Sometimes You Make It...

by Indie Cred

Chapter 2

Indie woke up to the buzzing of his alarm clock. A red 0800 flashed on the display, causing him to squint and turn away. He hit the button on the top and sat up, smoothing his matted mane as best he could. Slowly, he climbed out of bed, his head throbbing, and moved to the bathroom. After a brief cold shower, he put on his uniform, a red vest and yellow hardhat, and started towards the door. Opening his pack of cigarettes, he found it to be emptier than he had remembered it being last night. He sighed and walked out of the building, and began to walk towards the warehouse where he worked.

He didn’t mind the work too much. It was mindless labor, giving him plenty of time to think, and little to talk with the others about. Aside from the odd “Hello” or “Good morning” he tended to remain silent while he worked. His job mainly involved moving crates from one area to another, or checking inventories before they were sent out.

The sun was out in full force that morning, and again his head began to throb. The sound of carts on the cobblestones was like a jackhammer to him. The shouts of children on their way to school was like a shrill siren. Muttering to himself, he slowly made his way to his place of work, trying not to be sick.

He walked into the side entrance of Shipley’s Warehouse and Shipping Company, pulled his timecard from its slot and put it into the punch-clock. He stared at the card for a moment, realizing he had spent nearly six years working at this place. As he was wondering just where his life had gone, he heard a voice from behind.

“Another five minutes and I’d have docked your pay.”

It was Whistle Shipley, a tan earth pony with a brown mane and a crate cutie mark, and owner of Shipley’s Warehouse.

“I’m anything if reliable, Mr. Shipley” Indie said, replacing his timecard.

“Yeah, and I’m the spirit of Hearthswarming. Just don’t be late again, eh?”

Adjusting his helmet, Indie moved over to the table where the shift schedules were. He skimmed the names on the clipboards until he found his, wondering why they didn’t just place them in alphabetical order. Attaching the clipboard to his vest, he flew over to a large stack of crates.

This was his favorite part of the job, taking inventory. He didn’t have to do too much, just make sure everything was in its place. He found himself humming the Drafts tune from the other night while he worked. He could still remember the first time he’d heard it. “You know that it would be untrue… You know that I would be a liar… If I was to say to you… Girl, we couldn't get much higher…”

He was five years old, and his father was trying to teach him how to fly.

“One day, you’ll join the rest of your family as a weather pony!” His father had said. “Just like me, and my father before him, and his. You come from a long line of great weather ponies.”

Indie rolled his eyes, having heard this story a hundred times before.

“Sure, and you’re the best of all of them. You tell me this every time we practice, dad!”

“Well, sorry for being enthusiastic. Anywho, let’s get down to business!”

Mr. Cred led his son through some basic drills, stopping every few moments to correct his form or give a pointer of some sort. This went on every Saturday for as long as Indie could remember, and it was exactly the same every time. Every time but that day.

Indie was practicing his loops when he first heard the sound. A neighbor had set up a small portable record player in his lawn to listen to while he gardened. Mostly he played classical stuff, but this week he had a new record playing. It was the Drafts, and they were playing music in a way Indie had never heard before. It was so enthralling to him, he stopped paying attention to where he was flying, and managed to drop headfirst into the ground. He lay there completely motionless, his eyes closed, hearing nothing but the song and the sound of his own breath. He was hooked. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. The keyboards kept playing, the guitar crooning along. “Come on baby light my fire…”

His father ran over to him yelling his name, and began to shake him, trying to rouse him. Indie opened his eyes and looked at his father.

“Did you hear it, dad?” He whispered.

“Hear what son? All I heard was you drop out of the sky!”

“That song… It’s… Incredible.”

Indie realized he had checked the same crate three times already, and shook his head a bit to clear his mind. He signed the inventory sheet and attached it to one of the crates, then moved on to the next pile.

Indie’s love of music seemed innocent at first, but his parents soon saw that it was becoming more and more of a focus in his life. He preferred to sit in his room listening to records rather than play with the other children in the neighborhood, which worried his father to no end.

“He doesn’t get any sun anymore. He just sits there listening to that music. I swear, it’s like he doesn’t have a mind anymore when that thing starts playing.”

Relations with his parents began to rise as he continued to focus his efforts on the music. Every bit he earned went straight to the record store, and when he wasn’t working he was sitting in his room, listening. The day he skipped his flying lesson to listen to a new record was the day the tension reached a boiling point.

“I won’t have my son with his head in the clouds all day! Not unless he’s moving them anyways!” His father shouted.

“You don’t get it! This is my life! It’s all I want!”

“You’re a weather pony! Just like me and every other stallion in this family! I won’t have you throw your life away with this trash!”

His father walked over to the record player, still sounding out the song that had come to be Indie’s fallback, and stepped on it. Indie protested, but he continued to stomp until the record player was all but unrecognizable.

“I expect you to be outside for lessons next Saturday, do you understand me? And get rid of those filthy records. They’re a bad influence on you.”

Indie signed the inventory sheet for the stack he had been inspecting, and attached it to the nearest crate. He looked over the schedule he had for the day, and sighed. Another twenty inventory checks to go, and it was only nine-thirty.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Indie called to another Pegasus nearby. “I’m going to grab a pack of smokes. Need anything?”

“Nah, just don’t take too long. I don’t feel like getting chewed out because you skipped work.”

Indie walked out of the warehouse and took off his helmet. He wiped a mist of sweat off his brow and looked up at the sky. Not a cloud to be seen. He still wondered sometimes if his father was still moving clouds around, or if he’d finally retired. Knowing him, he would keep working until they made him quit.

He walked down the street to a corner store and walked inside.

“Hey Sunny, is the coffee fresh?”

A thin white Pegasus pony with a bright green mane and a smiling sun cutie mark looked up from the magazine she had been reading, looking somewhat surprised.

“Eh, it’s about an hour old I think.” She replied, after thinking for a moment.

“Good enough. I’ve got a hangover that could kill a hydra right now.”

Indie walked over to the carafe and poured himself a cup of joe, then walked back to the counter.

“Just this and a pack of menthols.”

Sunny reached up to the shelf above the counter and grabbed a pack of Lucky Smooth cigarettes, placing them on the counter.

“Eight bits, hon.”

“Eight? It was only seven last week.”

“They raised the prices again. They keep doing this, and everyone’s just going to quit smoking. Either that or they won’t pay their rent, eh?” Sunny replied, chuckling softly.

“Fine. Eight it is, but I’ll remember this Sunny. Don’t you forget it.”

“Sure, and you’ll still be back for another pack tomorrow. Don’t kid yourself Indie.”

He laughed, and walked back into the street, lighting one of the smokes. He sipped the coffee slowly, glad that his headache had subsided somewhat. His stomach still felt like it had been twisted in knots, but at least the sun wasn’t his mortal enemy anymore.

Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he started back towards work. He had made it nearly halfway there when he saw the poster. It was her. Her mane was different, and she was wearing sunglasses, but he was sure it was her. The poster read “THIS WEEKEND – DJ PON-3 PLAYING LIVE AT EQUESTRIAN BEATS!”

“Hard times my plot” He thought to himself, and he made a mental note to demand the full rate for his next show.

He stared at the poster for a few moments, shook his head again, and started back towards the warehouse. He drank as much of the coffee as he could before he got back, then threw the rest away, regretting the waste of perfectly good caffeine. He put his helmet back on and picked his clipboard up from the crate it was resting on, checking which stack would be next to inventory.

“Smoke breaks are only five minutes long, Indie” Mr. Shipley’s voice said from behind him.

“I ran out. Had to go pick up a fresh pack.”

“Hmm. Try to keep to the time limit anyways. You have wings, y’know. You could’ve flown there and back in five minutes.”

“Walking’s good for you.”

“So is doing your job.”

“Speaking of which, do you need any extras this weekend?”

“Yeah, but I thought you hung out at that club on the weekends. Something happen?”

“Nah, there’s a new box set out that I want to pick up, and I need the extra cash.”

“Fair enough. Standard show time. Don’t be late.” Mr. Shipley said, walking back to his office.

There was no way Indie was going to be at the club this weekend. Not with her there. It would be too painful for him. He knew the chances of her even noticing him were slim to none, as the club would be packed to the roof, but he wasn’t going to chance it. Even if it meant working every weekend for the rest of his life, he would avoid her.

Comments

[Crystallise]

It's The Doors not The Drafts, that really rustled my jimmies.