//------------------------------// // Nine Hundred Miles and a Dead End // Story: Ponk Home, Virginia // by totallynotabrony //------------------------------// A small icon popped up on the GPS with a caricature of a dead president and the message Welcome to Virginia. Pinkie Pie didn’t notice because she was busy guiding a pickup truck and a 44-foot triple-axle trailer over a mountain pass that really should not have been a suggested route. She’d wanted to get off the beaten path, and she sure had. Pinkie glanced off to the northeast to spot Mount Rogers, the tallest point in Virginia. It had been years since she’d seen it, the flat peak covered in pine trees, but she remembered how close to home it was. Passing the mountain also meant that it was all downhill from here. The engine brake began to roar, countering momentum as the rig started down the pass. Pinkie tapped the steering wheel with her fingers and hummed, making her own music.  Even the satellite radio wasn’t doing much good in the mountains. The temptation to sing one particular song was strong, even though it was the wrong Virginia. This part of the country was still where Pinkie considered home, even though she hadn’t been around much in the last ten years. She and her sister had gone off to California on scholarships and falsified paperwork, living together without adult supervision to attend one of the best high schools in the country. Well, Pinkie got lost on the first day and somehow found herself instead enrolled in public school. At least there were no gangs, before she started a few. It was worth it for the choreographed dance fights. The road started to flatten out and came to a stop sign at a T intersection with a four-lane highway.  A faded green sign indicated the direction to Dashville. Pinkie could see the trees thinning out already. She turned onto the highway, looking ahead. The city lay between mountains on two sides and a river on another. It was large enough to have distinct neighborhoods, but wasn’t big enough to have its own smog. At night, any light pollution from Roanoke, Knoxville, or Charlotte - each more than one hundred miles away - was blocked by terrain. Pinkie passed a historical marker alongside the highway, a cast metal sign painted silver with black letters and trim. It said something about the Civil War, but she didn’t stop to read it. A hundred yards further down the road was a much larger sign made of carved wood and brightly painted with the words Welcome to Dashville.  It featured half a dozen signs for the Rotary Club, Lions Club, and others in a neat row below. On the other side of the sign but still not properly inside town was a truckstop. Pinkie put on her turn signal. Her rig was huge, but still not as big as an actual eighteen-wheeler, so it fit comfortably in the parking lot. Pinkie found a spot in the back, after the pavement had ended and where even the gravel of the lot was slowly giving way to dirt. There, she finally stopped and put the truck in park for the first time since leaving Miami. It had been a very long day of driving. Pinkie sprinted for the restrooms. Ten minutes later, she returned to the truck with a Big Gulp of Cherry Coke. She cast a critical eye over the rig, taking in the cotton candy-pink paint, mud from the parking lot, road grime, and tattered vinyl graphics hastily ripped off in the middle of the previous night. Baby blue eyes and a winning smile could get you a lot, but twenty bucks to look the other way got her a place to stow her trailer for a while. It was the best she could do on short notice. Pinkie glanced back at the highway, looking south. With any luck, they still hadn’t figured out she was gone. Pinkie took a long drink through her straw, cheeks expanding. She put the drink down in the truck’s cupholder and then set to work separating it from the trailer. After unhooking the cables and the fifth wheel, she pulled out and then went back to set the corner jacks, which would keep the trailer level and prevent it from sinking in the mud.  That done, she drove the truck over to the diesel pumps and filled up, including the auxiliary fifty gallon fuel tank in the bed. After getting back in, she did a search for autobody shops. Silversmith Custom Motors came up, and the user pictures were all full of shiny chrome and bright paint. Pinkie set the GPS. Leaving the highway, Pinkie drove down through College Heights, looking around at how much the place had changed since she’d seen it last. Virginia A&M must be doing well for itself. Her truck was actually not that out of place at a country college. It certainly was in New Town, though, and even more so in Old Town. Trucks were still popular, but locals started to give her sideways looks. Some noticed the rumble of the engine, but none could miss the paint. Silversmith Custom Motors was in The Bottoms, an old industrial neighborhood on the north bank of the Holston river containing a few medium manufacturing companies served by a railroad spur. Pinkie pulled into the parking lot, facing the open garage bays. Only one was currently in use, a blue, classic Bug on the lift. A young man came out of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag.  He looked vaguely familiar to Pinkie, but not enough to put a name to him. His eyebrows had lifted a millimeter at the sight of the truck, but they lifted more as Pinkie got out to meet him. Even on a good day, some people would have described her pink hair as a mess, and she was still wearing her pajamas from the night before. “Except for the color, I would have thought this was a brodozer,” he said, eyeing her. “I didn’t know Mary Kay was giving away Dodge 3500s.” He seemed startled when Pinkie fell to her knees, tears in her eyes and screaming with laughter louder than the truck’s idle. She slapped her thighs and got her breathing under control. “Oh my…” Pinkie stood up, wiping her eyes and still chuckling. “Oh my sweet Harmony! Thanks mister, I really needed that after the day I’ve had.” “Sure…” he said, eyebrows furrowing. “Do you do paint?” Pinkie asked. The question seemed to catch him off guard, but after a pause he replied, “Sure.” “I’m thinking about a change,” said Pinkie, gesturing to the truck. “How much do you think it would cost?” “Well, that’s not an easy answer without knowing what you want, but figure a couple thousand for labor and a couple more for supplies.” “No problem. Can you do it while I wait?” “It’ll take a day, at least. Not to mention, we won’t have an opening for at least a week.” “Aww. Well…” Pinkie frowned and crossed her arms. “Can you call me when you’re ready?” “Alright, let me get your information.” He led her to the shop’s office and pulled out a pad of yellow sticky notes. “Phone number?” Pinkie almost handed him her card, but no, he didn’t need to know that much about her. She just told him. “Alright, I’ll give you a call, Miss…?” Was she going to just give him her real name? If not, she’d better come up with something fast. The first name that came to her was Bubble Berry, but no, there was a chance the woman had been this guy’s old babysitter, too. He looked about her age, and Dashville wasn’t that big. He kept staring at her until Pinkie finally burst out, “Pink-er, Pinkamina Pie.” He wrote it down and used a handshake to pass her a shop card. “Flash Sentry.” Oh right. They’d gone to the same school. He apparently didn’t recognize her after all these years. “See you soon,” said Flash. Pinkie thought it over as she went back to the truck. A week, he’d said. Sure, she could find other options. She could keep moving. But deep down, she didn’t want to. She’d come to Dashville for a reason. Still, she kept considering her options as she got back in the truck. At the moment, she really only had one. Getting back into the driver’s seat, Pinkie sat with her hands on the wheel. Her one option was...not great. Surely there was something else she could do, somewhere else she could go. But as the truck sat there idling, nothing came to mind.  She took a drink of her Coke, which was getting warm, and then got going. She wasn’t humming this time as she left the parking lot. The road led through Old Town, filled with intricate victorian houses with wavy old glass and too much paint. Towards the north, vaguely following the railroad out of town, Pinkie passed another welcome sign, which said See You Soon! on the back. That was exactly what Flash Sentry had said. Pinkie wasn’t sure what to think. Yes, she’d instinctively returned to Dashville. She was still trying to determine if it had actually been a good idea. She’d left the place so many years ago. But it was like everyone knew she’d be back. They had, in fact, seen her again. And in the grand scheme of the universe, ten years was soon enough. The highway climbed up into the hills. Pinkie took a road marked with a green sign that was too faded to read. Her GPS was shut off now. The road narrowed continuously as it began to climb and wind, aiming vaguely for Griffin Mountain. On one curve, the slope to the left of the road fell away, bare rocks and sheer cliffs overlooking an open pit quarry. Pinkie leaned in her seat, trying to see the bottom. Loose gravel started to cover the road until there wasn’t any pavement left and the occasional roadside tree brushed the truck’s mirrors. There was nothing up here except one house, not difficult to find, but Pinkie could have done it blindfolded anyway, even after all these years. It was tucked back in the forest, but visible from the road. Pinkie turned past the mailbox that said Pie in faded, lichen-covered letters. There were several vehicles already in the gravel driveway, but plenty of room for another. Pinkie parked the truck and got out. It wasn’t the only pickup truck in the drive, but it was certainly the only pink one. Facing the house, it didn’t seem to have changed. Once a house was a hundred years old, what was a few more? The pine needles had been swept off the roof and lawn. The paint had been kept up. Pinkie smiled, but her lips tightened again as her feet started to move, down the driveway and then up to the covered front porch. It felt strange to knock on the door. She used to live here. She used to just walk in. Her hand had barely withdrawn when the door was yanked open. The woman on the other side of the threshold was Pinkie’s height and wore jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Her hair was the color of slate and short, brushed to one side. Her bronze eyes locked on Pinkie, pure surprise written on them. Pinkie lifted a hand and smiled. “Hi-” Limestone Pie, Pinkie’s oldest sister, punched her in the face, knocking her completely off the porch. Pinkie had time to raise her hands but not much else before Limestone was on top of her, swinging hard. “How dare you!” “Limey!” Pinkie cried out as fists connected with her blocking forearms.  “I can-” “You abandoned-!” Limestone was suddenly jerked backwards, seemingly by the scruff of her neck, even as she continued to struggle and spit. A taller woman with her hair cut in ruler-straight bangs held Limestone back. Her eyes shifted to Pinkie, though her neutral expression didn’t change. “Hi Maud,” Pinkie said to her second-oldest sister, though she failed to meet her eyes. She got up and brushed the dirt off herself and touched a place under her eye that felt like it would bruise. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like her nose was going to bleed, or she’d end up looking like one of the tour t-shirts her merchandise shop sold. Another woman’s face, half-hidden behind long hair, peeked around Maud. “Hi Marble,” Pinkie said, smiling, to her fraternal twin. Marble gave her a hint of a smile in return. “What’s going on out here?” called a man’s voice. Igneous Pie stepped onto the porch. His face was shaven, but not within the last twelve hours, and grey stubble had already come back, though not as long as his bushy sideburns. His expression changed as he saw Pinkie, though whatever his reaction, he kept it inside. “Did I hear-” Cloudy Quartz, her half-spectacles on a chain and her hair in a bun, came out the door. She drew up, hand covering her open mouth. “Pinkamina Diane Pie, is it really you?” “Hi dad, hi mom,” said Pinkie. There was a moment of silence as the six of them stood there. Cloudy Quartz said, “Dinner’s almost ready. You’re just in time.” Tendons popped out in Limestone’s neck, but she didn’t say anything. Pinkie asked herself again if this was really what she wanted to do. She pasted on a smile and walked over the threshold, feeling all of their eyes on her as the center of attention. The inside of the house was exactly as she remembered, but seemed...smaller? She’d grown since the last time she’d been here. Pinkie still remembered the way to the kitchen, though. Passing through the living room, she saw the old shotgun over the mantle and the even older Burning Wreath over the couch. Not actually burning, local vines woven and wrapped up with orange fabric - fire and unity. There still wasn’t a TV in the room. The kitchen table was set for seven, and two seats were already occupied. “Granny!  Großvater!” Pinkie exclaimed. “What?” demanded her grandmother, eyes cataracted past the point of clarity. “Is that you, Pinkie?” Her grandfather said something Pinkie didn’t catch. She used to understand him just fine, though she was never certain if he ever really spoke English. Pinkie saw a walker behind the table. The two of them must have moved in, to be nearer to family. Pinkie was still delighted to see them. She swept around the table to distribute hugs as her mother set another place at the table. By muscle memory, Pinkie avoided the Walther P38 in her grandmother’s hand. At Pinkie’s touch, though, she relaxed and kept it below the table. Pinkie vaguely recalled a story that the gun was a gift - well, sort of - from her großvater when they’d first met. He’d been swept away from the Reich and literally swept off his feet by a mad plattdeutsch-speaking religious fanatic warrior-woman. Crushed by her certainty, and drawn away in her wake, until he woke up one day married to her and getting ready to dig rocks somewhere in darkest NordAmerika. Pinkie had gotten an F on her elementary school WWII history report. “Your friend who retired in Florida says hi,” Pinkie said. “That old reprobate,” Granny replied.  “It’s always nice when yer old shit-stirrers live long enough to get youngins making fun of their wrinkles.” Pinkie looked up as Maud joined the conversation. “How long are you staying?” Maud asked. She had released Limestone, but stayed within arm’s length. “I’m not sure,” Pinkie said. Her mother put a roast and another place setting on the table and they all sat. Pinkie picked up a fork, but was interrupted by hands thrust at her from both sides. Sheepishly, she put down the utensil and took hold. “Pinkie,” said her father. “Would you like to say grace?” “Okay.” Pinkie swallowed, attempting to buy time while accessing memories she hadn’t used in a decade. “Thank Harmony for this food and this family. I’m…” she swallowed again “...thankful.” Silence stretched out, and then Limestone broke the circle. That was apparently good enough for everyone else. Pinkie dug in. Her eyes closed at the first bite. It was, well, objectively not the most amazing thing she’d ever tasted. But she hadn’t realized until just then how much she’d missed it. “Can you pass the gravy?” Pinkie asked. “Mm-hmm,” Marble replied, and handed it over. “What have you been up to?” her mother asked, pausing with food on her fork. “Well, a lot,” Pinkie said. She should have expected the question, and raced to try and catalogue everything into an answer. “Lots of parties.” Her father’s head jerked up. “You party?” “I mean, I host parties. I set them up. I play a little music, cater the food, make sure everyone’s having a good time. I’m kind of a professional host. I put on shows, events.  I’m a Cyan Seacrest-type; I host things, it’s what I do.” “Oh,” said her mother. “It’s actually a good career, mom,” Pinkie insisted. “I’m actually making a name for myself. I’m Ponk PK; it’s on my business card - I have business cards. People have heard of me.” No one responded. Pinkie glanced around the table as she chewed. Should she try to explain more, or bring out the novelty t-shirts? Weighing that option, trying to demonstrate her success - no, that would only lead to questions like “If you’re so successful, what are you doing here?” What was she doing here? She could have run from her trouble without involving her family. Limestone was the first to finish eating and get up. She dropped her plate and utensils in the sink and left the room. Marble was next, gently delivering her own setting and then beginning to wash them. Pinkie’s grandparents seemed to be done eating, so she collected their dishes for them and took them to the sink. Pinkie helped Marble for a moment with rinsing, the two of them standing elbow to elbow. Run water over the plate, hand to Marble for a quick scrub with soap, pick up another plate - like a little assembly line. The muscle memory came back. Pinkie glanced at Marble, who gave her a half-smile. When the table was clear and all the dishes had been washed, Pinkie dried her hands. Maud had also left the room, so she started to say her goodbyes to everyone else. “Are you staying the night?” her mother asked. “No, I have a place.” “How long are you going to be around?” “I don’t know,” Pinkie answered truthfully. “Well...it was good to see you.” Pinkie traded hugs with all of them. Despite the awkwardness, it was genuinely good to see them, too. Her father walked her out. The sun had gone down and moths were beginning to flit around the porch light. After closing the front door, he silently pulled out his wallet and took out a hundred dollar bill. “Dad, no, I don’t need it.” His head tilted slightly, but his expression didn’t change. “No, really.” Pinkie put her hand on his, lightly pushing away. She gave him a polite smile, and stepped off the porch. As she reached her truck, Maud loomed out of the darkness. Pinkie stopped. “Are you coming back?” Maud asked. “For good?” “No, not for good.” “I’m stuck here,” said Maud. “Because of you.” “Maud, we both left for California. I didn’t get to Crystal Prep like you did, but-” “I went there to help the family,” Maud went on, voice still low. “I was going to get a degree. We were going to make things better for everyone. And then you disappeared.”  “I found my true calling.” Pinkie gestured to the truck’s license plate which read PONKPK. “My true calling is silicagenesis and advanced basaltic seeding,” said Maud. “But instead of going to college where I could research it, I’m here working at the family quarry because you left. There was no one else to provide. You know Limestone and Marble need help. Mom and dad are getting old, and they can’t do everything.” “I found something I liked and was good at,” said Pinkie, voice falling. “What was I supposed to do?”  “You were supposed to think of other people besides yourself.” “Maud, I…” Pinkie couldn’t bring herself to apologize. She liked the path she had chosen. Or she had, until recently. Was it wrong to be happy? Had it really come at the expense of her family? Pinkie couldn’t find the words. Instead, she collapsed forward onto Maud, arms around her midsection. Maud didn’t return the embrace. Pinkie looked up. Maud stared at her impassively. Pinkie disengaged, standing up straight and sniffing. Words still hadn’t come to her, and she walked away, escaping the conversation but stumbling under the weight of it. She barely remembered the drive back to the truckstop. Unlocking the trailer’s side door, she crawled up into the tiny living space at the front and collapsed onto her single mattress. It was partially caffeine, but mostly regret and memories that kept her up for another few hours. Even still, morning felt like it came too soon, because now she had to make a decision on what to do about how she felt. Pinkie lay in the half-light coming through the screened window for a while. She was going to have to have a good think eventually, but procrastinated first. Eventually, humidity and stuffy air inside the trailer made her get up. She stumbled out into the bright sun of the parking lot, getting mud on her socks, to start the generator. Back inside, she started the coffee pot and hit the switch for the living area slide-out which opened the wall on electric motors to create an extra two feet of space inside the trailer. That gave her enough room to take a shower and change clothes. The coffee was ready when she finished and Pinkie had a cup, leaning against her clothing cabinets. Her bed was in the loft over the trailer’s hitch and aside from that the entirety of her personal living quarters was pretty much just standing room. She sipped her coffee and pondered. What was she going to do? A gift or something thoughtful wasn’t going to work here. Saying sorry might mean something, but it wouldn’t actually solve the problem. As Maud had laid it out, they wanted Pinkie to give up what she had and come home to the family business. No one else had said it, but Maud had a habit of speaking plainly. Limestone had said it in her own way. There was a difference between right and wrong. Pinkie had done some wrong things, but she’d always known in the back of her mind what they were. That’s how she was raised. But she didn’t feel wrong here. She was being asked to give up what she had, what she’d made for herself, what she loved doing. And in her current situation, needing sanctuary, it was harder to refuse. Did that make it a choice between right and wrong, or just what she personally wanted? She could pack up the trailer and keep going. Or she could stay here in Dashville. The first option would preserve her freedom. The second would fix her relationship with her family, but in return might mean she would sell rocks for the rest of her life. Pinkie’s stomach growled. Breakfast, that sounded like a good option.