Cashier Woes
"Because Apollo doesn't get paid much by Phoenix, he gets a crappy job as a cashier." Written for the PWKM.
A/N: Changes have been made from the original post from the PWKM to reflect the news released about the setting of Spirit of Justice.
A very special thanks to my dear friend and Beta, MildeAmasoj! Be sure to check out her amazing stories, too!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is copyright © 2016 Turnabout Writer. All rights reserved.
"So, just call me 'Grandma!' It's practically my name! Even when I was young, I was an Oldbag, but not really—that was just my name, dearie. Still how the other children would make fun of me and just because of my name—can you believe it? But there was this boy, the captain of the chess club in junior high . . . "
Apollo tries his best to drone out the old lady's voice and resists the urge to bang his head against the counter.
He's taken a job at the local convenience and pharmacy store up the block from the Wright Anything Agency. The money he has started to receive from working here, combined with the little salary Mr. Wright pays him, is only just enough to get by. Since it's a fairly new job—Apollo only starting five days ago—he hasn't told anyone yet.
So far, cashiering hasn't been so bad. The place has been fairly empty, with the exception of his manager and another girl who works the shift before him.
As this old lady's mouth runs miles a minute, he scans her purchases. She's too grossed into her own story to notice Apollo shudder when he scans the small, rectangular box of vaginal itch cream. As he scans the rest of her items and suppresses his repulsion at some of her other purchases, a blurry, blue figure catches his eye.
Huh? Who was that? He looks back at the Oldbag, who is still talking and has not taken notice of the figure.
"Can you believe when we got married, he said, 'I guess I'm stuck—'"
Apollo peers over the old hag on his toes, his eyes anxiously sweeping through the aisles. Something is stirring at the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly knows that something bad is about to happen. He has to try to keep a lookout on this silhouette.
"—should've whispered in my ear, 'I don't deserve you… but I can't help it. Will you marry me?' Honestly, men these days!" Wendy Oldbag finishes, panting, as if she has finished running a marathon. She stops breathing heavily when she notices Apollo's hands are still frozen on the itch cream, and his head is moving around, looking everywhere but at her. Her eyes narrow in anger. "HEY! HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING TO ME? I swear, you whippersnappers these days! Back in my day . . . "
But he still hasn't heard a word she's said. His interest has been captured in the mysterious figure. He can't help but wonder why he thinks it looks familiar to him.
*Rata-tat-tat-tat-tat...*
Aaaaaaaagh, what the hell!? Apollo jumps, taken aback by the mysterious sound. With his eyes widened in terror and bottom teeth pulling at his upper lip, he glances at the object that Oldbag has pointed towards him. His glance gives way to the fleeting thought that she's aiming an actual gun at him, as he recalls that she mentioned something about being a security guard.
"ACK! MA'AM, I'M SORRY! PLEASE, DON'T SHOOT ME!" he shouts out, his palms outstretched in front of him, as he backs away slowly from her. This lady can't kill him.
Oldbag ceases her movements, but the colorful gun is still aimed at Apollo. "Why are you talking so loud, sonny?"
Apollo points to the gun with a trembling finger.
"Hah! This thing? The men of my days were braver and faced danger. They wouldn't be scared off by a toy gun!"
A bead of sweat rolls down the side of Apollo's face, his eyes narrow, and his hair droops down in exasperation. He wants to let out his Chords of Steel like he would in court, but doesn't want to risk losing his job. I-It was a fucking toy gun?!
"—and they would listen to what I would say, enchanted by my melodious voice . . . ," she continues, though that's the last of what a now exasperated Apollo hears, passing her items under the scanner, bagging them, and then handing her the bag with brusque movements. She still talks as she hands him the money, completely engrossed with the men of her past.
"Goodbye, ma'am," he bids curtly, still irritated. Please shop here again never.
A few minutes later, Apollo looks down to his wrist and checks his watch. His shift ends in an hour, and then, he and the manager, Mr. Handel, have to close up. He's about to go find said-manager, when he hears a clear, familiar voice cheer in triumph.
"Yes! Oldbag is gone, and the coast is clear, ha ha ha! – the wicked witness of the witness stand; remember those days? Anyway, back to what I was saying, how likely do you think your influence will allow us to get investigation rights to Shay Seville's office? . . . No, she doesn't seem to take to Edgeworth kindly, so he won't be able to help."
Fuck, no . . . please, don't tell me, Apollo frets in his thoughts, as he sees the familiar blue figure from before approach the register.
Phoenix Wright, dressed in his regular blue suit, has his phone between his raised shoulder and tilted head, so that he can use one hand to hold up the tabloid magazine his nose is buried into, and the other to throw three boxes onto the counter. Apollo can hear the sound of a high female's hesitant voice on the other side of the line.
"You would think that the High Prosecutor's Office co—please, don't even talk about that! Blackquill's being a cocky bastard about the whole thing and Athena's getting all riled up about his refusal to help," he replies complainingly to the person on the other line with a sigh.
Since Mr. Wright's aim is off, the boxes go straight for Apollo, and, so, as a reflex reaction, he holds up his arms to catch them warily—though, he miscalculates his timing, and has them land in the cradle of his arms.
Upon seeing the boxes, more blood rushes to Apollo's already pink face, which must be as red as a tomato now, and he officially decides that this is the worst day ever. Mr. Wright has just tossed at him three boxes of condoms—two being the Pleasure Pack, and the other being the Bareskin Pack. Though it's none of Apollo's business, he can't help but wonder who Mr. Wright is sleeping with.
"Oh, come on, Maya! . . . You're the goddamn Master of Kurain, and you do have political influence, believe or not. Even Edgeworth has said tha—no, Maya, I've heard that she loves this occult kind of stuff!"
Apollo clears his throat a few times as he scans a box of condoms, but Mr. Wright's brows furrow and he simply waves a dismissive hand towards the cashier.
"Please, Maya, we need your help. And we haven't seen you in so long, either. I can't wait to see you. I miss you, too . . . you've been on that fucking mountain for one year now, and we haven't seen you yet. One of these days, Maya, I'm going to end up jumping on a plane to see you; and, trust me, I'll drag you back with me, but before we leave, we're going to—oh, the scrolls of Khura'in be damned! You're going to be spending all of your time with me while I'm there, and when you come back with me! . . . Well, what else is an old man supposed to do? You keep saying you're going to finish training and be back very soon, but I refuse to wait anymore . . . y'know, poor Pearls has been trying to maintain the office's cleanliness since you sent her here with that letter! Ha, ha, ha!"
Apollo's eyes slide to the box, and he almost drops the box in his hands and resists the urge to squeak out the words that flit through his mind in horror. He's buying three 36-packs! Is he a machine? How much sex does he plan to have? Doesn't he know that the condoms here are cheaper because they expire in six months!
Almost as if he has read Apollo's mind, Mr. Wright lowers the cellphone to his chest and holds a hand up. "Wait!" he calls out, still not noticing the cashier behind the register, and grabs a box. He twists it around a few times, until he is able to catch sight of the expiration date of the condoms, and then shrugs. "Eh, I guess we can finish them by then," he mutters, and then places his phone back to his ear so he can resume his phone conversation about his current case with the elusive "Mystic Maya," Pearl and Trucy have been raving on about for so long to Apollo and Athena. Leaving Apollo in shock over the fact that Phoenix Wright is confident enough to know that he'll be able to use 108 condoms in 6 months.
"Um, t-that will be $35.97," he is only able to splutter out. He's surprised his brain can quickly calculate the total cost with tax, both, without even scanning the other two boxes yet, and with the shock of this encounter with Mr. Wright.
Mr. Wright slaps the magazine closed, and turns away to haphazardly place it on a magazine rack. "Fuck, that's more expensive than the last time I got them here!"
"Ack, Mr. Wright!" Apollo cries out in disgust. "I didn't need to know that!"
Mr. Wright whirls around, stunned. When his eyes land upon his subordinate's mortified face, they widen in horror. "Um, M-Maya, I'll call you back," he says in a rush, quickly cutting the call. "Ah, um, Apollo. I didn't know you worked here."
"Yeah, I do," he replies in a slightly exasperated, as he brings up the second box of condoms to the scanner. "We don't get paid enough."
Mr. Wright's eyes slide towards the final box that Apollo is scanning and they widen once again. "I'm not buying those! I mean, I am, but t-those aren't mine! No, wait, they are, and I'm buying them, but I mean—"
"Mr. Wright, I don't know, and I don't want to know." He grabs a plastic bag and places the condoms into it. "$35.97, please."
The sound of Mr. Wright's Steel Samurai ringtone plays—Ms. Maya must be calling again— but Mr. Wright ignores it. The tips of his ears are slightly pink, his spit curl has drooped down, and his cheeks are flushed. "Y'know, safe sex is important," he announces awkwardly, his fingertips reaching behind to scratch his neck nervously.
To you, apparently VERY important . . . Apollo groans at his thought. "Please, Mr. Wright, this isn't easy for me as it isn't for you."
Mr. Wright simply responds by reaching into the pocket of his blue coat and throwing a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and a ripped ten-dollar bill on the counter. He then grabs a handful of change from the pocket of his slacks, and fumbles with the coins in his hand. "We really don't get paid enough," he grumbles, as he splays the quarters, nickels, and pennies on the counter and counts them quickly. "Here," he replies, shoving the extra coins back into his pocket.
"Thanks," Apollo mumbles, as he collects the money, which is the exact change, and hands his boss a receipt and the plastic bag and presses the clear button on the register to indicate that he has finished checking out a customer's purchases and that the register can clear the prices of the items scanned. "Have a good night."
But his goodbye goes to vain as he looks up to see that Mr. Wright has already left.
A/N: Thanks for reading! As for who would be the lucky gal or guy, or both, depending on what you think, benefitting from Nick's purchases . . . I'll leave that up to your imagination, so that you can let me know in a review! ;)