."

The man took his hand and shook it in a firm grasp. "Likewise. What do you do for a living, Patrick?"

"Call center for Verizon."

"Good good. Well, Flutter needs to get back to work and I have some papers to go over. See you around."

"Yeah. Sure. Um, thanks." Pat turned and walked away, even though he was mightily curious to see how she would turn on the mower. The only way he could think of was for her to grab the starter handle in her teeth and yank it with her head. The noise of the little engine turning over was a good excuse for Pat to look back and see that he was right. The handle looked like it was made from the same foam as the grip, so as not to hurt the pony's teeth. On her second try the mower started and Pat saw how Flutter Shy's ears pinned back from the noise. She reared up, put her forelegs on the bar again and turned the mower around to keep going.

Pat made sure he walked slowly and nonchalantly, but inside his heart was hammering. Only some of that had been out of fear what Mr. Mason would say when he saw him chatting up his horse. Apparently he didn't mind at all, which was a huge relief. He could come speak with Flutter Shy whenever he saw her out in the yard! Most of his excitement, however, was from knowing the pony's name and having heard her voice. It was so timid, and quiet and precious! Hopefully she really would tend to the flowerbeds and he could find more moments to speak with her, perhaps without the mower. More importantly, without Mr. Mason. For the moment, however, Pat had a beer to finish and a window to sit at, watching Flutter Shy mowing Mr. Mason's lawn and then drinking the treat he'd given her.