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// Glasses and Tin 
// Story: Sing Us A Song... 
// by David Brony 
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	It was late one Saturday night, as I sat at a blue-collar bar in downtown Detrott, the rain outside beating against the cobblestone alley. I sat there, craddling my hard cider, and stared at my glasses in their open case on the countertop, one lens cracked, the other smeared with the dust of the roads. The barkeep 'JOHN' held a lighter in his hoof as he lit a decripit mule's cig from across the bartop; and the only other guests were two queer fellows dressed-up like barbers in the corner, muttering on about some failed business scam Southwest of Canterlot.
And I remember this old stallion stumbling in from the rain, his short auburn mane acting like a sprinkler as he shook himself off. I don't quite remember him siddling up to the bar (I was thourghly convinced that my glasses case had moved a centimeter since I had last looked) and I don't remember him having seated himself a stool down from me. I do recall that he had ordered scotch, and that 'JOHN' grabbed the whiskey instead.
We sat there quietly for awhile, the sound of the two barbers going on about flim-and-flam providing a backdrop to the tinkle of the ice in our glass and the now-soft purr of the storm outside. Finally, he broke the silence.
"You from around here?" he asked.
"From around, you could say. You?"
"Nah, the Broncox. Been here before?"
"Once or twice. Whenever I pass through." He turned back towards the bar and took a sip from his psuedo-scotch and it became quite again. I glanced over and looked the colt up and down. He was a dark mahogany colour, with a balding auburn mane that gave him the feel of an old Applewood bigshot. He had a small black bowtie on under a crisp black coat, and his cutie-mark talent-marking showed a set of ivories beneath a dusty harmonica of the same color.
A few more tumbleweeds blew in: a few rusted miners, one that looked like he needed a pill and a gal, and what looked like a navy boy. They moved towards some torn-up stalls on the wall like clockwork, a drained look plastered across their soon-to-be plastered faces. By the way they moved, I guessed they were regulars at the bar.
"How long's that old Joanna been sitting up there?" the Broncox stallion asked, cocking his muzzle at the grand falling apart on the bar's stage. Two of the hoofpedals were missing and some of the keys had been replaced with crude wood strips to keep it operable. The abomination made me cringe as I looked closer at it: there was graffiti depicting some rather crude saying on the inside of the legs.
"Don't know. Been here longer than I have.", I answered. "Why?"
"You good on the ivories, son?" He stared at the stage as he spoke, his drink abandoned on the counter.
"I can tap a bit." He remained locked on the grand for a minute or so, then spun back towards me.
"You're the piano man, I have my tin. You up for a song?"
At first I couldn't tell if he was just making a jest, but the look he gave me set my worries aside. 
"You have one in mind?"
He grinned and took out a battered and scratched harmonica from his coat pocket and blew out a few notes before making his way up to the stage, myself following in his wake. He sat on a threadbare cushion and began his tune.
It was an old ballad I remembered from my foalhood, "Piano Colt", and the notes guided my hooves across the weathered keys. He started to sing in between breaths on his tin, the words seeming to flow through the drinking hole. When I really began to tap, I took my glasses off and set them on the piano top. The dingy old things weren't helping me anyhow.
As he sung some of the stallions on the far wall lifted their heads from their drinks to see the strangest duet the bar had seen in quite awhile. Slowly, the bar flies broke from their cider-induced comas and smiles began to spread from each muzzle to the next as they started to forget life, if only for awhile. 'JOHN' shuffled down the bar and, oh so discreetly, swapped the soured whisky with what looked like a mighty fine scotch.
I became enveloped with the sound of the Broncox stallion's voice, the feel of my hooves against the keys and the soft hum of the rain outside. The lyrics slipped in and out in a trance and I began to lose track of the time.

***

I don't remember how much time had passed as I sat there in that Joanna's lap, nor do I recall that strange colt having ever left. I only remember that 'JOHN' was wiping down the bartop, that all the other patrons had cleared out, and the note I found on the cushion where the stallion had begun his song. It read:


You've got talent kid, I'll give you that. What are you doing here with something like that? Hope this night was good to you, but you need to find you a nice uptown girl and- don't ask me why- but you should live just the way you are. Hoping life treat's you good,
-The Stranger
P.S. Sorry for ditching you like that, but I had to get home to Sabrina.


And after that all I can remember is that the rain seemed to part for me as I left 'JOHN' to his work that night, and I showed up to the train depot pretty well off. Might of just been my imagination on that point. But all I thought at the time was that the railway didn't seem that harsh that night, and my saddlebag didn't rub into my withers as it always did, and my glasses were the clearest they had ever been that night on that train.