As a foal at school, I didn’t like team sports. I couldn’t play a game I couldn’t see, and that made me never want to play at all. The teachers never excused me, though. I had to suffer the indignity of being picked last, and I had to suffer when the teachers told me I couldn’t just stand in a corner, and everypony on my team had to suffer because they were, in effect, one pony short. When my team lost, they blamed me for being a terrible player, not the teachers for demanding I do something I couldn’t. It was even worse when the teachers made rules that said a team couldn’t score unless everypony had touched the ball or been part of the play. The only sports I liked were individual sports like running or flying. As long as I knew the course, I was as good as anypony else and often better. Not that I could convince anypony of that. Even if I won a race, ponies still whispered that it was only because everypony else was going easy on me.
Ponies who don’t know me sometimes assume that I’m mentally disabled. They look at my crossed eyes and think, “She looks stupid,” and then, in an inexplicable leap of bad reasoning, they conclude, “She must be stupid.” When a tourist comes to the post office’s front desk, and I say, “What can I help you with?” and there’s a long pause, I know what to expect.
There was one just last week. He waved a postcard in my face. I could tell it was a postcard because he shoved it so close to me that it touched my muzzle. In a loud and slow voice, he said, “I … WANT … TO … SEND … THIS … TO … MANEHATTAN.”
Every time this happens, I talk faster. I never realize I’m doing it until the words are already out. Sometimes I think I talk faster because other customers are waiting. Other times I think it’s because I want the already sluggish and tedious and insulting interaction to be done already. I have to restrain myself from being sarcastic. Once, when I shouted “TALK NORMAL” in a customer’s face, my supervisor Gentle Gait told me that I was on the verge of an official reprimand.
“Yes sir, right away. Would you like a single postcard stamp or a whole book?” I fetched stamps from beneath the counter. I know where they are by feel.
“ONE.”
I gave him a single postcard stamp and took out more stamp books from beneath the counter. “May I also recommend the latest in the Waterfowl of Equestria series? Our newest Equestrian Architecture stamp showcases the magnificent Fillydelphia Central Railway Station. We also have buckball-themed stamps, Canterlot castle stamps, and our perennially popular Princesses Reunited stamps.” I spread the books of stamps on the counter.
“NO.”
I replaced the stamp books. “One bit, please.”
“HAVE … A … NICE … DAY.”
You too, jackass!
My vision is so terrible that I’d be blind even if I weren’t cross-eyed. I can just barely see well enough to not bump into things, but that’s all. Nopony knows how to make glasses powerful enough to correct my vision. Things only come into focus if I use a powerful jeweler’s loupe. It makes my field of view tiny, but it’s all I have, so misplacing it is terrifying. Even with it, I don’t have what the doctors call “binocular vision,” the ability to see in three dimensions.
That’s why I usually don’t work the front desk. On paper, I’m not supposed to do it at all, since I’m a mail carrier, not a clerk, but sometimes Gentle Gait needs the help. He’s nearing retirement, not that he'd ever admit it. They made him a clerk when I took over deliveries. If you asked him, he’d say that he could still service his old routes just as easily as he did twenty years ago, but that’s his pride talking. He wouldn’t make it down one whole street before his joints started talking back. When the weather is right, you can hear him creaking as he shuffles around the post office. So any time he says he’s going to deliver mail, I whine about not being able to see well enough to help in the front, and it triggers a mix of condescension and chivalry in him. He generously volunteers to stay, and in exchange, I agree to deliver what he still thinks is his route. He hasn’t figured it out yet.
Not that I mind. I get myself in trouble when I’m up front. Last year, a panicked stallion came up to me and said, “I was told my package would arrive by today!”
Without even thinking, I replied, “You weren’t told by anypony who matters.”
He growled, “This is not how you get a five-star review.”
“This is a one-star location.” That time, Gentle Gait really did reprimand me.
Gentle Gait has slowed down enough that we need extra hooves, so I tricked him into thinking he needed to train his successor. We hired an earth pony who was in the Royal Guard until a few months ago. He lost his left lower hind leg in a training accident and was granted a medical discharge. A veteran’s assistance program connected him with us, and he just started this week.
On his first day, he said, “Hi, I’m Sturdy Crest.”
“I’m gonna call you New Colt,” I informed him.
“Can I give you a nickname, too?”
“Absolutely not.”
I felt uncomfortable around New Colt. I would never have hired a disabled pony myself because there’s no telling what you’ll get. I’m a good employee because I never let my blindness get in my way. Most of the time, you could even forget I’m blind. But New Colt might be useless. I can’t tell yet. All I know is that whenever I see him, I remember that he’s disabled, and that makes me remember that I’m disabled, too, even if I think I shouldn’t really count.
New Colt walked by my desk in the sorting room. I knew it was him because his prosthetic leg makes an odd, unhooflike click against the concrete floor. I was sorting mail into my mailbag. I have a special mailbag with lots of pockets, and before I start my route, I sort every recipient’s mail into its own pocket. Since addresses are short, it doesn’t take me long to read them even though I need my loupe. I have a good memory, so I remember exactly what’s in each pocket. I know every address in Ponyville, and with my mailbag slung over my neck, I become unstoppable. I’d be a Power Pony, if the Power Ponies were mail carriers.
The clicking stopped, and I knew New Colt was watching me. I stuffed a letter into my mailbag, took the next one from the stack, and began reading the recipient’s name. “R—A—”
New Colt interrupted. “Do you need help with that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because I could—”
“No. I’m not a charity case. Neither are you. You do your job and I’ll do mine.” I pretended he wasn’t there and kept sorting. He was silent a moment longer, and then the click of his prosthetic leg continued.
I don’t have to be around New Colt much because I spend most of my day making deliveries. I usually make two trips for letters within town and one more for ponies who live outside town like the Apples and Fluttershy. Sometimes I have to make extra trips for packages. No single route takes long, but in busy seasons like Hearth’s Warming, delivering everypony’s mail often requires overtime.
The biggest wastes of time are ponies who want to complain. If Cranky is at home when I deliver his and Matilda’s mail, he complains just about every time. It’s always the same: “I want you to stop delivering ads.”
“Sir, I’m a mailmare, not a DJ. I don’t take requests.”
“It’s not a request. I’m your customer, and I’m demanding that you stop delivering ads to me.”
“Sir, you’re not a customer, you’re a recipient. The customer is the pony who paid to have this mail delivered. That pony pays my salary. If you don’t like receiving this mail, you’ll have to contact them.”
“I’m a taxpayer! I pay your salary, not the stupid ponies sending junk mail!”
“No, sir, my salary comes from the post office, and the post office is funded by paying customers. Personally, I think all your mail is junk, but I have a professional obligation to deliver it to you anyway. Have a nice day, sir.”
Even ponies who try to talk to me usually don’t try for long. Being blind means I can’t see who I’m talking to. I swivel my ears in their direction, but there’s no reason for me to turn my head, so I don’t. Even if I did, I couldn’t meet their gaze, and that makes most ponies uncomfortable. But that’s their problem, not mine, and I’m not going to lose sleep over it. There are lots of ponies who aren’t worth my time.
Like the stallions who look at me and think, “I bet I can score with the retard.” One time, I was at Sugarcube Corner, and there was a group of young stallions, really barely more than colts, sitting at a table and laughing with each other. One of them got up and approached me. “Hey there, filly,” he said.
“Not interested,” I said.
He sat down next to me. “Ever had a stallion show you a good time?”
I snorted. “Like you ever could.”
“We can go places you’ve never dreamed of. I can—”
“The only place your sorry hind is going is the trash.”
“Come on, sweetheart, I just—”
I pay a lot of attention to voices, and I know just about everypony in town. “Quick Draw, isn’t it? With a name like that, I bet you don’t last long enough to satisfy a mare.” There were snickers from his table.
“How about I show you just how long I last?”
“You know I deliver your mail, right? So I know what magazines you subscribe to.”
“Uh…”
He didn’t know where I was going, which was good because I was making it up. “Do you want your friends to know that you subscribe to Playmare?”
“What?”
“‘Showbiz stallions reveal all.’ ‘Twelve pages of frontier stallions.’ ‘College colts tell you what they really want.’”
“I don’t subscribe to—”
“You don’t? Must be your father then. Hard for me to tell, though, since you still live at home. You may have that little flat of your own in the backyard, but honestly? It looks like an outhouse.” His table laughed, but Quick Draw had gone silent. “It makes sense that it’s your father’s subscription, though. It explains why, every time I deliver your mail, your mother has a different stallion over.”
Quick Draw slammed his hoof on my table. Instantly, Mr. Cake was between us. Mr. Cake is a softie, but when he looms over you, you can feel how tall he is, especially if you’re not yet a full-grown stallion. He said to Quick Draw, “You’re disturbing the other customers.”
Quick Draw stomped out. A moment later, his friends followed him.
I held up a hoof. Mr. Cake said, “No, that doesn’t get a hoof bump. That was too much.”
“I knew you had my back.”
“You lost me a customer. He’s not going to come back soon.” He returned to his place behind the counter and chuckled. “‘It looks like an outhouse,’ though! That was good.”
I’m not opposed to dating even though it’s usually a waste of time. I have a weakness for stallions with deep, rich voices. A low voice makes me imagine that he has a gorgeous body, one with a dense, untamed mane, hooves as tough as granite, and powerful muscles that ripple as he walks; a flawless body worthy of being chiseled into marble and put on display in a museum. Big McIntosh has the kind of voice I like, but I’d never go out with him. He never seems to notice what other ponies say about him, which makes me think his mind is a few apples shy of a bushel, if you know what I mean. I don’t want ponies thinking I’m stupid by association.
I made it back from my route and started sorting mail into my mailbag for my next route. A surprised yelp and a crash interrupted me. From the other end of the mail room came the sound of boxes falling, metal creaking, and paper scattering. I dashed to the source of the noise. I still had my loupe, so I looked around. New Colt was on the floor, an astonished look on his face, his prosthesis detached from his leg. The shelf next to him had fallen over.
Gentle Gait tottered up and asked, “Are you alright?”
“It slipped off”—New Colt waved his stump at his prosthesis—“and I stumbled into the shelf.”
Gentle Gait knelt and began picking up letters. “Well, nothing to do now except clean up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s no problem. Around here, we all help each other out.”
“No!” New Colt exploded. “You don’t help me! You coddle me! You treat me like I’m a foal who can’t do things for myself! And you’re right!” He waved his leg stump in the air. “Look at me! Nopony thinks I can work here! I’m a mangled wreck! I’m here because I’m a charity case, not because I can do the job!” New Colt raised his head and glared at me. “What are you looking at?” he demanded. “Huh? Tell me what you’re looking at!”
I put down my loupe. “I’m not looking at anything. I’m blind. I’ll always be blind.”
Profanity erupted from his mouth. Kicking his prosthesis, he raved, “What good is an earth pony who’s weak? Who’s slow? I’m not good for anything now! It would have been better if I had died!”
I waited, silent, looking down through my crossed eyes at his blurry, indistinct form, until his tantrum had ended and he lay on the floor, gulping air, hot from the effort of his futile thrashing. Then I picked up his prosthesis and laid it next to him.
He murmured, “Does it ever get any better?”
“No. And if you keep pitying yourself, I’ll kick you in the face.”
New Colt wailed, a pitiable cry of despair and helplessness, and tears coursed down his cheeks.
