It's Pourin' Rain and Whiskey
One from the Heart
Chapter 1:It’s Pourin’ Rain and Whiskey
In the garbage filled streets of the third-class alleyways of Lower Manehatten sat a collection of run-down apartments. They stood in rows on the blocks like books on a shelf, but lower Manehatten is no library. It was eerie and downtrodden during those days. Attention-starved foals sat on sidewalks littered with broken glass and old grease-covered newspapers. Celestia’s sun be damned as its rays hammered down like a judges gavel, sentencing a good-hearted stallion to life in prison. When the sun finished punishing lower-Manehatten for their crimes against nature for the day, Luna’s moon rose up like a stalker in the corn fields, signalling with ghostly curtains for crime to begin its ill-willed prowl once more.
Nothing ever stayed the same in these neighborhoods. Folks were always falling in and out of love, building lives up and tearing them down. These neighborhoods do something to a ponies heart; it makes them irritable, jealous, heartbroken, confused, and insecure. Sometimes they don’t know which way is up so they dive down head-first through their windows and into the asphalt streets below. Their two-bit marefriends cry themselves anew and loot every piece of worth-while scrap from the apartment before calling the police to have them pick up the body. Young foals raised in the streets always ended up in gangs as punching-bags for the older colts who never knew their dads. Meanwhile, the fillies learn from the pros just how to sell their bodies out on the corner. Parents in there never gave a damn about their foals, since they were too busy trying to escape Manehatten in the underground tunnels of “cheap crack” and “homemade LSD”. Each and every stallion who moved there at least once in their lives thought they’d make something good of themselves, but they blew everything on “sure-to-win” lotto-tickets and cheap beer. Ten years later they’re working three jobs a day, hoping to somehow get out of that mudpit and earn redemption for their failures.
Life in Lower Manehatten isn’t the best, but it’s better than being a cadaver.
Just as the sun was about to crack over the horizon on a cold Friday morning, the alarm-clock belonging to a bar-tending-poet broke the sullen darkness with an obnoxious clapper.
Climbing over and defeating a mountain of lethargy, he reached over and slammed the snooze button. Waking up from the shattered shell of his dreams in a scattered bed, he walked across a pitch-black room and flipped a switch to shed some light on the gruesome situation of his apartment.
Beer bottles hurdled up in the corner like bowling pins, and empty cigarette packs lay scattered on the coffee table. Looking in the bathroom mirror, his appearance was in even worse condition. His dirty coat and his wild mane made it look like he was attacked by ravenous wolves.
He was halfway done with his shower when he suddenly caught scent of a strange stench creeping in his bathroom that smelled like coal. Like a bat out of hell he dashed through the living room, over the couch, through a cloud of smoke and into the kitchen where he then took two smoldering hot bricks of toast out of the toaster and tossed them into the sink. Were he not dead-tired from last night, he would have remembered putting two slices of bread in the toaster before starting the shower.
Finally returning, he was just in time to run out of hot water, where he would then have to finish washing himself off in an ice-bath.
Patting himself down with a towel and looking at the clock, he noticed it was only 6:45, when all of a sudden the telephone rang. Picking it up he heard his boss on the other end; which is quite rare.
“Rain Whiskey?” His corpulent employer asked with a thick Manehatten accent and a cigar-stuffed muzzle.
Rain rolled his eyes in loathing and he answered as he restrained the contempt in his mood “Yes... Mr. Chalice?”
“Frank’s out on vacation leave in Los Pegasis, visitin’ his ‘marefriend’, so I’ve decided to put you in charge of the weekend shift till’ he comes back. Got it?”
There was no reasoning with the words of Red Chalice. His demands were above criticism or opinion; they were like universal laws, laws that not even Celestia herself could reason with.
Rain’s left eye twitched with frustration as he hastefully bottled up his emotions and composed himself to reply to his lazy boss without screaming and yelling.
“Got it...” was the only thing he could manage to say; there wasn’t anything else he could say, that was it, the deal was written in stone! Now he’d have no choice but to appear at work downtown for the entire weekend! Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, all days he would have to appear at the crack of dawn until 2 in the morning, or else he would be fired without second thought!
“Good stallion!” And with that, Red Chalice hung up the phone and returned to sleeping-in; a luxury that Rain wouldn’t get to enjoy for another week.
Rain, letting out a long and grieving breath slowly set the phone down on the base. Then, he gently rested his hoof down on the phone, looking at it so mournfully. Then, without a second thought, he took a quick breath, bit his lip, and smacked the phone off the table, through the air, smashing it into pieces against the wall. This sudden commotion aroused response from the dwellers living on the other side in the next apartment.
“HEY! KNOCK IT OFF, I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!!!”
Rain, yelling through a shut jaw, returned with a sorry and submissive reply, “GO BLOW IT OUT YOUR NOSE, YOU OLD BENCH!!!”
Oddly enough, the stallion next door did not reply.
Skipping breakfast and donning his fedora, Rain Whiskey set out the door and trotted down the stairs of his apartment complex. Skipping over a homeless bum and a torn up couch, he left the building and made his way down the street. Passing a gun-point mugging and a burning carriage without twice-a-wince of confusion, he left Lower Manehatten for the bar district. The bar district of Manehatten was a fairytale for the socially dead; giving purpose to the drunks and the alcoholics that flooded the streets every day.
Out of all the trashy bars and unsanitary food-joints that withered away in the industrial shadow of Greater Manehatten, there was one particular bar that stood out from the rest; enter Silver Spirit.
The Silver Spirit is best described as a crude, lazy, and unemployed stallion that no mare in Equestria would ever marry. It reeks of cigarettes and cheap booze, and the floors are always unswept and covered in bottlecaps. Minefields of dried gum wait patiently under each and every table in the establishment, and the tops are all carved raw with the names of every ruffian who ever passed by. Behind the bar was library of every known liquor and spirit under the Equestrian sun. They all stood together on the shelf, highlighting themselves as the most important part of the bar. To any thirsty stallion that should wander in, the first thing he would see was the colorful choir of inebriating glass angels. Each one was waiting there for his enjoyment.
Rain walked up to the front door of The Silver Spirit, taking a special key out of his hat and reaching in to unlock the door. Entering inside, all the lights were off, and all the chairs were on the tables, just as he left it last night. “Honey, I’m home...” he said reluctantly as he turned the sign on the door to say “open.” The janitor wouldn’t arrive for two hours, so it was up to Rain to put on the bar’s makeup before ponies started wandering in. He lazily walked around the establishment, turning on lights as he passed by, and taking chairs off tables as he felt inclined. By the time he was finished, ponies started finally meandering inside, each one looking for a special something to quench the melancholia from their lives. Taking orders and pouring glasses, his mind had left work hours ago while his instincts took over. By the time the janitor checked in, Rain Whiskey was a well oiled machine with a pencil for a cutie mark. Rain subconsciously held one sided conversations with depressed white collar ponies who needed a chance to vent about their miserable lives. He lit cigarettes, refilled beer jugs, and popped off the bottle caps for anypony who offered him one. All in a day’s work.
Whenever he had the chance, he’d gaze across the room to the old stand-up piano by the corner. Sometimes a stallion would meander by, attempt to play it, and sometime a stallion would meander by who actually knew how to play. All young’ Whiskey could do is stand back and refrain from tackling the sad stallion who’d dare play with his favorite toy while being legally drunk. In his heart, he wished he’d be playing this piano for a living instead of being a bartender. Yet, at the end of the day, his last name was Whiskey, and his talent was writing poetry, so to him there had to be a connection somewhere. Thinking back, it was the crime infested, grime congested, city scene that gave him inspiration to write; so maybe working there wasn’t all that bad.
Time passed by like a bad cough, and soon the sun began to set. It was hard to point out, but the night brought something out of Rain that couldn’t stand the light of day. Perhaps it was the cool of city night that lifted Rain’s spirit, or maybe it was the clock professing that he would get to go home soon. Yet, Rain wouldn’t get to experience this just yet, instead, he’d have to stay inside and survive the friday-night rush.
At around 8, ponies finally getting off work began to spill in like trout; effectively destroying all hope. Rain had to snap out of his daydreaming and shift into 1st gear for this, and even then it was still hard to keep up. Taking orders and taking tips, filling glasses and filling the cash register, it was a miracle he didn’t die from a stroke already. Just when the crowd began to get rowdy, and Rain’s strength was about to give out, there through door walked in Maple Leaf, right on time for her job. With a hop, skip, and a grin, she jumped in right beside Rain and together they quenched the crowds and made for the slow and steady late night.
Things had slowed down, and now only the lonesome and depraved night owls of the bar remained. Some faces were familiar, others were not. Maple was busy drying off mugs and gently setting them away. There was a familiar dispirited look in her eye; would it hurt to say that the night did things to a mare, too?
“Thanks...” Rain unbiasedly muttered to Maple from across the room.
“About earlier?” She responded.
He chuckled under his breath while turning to her, “yeah..”
“It’s my job, I didn’t have a choice...”
Maple Leaf was a cream-orange mare with an autumn mane. Here eyes were light-green and her heart was a cool summer’s day. Rain didn’t see her often, they usually just exchanged a glance or two as she stepped in when his shift ended during the week. Maple didn’t have to say it to let Rain know she didn’t belong here. Noticing her cutie mark, it hinted that she should have been carpenter, instead of a dishwasher for an old smelly bar. And when Rain looked into her eyes, it was as if he was reading her mind. She seemed lost, content to have a job and a wage, but repressed from her true calling.
Walking past a couple on their first date and taking a seat in front of Maple at the bar, he looked at her with those modest eyes of his. “So, I take it your cutie mark makes you a... a woodworker of sorts, right?”
Maple seemed to radiate a field of indifference and boredom, if she were any clearer with her emotions, she’d confess she didn’t like Rain at all.
“Right-o...”
Thinking about it, Maple was the kind of well built mare that Rain just might see as a dating opportunity.
“So, Leaf, Leafy, Leafo... have any hobbies?” Rain asked with a crooked grin. Just then, he regretted ever saying a word. Maple didn’t deviate an inch from her job, and simply finished it like a good employee. Then, like second nature, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Pausing for a moment, she looked back and responded as innocently as could she muster. “I’m engaged, Rain.” He felt like a fish shot out of hot water and onto the frying pan. “I’ll see you tomorrow...” And with that, she walked out the door.
“Well that went... modestly...”
Propping a hoof on the counter and resting his head on it, he looked out the window and thought about what it must be like to be married. To have your leg chained to the wall, to be bound to a single pony who you’ll probably hate in a few months. The whole idea of commitment horrified him... probably because it was easier to just run away.
Suddenly, it hit him, and he quickly looked at the clock on the wall from across the room. “One in the morning...” he said raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Closing time~” he said with a hop, skip, and bounce. Closing time was a special time to Rain, specifically, because ‘closing time’ meant ‘playtime.’ Looking around the bar he noticed it was completely empty, save for two ponies. A romantic couple, having a nice, wet, makeout session. Rather than kicking them out, he just ignored them and poured himself a well earned beer.
The best part about closing time, was that he could do whatever he wanted since there wouldn’t be anymore ponies to walk in out of the blue and demand service. Balancing his beer right on the tip of his head, he gingerly made his way across the bar and to his prize; the upright piano. The piano was such a joy to him, it was the only way he knew how to outright express himself. It wasn’t enough to be a poet, he had to sing, he had to yell out his poetry with joy along with music in the air.
Taking the last cigarette out from under his hat, he lit it and stuck it in his mouth, inhaling the smoke and letting the nicotine embrace him. He set his hooves down on the keys, and began to chime out a short melody while he thought of songs to play. The bar was truly his now, so he got to do whatever he wanted. Feeling a spark of brilliance, he knew exactly what to play; a new song he wrote just last night. The song was about this certain street uptown called The Nickel, and it’s where all the hobos slept at night.
Breaking out into the correct sequence of chords, forming a humble melody, he began to sing his song. The song was amazing, changing the atmosphere from tacky to honest and lively. It seemed that just for a moment, The Silver Spirit was a place where ponies in their right mind would actually want to work.
The song was going perfectly, bringing more peace to him than the folks making out 10 feet away. All of a sudden, he heard the front door swing open and the bell ring. “Sweet Celestia...” Rain Whiskey cursed to himself in the realization that... he forgot to switch the “open” sign, to “closed.” He turned around from the piano, looking over his shoulder. “Look, pal’. We’re clos-..” just then he caught sight the most wonderful pony he’d ever seen before. A grown white mare with a pink and purple mane, with light green eyes, and a golden bell on her flank. And the look on her face, she looked so confused and alone, not really having a reason to be here.
“Can I help you... Ms-?” He asked, suddenly feeling a change of heart.
“Sweetie Belle -... and...” she said in a nervous voice while looking across the room at the bar. “... I think I’m too late, aren’t I?”
“Not really, not for a mare like you... you’re never too late.”
End of Chapter 1.
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