The sun was now barely a sliver over the horizon, bathing Ponyville in a reddish-golden glow. Sugarcube Corner had emptied out of all of its customers, and I was sitting alone at a table in the main parlor, waiting for Pinkie.
She had been in the middle of showing me around her room, and was just introducing me to her party cannon, a portable armament capable of blast-decorating a room for a party in mere seconds, when Mr. and Mrs. Cake had come up to check on us, dragging in a sizeable mattress in good condition, and that seemed to tell Pinkie that closing time had arrived. In a twinkling, she took me downstairs just as the last of the customers were walking out, and she plunked me down right at one of the tables before zipping off to the kitchen. I figured it was for the best, so that the Cakes could get the bed properly set up, and she seemed to have something big in mind for dinner.
As I sat and waited, I thought about all that had happened to me today, and could hardly believe it had only taken place in one day. Landing in an odd new land with no clue how I did so, meeting talking, pastel-colored ponies, seeing real-live unicorns and pegasus ponies…
And then there was that book.
I lay it down on the table before me. Until now, I’d completely forgotten about it. I vaguely remembered having owned it, but there wasn’t much else that made it stand out. It was just an ordinary notebook. Despite that, even though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, there was something about it that nagged me.
It must have been that torn page. If someone else hadn’t taken it, why was it ripped out? Was it coincidence? An accident? Or was it because that page had something written on it, something not meant to be read?...
“Buonasera, signore!”
Having been concentrating all of my thoughts on the notebook, the sudden shout gave me quite a start and made me drop it. I looked up, and almost burst out laughing at what I saw.
Pinkie was standing in front of me, wearing an apron, a chef’s toque, and the biggest fake mustache I’d ever seen in my life. She was standing on her hind legs, and was balancing a metal serving tray on one hoof.
“Welcome-a to Sugarcube-a Corner! I’m-a Pinkamena, and I’ll-a be-a your server tonight-a!”
She was using such an exaggerated Italian accent that it was extremely hard to keep a straight face. Still, one thing had caught my attention in the string of Italian babble. Pinkamena? Was that her real first name?
“Our-a special tonight-a is spaghetti and-a wheat-a balls with-a breadsticks!” she went on.
‘Wheat balls’. I felt like I could fill the Marianas Trench with the sheer number of Equestrian puns being tossed my way today. Still, it didn’t sound too bad, even if it wouldn’t be real meat.
“Sure, ‘Pinkamena’,” I said, “I’m game. But really, you can just be yourself.”
Pinkie let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness! Do you know how hard it is to keep up that accent? Be right back then, Davie!”
She winked and zipped off, leaving the phony-baloney mustache behind. I looked back down at the notebook. Just the way it was taunting me with its mysteriousness was aggravating me, so I laid it on my lap, out of sight, and hopefully out of mind.
From up above, I could hear the Cakes moving about, probably deciding where the best place for the mattress would be. I felt a pang go through my heart as I thought of them busting their backs for my sake. I hated to have to make them do all the work, and was more than willing to do it for them. In fact, I had half a mind to head upstairs and offer to move the mattress myself. I wasn’t normally the type who enjoyed being asked to do labor like that, but I just couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt when I thought of people going to so much trouble just for me.
I was pushing my chair back, and the sound of the dull scrape of its legs on the floor must have alerted Pinkie, as she poked her head out.
“Davie? Is something wrong?”
“Nah, Pinkie. I just want to help Mr. and Mrs. Cake with the mattress.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, silly!” said Pinkie.
“But I’d hate to have them be going through the trouble just for my sake,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it, Davie,” said Pinkie, “it’s fine, really. You’re our guest.”
She said this in such a firm, yet gentle, tone that I knew there was no room for argument.
“If you’re sure…”
“Of course. Now, I won’t be too much longer.”
She ducked back inside the kitchen, and I pulled my chair back up. Now, I enjoyed spaghetti just as much as the next person, especially if meatballs were involved, but I was also rather picky when it came to eating. Most vegetables, with a few exceptions, weren’t my cup of tea, especially onions. They always seemed to be an inescapable staple when it came to spaghetti in tomato sauce, but I didn’t want to be rude about Pinkie’s cooking, so I’d just have to bear with it if she did include them.
Finally, the kitchen doors swung open again, and Pinkie zipped over to the table, precariously balancing two plates of spaghetti on a tray on her head, decorated with what looked exactly like meatballs. With expert ease, Pinkie slid the plates off her head, one landing in front of me, the other in front of her. Then she dashed back off to the kitchen, returning with a basket full of golden-brown breadsticks. A tantalizing smell of parmesan cheese and garlic filled the room.
“Bon appetit!” she said, brightly.
She didn’t need to tell me twice. I fell to immediately, trying a wheat ball with some of the noodles before anything else. It was…interesting. It was like biting into a ball of freshly-cooked bread dough, kind of like a hushpuppy, and while it didn’t exactly taste like a meatball, it was just as satisfying to eat. Pinkie hadn’t started yet, but seemed to be waiting for my approval after my experimental taste.
“So? How is it?” she asked.
I took a moment to wipe my mouth with a nearby napkin before answering.
“Pinkie, I can easily say that this spaghetti is molto bellissimo!”
I didn’t really speak Italian; I was one of those guys who only knew common, overused phrases of certain languages. I helped myself to a breadstick, dipping it in the tomato sauce before biting into it. Thankfully, there were no onions in the sauce, after all, and it itself was flavored with what tasted like oregano and even a little pepper. Pinkie seemed extremely gratified by my approval, and dug in with gusto.
“Do you usually cook this kind of stuff, Pinkie?” I asked.
“Oh, no, only on special occasions," said Pinkie. "I mostly just help with baking stuff! And today was a super-special occasion, after all: making my very first human friend!”
“That is a special occasion, I suppose,” I said. “And I could say it is for me as well: making my first pony friend.”
Pinkie smiled warmly at this.
“So you like working at a bakery?” I asked.
“It’s the absolute best! I get to make yummy sweets and see my friends visit every day!”
“I know you said earlier, when we were talking with Rainbow Dash, that you were friends with ‘everypony’," I said, gesturing with a breadstick. "Do you really mean everypony?”
“Yep! I’ve thrown at least one party for everypony in Ponyville, and even then, everypony else attends anyway, so I always see them!”
“Do you even know when everyone’s birthday is?” I asked, impressed.
“Yep, even if it’s months away!” said Pinkie, proudly.
Whoa. That was an extremely impressive memory for someone so...exuberant. I’d started warming up to her as the day went on, and had felt touched when she wanted me to be her friend, but to think that she had the heart and mind to remember everything about everyone who lived in her hometown...That was something truly special.
“And to think it could happen to somepony like me,” said Pinkie. “I mean, a rock farm’s the last place you’d expect to find a party pony.”
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth with a dripping wheatball hanging from it. I couldn’t possibly have heard that right.
“Er, what did you say, Pinkie?” I asked.
“‘And to think it could happen to-’” Pinkie began, but I cut her off.
“No, no, Pinkie, after that. You said something about a farm?”
“Yep! My family’s rock farm!”
I stared at her. She stared back, as if she hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary at all.
“What?” she asked, innocently.
“I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around the concept of a rock farm," I said. "I mean, I’ve heard of people keeping pet rocks, but a whole farm of rocks?”
“Well, somepony’s gotta do it, and those someponies are my family!” said Pinkie, proudly.
(Must be a real barrel of fun down there.)
“And you learned to be who you are...there?” I asked, skeptically.
“Yep! I saw a rainbow that showed me how to smile for the first time! From that day forward, I dedicated my life to spreading that joy to everypony I met, and I started by throwing a party for my family!”
“Wow," I said. "That’s...an odd way to start, but I guess we all have to start somewhere, right?”
“Mm-hmm!”
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, partly because I was still stunned about the idea of a rock farm, but also because if we got hooked on another conversation topic, we’d run the risk of our food getting cold. Then again, I couldn’t remember the last time I had been as verbal as I had been all throughout today.
To be perfectly honest, I rarely ever spoke, unless the topic was something I could understand. I felt like whenever I did speak, no one else responded, or they thought what I said was odd and didn’t have anything to do with what they were discussing at the moment. So, it sometimes made me feel like I shouldn’t speak at all, since my opinion didn’t seem all that valid. It was just like Mark Twain said, “it is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt”. However, if I was talking to a good friend, I could become rather animated, if a little meek, when I spoke. Pinkie and these ponies were just like that; they had a way of making me get over the fact that I didn’t like talking very much. They were easy to talk to, and so understanding of what I said. It was refreshing, to say the least.
At last, our plates were cleaned. That is to say, Pinkie actually licked hers spotless, and when she looked up, saw that mine still had leftover sauce on it.
“You gonna eat that?” she asked.
“Be my guest,” I said, handing it to her with an amused chuckle.
Grinning gleefully, she proceeded to clean it up like a happy dog when offered a plate of table scraps.
“That was an excellent dinner, Pinkie,” I said.
She looked up, her pink face splashed with tomato sauce.
“Thanks, Davie! I’m glad you enjoyed it!”
At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Cake made a reappearance, grinning in amusement at Pinkie’s sauce-besmirched face.
“Well, Dave, the bed’s all set up, if you want to go take a look,” said Mr. Cake. “I think you’ll be more than comfortable.”
“Thanks a bunch. I wish I could have given you both a hand.”
“Oh, not at all, sweetie,” said Mrs. Cake. “It was our pleasure. I take it dinner went well?”
“Better than well, Mrs. Cake!” said Pinkie, slurping the sauce from her own cheeks. “Well, come on, Davie! Let’s go see our new room!”
Pinkie bounded up from the table, and I followed after her, still more than a little befuddled by the prospect of ‘our new room’.