A/N: Have I ever mentioned how much I hate the document editor? Because I do. If you ever read a new chapter right after I update and there are words missing or random sentences spliced together, I apologize. I don't always catch all the errors on my first proofread. Sometimes I literally stare straight at typos and don't see them. It's like my brain automatically fills in what's SUPPOSED to be there. Grrr...

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The Customer Is (Not) Always Right

Chapter 3: Trash Picking

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Pumpkin. I'm so sick of pumpkin. Pumpkin soup, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin omelets. That's all they ever serve here. So now here I am, hungrily waiting for the cook to finish making the two large pumpkin pancakes I ordered.

Avoiding my gaze, she slides her spatula under one of the orange cakes and lifts up an edge to check if it's done. It's not. I feel a twinge of annoyance. How long does it take to make pancakes?! I've been standing here for over five minutes! I cast an anxious glance in the direction of my shop, trying to refrain from staring at the cook and making her feel uncomfortable.

Finally, she flips the pancakes onto a plate and hands me my food. It's about time. I fuel up on black coffee and sit down at a table far away from the village idiot so I don't lose my appetite. I take a sip of coffee, relishing the bitter, nutty taste as it slips down my throat. It's surprisingly good. I prop my elbow up on the table and rest my heavy head on my hand, waiting for the caffeine to dissolve some of the haziness in my mind. No matter how many hours of sleep I get, I always feel like an absolute wreck when I wake up. Especially when my mother does the waking by repeatedly opening and shutting her closet doors at six o'clock in the morning. I come here to get away from my mother. And then I go home at the end of the day to get away from everybody else. And then the cycle repeats, over and over; a never ending cycle of misery. Such is my life.

Suddenly, a short old man wearing a brown doo rag catches my eye. I realize I have been staring at this guy in a daze for the past fifteen seconds. Or rather, staring through him. I immediately look down and focus on my pancakes, keeping him in my peripheral vision. Oh no. What is he doing? He's walking over here, heading straight for my table. Why is he coming over here? There are empty tables all over the place! No. Go sit over there! Go away!

"Hello!" I perk up and acknowledge him with a friendly smile when he reaches my table. A wave of exhaustion immediately comes crashing over me with the effort. People. They're all just a bunch of parasites conspiring to suck the life out of me.

For a few seconds, the old man just stands there at the other side of the table, studying me with his beady eyes. "You may not know me," he says, "but I know you. Rupin."

I gaze up at him expectantly, but he doesn't say anything else. How in the world am I supposed to respond to that? "Um, yes. That's me," I answer awkwardly. When he still doesn't elaborate, I ask, "can I help you?"

"How about I buy us a beverage?" he offers.

So he came all the way over here just to offer to buy me a drink? How insulting. Do I really look so needy? "I'm fine, thank you," I say, lifting up my cup of coffee. I'm too proud to accept charity from random strangers.

Doo Rag turns around, and for just a moment, I think he took the memo and is leaving to sit somewhere else. But then he slides another chair up to the table and plops himself down across from me. I groan internally. What makes this old man think I want to make boring small talk with him? I just want to eat my breakfast in peace and be left alone. Is that so much to ask?

"Hey, I may be old, but I'm not boring."

I blink at him. Uh oh. Did I look bored just now? "Ahaha, you're not boring me! Not at all," I say, grinning. He doesn't look convinced. I must not have enough caffeine in my bloodstream yet. I press my mug to my lips and take a large gulp of coffee.

"Let me share a bit of wisdom that might come in handy down the line," the old man says. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "The name's Croo, by the way."

Croo. I'll probably remember that for the next...whoops, already forgot it.

"Anyway," he goes on, "the sky is full of floating islands of all shapes and sizes. Skyloft just happens to be the one we live on."

Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I lean forward on the edge of my seat to appear interested in what he's saying. Something about his tone of voice irks me. He speaks in this slow, deliberate manner that makes me feel like he's insulting my intelligence. Like he presumes I must be some dumb hooligan just because I'm significantly younger than he is. I can't stand it. I start to eat faster so I can get away from here at the earliest opportunity, tearing at my pancakes like some kind of savage. I wash them down with a prolonged sip of coffee, guzzling it at a rate far faster than is healthy. Then I go back for more pancakes. Coffee. Pancakes. Coffee. Pancakes.

"—So you'll want to steer clear of those remlits when you're walking home from work..." he trails off and gives me a weird look. "You okay?"

"Oh. Yes, I'm fine!" I put down my fork and straighten my posture, trying to look more alert. "Just a bit tired."

"Tsk, tsk," he mutters, shaking his head in disapproval. "Only one thing to do when you're tired: get some sleep."

I just stare at him blankly. Who does this old man think he's kidding?

"You can sleep anywhere there's a bed, you know," he says.

I give a dry laugh. "Not exactly." You can sleep in an alley passed out drunk too, but that's not exactly a comfy bed.

He shrugs his shoulders, arms still crossed. "Find a bed and take a nap until nightfall."

"Heh." I roll my eyes good-naturedly, going for another sip from my mug.

"There's all kinds of curious things to enjoy at night."

I choke, almost spraying coffee all over the table. I cover my mouth with my free hand and force myself to swallow, searching his face. His expression is unreadable. "Curious things?" I echo.

He nods and says very seriously, "Skyloft is a different place after the sun goes down. It's no lie."

I squint at him. Is this guy for real? Or is he just mocking me? Ugh, never mind. I don't even care.

"Ahahahaha!" I humor him with a fake bout of laughter and dump the rest of my coffee down my throat in one go. Letting out a satisfied sigh, I set my cup firmly on the table and rise out of my seat. "Well, I guess I'll have to keep your advice in mind!" Just in case I ever feel like contracting bed bugs. "It's about time I got going. Have a good day, sir!"

He just stares at me without saying anything. What a weirdo.

I make a quick getaway from the restaurant and escape to my wing of the Bazaar, avoiding Sparrot's gaze as I pass by his tent. That's odd. Manhands and Bertie haven't arrived yet. Usually, they always get here before I do because it takes them a long time to set up. I unlock my storeroom and begin making my daily preparations. As I'm carrying some displays out to the shop, I clumsily drop a quiver full of arrows all over the floor. Grumbling, I set down my armload of gear and bend over to pick them up. Just as I finish arranging the arrows on the counter, I hear a commotion at the door.

"Whaddya do with her rattle, Bertie?!"

"I...I don't know," Bertie's meek voice answers. "The baby must have dropped it at some point."

"Well, you'd better find it!"

Manhands comes stomping through the doorway, swinging her arms like a gorilla. Just then, a high-pitched wail reaches my ears. Seriously? They brought the baby to work again? Yesterday wasn't just a one time deal? Sure enough, Bertie staggers in shortly after his wife, lugging the demon baby on his back. He teeters to a stop and slumps against the door frame, trembling. The man is exhibiting all the signs of sleep deprivation: shortness of breath, pale skin, dark circles under the eyes. He slowly turns his head and notices me staring at him.

"Oh..." his lips form a ghost of a smile. "Good morning, Rupin," he says. His eye twitches.

The baby opens its mouth and screams, pounding on Bertie's back with its little fists. The three of us give a collective wince.

"Is everything all right?" I ask innocently, putting on a concerned frown.

"What do you think?!" snaps Manhands.

Well. That was uncalled for. Even though this is kind of my fault. What am I saying? No, it was all Bertie's fault.

Manhands orders Bertie to keep the baby entertained while she fires up the cauldrons. He twists his neck around and tries to console it by making ridiculous faces and babbling nonsensically. This works for an entire minute and then the baby throws another fit, screeching its displeasure. I have a feeling this isn't going to be very good for business.

"Is this a permanent arrangement?" I can't help but ask.

Manhands looks up from her cauldron and glowers at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I swallow my annoyance. "Ah, well, this is just a suggestion but..." She's still glaring at me. "Perhaps you could invest in a caretaker for the baby?" I kindly suggest, keeping my voice light. "Or maybe one of you could stay home with her during the day. Then you could work easier."

Bertie lifts his head and looks at me, a tiny sparkle in his ragged eyes. I think Bertie has just seen the light.

But then Manhands explodes.

"ARE YOU CALLING MY BAY-BAY A NUISANCE?!" she roars, her face reddening. "YOU LITTLE PUNK! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HAVE KIDS I ONLY GOT EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP LAST NIGHT! DON'T YOU TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY CHILD!"

I shrink back to avoid the spit that's flying in my direction, trying very hard not to let my composure slip. I grin and bear it, treating Manhands much in the same way I would an enraged customer. Listening to her quietly as she fires curse word after curse word at me. There is no reasoning with this woman. The baby becomes distraught at all the noise and starts kicking its legs and screaming along with her.

"Um...Luv?" Bertie says feebly, "Please—"

"DON'T TELL ME TO SETTLE DOWN!"

A flash of movement toward the door catches my eye. Some customers are frozen in entrance way, looking positively horrified. I can only imagine what it must be like to walk in on this scene.

"Hello!" I bounce over to them and break the ice with a welcoming smile, using them as a smooth diversion. "Please, friends, come feast your eyes on this landscape of fantastical treasures I have prepared for you today! Pay no attention to the rampaging gorilla woman," I whisper through my teeth. But the damage has already been done. The customers give me little more than a cautious nod and proceed on their way.

Upon noticing there are customers in the vicinity, Manhands stops screaming at me and goes back to her usual clapping routine. But the baby is still bawling up a storm. I watch with restrained aggravation as Bertie tries and fails to soothe it again and again. The noise is ten times more grating than my mother's voice. Like someone is shoving needles into my eardrums. It makes me want to gnash my teeth together. I glance at the door. I'm itching to hop over the counter and run out that door to get away from it, but what if a customer needs my help?

I cross and uncross my arms, tapping my foot anxiously. I can't seem to sit still. It's the caffeine. I'm jittery from OD'ing on caffeine. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to put the incessant wailing out of my mind, but it's impossible to ignore. A throbbing pain sears through back of my neck and head. My headache is returning. I...I can't deal with this any more. I'm going crazy. I have to get out. I just have to get out! As the customer-less morning slogs on, only one thought stands out in my mind.

This baby—this monster—it has to be stopped.

I put up my lunch break sign and stroll past the Potion Shop casually, making for the door. Once I am out of sight, I break into a run and dash around the outside of the building to get to the dumpster. I bound up to the first trash can I see and look inside.

It's empty. Completely empty, save for a sheet of paper and a half eaten apple. But I'm sure this is the trash can I threw the rattle in! I jostle the can, as if expecting the rattle to roll out from under the piece of paper if I stare at it hard enough, but there's nothing else. I toss it to the side and check the others, but they're all empty. Figures. The one day in my six years of working here when I actually need to go digging through the dumpster, that lazy garbage boy takes the trash out on time.

I sprint back the way I came, but instead of going around the Bazaar I rush straight out to the nearest sky pier. I charge down the boardwalk, screaming at the top of my lungs, "Wingy!"

Yes. Wingy. The extent of my naming creativity at the tender age of ten. Back then, I could never figure out how to do that whistle everybody else does to call their loftwings, so I would just call her by screaming her name. Alas, now that's the only thing she responds to, so it's not as if I can just change it. Either I suck it up and yell Wingy! or I fall to my death.

I run off the end of the pier and leap out into the open air, spreading my limbs to intercept my bird. A flash of lime green swoops up from underneath the island and I slam onto Wingy's sturdy back. I tightly grip the belt around her neck and position myself into a low crouch as she takes to the sky, spreading her blue and yellow-tipped wings. Gently tugging on her belt, I steer her in a wide arc around the Statue of the Goddess, shifting my weight with her as she banks left. With a few great beats of Wingy's wings, Skyloft shrinks to a little patch of green in the clouds below.

Once we reach a higher altitude, a gale blowing from the northwest whistles in my ears and we pick up speed. Wingy levels out her wings to their full length and coasts downwind. But this isn't a joy ride. Faster! I urge her, digging my heels into her sides. She lets out an ear-piercing screech and takes a powerful stroke, propelling us forward. Before long, we soar over the Lumpy Pumpkin, alerting me that we are a little less than halfway there.

I smell our destination before I see it, a slight foulness on the wind. I grip Wingy's belt tighter with one hand and pinch my nose shut with the other, scanning the clouds. My eyes fall upon a small, grayish island floating close to the cloud barrier, so low that it's partially enveloped in fog. I can just make out the giant ditch—a landfill—dug into its center. At some point, they decided it was unethical of us to dump our trash over the side of Skyloft, so they created this place. I've been out here on one other occasion, when my mother's favorite lawn gnome "accidentally" got taken out with the trash. My mother isn't the most...active person. So naturally, she made me go and get it. It's a pain to fly all the way out here, but I guess it beats living on top of our own filth.

Setting my sights on the singular wooden pier jutting out from the island, I apply a little bit of pressure to Wingy's neck and will her to go down. She clicks her bill in protest.

"We're going down there whether you like it or not!" I yell over the wind, pressing down on her neck a little harder.

Wingy slows, and for a moment we just hang in the air. She folds her wings close to her body and dips down at an angle. I instinctively flatten myself against her back as she veers into a steep dive, cutting through the air like a knife. When I think we're about to crash, I yank the belt backwards. Wingy utters a surprised squawk and throws her wings out, breaking our fall. She beats her wings three times, slowing us down, and alights on the pier. I slide off her back and run inland. Trash that has been taken out recently is always piled near the landing for a while before being dumped into the ditch, so it should be around here somewhere. Wingy lingers on the pier at first, but then her curiosity gets the better of her and she slowly strides along behind me, surveying the drab landscape with her unblinking yellow eyes. After less than a minute of searching, I spot a fresh-looking pile of trash bags halfway between the pier and the ditch. Buzzing with horseflies and reeking of decay...

Well, I didn't come all the way here just to stare at this mound of trash bags. Holding my breath, I grab one from the bottom of the pile and start untying it. If the rattle is inside one of them, it should be near the top. Wingy patters up to my side and cranes her neck to see what I'm doing. She looks on with mild interest as I open and check each bag. I grow increasingly frantic as the pile of unopened bags diminishes to nothing and I'm still not finding it.

Without allowing myself a second to contemplate what I must do next, I tear open the nearest bag and plunge my hands into the filth. My fingers meet with something orange and mushy. Rotting pumpkins. The sour stench permeates my nose. I turn away and break into a stream of coughing. It's so bad my eyes are watering.

Once my coughing fit subsides, I take in a deep breath and force myself to keep going. I claw through the garbage bags like a madman, combing the refuse for that slobbery rattle, that little piece of trash that has now become my most desired treasure. As I'm going through the trash, I sift through shards of broken china from a plate the village idiot dropped the other day, a bag of burnt wood chippings from the Scrap Shop, what looks like hazardous waste from one of Bertie's experimental brews. I feel like I'm reliving the past week at the Bazaar.

An unknown number of minutes later, I finish picking over every inch of the load, but the rattle is still nowhere to be found. Why isn't it here?! Did it slip out of the garbage during transport and fall below the cloud barrier? If it did, it's lost forever.

I throw my hat on the ground and let out a deafening scream, unleashing all the pent-up frustration that has built up within me in the past two days. Wingy looks at me as if I have lost my marbles. I probably have. I don't know.

I heave a lengthy sigh, deflating like a balloon. What I do know is that I will be losing too many valuable customers' rupees if I continue on at this rate. My break must have ended over an hour ago. I bend down and pick up my soiled hat, accepting my failure.

"C'mon, Wingy," I say weakly, putting my hat back on my head. "Let's go back."

It takes longer to travel back to Skyloft flying against the wind. When the orange roof of the Bazaar comes into sight, we descend, aiming to land in the grass beside it. As soon as we touch down, Wingy roughly dumps me off her back and stretches her neck behind her shoulder to preen her feathers. I don't blame her. I'm an absolute mess. I am coated in a layer of grime, my white shirt stained beyond recognition. My fingernails are caked with dirt, and I stink of rotting pumpkins and whatever was in that bag from the Potion Shop. I disgust myself.

I brush the moldy pumpkin seeds off my apron, take a deep breath, and head back into the Bazaar, bracing for the worst. The first thing that greets me when I enter is that wretched baby, still screeching its little head off. A few tolerant souls are hanging out by my stall wondering where I am, because they just love to show up when I'm not here.

"Hello, friends!" I grin, jogging up to my stall. "I'll be right with you!"

The customers give me concerned looks as I shuffle past them to get into my shop. A few of them wrinkle up their noses. Even Bertie and Manhands look a little bit grossed out when they see what's become of me. I know they're all judging me, but I just keep on smiling.

Just keep smiling.

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A/N: Didn't think you were gonna go the entire story without meeting Rupin's loftwing did you? Also, Croo's "advice"? 100% verbatim. I didn't change a word.

These three chapters were kind of like my "Pilot Episodes" so by now you should have gotten a decent taste of what this fic is all about. Think sitcom turned novel. A big thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! I can't tell you how much I enjoy reading all your comments. On the topic of reviews, I would just like to say that I read and treasure every single one I get and I appreciate all types of feedback, whether it's a one-liner letting me know what got a laugh out of you or a constructive review telling what I can improve on. I revisit older chapters to improve them quite often, so all criticism is taken into consideration. As Croo might say, "It's no lie." :)