Okay so this is written right after the FIRST 1990's TMNT movie. I've never written off of the live action movie, and one day I got bored and got to thinking of how different movie April and Casey really were. And this kinda... was born. I don't really think it's finished, I dunno, the ending seems weird, but know what? I found it in my documents, and don't even remember writing it, so I was like, whatever, I'll just post it.
Ten minutes before he had been called into her office— if you could call it an office, he had desperately attempted to pull his hair back into a suave, businessey-looking ponytail. Having seen a number of classy, swishy kinda guys with the same length hair as him pull it off, he hoped it would look just as posh on him. Unfortunately, it did not.
You might be asking yourself exactly why Arnold Casey Jones, loafer extraordinaire was seeking employment in a D class joint such as this, looking ever so spiffy in a tie and suit. Truth be told, it was all because of April O'Neil. April sure was something else. She was the kindest, sweetest, most stunning fire-breathing woman he'd ever laid eyes on. She was quick and always had witty quips up her sleeve when he started talking jive. He could tell a part of her liked him, but April was a real lady, not some unrestrained floozy. She was independent and brash with a silver tongue. He had to face the facts— what would a dame like her ever see in a mutt like him?
Okay, so they flirted around the clock and had actually kissed once. But it was all just a game, at the end of the night they both knew that if Casey didn't get his act together they had no chance. And what scared him the most was he had never felt this way about a girl before. To him women were a form of merriment, he enjoyed acting obnoxiously immaturely just to see their reaction. It made him feel young again. It was fun to coo at them and make cat calls, and it was nice getting booty once in a while, but he couldn't actually see himself with any of those broads.
April had told him more than once he needed to grow up and get with the program. Before he had waved her off in disregard to go tinker on some type of mechanics with Donnie or drop in on Raph only to point and scream at a television screen that didn't do exactly what they would have liked, bag upon bag of chips scattering the floor. It was true what April had said, though. He was nearing 30 and still gallivanting around the city like some sort of freelance sway, pulverizing street scum and your garden variety purse snatching JV lowlifes. It got even better after he had met the turtles and formed a no-policy friendship with Raphael, who also shared his dog eat dog view on life. He couldn't sit back and deny that it wasn't the good life, but he had no future, no real career, and it didn't really bother him until he met April.
So Casey could say he was doing this for April, but even he knew that he wasn't doing it just for her, he was doing it for himself.
The bulky dude behind the counter gave him an offhand glance and as he sauntered over towards the wooden bench outside the fuzzy glass door he could not see through, it struck him that he might possibly be overdressed. Buffalo Bill over there made him doubt himself, but he always heard April saying if he didn't dress smart, no one would take him seriously.
'Talk smart, look sharp.' she had told him.
Then again, Donnie had told him if he didn't dress for the job, he probably wouldn't get it.
So far April's doctrine had managed to get him roughly about four doors slammed in his face and a possible restraining order.
It weirded him out that a talking turtle who had never had a real job or even an interview before might actually know more than an ex-TV news reporter, but he guessed April was used to the big time, and maybe this was how they looked and acted in the big time. Maybe you just spewed enough bullshit to eachother until you came to a subconscious agreement to kind of coexist together.
April managed to get a job as a journalist shortly after coming back to the city. It wasn't as hard as she had thought, and since her face was quite recognizable and very estimable, she was offered a job on the spot. Casey on the other hand managed to shack up in his usual hideout, pulling up some floor to sleep on with the guys when things got out of hand at 'home'.
Maybe an oil stained jump suit would have been more appropriate, he thought to himself. Without even a second to duck out the door and contemplate a wardrobe change, he heard the office door open, causing his stomach to sink.
Well, here goes nothin' he thought to himself as he walked through the door.
This had to have been the most awkward interview he'd been to so far. So freakishly quiet.
Casey fidgeted in his seat. The chair had a supportive back, but there was an entire circle cut out near the tail bone that, as unceremonious as it sounded, basically let his ass hang out. It made him feel oddly violated as well as humiliated sitting there, not knowing if business men did the whole one leg other the other like women did, or if they crossed their hands or what. As if he didn't feel weird enough in a fancy-schmancy suit, being subjected to 20 questions wasn't making him feel any more at ease. The tiny office was stuffy, and he couldn't tell if it was really just hot or if his tie was cutting off the circulation to, well, everything.
The walls were a yellowed crème color and dully dotted with fake wood frames, sporting yellow and white slips of paper with frilly cursive writing. He wondered if they were all degrees, or if she just put them up to seem horrifyingly intimidating. Whatever her angle was, it was working.
A set of piercing blue eyes scanned a sheet of crumpled paper in her hand. Her obvious distaste for him had been evident the very moment he walked through that door, to stand there awkwardly until invited to sit. She had, however, retained a bit of composure and although she seemed rather standoffish, she also seemed very worldly in a strange way.
The paper wouldn't have been crumpled if he had owned a briefcase.
Note to self: get briefcase.
His mind retaliated with wit he hadn't thought possible under such stress, saying: You need a job in order to get a briefcase, numb nuts.
In all the other interviews he had engaged in mindless conversation, sharing an occasional light chuckle and a handshake. But this was a whole other experience completely. He had never in his life felt so on display before, so abased. Every move he made seemed to be amplified twenty times louder than he had intended and it amazed him how discomfortingly loud clothing could stretch, the stitches making an unmistakable squeak. Even his breathing seemed inordinately loud.
He kept his cool, however, and sat there as poised and contained as he possibly could, the entire time his mind screaming: 'say something, you creepy, creepy lady! Say something! AH, I can't stand it anymore! It's so quiet! I got gas! The boys gotta be adjusted! COME ON SAY SOMETHING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAY SOMETH—"
"Very interesting resume, Mr. …" a calculated pause. "Jones. And why exactly do you feel your assets would be beneficial to this company?"
He sucked in a gulp full of air and then heavily sighed, his silent prayers being answered. In truth, even though it was foolish, he was actually a little afraid to think anything inappropriate around her, like the fact that she had a really nice rack. It made him feel like a four year old to be in fear of someone being able to read his mind, but stranger things had happened, right? He had four mutated turtles and a mutated rat that basically counted as family. So mind reading was completely comprehensible, he reassured himself.
A homely little plaque was stationed at the tip of the desk, reading 'Gail N' in long, dull letters. The desk itself was painfully spic and span, completely lacking in personality. He found himself gawking at the giant planner/calendar on her desk. Aside from a calculator in the right hand corner and lamp that looked like it had been snagged from the 60's, there was nothing. Not even a computer.
His own eyes left the ceiling and found hers, widening a bit, noticing the expression on her face. He couldn't tell if she was irritated or constipated. With a shrug —not his first mistake— he let his eyes wander to the side while his hand gestured expressively. "Well," he started, plainly saying, "You guys said y'needed a mechanic on that sign out here." His thumb stabbed at the space of air behind him, indicating the front of the building. "And I ain't like, a professional or anything but I know my way around an engine."
"Are you telling me you aren't a licensed mechanic, Mr. Jones?" Broadzilla asked in a biting voice. She was a fair skinned woman with pale blonde hair pulled up off her face in a clean bun. He wondered if her icy blue eyes ever sparkled when she laughed. Judging by the defined outline of her jaw and her high cheek bones, as well as the fact that her eyebrows always seemed to be in a state of false surprise, he found himself in doubt.
Looping his index finger around his tie he began fussing with it some. Maybe this shoddy office was what made her so bitter. "Well, no, I don't got a degree or anything—"
The pen she had been tapping on her desk came to a stop, hovering in mid air as he eyes scanned him curiously. The chair offered a weak squeal as Gail slowly leaned forward, her voice harboring a bit of amusement, as if she were enjoying watching him squirm. "You do know it is a Federal offense to lie on a resume, Mr. Jones, ... don't you?" She barked, her voice alarmingly robust, not holding even a hint of amiable friendliness.
"Oh, well yeah, but I didn't exactly lie I just… stretched the truth a l'il s'all. Believe you me I know my way around an engine no problem." Coming to the striking conclusion that his charm and wit wasn't going to help him one bit here, he took a dive. "Look, Lady, I'll level with ya." Leaning into the desk he placed both hands on the edges. The woman cocked her head back, seemingly appalled. "I really need this job."
There was a moment of chilling silence. Gail suddenly took on a much more inviting demeanor and rocked back into her chair, the pleather making a soft squeak. As she pyramided her hands in her lap a dotty grin formed in the corner of her mouth. "Mr. Jones, I'm feeling unnaturally generous today, so I'll cut you a deal."
His face broke out into an uncertain smile watching Gail do a complete 360.
"Yeah? Ah that'd be great!" He said expectantly.
"Yeah," her nose wrinkled up and her eyes squinted, like maybe she thought she was talking to an infant. In an instant her index finger was pointing towards him playfully, wagging. "Tell you what," The mocked kindness in her voice was quickly abandoned, her brows drawing down harshly and her jaw squaring. "How about you high-tail it out of here in the next ten seconds or I call the police and have you incarcerated!" She spat.
His mouth worked. One brow went up, then down, and the other did the same. His lips formed an 'O' shape, and he stuttered. "I...uh, w..." was about all he could get out.
Gail appeared to be unmoved.
"Yer serious?" He rocked back, blinking really fast.
The way she pulled her brows down was kind of frightening, especially considering how tight her hair was pulled back. She instantly looked 10 years older. "Dead serious. Beat it!"
About an hour later Casey Jones found himself wandering around the sidewalks in a blind stupor. It wasn't that he really expected to get the job; he just didn't expect her to threaten to call the cops on him. What was the big deal, anyway? It wasn't some hoity toity reputable business, and half the workers were probably crack head teenagers who probably thought a BUICK was a Big Ugly Indestructible Car Killer. That last part forced him to chuckle, despite how miserable he was feeling.
This time of day the city was booming with shopaholics, alcoholics, squads of mutinous youths slinking by, their daily activities somewhat questionable. Soon swarms of taxis would be lining the street to escort snot-nosed kids home to a house where a parent probably wouldn't even be.
For the moment however the streets seemed strangely calm. He could make out a low murmur of voices from almost every direction, and the occasional siren blasting off in the distance, the sound of street side vendors advertising their goods, and the never-ending click of heels against cement. Growing up in the city your entire life you gradually learned to interpret these sounds as a type of music, and on extremely boring childhood days it was almost enough to drive you to the point of slapping Popsicle sticks on any metallic surface, and try to play along.
"Owh, I can't believe it! Whatsa matter with me? Am I just like unhireable 'er somethin'?!" He groaned as he kicked at a balled up newspaper trying to play keep away from a trash picker who proceeded to rush right into his knees. "Yo man, watch where your goin!" His expression softened when the man looked right up into his eyes. The skull bashing vigilante in him wanted to shake his head and stock away, but the regular, everyday Casey-No-Job-Jones could only scowl.
And then came the inevitable, "You got any spare change?"
It hit him like a bullet directly between the eyes. Damnit. He instinctively patted his shoulders and shrugged. In truth, he didn't. He used his last five bucks on breakfast, which consisted of French fries and the greasiest hot dog this side of Manhattan.
The grimy man shot him a cold eye. He tilted his hat up and then brought it down over the brim of his eyebrows. "You sure? I'd take a dollar or two, ya know. With that classy suit'a yours ya'd kinda think maybe you could spare some change."
Even as he talked to Casey the beggar's attention seemed divided, scouting the sidewalk across the street. There were generally two types of beggars in New York. The genuine poverty-stricken homeless that curled up on stoops in the middle of the night and used newspaper for bedding, and the 'gypsy' people. The fakers. These people typically made bundles of cash, stocking the streets with outstretched hands, the trademark crying child balanced on her arthritic hip. These types of people generally inhabited the subways where the business people were almost always forced to commute since the streets were a never-ending farrago of neon yellow cabbies, sigar smoke, and throngs of people meandering around, trying their hardest to look like they had somewhere important to go. He could feel something for this vagrant before him, not knowing if he had always been a street urchin, if he had possibly lost everything in a business transaction gone horribly wrong, maybe his wife had left him and taken their children, maybe he had turned to the bottle for some type of solice. Maybe he was just another unlucky run of the mill Joe Schmoe that life had fucked over.
"What? Oh, nah." Casey attempted to briefly explained it was a second hand store suit he had purchased for a job interview.
The more he studied the man he realized he'd seen him before. He went by Dubs, and he his turf mainly consisted of this street and the one over. He would generally make change-and-food rounds every couple of hours. Not everyone in the Big Apple looked the other way, though, and it was a common occurrence to find half eaten bags of food left on top of doorsteps or trash cans that had tops, carefully wrapped and waiting to be eaten. Casey didn't find the idea of eating someone's leftovers particularly appealing, but it wasn't like the guy didn't have any options. He basically had an entire smorgasbord, courtesy of a select few New Yorkers.
A crowd of white-collar yahoo's randomly shambled by, briefcases in hands, cell phones surgically attached to their ears. Just then one of the men seemingly suffered a very severe case of Beepilepsy that took the bum Casey had been talking to by complete surprise. It wasn't really fear in his eyes he saw, or anger. There was something behind those frenzied eyes that wasn't exactly normal, and witnessing the bum appeared to become deranged and dart off down the street, loudly mumbling something to himself, Casey blinked.
The jacketed man squeezed the phone to his ear with his shoulder and danced around, his hand expertly peeling his jacket back and glaring unmercifully down at his pager. He didn't pay any mind to the vagrant he had totally terrified, nor to anyone else around him. He dismissed the pager and began walking again even before looking up, shouldering directly into Casey who reeled his arms back in surprise. Casey could make out dark brown eyes open wide in surprise behind bold frames, and watched an arm shoot out, grab him by the shoulder firmly, then cup the phone that was still hovering by his ear. 'Sorry', he mouthed, and then rushed off to rejoin his associates.
Out of the corner of his eye Casey caught sight of an immense sign with animated letters boldly spelling out 'BANNING'S SPORTING APPAREL' nestled in-between a radio repair shop and what looked like a deli of some sort.
"Why not?" He said aloud as he yanked the rubber band out of his hair letting land in whatever wild position it wanted, and then crossed the street.
The establishment was pretty well lit; from where he was standing on the sidewalk he could make out a myriad of head's popping up here and there behind rows and rows of shelves carrying all kinds of sports apparel. He saw a display of baseball mitts, a few golf clubs behind a gaudy painting of a golf Corse, and some hockey sticks. He even spotted a cardboard cut out of some celebrity star football player, undoubtedly trying to draw attention to an intricately stacked exhibit of footballs.
Casey swallowed hard, giving rationality one last chance to shake him from this nightmare. He looked up at the sign that read 'BANNING'S SPORTING APPAREL ', and waited for something he could not identify. A metaphorical sign, possibly, one that said 'Good idea, Casey', or, 'April will be proud', —hell, even 'walk away, bonehead' would have been appreciated at this point.
Realizing he was not going to get any type of divine intervention, he sighed, and walked through the doors.
The jingly bell on the door alerted everyone to his presence, and when about six people looked over in his general direction he cocked a brow and offered a polite simper.
When he first stepped in his brow furrowed and he smacked at his ear lightly. Coming to the conclusion that his hearing wasn't acting up and it really was quieter than a frickin' boneyard, he blanched. What was it with these creepy, unnaturally quiet businesses lately? There was no obnoxious stentorian radio blasting in the back anywhere, there were no TV's lining the walls like in other shops he'd seen with flashy advertisements. It was so quiet he could actually hear the soles of his shoes squeak when he shifted his weight.
He located a lanky man whose entire face was practically smothered in freckles. The man raised a friendly hand in acknowledgement and waved Casey over. When he made it to the desk they shook hands and exchanged names, making brief small talk.
"So hey, listen," Casey said, rubbing the counter top after a bit of mindless chatter. "You guys ah," he glanced around uneasily, still a little creeped out that this place had such bad publicity. Maybe it was just a slow day. "Got any openings?"
"We might. You know your way around a sports shop?" The man who had identified himself as Michael Banning asked, suddenly sounding very testy. The way he turned his nose up made him seem very condescending and assholeish. It put Casey off, but he kept as polite a smile as he could manage.
It was when Casey remembered he was still a walking talking suit that he suddenly felt way out of his comfort zone. His tie felt far too tight again.
He coughed.
"You bet I do. I used to play." He replied, hoping mentioning that would sweeten the deal. Squeezing his eyes shut he silently cursed himself. If he would have known he actually stood a chance here he might have changed into something more appropriate.
Michael Banning questioned what he had played and when, and why exactly he had stopped, and when he seemed to be satisfied with Casey's answers he slapped his hand down on the counter and said, "Oh, well in that case! Welcome aboard!"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Jus like that?"
"Just like that."
The last few places he had applied at— actually applied at, with an application and an interview, the whole works, he was told he'd be called if anything opened up, and in one instance even been threatened to have the police called on him. He wasn't a dope, he knew that 'we'll call you' was the polite, orderly way of saying 'you ain't gettin' the job, bozo'. It almost made him laugh that he had practically been handed a job within ten minutes, but who was he to complain?
"Awesome, you won't be sorry, Mista Bannin'," He cried merrily as he ducked out of the shop, letting the door swing shut. "I promise ya won't!"
This was perfect! Maybe April will like me more now, he thought to himself, busting out in a horribly embarrassing little jig before hopping off the curb, just barely missing an irate taxi driver who honked his disapproval at his absentmindedness.
"Yo, guess what! I got a job!" He shouted at the taxi driver who displayed his enthusiasm by flipping the bird and honking again. "Wait'll I tell April!"
"AY! Wiseguy! Get outta the fuckin' street will ya?!" An extremely hairy arm exited the open window, sigar in hand. Two men in the back of the taxi glanced at each other uncertainly. They were obviously fresh meat on the NY cutting board, judging by the way they slunk down into their seats a bit, as if they were embarrassed. Casey even saw the blonde man's hand slowly slither up and hit the lock on the door. What did he care? He had a job!
The man tipped his cap and shook his head, his hand returning to the steering wheel. "Sheesh, fuckin' lunatics. I'm movin', I'm movin', god damn it!" Grunting and tapping the gas pedal the car lunged forward, finally getting the line of vehicles behind him moving again.
People honked their disaproval at Casey as he merrily skipped down the street, but he didn't care.
Why should he? He had a job. And a chance with April. What more could he ask for?
