Revised 2/25/2021...

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The Customer Is (Not) Always Right

Chapter 9: Little Rainbow

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I'm never happy.

When there are no customers, I stand here bored out of my mind, itching for somebody to appear. The day just drags when there are no customers.

But then once the customers are here, I just want them to go away so I don't have to talk to them and stare at their ugly faces. I am always wavering between two conflicting desires. Always trapped. Never satisfied. Never happy.

Today, however, I find myself in the former situation, scouring the near-vacant Bazaar like a starved remlit. Longing for a paying customer to come to my shop. There is hardly anybody here. I don't know what's going on today. Even the Village Idiot up and ditched this place a little while ago.

I look right, then left, only to be disappointed again. Gondo seems to be occupied with his robot project, but most everybody else looks brain dead. It would almost be comical if it wasn't so sad; all of us, just sitting around in our stalls mindlessly, waiting on nobody. Wasting our lives away in this wretched place.

Being here can be so counterproductive when there are so few customers to serve. It drives me nuts when I think about my shield experiment collecting dust in my shed, as I stand around here doing nothing. But I've already sacrificed so much time between this week and the last. When I'm not there, there is no business and therefore no income, not to mention the risks it poses to my dependable reputation. Thus are the drawbacks of self employment.

There's a tired gasp from Bertie's direction. I glance up just in time to see yet another sandy hair floating down into his cauldron. This happens far too often to be accidental. Sometimes I wonder if Bertie is harboring angry feelings toward anybody in particular, like a chef who vengefully spits in somebody's meal. I was on the receiving end of that once.

I shift my sights to the other end of the Potion Shop. Strangely enough, Manhands seems to have stopped pretending like I don't exist. She has been eagerly looking my way every so often for the past fifteen minutes, like she wants to say something to me. Hmph. Well, I want nothing to do with her. She probably just wants to blab about her new potion and stick it to me that she's leeching off my business. Who knows what horrific side effects she's brewing up over there in that vat of pinkish ooze.

She tries to catch my eye and get my attention again, but I ignore her, avoiding eye contact. Little does she know, my plans to thwart her are in motion. I will insure that her efforts amount to nothing. A tiny smirk plays on my face, the sheer anticipation of it giving me the stamina I need to stand here in this spot. Now if only I could bring in some customers. I cast another anxious glance around the sparsely populated Bazaar. Why is this place so dead today?

"BEEDLE'S HERE! BEEDLE'S HERE!"

Oh. That's why.

In a blur, a filthy little boy goes tearing through the Bazaar, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Beedle's here!" he squeals again, with a skip of glee. "Beedle's Airshop is here! Beedle's here and he has new bug nets for sale!"

The kid wipes his runny nose on his dirty shirt sleeve and bolts out the door. Snot-nosed brat. I've seen him around here before. I think he belongs to one of the cooks who works at the café. I get why she doesn't want the little hellion near her food with those grubby fingers of his, but come on. Leashes exist for a reason! Maybe I ought to start selling them. For all the lazy, irresponsible parents who can't be bothered to supervise their children. I bet I could convince Kukiel's mother to spring for one of those. If she didn't hate me.

Suddenly, my ears pick up the sound of footsteps at the door. I whirl around, my heart leaping with anticipation. Could it be? A customer?

Oh, no. It's that guy. The one with the doo rag. And he's coming over here again. He always has to bend my ear and stretch everything out as much as possible. Doesn't this old man have anything better to do with his time? If I was old and retired I wouldn't come within one hundred meters of this place.

"Hello again, Rupin," he says slowly, as if speaking to a young child. "Remember me?"

"I do now!" Because you bother me all the time.

"What's my name?"

"…"

"It's Croo," he says, nodding his head slightly. Uh oh. I think he's annoyed this time. "You never listen, do you?"

He is annoyed. I offer up a smile that is as fake as it is good-natured. "You'll have to forgive me, sir. Sometimes it takes me a few tries to remember names."

"Yeah, I'll bet." He crosses his arms, looking quite a bit cross. "You weren't listening then and you weren't listening when I told you about the flying ban either! Went and got yourself in trouble with the rescue knights."

My eyes widen in alarm. "How did you—"

"My grandson," he replies instantly, with a subtle glow of pride. "He's a member of Skyloft's premier rescue squad, the one that picked you up. Told me all about your little excursion. Don't know what you were thinking, flying around out there in tornado conditions."

"Ahaha, tornado conditions? Hardly." I scrape my teeth together, feeling angry all over again. I still can't fathom the ludicrousness of the entire situation. It's not like the knights directly benefit from the bail money; the fines are just funneled into the general tax fund and are put toward public maintenance and such. Like keeping the motherloving cemetery from eroding off the edge of Skyloft. So what value was there in arresting me and locking me up like some sort of criminal for a night? Entertainment? Did they do it to relieve their boredom?!

Croo seems to mistake my silence for an admission of guilt. "See? You weren't listening to me."

I stare at him incredulously. So...what? I'm supposed to rely on the local bar curmudgeon to get my news now?

"Don't worry," he drawls, as if reading my thoughts. "I won't tell anybody."

He'd better not. I blanch at the thought of that one going around town. Oh, he'd better not.

"Thank the heavens they found you, too, before something really bad happened," he says. "I'm telling you, those knights. They're diligent. They're the best of the best!"

I just stare at him in silence. I have nothing to say to that.

"You could have been one of them too, you know, if you hadn't been so quick to quit the Academy. A darned shame you didn't stick with it. I always did say you had potential."

This man is really trying my patience right now. Why is he telling me this? First of all, I don't want to be a knight! I never did. And this happened over seven years ago! Why does he still care? Oh, right. I suppose seven years must feel like much less time to him, as aged as he is.

"A matter of fact," he rattles on, "If my Quill hadn't been flying in the same race...I would have bet on you."

Then it clicks. So this old prune is Quill's grandfather. No wonder he's such a pain in the butt; it runs in the family. And this explains why he feels like he knows me so well too. He was one of those awful sideline parents back then, judging me and scrutinizing my every move and rooting for me to fail so their offspring would win out.

"What's the matter?"

"Huh? Nothing," I reply, suddenly aware that I haven't contributed a word to this conversation for the past minute. "Nothing's wrong."

"You're annoyed that I didn't buy anything and you don't want to chat."

Why does this guy have to be so perceptive? "No, no. Not at all." An automatic grin stretches across my face. "I just love entertaining company while I'm working," I say, but sarcasm leaks into my voice and poisons my friendly act.

He studies me with those emotionless eyes of his. After a few seconds, he sighs. "Well then, I'll give you a tip."

I can't help but perk up. A tip? For real?

Cupping a hand around his mouth, Croo leans over the counter toward me and mutters under his breath, "Carry an umbrella when it's raining."

I just stand there, aghast, as he turns from me and limps away. I could have imagined it, but I think I saw a wry little smirk on his face before he left. Now that was just mean.

I shoot a seething glare at the back of Croo's head as he hobbles out the door. Get out. Get out and stay out.

But then, Croo becomes old news when who should strut in through the door but a real customer. One of my regulars, in fact. Mr. Popular, or so he says he is. I don't know, I've never heard my mother gossiping about him.

The man is a retired knight in his fifties, with a receding hairline that appears to be migrating down the back of his neck, and a big fat stomach that can only be the outcome of far too many nights at the Lumpy Pumpkin. Now, normally I don't pay much attention to what other guys are wearing, but the ill-fitting chain mail and the fluffy pink slippers? Really? What kind of message is this guy trying to send out to the world?

I angle my body away from him, but continue to watch him discreetly. I don't want to look like I'm sizing him up from a distance. Even a seasoned customer might pass me over in a heartbeat if they think I'm stalking them. The customer is like a little squirrel. I mustn't make any sudden movements or I might scare him away.

I bide my time, waiting for the opportune moment to make my move. He lumbers a little closer, and a little closer. His gaze wanders toward my shop just as my gaze wanders in his general direction and—

"Ahaa! Hello, valued customer!" I bound up to him and give a wave, pretending as if I just noticed him. "Is there anything I can assist you with today, friend? Perhaps you're in need of some ammo? A new quiver?" I slide over to the quiver on display between him and I and take it in my arms.

"Hmm..." the veteran knight mumbles thoughtfully. He strides the rest of the way up to my counter, his sharp eyes perusing the wares I have to offer. "Now that you mention it, yeah!" He snaps his fingers. "I could use some more ammo for my crossbow. Yes sir. Just set me up with two big bundles of these arrows."

He unstraps a large quiver from his back and plops it down on the counter, a single arrow clattering inside. I pick up the arrow and examine it closely, measuring the shaft with my eyes. It's a tad shorter than the standard size I carry.

"Oh my. I hope I still have these in stock," I say, furrowing my brow. "I'll check in the back. I'll just be a minute, sir!"

I scoot into the backroom and unlock my supply closet, combing the shelves for his preferred brand of arrow. Before long, an incessant tapping reaches my ears. It's my customer. He's out there drumming his fingers against my counter. Ah yes, he's one of those finger tappers. It's as if they think they can make me go faster by putting their impatience on display. It kind of makes me want to rebel and go slower just to spite them, but I won't do that for fear of tainting my good reputation. No. I think I'll just work at my normal pace.

My customers don't control me.

After more than a minute of tearing apart my closet, I manage to scrounge up twenty crossbow arrows. I carry them back out to the shop and begin carefully loading them into the customer's quiver one by one. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor all the while, not letting up on the finger tapping. I try not to let it affect me, but the longer it goes on, the more I can't help but feel that my delay in the storeroom was a mark against me somehow. I do believe it's about time I fed his ego.

"That's a nice sword you have there," I compliment him, nodding to the katana sheathed at his hip.

He glances up at me, a smug look on his face. "It is nice, ain't it?" he says, gripping the katana's hilt and unsheathing it a few inches. The silver of the blade glints in the lamplight. "Just look at the shine on this beauty. Would you believe she's been my trusty sword for thirty years? You know, most knights lose the privilege to carry weapons in public spaces like these once they step down, but there are perks to bein' popular."

"Mmhmm." I just nod. Unlike some people, this guys is the type who can and will carry on a conversation all by himself once you get him going. A truly amazing feat.

"Pretty slick blade, if I do say so myself!" he boasts, sliding the thin sword snugly back into its sheath. "'Course these days I only bring her out for sport, but she still works wonders! Slices through bamboo like a hot knife through butter!"

"I am sure she does," I butter him up. "I quite admire those who know how to care for their possessions over such extended periods of time."

"Aye," he grunts his agreement. He seems keen on eating up my flattery, though clearly he is insatiable. It's as if everything I tell him, he already knows.

"Your arrows are darned good thing to have on hand, too," he remarks. Surprisingly, spreading around the butter. "Even when his soul lies with his sword, a man's gotta know when to bring out the long ranged artillery to deal with the pond scum in these parts."

Now my curiosity has been piqued. Just a little. "Pond scum?"

He exhales heavily, leaning a pudgy pink arm on the counter. "I swear, these young varmints. They're gonna kill me..." he mutters, running his other hand through the remnants of his blond hair. "It can be a real chore, fendin' off all these lowlife scum that keep crowding around my pretty little water lily. Er—that would be my darlin' daughter, in case you didn't realize. I worry about her all the time, what with all these bothersome boys giving her unwanted attention. And I eat when I get stressed. It's awful! Just look at this gut."

He pats his round belly, which jiggles at the touch. Ew.

"Believe it or not, I used to look more like you. Only with muscles."

Oh, rub it in, why don't you. At least I am not and never will be grossly overweight.

"If there's one thing ingrained in me from all my years of knighthood, it's to learn from your mistakes," he keeps on rambling, "I was one of them once. Hittin' the town every week night. Wooin' the ladies like there was no tomorrow. So believe me when I say I know all the tricks of the trade." He taps his fingers against his rather thick skull to emphasize his point. "There's only one thing on those mangy mutts' minds, and let me tell you, I won't stand for it! No siree, not my daughter!"

He throws a shifty glance over each of his shoulders, as if the mangy mutts in question might pop up from behind the Potion Shop counter.

"My body may not be what it used to be, but my mind's still sharp as a tack. Those dirty rotten nest robbers would have to be mighty foolish to mess with me. I always tell my daughter I didn't install those six locks on the door to protect her. Oh, no. It was to protect them."

I study his expression, and for a second I am certain he's dead serious.

Then he cracks a smile. "Heh heh heh! You thought I was for real for a second there, didn't ya?"

"Ha. For a second," I admit.

He lets loose another hearty chuckle. "Well, I was."

I bite my lip. No...he has to be joking about this entire thing, right? Oh, who am I kidding. Of course he is. If someone had actually gotten shot with one of my arrows, I would have been sued for it by now.

"Not that I can blame the rascals," he says, smirking. "My little girl's sweeter than a sugar cube and as irresistible as a cool glass of lemonade on a hot day!"

That's great. I don't care. "Who's your daughter?" I humor him, trying to jam the last of his new arrows into his quiver.

His jaw drops in disbelief, like I couldn't possibly not know who his daughter is. "You pullin' my leg, son? Why, she's Peatrice! The shinin' star of the Item Check."

Ah, Miss Gloomy. I look over at the Item Check to see her leaning against her desk, looking rather dismal. Peatrice is one of the newer shopkeepers in the Bazaar. She's only been running the Item Check for a year or so, ever since that senile old remlit man who managed it before her dropped dead. Nester, I think his name was. The crackpot used to open up all the unused vaults and let his remlits sleep in them, and boy did that cause a stink. I couldn't venture near the leftmost side of my shop without picking up a whiff.

Of course, once old Nester kicked the bucket, his newly orphaned pets weren't so willing to let go. So they made sure to pay him regular visits at the graveyard he was buried in. The one out back my house. At night. What fun that was.

"Get a good look, salesman?"

My customer's voice jars me out of my thought stream, all the good humor gone from his tone. In fact, his voice has taken on quite an ominous tone.

He looms over me in a threatening manner. "You'd better not be eyein' up my little rainbow while on the job."

I gasp a little. "No sir, I wasn't—I mean—I wouldn't think of it!" I laugh nervously.

He peers at me with suspicious eyes, his features hardening. "Good," he grunts out. "But listen up and listen hard, pal. You'd better keep your eyes to yourself, if you know what I mean. And don't go gettin' any weird ideas neither. My cupcake doesn't need any more unwanted admirers."

I nod slowly, at a loss for words. What is with this guy? I wasn't thinking about anything remotely inappropriate! Just because I looked at her, once? When he brought her up in conversation? Tell that to Sparrot! He's the one who's been ogling your little...rainbow.

"My goodness gracious, I don't know what I'd do if I found a feller with my little honey baby," he worries aloud, more to himself than to me. "I mean, I guess that day has to come eventually, but it's not easy lettin' go. She's been the sole apple of my eye ever since her mother passed away..." he trails off and stares into space, a deep, contemplative crease appearing on his forehead.

"Oh my. I'm...very sorry to hear that," I respond quietly, forcing a frown. Good grief. I hate when people I barely know bring up depressing subjects out of nowhere and I have to put on a sympathetic face. It takes so much energy. "Well, here are your arrows!" I perk up, presenting the customer with his restocked quiver. "Thank you for your loyal and continued patronage!"

He grabs the quiver from me and hands me 40 rupees in exchange. I take a moment to appreciate the weight of them in my hands before storing them safely in my apron.

"Thanks a lot, pal." He slings his quiver over his shoulder. "Heh. Those varmints won't even know what hit em'."

I cringe. He's still joking, right? I honestly can't tell with this man.

"Sir?" I say as delicately as possible, wringing my hands together. "Do be careful not to actually shoot anybody."

He merely gives me a flat look, saying nothing.

I buffer with a toothy smile. "I mean, it's not that I doubt your aim! Not at all, friend! It's just—if by some chance a tiny accident were to occur, I can't be liable if—"

The man throws his head back and laughs. "Don't you worry your little head over it, boy. Good save, by the way."

I utter another nervous laugh, hunching slightly. That response wasn't exactly reassuring. I think there was something else I wanted to tell him, but now his attention has drifted elsewhere, to the girl at the Item Check.

"Ohh, she's just so gosh-darned cute! I'm gonna go surprise her," he exclaims as he struts away, and suddenly I remember what it was I wanted to say. I forgot to remind him of my refund policy.

"Oh! And sir?"

He stops in his tracks and turns to face me again. The agitated look he is giving me now is enough to make me chicken out.

"Um," I swallow, shifting under his intimidating gaze. "The customer is always right!"

He cocks an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

I nod, a little too vigorously, still smiling. He just rolls his eyes and continues on his way. Once he's gone, I sigh in relief, finally able to let my guard down. Unconsciously, my eyes follow him to the Item Check, where he has taken to creeping up on an unsuspecting Peatrice.

"Hey there, Sunshine!"

Peatrice snaps her head up in surprise.

"Daddy?!" She glances around self-consciously, then sinks back down into her chair. "...not at work."

Her father just laughs, unaffected by her attitude. "Who are you kiddin', Sweet Pea? This place is deader than those keese I shot in the back yard last night!" he practically announces to the whole Bazaar. What a braggart. He rests an elbow on her desk. "You know, you're lookin' awfully pretty today."

Peatrice sighs and hides her face behind her hands. "I look the same as I always do, dad."

"And you always look pretty."

She allows her fingers to slide partway down her face, blushing softly under the colorful lights. And then I see something that I've never seen before.

A little smile.

"Hey, uh, Rupin?"

I tear my gaze away from the Item Check to face the one who interrupted me—Manhands. I must look really irritated, because she winces a little bit when our eyes meet.

"Er...look." She continues on after an awkward moment, "I've been thinking long and hard about last week, and I just wanted to say...I'm sorry."

My mouth falls open in surprise. Sorry? Manhands is sorry? Has she gone insane?!

"I didn't mean to get so heated with you. It's just, you know...it was a rough week. I just had a baby. I was hardly getting any sleep. I guess I snapped and I took out all my frustrations on you. But I don't think we should let that little spat come between us!" She folds her arms behind her back and tips her head, looking a little guilty. "So no hard feelings?"

I hesitate. She stares at me, awaiting an answer.

"...No. No hard feelings. I'm sorry too." Why did I just say that?! 'Sorry'?! I didn't do anything wrong! I have nothing to apologize for!

A wide, toad-like grin stretches across her face. "That's a relief! I just couldn't stand the silence anymore. So glad we cleared the air!"

What have I done.

"So Rupee, get a load of this..." She leans forward and gets that old look on her face. That look when she knows something I don't and she's just so pleased that she gets to be the one to spill the big news to me. "I heard a ghost is haunting the Knight Academy restroom!"

"Ah. Wow. I..." don't give a rat's crap. "That's fascinating."

"I know, right?!" she guffaws. "Apparently, people have been hearing strange moaning noises coming from there at night. Some kid went in to check it out and thought he saw a white hand coming out of the toilet! Can you believe that?!"

And then she talks. And she talks. About the toilet ghost, about the weather, about how her shield repairing potion is almost ready for testing. About her baby's ailments, and how her lower back has been killing her, and how annoyed she was that Bertie put tomatoes on her sandwich when she specifically told him not to. And as I'm listening to all this gobbledygook, all I can do is ask myself: Why? Why oh why did she have to go and apologize? I liked having a reason to openly hate her. I liked being on the outs! I don't want back in!

I hold back an exasperated groan. It's just blathering. A wall of mindless blathering. There's no break where I can excuse myself with a gentle 'alright then' and slip into the storeroom to pretend I'm busy. It just never stops! And if I snub her now, then I'll be the bad guy again. So I remain glued to the spot and force myself to appear attentive, offering a question here, a comment there. Suffering quietly. I don't care if we're supposedly on good terms now. This doesn't change my plans to upstage her one bit.

The rest of the day whittles by with very little business to speak of, the hours seeming to stretch more than ever now that Manhands is speaking to me again. Every so often, a window shopper stops by my stall to browse through my gear, but I don't make any significant sales. Those arrows I sold to my regular customer were my biggest sale I made all day, and let's face it—it wasn't all that big. What an awful day. What an awful, miserable, unproductive day.

I end up giving in to the temptation to close up my shop half an hour early. Manhands looks a little put off by my premature desertion, but thankfully she doesn't harass me about it. Actually, she heads home herself soon after I start packing up, leaving the beaten down Bertie to deal with the Potion Shop's cleanup duties as usual.

As I am putting away the last of my wares, I happen to notice Peatrice passing by my stall on her way out, dragging her feet. She looks how I feel: exhausted.

"Have a good night!" I call out to her. And somehow, in spite of my own weariness, I find it within me to smile.

But she just stares straight ahead and trudges out the door without even acknowledging my existence. Letting out an annoyed sigh, I hoist my sack of bombs over my shoulder and start lugging it into the backroom. Maybe she didn't hear me. Or she just didn't realize I was talking to her. I should have used her name. Ugh, why didn't I? What's wrong with me?

Wait a minute...

Why am I making excuses for this girl?