Pots & Pans
It was NOT a beautiful day in Equestria, but neither was it a terrible one. The word that would best describe it was bland. Unlike Equestrian writers tend to claim, the sky can sometimes be overcast without it being a thunderstorm spawned by a random demonic villain from the Everfree forest who sought to take over Equestria. That sort of thing just didn’t happen nearly as much as those fools liked to pretend.
So it was one of those ‘normal’ days: mostly cloudy, with just enough sunlight getting through so it wasn’t noticeably dark outside. At the very least, the gloom wasn’t noticeably dark to a particular stallion sitting on the side of a road in Canterlot. On top of his light brown coat, he wore a suit-jacket that had probably seen better days. From the style of his darker brown mane, it was clear that he had at least attempted to brush it, although the results had been less than satisfactory. The oddest thing about him, however, was his cutie mark, which depicted a pot and pan. His name: Davenport. Davenport was, at the moment, sitting on the ground, leaning against the same wall he did every day. Lying in front of him on a blanket in the wide open was the only thing he sold: pot.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He sold both pots and pans, but he’s always liked the pots better. Unfortunately for him, nopony else seemed to like either. Yet despite that fact, the old colt wore a smile on his face every day. He wasn’t happy, nor would he be until her got off the street and into a store of his own, but he knew that if he smiled, ponies would be more likely to stop and buy something. Davenport’s only problem was that very few ponies actually stopped, let alone bought anything. He was lucky to make 3 sales a day, which was enough to buy two meals a day and live in a run-down apartment, at least for the time being.
As the salesman was thinking these things, a mare passed by, and by the time he looked up, she was already well out of earshot. He cursed himself for his carelessness, and then proceeded to wait for the next passer-by. It didn’t take long, as an elderly stallion passed by only minutes later.
“Hello there,” said Davenport boldly. “Do you have any interest in buying one of my pots or pans? They’re cheaper than you can get at the store.”
The old unicorn stopped and turned to Davenport, a warm smile on his face. “Why, hello, stranger,” he said, surveying the items the salespony had on his blanket. Not seeing anything that caught his interest, he then observed Davenport.
“You seem like an honest salespony, don’t ya? Why, back in my day, the streets of Canterlot were full o’ carts and stands and things, and everypony sold a quality product. Nowadays, it’s all about profit. It’s nice to see someone like you selling something for what it’s actually worth. I’ll buy two of ‘em.”
The pot-seller nodded graciously, handing over the two pots the elder had pointed out, receiving 40 bits in exchange. He smiled to himself, whistling a merry tune, hoping the rest of the day would be like that.
Unfortunately for Davenport, it was another half hour before anypony even passed where he was. When they did, he attacked aggressively.
“Excuse me Miss, but would you be interested in any of the wares I’m selling here?”
“Um … Pans? No thanks, I’ve got enough of those.” Davenport leaped to his hooves and started walking right alongside her, trying once again to convince her.
“Are you sure?” he asked, trying his best at a winning smile. “My pots are higher quality than you can get most places. And for a mare as pretty as you, I could cut a deal.”
The mare turned, her previous annoyance replaced by anger. She slapped Davenport across the muzzle. “Don’t you dare try to flirt with me, you scumbag!” With her nose raised in the air in typical Canterlot fashion, the mare departed.
Kicking up some dust, the ‘scumbag’ returned to his mat, contemplating his failure. There weren’t numbers large enough to account for the amount of times he’d driven customers away by flirting with them. He always tried not to, but in Canterlot, most of the mares tended to be incredibly pretty. The ones that weren’t were easy to get in bed, making Davenport a flirt among the perfect flirt targets. Perhaps he would have stopped by now if he was never successful, but he had gotten a few mares in bed before, and he always hung onto the hope that he could hold onto a marefriend.
Unfortunately, that was never the case for the stallion, as the few relationships he had ended in failure, mostly due to his lack of bits. Cursing chivalry for the millionth time, he sat up straighter as another mare rounded the corner. It was a pegasus – not a usual sight in the city of the unicorns. Not only that, but pegasus mares tended to be easier than others, and Davenport knew this quite well.
“Just this one time, I won’t goof it up,” he whispered, hitting his hooves against his head, hoping it would help the message sink in. When the mare passed, he slapped on a quick smile, calling out jovially.
“Why, Hello! How are you doing on this fine day?”
The pegasus did not respond whatsoever, instead continuing on her way. Hoping that she would glace back, Davenport watched her on her way up the street, and of course, she did not look back. Cursing, the salesman threw one of his pans at the wall behind him. For a moment, he worried that he might have put a dent in it, but he decided to deal with that later. At the moment, he was annoyed with his poor performance.
His exasperation only mounted as pony, after pony, after pony passed him by. He was able to hide the anger for a while, but it quickly became too much to handle. This fact was becoming increasingly evident to the distressed stallion, who pressed on only with the hope the he could make just one last sale.
At present, it was getting late, leaving the obstinate stallion worried that there would be no more customers. He watched the corner doggedly as the minutes seemed to stretch into hours, wearing at his patience. Just when he was about to give up, a friendly looking unicorn stallion rounded the corner. The usual stuck-up, snobby condition of the Canterlot elite showed nowhere in his demeanor and he seemed like just the kind of person who could be convinced to buy something they didn’t need. Davenport pulled together the last of his patience and – as he had done time and time again – slapped on his signature winning smile.
“Why, hello there!” said the cooking supply salespony, standing up as the stallion approached. “Do you, by any chance, have any interest in buying what I’m selling here?”
To Davenport’s relief, the stallion actually acknowledged his existence, stopping to look at the assorted pots and pans with some sort of interest.
“An interesting array you have here,” said the stranger, his voice gruff but at the same time pleasant. “Not really a feasible enterprise.”
Davenport was shocked. In all his time selling, nopony had ever bothered to point out anything about his business endeavors. Either they had ignored him, bought something, or stayed around for certain other activities to take place.
“Well, one of my favorite saying is: the riskier the road, the greater the profit. I think I’ll make something out of this in the long run.”
“It’s also been said that dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack,” the unicorn replied.
“Well, I hope that sack will someday be overflowing. Now, as for the products, I promise you that what I’m selling is much higher quality than you could get at a store, and cheaper than retail as well.”
The stallion paused to consider this, then rebutted. “How would I know that these are as good as you say they are?”
Davenport’s answer was prompt. “You have my word.”
“Right now, another saying comes to mind: There’s nothing more dangerous than an honest businessman. Now, I know for a fact that those are not the quality you claim them to be. Although you do not have a middleman like a store would, that difference would not be enough to account for a price lower than retail if your products were a higher quality. So tell me, how good are they really?”
The penniless stallion was somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of his potential customer’s attack. At the same time, the stranger was talking to him as an equal, not as a lower pony, as so many of the city’s occupants had done. The pleasure of that easily offset the offense at the debate.
“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” asked Davenport, genuinely curious.
“I happen to own a shop of my own - A pawn shop.”
Inside, the brown-maned earth pony cringed. He had sized the stallion up all wrong, which explained why he was so difficult. “I can honestly tell you that they are higher quality,” he said, not lying but at the same time avoiding the truth.
“Then how much would you be overcharging me if I was to buy one?”
Realizing that he’d been caught red-hoofed, the salespony conceded slightly. “For somepony as keen as you are, I can give you 20% off, but that’s as low as I can go.”
“What is 80% for this one?” the customer inquired, pointing at a pan to the left side of the blanket.
“That would be about fourteen bits, if I were to round down.”
“Too high. How about 60%?”
“Although I usually don’t tell the customer what my profit margin is, I will tell you that I would be taking a loss at sixty.”
“How much of a loss?” the stranger questioned.
“Nice try. I can go down to three-fourths price. That’s my lowest.”
The stallion chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I can’t do business with you then. I only have ten bits on me right now. But you seem like the sort of colt who appreciates a good drink. I’d wager a guess that you’re going to the bar tonight?”
Grimacing, Davenport answered. “Yes I am. What’s it to you?”
“Well, I haven’t been out drinking in far too long, and I figure I could use some intelligent conversation. You go to the Sore Saddle?”
“I do.”
“Well, I’ll see you there then. I’ll buy the first round, eh?”
Davenport dismissed him with a wave of a hoof, not meeting his gaze. He heard the stallion’s hoofsteps going down the cobblestone road and disappearing around a corner as he cursed his lack of ability to get anything done. Getting up, he walked over to the pan he’d thrown earlier. He turned it over, only to discover that it had an irreparable dent in the side of it.
“Why can’t anything just go right?” he wondered. Sighing, he reminded himself to cheer up. After all, he wasn’t the poorest pony in Canterlot, not by a long shot. As long as he didn’t have to rely on that little monthly envelope from the princess, he would be alright. The more he thought about it, the more cheerful he became. He whistled as he gathered up his things, carefully tossing them into the cart he used to transport his items to wherever he decided to set up shop.
As he walked, he passed a shop with a sign that read: Everything from Quills to Sofas. Chuckling to himself he kept walking.
“...Quills and Sofas? How ridiculous.”