Wednesday. That day when you think you’re nearing the end of the work week, but feel like it will be forever till it comes. Sure, Mondays are bad, and Tuesdays make you get back into the rhythm, but Wednesdays are the worst. The morose feeling that hits you when you wake up seems to fight your attempts at enjoyment throughout the day.
It was with this malaise that I trudged through lunch, staring out the door from the store counter with a burrito in my hoof. Nopony came in during this time. Nopony came in at all for the most part. I guess that’s what happens when you sell quills and sofas. At least when somepony did come in, they bought something that generally kept the business afloat.
Like that nice purple mare. What was her name? Light Twig? Night Light? Ah, right. Twilight. She’s a good, loyal customer, always ordering quills in bulk, almost as if she makes headdresses out of them or something. I never did ask.
Or that white mare and her constant repair orders for her Vicoltian fainting couch. I swear she flops on that thing more often than a surprised goat. It’s almost every week she comes in, demanding some new cushioning or leg replacements; and at a discount, no less! Sometimes, I wonder if she expects more from everyone else or it’s just me.
That’s not to say they’re my only major customers. Being the only store in town to supply quills and or sofas, I get the mayor’s aide coming in once a week to supply the town hall, the night club manager stopping by to replace sofas her “guests” decided to paint with their overindulgence, and the tax aides collecting reams upon reams of parchment during tax season.
What? You thought I only sold quills and or sofas? Nonsense. Every businesscolt knows to supply the other half of whatever product you’re selling. Other than the obvious two items advertised in the store name, I also sell parchment, notebooks, pillows, couch care-taking supplies, and the various other odds and ends.
But I digress. I’m sure I’m boring you at this point. It’s not like anypony cares how my business stays afloat, only that it remains open. Well, I’ll have you know I took a lot of time out of my busy lunch time to explain it to you; the least you could do is appreciate it!
Bah! If you’re going to ignore me, I just won’t narrate anymore. See how you like that.
…
“Sir? You’ve been staring at that wall for the past ten minutes. Are you okay?”
“Huh, wha?” I so eloquently replied upon snapping my head towards the voice. Oh, hush. It’s a customer. I have to narrate now.
Before me stood Twilight Sparkle. Her brow was creased as she studied me, her eyes shifting between my own. A few strands of her mane were amiss and her wings were splayed at odd angles from one another.
Wait, wings?
“Is this a bad time?”
When did she get wings?
“I’m so sorry! It’s just that this is the only time I had available to get more quills, and between planning for my parent’s visit and learning all I can about town management from Mayor Mare, I couldn’t find time in the day unless I sacrificed my allotted twenty four minutes and thirty two seconds of lunch time to come here.”
How did she get wings?
“That’s not even mentioning the party Pinkie wants to throw on Friday and the princess’s request that I learn all the noble families and their role by next week!”
Can I get wings?
“Oh, but I already used twelve minutes and fourteen seconds of my lunch break! I need two dozen quills, thirty reams of parchment, and a new sofa! How am I supposed to pick out a sofa with twe—eleven minutes and fifty-three seconds to go?!”
Better yet, where did she get them? Maybe I can close for a few days and go there myself.
“Are you listening?”
“What?” Snapping out of my thoughts of wing acquisition, I found the mare even more frazzled than when she brought me out of my thoughts last time. Now, her mane was completely tangled and her wings—still don’t know where they came from—were stretched to their full height.
“Ugh! Get me two dozen quills and thirty reams of parchment. While you’re doing that, help me find a couch to match the interior of the library in the next seven minutes!”
Having dealt with the unicorn’s rushed pace once or twice before, I ignored her angered tone and turned towards the back where my bulk items were stored. Being in the town’s library a few times as well, I knew the best sofas from which she could choose. “I have three couches for you in the back right corner of the shop, miss. I’ll be out momentarily to help you,” I said as I pushed through the storage room door.
Quickly grabbing her items from a shelf specifically marked “Twilight Essentials” directly to the left of the entrance, I trotted back to the counter and slid them onto the counter. Before I could turn to help the mare, a tan couch with leaf embroidery floated over in a magenta aura and plopped itself down by the exit as she returned.
“That one,” she said, levitating the quills and parchment towards it and dropping a pouch of bits on the counter at the same time. Then, she was out the door without waiting for me to complete the transaction and give her the receipt.
Not that I was worried about incorrect payment; she always had exact change. What I was worried about, was the proof of purchase I was required to give for any furniture I sold. And so, after counting out the bits and completing the transaction alone, I printed out the receipt and vowed to deliver it personally.
After I eat.
Oh, and I’m not supposed to be narrating to you anymore.
“Have a good evening, Miss Sparkle!” I called behind me as I left the library. It’s always a treat to visit one of my customers and see how their lives are going. Of course, I seemed to have escaped at the perfect time, as the town party mare was heading towards the library.
As much as I enjoy my customer’s company, Pinkie has this habit of rambling, even more so than Twilight on a schedule. Most seem to have learned how to tune her out, but I always feel bad about doing so with her. Sometimes, I wonder if she talks so much because she has something important to say but doesn’t know how.
Oh, you’re probably wondering why I’m narrating again. I forgave you, and if you’re still reading, then it probably wasn’t you, specifically, that was ignoring me. But if you were that guy, I forgive you.
“Mr. Davenport?”
It seems I have a knack for getting lost in narration. Turning my head slowly towards the voice—I pulled a tendon from my earlier excursion in neck flexing—I found the town seamstress giving me a quizzical look. Her hair was done up in her usual flare, just as the rest of her was immaculate as always.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting some wise insight into pony morality,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, no, it was nothing like that. Sorry, you were saying?”
“It seems you truly were lost in thought. I didn’t say anything before getting your attention, so there was no slight accrued.”
“Ah, of course.” As much as I tried, I could never figure out the best way to interact with a pony like Miss Rarity. It was part of the reason I refused to move my business into Canterlot. Too many ponies like her.
“Well, I was wondering when you had a free moment to look at my fainting couch again. Though I am skilled with the needle, I seem to have a tear in the backing I just can’t sew,” she said, a hint of a blush forming on her cheeks.
Of course it had to be the couch again. I lost count of how many times I’ve repaired it by now. “The stitching on the back is odd, not something you’d find on clothing or any other material. It’s specifically designed to withstand pulls exceeding the fabric’s own tensile strength. I’m actually quite surprised you managed to undo it.” I don’t know if it’s because of the mare, the constant repair, or my personality, but for once I wanted to explain just how hard it was for her to damage that couch.
A sheepish grin formed on her lips as she tilted her head down and looked up into my eyes. “Can you believe three fillies using it as a trampoline?”
“Yeah, that could do it.” I decided to let her save her dignity; three fillies couldn’t rip the stitching on the back by using the cushions as a jumping board, no matter how big or how often they played on it. “Will you be bringing it by the shop, or do you want me to make a house call?”
An imperceptible sigh escaped her as she no doubt thought I believed her story. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow. Is that all right with you, dear?” Playing me up, or just a slip of the tongue?
“Of course. I’m always happy to help repair somepony’s favorite seating. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” A curt farewell later and I was trotting back to my store. I’ve been gone for two hours, now. I could have missed a customer!
…
I did not, in fact, miss a customer. What I did miss is how my shop could have possibly caught on fire. One minute, I was walking the streets of Ponyville, and the next, I was trailing the smoke billowing in the air. Upon turning a corner towards the same street my shop lay, I found the source.
Flames were billowing out from the broken storefront glass and ponies were organizing to form a bucket brigade while the rainbow-maned weather captain was ordering her pegasi into building a localized storm. The only reason I was privy to any of this happening was because of my stock-still posture as I stared toward the carnage of my shop.
Of course, I could have handled it better once I got my bearings, but by then I realized I had lost not only my shop, but my home as well. So, running around like a headless chicken, screaming bloody murder at whoever did this, was an apt reaction at the time. What happened after that wasn’t as well thought out.
During my chaotic machinations, I managed to bump into one of the bucket brigaders, tumble towards the shop, and jump through the burning glass. Then, fighting through flames and smoke inhalation, I ran up the stairs to my living space and proceeded to grab a bottle of rum and the picture of my deceased wife. To finish this lovely escapade into stupidity, I then chugged the rum and jumped out the window of my bedroom.
My conveniently placed thorn bush halted my plunge at the expense of a series of painful cuts. But, the oh-so-conveniently placed thorn bush was also oh-so-conveniently placed in front of the first story window at the back of my shop, which oh-so-painfully was spewing flames upon the branches, further burning me and adding that many more injuries. In the end, I managed to fill my lungs with smoke, gain third degree burns, and multiple minor lacerations, with only my dead wife’s picture to show for it.
Go me! was the last thought in my head before blackness came for me.
I couldn’t remember what I was dreaming about, though I could recall the emotions stirred because of them, and the only significant one was sadness. It wasn’t too surprising, as I seem to have awoken with my wife’s portrait held against my chest as I lay in a hospital bed.
The deduction wasn’t difficult. After sustaining injuries too grievous to mention, I found myself in a white room, wrapped in gauze, and covered with a white sheet. Obviously, someone saw me run in and saved me from the burning bush behind the store. I don’t recall hitting my head, so I either hit it and lost the memory of such an action, or someone felt the need to explain my stupidity in a violent manner.
Then again, they could have just been careless and let my head roll about unwatched, letting it smack into a door or something on the way to the hospital. Another stipulation is the picture, and why the nursing staff thought it fine for me to hold onto it with my injuries. That surely couldn’t have been sterile for someone suffering with third-degree burns.
Oh, yeah, burns.
“Aaahhh!” Oh, my throat hurts from screaming. “Aaaahhh!” Maybe I should stop, now. “Aaahhh!” Okay, I’m just going to stop telling myself what to do. “Aaaahhh!”
The door to my room burst open and a white-coated nurse ran in, followed by two doctors of tan and brown colorings. As the two physicians held me down, the nurse stabbed me with a needle and injected me with something. Within seconds, the pain subsided and I stopped screaming. Just before I blacked out, I saw the nurse reattach the EKG monitor and turn to talk to the doctors.