Night of the Living Pony: Part One

Sitting in the pink plastic box, her luminous, heart-filled eyes stared at me from under painted lashes. I followed her too-big head down her seamless body to her rump with a picture of a heart on it. My heart spit in revulsion as I wondered who could create such a beast. The creature’s mane and tail reached down to its hoof-less feet, looking awfully like human hair. For all I knew, it could be human hair—died pink and intertwined with tinsel, that is.

I smiled regretfully as I remember a time when I liked these ponies. All my waking hours that weren’t spent at school were spent brushing their hair, taking them to “school”, and, most importantly, having them fight evil dragons. Now, as a teenager, I found dragons a heck of a lot more appealing than ponies. Not the evil dragons, of course. I mean dragons like the Chinese kind that spread luck and good fortune, and make the rain and snow and stuff. I’m not saying that ponies are the bad guys, but to be quiet honest, they freak me out.

Why can’t they make a realistic pony? How about a gangster pony with chains and a can of spray paint for an accessory instead of a molded butterfly brush? I sighed, wondering what it would be like if we all lived in picturesque Pony Land, where every day is sunny, wishes come true, and everyone is your best friend. I wish.

My little sister rudely shoved me aside and snatched the pony box off the shelf. “Can I get this?” she asked Mom.

Mom already had a shopping cart full of sponges, bath towels, a new lamp, and some pet food, and besides, she’s not too big on buying plastic that’ll just end up in a landfill some day. But my sister just doesn’t seem to get it. When Mom said “no”, she threw herself down on the ground and refused to move. When she does that, you’d think her butt is magnetic. I quietly slipped away to avoid the chaos that would soon ensue.

In Target, everything is white, shiny, and smells like dish-soap. I felt hypnotized by the red and white circles and the little bulldog urging you to me to buy “Legally Blond” at half price. What a weird place. Weird for lots of reasons, but mostly because they house the ponies.

Upon returning to the toy aisle, I saw that Mom had given in. The pony seemed to smirk at me from atop a pile of bath towels in the cart. “Mom!” I cried. “You’re getting it for her?”

She sighed and said, “I don’t want to make a scene here.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to give in to her. It’s not like you’re her servant.”

“I know, but she’s been so good lately, and I—“

“What about me?”

“Oh, stop. I can’t compliment one person in this family without having to compliment everyone. Now watch your sister while I go look at those cute Capri’s.”

I leaned against the cart, annoyed. “Don’t go away,” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth to my little sister. I then let myself fall into that pony-trance again.

A sticker on the box said: I’LL LUV U 4EVA. Oh, please. If that pony did have feelings, I doubt it would love my sister “4eva.” She’s ready to give up everything she has for a toy, and the next day it’s at the bottom of the toy box. When she does play with it, the toy gets tied to the ceiling fan and spun around. Some life. I would rather spend my life in a box than get abused like that. Luckily, plastic doesn’t have feelings. The company should put a little computer inside the pony’s head for a brain and program it with human emotions. Now that is a toy I would buy.

Mom came back, announced that the Capri’s were too small, and said it was time to pay. As the pony was pulled along by the conveyer belt, I had a strong impulse to grab it and chuck it out the window. Then I caught myself. Why was I so obsessed with this dumb toy? I watched helplessly as the cashier plunked it into a plastic bag.

On the way home, I kept glancing behind me at the back seat, where the Target bag lay innocently. In the end I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the road. When we pulled into the driveway, my sister threw herself out of her car seat, grabbed the pony from the bag, and rushed into the house. “You could at least have taken the whole bag!” I yelled at her, picking it up myself.

When we walked inside there were scraps of pink cardboard all over the rug, but the pony was still bound in plastic ropes. “I can’t get her out!” she sobbed.

“Will you help her?” my mom asked me.

“Um…sorry, no. I have homework.”

I took the stairs two at a time and slammed my bedroom door behind me. What was I doing? Was I going crazy? To clear my mind, I walked to my own toy shelf and picked up my favorite horse, a creature that looked like it had stepped straight from the fires of the underworld. I could practically see the sweat on its black coat and hear the anguished cry coming from its pulled-back lips. The horse’s body was covered with spiky iron armor. I kissed it on the nose, right between the flaming, flared nostrils.

Okay, I wasn’t crazy. I just had to spend some time with devil horses and I would forget all about the one downstairs. I flipped on the TV, but immediately turned it off again at the pony commercial. Distressed, I flopped down on the bed, breathing in the scent of the quilt I had slept with for seven years. I had played with ponies on this bed.

But they were different ponies from an earlier pony generation. Sincerity sparkled in their eyes and all over their modest bodies. Their manes, rainbow colored, were regular horse-length and bouncy. There were no cheesy sayings on their boxes, only classy and colorful pictures of Pony Land. These wonderful ponies were still in my closet, just waiting to have their plastic bag opened. They were waiting to taste the sunlight again and feel my loving touch. It was then that I realized that my old ponies were not toys—no—they were friends. I used to talk to them when I had bad days, and they would listen and respond. Sometimes they got mad at me, unlike that “luv u 4eva” junk. But we were friends, deep down. “Wow,” I said, sitting up.

I marched resolutely to the closet and tore open the dusty old bag, feeling my stomach turn inside out when I saw the familiar smiling faces. Now, it was a little awkward at first, me being a fourteen-year-old girl playing with ponies, but soon I forgot that and was living in my innocent childhood world. I don’t know how long I played, but when my mom opened the door I freaked out. “You didn’t see anything!” I screamed, pushing her out the door.

“What?” she asked, confused. “I was just going to see if you had any dirty clothes.”

“Sorry, uh-uh, none here, try again later, hahaha. Oh, Mom! I’m going insane!”

She smiled at me. “Maybe you’re hungry. Why don’t you come downstairs? I made pizza.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. If Mom’s homemade spinach and tomato pizza couldn’t calm me down, I didn’t know what would. Luckily, it did. I retreated to bed with a full, happy stomach and a calm mind. Then I watched Seinfeld with the family until I fell asleep.