//------------------------------// // Extra Fries // Story: A Charmed Life // by BlazzingInferno //------------------------------// For a moment nothing could tear Ditzy’s gaze from the clock, not the hay sizzling on the grill, the grease bubbling in the frier, or the repeated shouts of her manager. “Hey, new girl! You gonna stand there or you gonna make hay fries?” “Sorry, Mr. Done!” Ditzy lifted the wire basket out of the frier, dumped boiling hot hay fries into the cooling tray, and attempted to give Mr. Done an apologetic smile. The smile ended up being directed at the back of his head, and then at the burger cook who only ever glared at her. Maybe he’d stop that when the hay fry-shaped grease burns on his flank healed. The rest of her coworkers barely glared at her at all anymore, which was a great sign. They were really warming up to her, now that she’d been on the job for a couple weeks with barely any accidents. The last ten minutes of her shift dragged by, interrupted only by the jarring ding of the fry timer. She hoisted out a final batch of hay fries, nodded to the pony taking over the fry station, and headed for the door with all the speed she dared use in the crowded kitchen. She’d learned not to run at work, that’d been Major Accident Number One. Major Accident Number Two taught her not to fly at work either. The only safe method of movement in the cramped, crowded kitchen was to walk carefully and slowly, no matter how tight her schedule was. Her locker swung open on its squeaky hinges, still vaguely smelling like the marker used to spell out “D. Hooves” on its name plate. That would fade eventually, or so said her manager and the owner of the locker next to hers, Mr. “W. Done.” He’d also said a thing or two about if she ever came in late, got too close to the cash registers, or spilled hot grease again, but it was best not to dwell on that. She wouldn’t have to work here much longer anyway, so long as she hurried. It was the second Wednesday of the month, which meant she had a secret appointment to keep across town. She dropped a grease-stained Hay Burger uniform into her saddlebag and flexed her wings. “Okay, Ditzy, you’ve got exactly five minutes to get to the second-hoof store before—” “Hey, new girl!” Well Done’s grating baritone, as greasy as his black mane, made her shiver. Please not now. I’ve have to hurry! “Y-yes, sir?” Well Done stepped closer, his heavy hoofsteps thumping on the cement floor. “You can take the night shift all next week, right?” Ditzy frowned at him. “Night shift?” He nodded. “Somepony’s gotta take it, and you said you wanted all the extra hours you could get.” She nodded automatically. “Extra hours, right!” And before she could dwell on how horrible spending six mornings and evenings in a row staring at bubbling grease would be, she added “I’ll take it!” Extra paying hours were extra paying hours, after all. Every bit mattered, especially where she was headed. --- Ditzy touched down just as the Ponyville clocktower’s final hourly chime died on the afternoon breeze, its regularity matched only by that of the elderly stallion who ran the second-hoof store. He restocked the shelves once a day, precisely at three in the afternoon. Within twenty minutes every shelf would be lined with gently used merchandise, and within forty minutes the very best deals would be gone. Such was the dance between the store owner and his cash-strapped patrons. Something different happened on every second Wednesday of the month. Something subtle and, in Ditzy’s mind, unexplainable. She’d made the discovery while nosing through the used horseshoes, by way of biting down on what she’d thought was a foal’s toy thrown in the bin by mistake. Second-hoof horseshoes didn’t sparkle and shine unless they were glitter-covered plastic. Except this horseshoe didn’t taste like plastic; it tasted of cool, expensive metal plated in an even more expensive metal. She’d dropped the horseshoe back into the bin, listened to the solid clang it made against its rust-stained neighbors, and nearly spoiled everything by wondering aloud what crazy pony donated a gold-plated horseshoe, never mind what senile second-hoof store owner priced it the same as all the other shoes in the bin. Then she’d seen the designer hat and the diamond earrings. She’d counted her bits three times, crestfallen that she’d hit the mother lode a week before payday, and sullenly chose the hat over the earrings. Her disappointment turned to elation one month later, when more fancy jewelry and several stunning, unworn dresses appeared. A month later she’d found more horseshoes, and a month after that a full set of antique silverware. Some of her finds, like the golden horseshoes, were pointless luxuries. Others, like the dresses and the hat, were staples of a nicer life than her hay fry bits could ever provide. Ditzy took a deep breath and started toward the shop. In the front window’s reflection she could see the vacant building across the street. If she stared at that place long enough, her imagination would take over, mending the broken windows, refinishing the faded paint, and installing a bright blue sign over the door emblazoned with “Ditzy’s Delivery Service” in shiny gold letters. She stepped around an imaginary customer joining the line out the door. “Whoa, sorry friend. The delivery service? It’s the best! Way faster than the regular old mail, and cheaper and more reliable too!” A couple more imaginary customers smiled at her, clearly eager to hear more while they waited. “And the mare that runs the place is awesome! She’s dependable, and smart, and pretty, and—” she cocked an eyebrow at the nearest pretend stallion “—totally available, by the way.” “Huh?” the not-pretend stallion she’d stopped in the street replied. Ditzy turned red and broke into a run. “N-nevermind! Sorry!” She slipped into the second-hoof store, caught her breath, gave the pony behind the counter what she hoped was a nonchalant smile, and hurried to the clothing racks in the back. Speed was essential; she couldn’t let another pony find the special items first, not if she wanted to turn that wonderful daydream into a reality. Her hooves swept through the meagre selection, pausing when she found a professional-looking jacket but moving along once she noticed its threadbare elbows and pungent mothball aroma. “Nope, definitely not this one.” The bank manager would laugh at her again if she walked in wearing this old thing. Loans were for ponies that looked as good as their business plan. Loans weren’t for ponies that looked as bad as their savings account balance. All too quickly Ditzy reached the end of the rack. A checkered shirt at least two sizes too small slid by and she sighed in defeat. Someday she’d find it. Someday she’d turn the modest bag of bits under her wing into the final pieces of her business ensemble, something to show the bank manager that she was a pony worth investing in. Shaking her head, she trotted through the shop in search of other, less important bargains. That perfect someday couldn’t come soon enough.