Revised 2/25/2021...

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The Customer Is (Not) Always Right

Chapter 10: Not Always Right

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Wham!

The sound of a closet door slamming breaches my semi-conscious mind. I roll onto my side and shove my ear into my pillow to block out the noise, but to no avail.

Bam!

Again and again, the closet doors fly open and slam shut, each successive bang dragging me further back to the world of reality. I sit up in bed groggily, whatever pleasant dream I was so desperately trying to cling to already faded and forgotten. Squinting through the early morning dim, I can just make out my mother's hulking form by her wardrobe, indecisive as usual.

No one should ever have to wake up to this. Whose wise idea was it to construct this place as one giant, one-room house anyway? Idiots. I let an irritated moan die in my throat, my silent grumbling negated by the fact that I should probably be happy she hasn't kicked me out of the house by now.

I crawl out from under my warm covers and fumble through the dimly lit room to my closet to get ready for another day of work. I'm pretty sure my mother didn't used to shut the closet doors that loudly, but I don't dare complain. Especially seeing as we're not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

She hasn't said a single word to me since the night she picked me up from jail. Her not talking to me would be a pleasure if she didn't go out of her way to make her loathing of me apparent every waking minute. She's always strutting about the house with this haughty air about her, making a big show of her disdain in the littlest of actions: aggressively tearing open the curtains, violently spooning lumps of sugar into her morning tea.

There is really no point in attempting to reconcile with her when she's like this. This wouldn't be the first time she's given me the silent treatment, and I know from a lifetime of past experience that it's best to just stay as far away from her as possible. Let her be the first one to start talking again.

Before heading off to the Bazaar, I stop by the shed to check on my new shield. It has been coming along beautifully. The paint job is magnificent, if I do say so myself, and my new sealant made with blue feather oil has helped make it significantly more resistant to damage. Now, I just have to ship the prototype design out to the smithy and get it reproduced, but that process could take quite a few more days.

Ugh. A few more days.

I lock up the shed and set off for work, wandering zombie-like through the still-dark neighborhood. Each step feels like a colossal effort in of itself, but the thought of fluffy Bazaar pancakes keeps my feet moving forward one after the other. Since the atmosphere at home has been so tense, I've been eating at the Bazaar's restaurant as of late. It's not cheap eating there every day, but it's the better option by far compared to dining with my passive-aggressive—emphasis on aggressive—mother.

I arrive at the Bazaar in what feels like a short amount of time, my hazy state of mind seeming to compress the minutes. With food on the brain, I drift in through the main entrance and make my way over the restaurant.

I instantly double back the other way when I see who is standing at the end of the breakfast line: Croo. On second thought, I'm not that hungry. I duck out of there before the old man can catch sight of me and head down the Bazaar at a quick pace. Gondo glances in my direction, but I pretend not to see him today. I'm not in the mood for social interaction.

I look past the Scrap Shop to the Item Check. It's completely vacant, its lovely owner not having arrived yet. For some reason, I feel deflated. I was thinking of paying off some more of my debt I owe to my mother today, but I guess that will have to wait until later too. Oh well. All the more reason to put it off.

When I reach my stretch of the Bazaar, I am surprised to see a young man and woman are already waiting for me by the Gear Shop. They look familiar, the woman's long, brown braids ringing a bell in particular.

But something is wrong with this picture. No one waits at my shop first thing in the morning, unless—uh oh. Simultaneously, they both turn and look at me, wearing matching scowls on their faces. What have I done now?

"Good morning, friends!" I slip behind the counter and swing around to face them, trying my hardest to revive my perky shopkeeper self in spite of the nasty looks they're giving me. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Sure is!" The man is the first to speak up, hostile from the get-go. "We're here for a refund."

Of course they are. My eyes unconsciously travel to my rather obvious, boldly printed 'NO REFUNDS' sign hanging on the wall right beside me. The early birds always want refunds, but that doesn't mean they're going to get one.

"My sister's loftwing ingested some of your deku seeds and became extremely sick! The bird went down mid-flight, injured her wing, and the pair got stranded on a tiny island in the middle of frickin' nowhere!"

I blink at him tiredly, my morning brain taking a long time to process his yelling. Ugh, why does he have to yell? Whatever small spark of desire I may have had to appease these people has already been doused in apathy.

The man whips out a receipt and holds it up in front of my face. It's for a small satchel and a pack of deku seeds, signed and dated by yours truly ten days ago. I take the paper in my hand. The two siblings glower at me in unison, awaiting my response.

"Well," I begin, and I know this is going to be bad, but I can't think of anything else to say in this moment, "you're not supposed to feed them to your loftwing."

The sister lashes out defensively, "I didn't 'feed' them to my loftwing, she ate them of her own accord! What kind of a featherbrain do you take me for?"

"Do you know who we are?" says the brother in an attempt to intimidate me, hovering closer. He folds his arms across his chest, looking like her body guard. "We're loftwing experts! Neither of us would even dream of feeding our birds something we know is poisonous to them."

Now that they mention it, I have purchased loftwing treats from them on a few occasions.

"My deepest apologies," I say, raising my hands in a placating gesture. I look the girl in the eye and reach deep inside myself for some fake empathy. "I certainly didn't mean to sound like I was insulting your intelligence and I am sorry for the misfortunes that befell you and your loftwing. Truly, I am. It must have been very upsetting to witness your feathered companion in such distress." Time to change my tune. "...But I'm afraid we don't give monetary refunds for any reason, and this unfortunate incident is no exception. Store policy, you see." I brace for an explosion.

"No refunds at all? That's ridiculous!" she argues. "Just look at this!"

She tosses something white onto my counter. It's one of my seed satchels, er...the remains of it. It's been torn open and ripped to shreds. Well, gee, why not show this to me to begin with? What is this, a cross-examination?

"That is...very unfortunate," I say.

"And you call this 'expertly woven?'" the brother asks in irony, throwing my own words back at me. I stare down at the shredded piece of leather that was once one of my flawless creations.

"My bird must have mistaken it for a bag of treats," the sister explains.

What a dumb bird. Want to know what happened the first and last time I was cheap and tried training Wingy with a fake bag of treats? Let's just say the memory is scarred into me.

"—She was able to tear right through the material and get at the poisonous seeds, and for that I feel I'm entitled to a full refund."

"I'm very sorry you feel that way," the automated response I often use to mollify angry customers leaves my mouth. I bow my head a little. "Our satchels are expertly woven for durability, but I'm afraid they're not indestructible. We don't make any claims about them being able to stand up to a loftwing bill. As you are bird experts, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what that toothed bill is for and what it's capable of! Ahaha..." Namely, ripping into carcasses.

"Now, at the Skyloft Gear Shop, we understand accidents do happen. Under specialized circumstances, such as when a customer purchases an extended warranty, we will extend an offer to replace damaged and defective products. Unfortunately..." I shove my nose in the receipt. "That doesn't appear to be the case here, but—wait...A-hah! Look at that! You only purchased this seed satchel a mere ten days ago!" I act surprised like I just noticed this fact, bringing a hand to my cheek. "That means you are eligible for an exchange!"

"I want to speak to your manager!" the man barks suddenly, cutting me off.

My lips curl back into what must look more like a snarl than a smile. "I am the manager."

"Then who's this 'we' you keep referring to? Who's 'WE'?"

An audible groan almost escapes me. Do we have to go here of all places? "Sir, I assure you, there is a 'we.'" That would be me, myself, and I. And sometimes Henry, my imaginary underling I occasionally deflect blame onto when things go wrong. "Now as I was saying. As part of our return policy, we will often exchange a defective or damaged product for a new, identical item free of charge, if the original was purchased less than fourteen days ago. Since you made this purchase ten days ago, you are still well within the replacement timeframe!"

The sister shakes her head fervently. "I don't want another one of your flimsy bags, I want my money back!"

"Ma'am, please don't curse. I won't tolerate my satchels being called 'flimsy'," I soften my voice. I must appear sensitive and sympathetic, no matter what I'm feeling on the inside. Sometimes it doesn't even matter what you're saying, if you can get the tone just right. "As I expressed earlier, I am dreadfully sorry for your troubles—" and irrational feelings. "—But our policy on refunds is clearly posted and each and every customer is made aware of it when they make a purchase." I motion to my sign on the wall. "We have never and will never offer monetary refunds. Only replacements."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" the brother growls.

I grit my teeth in exasperation. There was a time, back when I first opened this shop, when I would yield to these sorts of demands. 'I'll make an exception just this once' I would say, 'but if this should happen again, there will be no refund next time.' Oh, how naive I was. If there's one thing I've learned from being nice, it's that if you cut people some slack, they just try to take more. Like spoiled, rotten children, they learn they can get their way if they only scream loud enough.

And that's why I won't let them bully me into giving up my money. It's obvious these people are just a couple of freeloaders trying to buy dinner on me.

"Refunds are not an option," I state with finality. Maybe if I repeat myself enough, they'll finally get it. "I've already explained that I'm willing to exchange this damaged satchel for a new one. Normally, in this sort of situation—seeing as the product itself was not defective—we would only offer an exchange had you purchased a complimentary accident protection plan. But I'm feeling generous today, and have decided to overlook that little caveat!" I turn to the woman with clasped hands. "So what do you say, sister? Will you turn down a brand new satchel?"

The bird-brained siblings stare at one another, as if communicating telepathically. After a few seconds of deliberation, the brother slams his hand on the counter with an unnecessarily loud thwump and grits out a begrudging, "OK." It would seem the message has finally penetrated through their dense skulls!

Smiling as always, I collect the torn satchel and go into the storeroom to exchange it for a new one, tossing the damaged one onto my work table. At least I might be able to salvage some of the material later. I throw a few deku seeds into a new satchel, anticipating that they'll be expecting some compensation for those as well. Normally I never offer replacements on ammo, but whatever. At this point, I'm willing to sacrifice a few seeds just to get them out of my face. And I don't really want to risk losing them as customers for good. The entire point of having have a return policy at all is so disgruntled customers might still return.

"Here you are," I say, returning to the front of the store with the new satchel and handing it over to the sister. My smile is a sharp contrast to their frosty demeanor. "Have a splendid rest of your day!" Ugh, this day hasn't even started yet.

The two storm off with their newly acquired seed satchel, and without another word to me. Though I hear the brother mutter "smug bastard," under his breath as they head out the door. They might come back.

"Woooow," says Manhands, gawking at me with wide eyes. "What'd you do to make them so mad?"

What did I do? I study her face, not quite sure whether she's trying to crack a joke or not. "No idea!" I laugh, waving the confrontation off. I just know one of these days I'm going to snap.

"You should have seen the customers Bertie and I had to put up with the other day. Had to chase 'em off with my giant spoon to get them to leave!"

"Oh my. That's terrible." And here we go again. Why can't we just stand here in silence? Is that so much to ask?

"It's so exhausting, trying to keep the customer satisfied and provide for my family and be a parent and come up with new potions all at the same time," she rants. "All this hard work is sapping my creativity. I'm exhausted all day, every day."

"Mmhm." I don't care. Nobody cares. This is one of the reasons I don't even attempt to carry on an intelligent conversation with her anymore, because she always has to warp it into this unspoken competition to see which of us is more miserable than the other. I'm expected to listen to her moan and complain, but if I mention something negative that happened to me, she won't offer a shred of sympathy or barely even acknowledge what I say. She'll just turn the conversation back to herself and try to top me. It's all about her.

I think she just likes to convince herself that she's the busiest, most bogged-down person here because it makes her feel self-important. Well, get over yourself, hon. Everyone's busy. Everyone's tired. You're not special. You're not important. You're just annoying.

It's panning out to be yet another uneventful work day, my only customers being the two numbskulls who demanded a refund earlier. By the time lunch hour rolls around, it occurs to me that I haven't eaten yet today. At all. It's no wonder I feel so brain dead.

Before going to get food, I decide to stop by Peatrice's lonely corner of the Bazaar to take care of that deposit I've been meaning to make. She is hunched over the front desk as usual, twirling a loose strand of hair around her ear. She must occupy the least mentally stimulating job of us all. But lucky for her, at least back here she is somewhat removed from all the needless drama. It must be nice to be out of the loop.

When I'm almost halfway to the Item Check, her bored gaze strays up from her desk and meets mine. I stop dead, suddenly feeling very uneasy at the idea of going over there.

It must be the money. I just can't bear to let go of any more of it, especially after doing such poor business these past few days. Ugh. Yeah, forget it. I'll do take care of it some other time. I'm hungry.

I veer hard right and hurry off towards the café, feeling like a heavy weight has been lifted off of my chest as I go. A few odd stares from passerby remind me to walk at a normal pace and I force myself to slow my steps, throwing a quick glance backward at Item Check. That must have looked awkward, me just halting in the middle of the Bazaar and rushing off in the other direction like that.

Oh, what do I care? She probably thought nothing of it. I shake my head at myself, feeling like an idiot for fretting over something so silly. Why do I care so much about what she thinks of me? It's not as if I like her...or anything. I don't like anybody.

It's that fleeting time of the day when it's a little too late for breakfast and a little too early for lunch, so there's no line at the café. And no Croo in sight. Thank the heavens. Fortunately, the food they serve here at the Bazaar is pretty quality, if you don't mind eating pumpkin all the time. But the service? Poor. Inadequate. Brimming with incompetence. During busy hours, I usually just hit the to-go line and grab some pumpkin stew since its pre-made and I don't have to wait for it. Unless of course, the current cook on duty is blatantly ignoring me while they fill the elaborate order of some jobless chump.

The only cook on duty today is currently stooped over the sink scrubbing dishes, her back to me. It's Piper — brunette, nice hips, kind of a butterface. I think. I mean, I only ever seen her from the back, for the most part. She wears a bright yellow tube hat on her head, presumably to keep her spiky hair from mingling with her food. That's the best thing I have to say about her.

I clear my throat, alerting her to my presence. She turns partway around and takes a quick peek at me. Then she goes back to washing dishes, scrubbing a little faster. Just a little. How considerate of her. I don't know what to think about Piper sometimes. She can be so aloof and heavy-handed in her handling of customers. And of course, it takes her forever to make a single dish. Not exactly ideal when I have a bunch of illiterate customers glaring at me impatiently from across the Bazaar. Kind of like how I'm glaring at her right now.

I glance over my shoulder at my shop, getting antsy. There's nobody waiting for me right now, but pretty soon we're going to have a chain reaction. I know you know I'm here, woman. Stop pretending to ignore me. Why is she even doing dishes when she should be cooking? She ought to give the Village Idiot a job. It's not like he's doing anything. He's just sitting back here popping pumpkin seeds like there's no tomorrow. Doing absolutely nothing to contribute to the society that sustains him.

I eyeball Piper again. For crying out loud, it doesn't take that long to wash a plate! I'm on a tight schedule. All I'm asking for is a little punctuality. I still my fingers, which I just realized have been drumming against the counter for the past few seconds. I refuse to become a finger tapper, no matter how impatient I am.

Finally, Piper flicks some water off the ends of her fingers and dries her hands on a dish rag, coming over to me. "What can I get for you?"

Oh, you're sorry for the wait? That's okay! "I'd like to order three large pancakes."

"Pumpkin pancakes?" She gazes at me as if I must be from another planet. "That's the only kind I made today."

Go figure. "Sure, three pumpkin pancakes."

She looks past me, presumably at the clock on the far wall. "Oh. We don't serve breakfast past eleven. Sorry."

Then you're useless to me. "So I should just come back for lunch then? Is what you're saying?"

"I'm taking off early today, so...no."

Silence.

"Alright then. Guess I'll see you." I turn to leave, but then I happen to see the clock. It's not even eleven yet. It's ten till. I spin back around, raising my voice. "Ah, pardon me, Piper, but it's not actually eleven yet. If you wouldn't mind—"

"That clock is slow."

What a load of...for Goddess sakes, I want to give you my money, woman!

"I still have some leftover baked goods," she says. Why didn't she suggest that to begin with?

"All right." I quickly peruse the spread of pastries on the back table. "I'll just have two banana muffins then."

"I don't have banana. Just pumpkin."

"You don't? What happened to—"

"You're the only one who likes banana."

Sheesh. "Two pumpkin then."

Without another word, she moves to the back table to wrap up my food. Once she returns, I hand over a couple rupees in exchange for the orange-tinted muffins and seat myself at a secluded table to stuff my face with my belated breakfast. Oh, sure, pumpkin's in high demand because everybody loves pumpkin. I loved it too, the first twenty thousand times.

After I'm done eating, I toss away the muffin wrappers and begrudgingly make my way back to my stall. On my way there, my ears pick up that gruff, abrasive laugh that can only belong to Manhands. When I round the corner, I see she's chatting it up with the departing Piper, the latter now accompanied by her illegitimate child, who looks like he hasn't bathed in weeks. The two are pretty chummy with each other, occasionally stopping to shoot the breeze and exchange excruciatingly boring stories about their hideous children. Birds of a feather flock together, I suppose. I return to my humble post, thankful that Manhands has found somebody else to offload her gossip onto for the time being.

"So Piper, did you hear there's a ghost haunting the Knight Academy restroom?!"

"No! What's going on?"

Again with the toilet ghost? Didn't she have this same conversation with me? Three times? One thing I have never been able to understand is how she can have the same exact conversation, word for word, with ten different people. Multiple times per person. Over, and over, and over. I'm starting to wonder if she has short-term memory loss. And honestly, considering the stuff she's inhaling over there, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.

"Mom! Can I go over there? Can I go to that shop? Can I? Can I? Can I?" Piper's son bugs her, rudely interrupting her while she's talking. She continues to chat the minutes away with Manhands, seemingly immune to his nuisance. If I ever tried that as a kid, I got yelled at. And spanked.

"Mom! Can I go to that shop over there?" the dirty boy asks again, pulling on mom's arm and pointing in my general direction. Wait. He couldn't mean possibly mean...my shop.

Soon, the boy decides to take matters into his own hands, prying his mother's fingers away and separating from her. Sure enough, he comes skipping right over here, much to my chagrin. As if I need any more dirt in my life. And did I really deem the potion shop baby the ugliest child in town? Because this kid might just give her a run for her rupees. He honestly looks more simian than hylian, with a bumpy, onion-shaped head and lanky arms that stretch down to his knees. His unkempt brown hair, which sticks out in all directions, looks as though it might have a rodent living in it. And his face—with his broad grin, wide-spaced teeth, and his runny, upturned nose—much resembles that of an evil jack-o-lantern.

The boy pitter patters into my store, pausing at the entrance to wipe his nose on his sleeve, which he then proceeds to wipe on my counter. Germs! By this point, I've already retreated to the back of my stall. But now he's moving this way. It soon becomes clear what's caught his attention—my expertly woven seed satchel. I cringe in horror as he stands up on tiptoes and reaches for it, my eyes all too easily finding the dirt clumped beneath his untrimmed nails.

"Little boy, please don't touch that," I tell him, keeping my voice light and gentle. He just turns his head and looks at me, his fingers already clamped around the satchel. I fail to maintain my composure, my friendly smile gradually sliding off my face. Don't you dare make me repeat myself, you little germbag.

Abruptly, he puts the satchel back down and slinks away from me, looking a little fearful. I guess he got the memo.

"So, how's the baby?" Piper's voice carries over here, once the haunted bathroom subject has exhausted itself. "Have you named her yet?"

"Nope, not yet! But we've narrowed it down to a few choices," says Manhands. Seriously? They still haven't named the thing yet?

Piper replies, "Well, I'll be eager to hear what name you choose." She looks down the aisle to where Bertie is slowly churning his cauldron, looking like he might topple forward and fall in at any minute.

"Wow...Bertie really has his hands full over there."

"Yup, my hubby's a real trooper! He's always happy to keep the baby entertained, though. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" Manhands leans in Bertie's direction and gives him a wink. He returns the sentiment with a wimpy smile, albeit a delayed one.

"Aw, you have such a good husband," Piper sighs dreamily. "Wish I could say the same. I'd be putting my man to work too, if I still had one."

"Heheheh! Well, we figured since I carried the baby around for nine months, now it's Bertie's turn to carry her for nine months! Fair is fair!"

Hope Bertie doesn't keel over dead. Now that I think about it, there are a lot of single parent families in Skyloft. And orphans. We must all be dying at young ages from all the inbreeding. Yes, that must be it. There are only so many options on this hunk of rock we all live on.

For some reason, my thoughts and subsequently my eyes wander to the Item Check. I note Peatrice's dark-blonde hair and narrow features. Gods. She could be my second cousin and I might not even know it.

"Mom! Mom!" the dirty boy screeches, his high, nasally voice violating my ears. He darts out of my shop and scampers back to his mother, leaving a little trail of dried mud in his wake...or possibly mouse droppings. Wonderful.

"Mom! Can we get some deku seeds?!" he grins up at her hopefully, practically buzzing with anticipation. She ignores him again. "Moooom!" he whines when she doesn't respond, yanking on her arm.

"Just a minute, Gully," Piper snaps. Gully? Even his name is annoying. Shockingly, Gully actually listens to his mother and shuts his little trap, but he doesn't cease pestering her in other nonverbal ways, hanging off her arm and stamping his feet against the floor. It's painful to watch. I don't know how she can stand it.

After another minute or so, Piper ends her conversation with Manhands and allows her son to lead her toward my stall. You have got to be kidding me. She's actually giving him what he wants after that? Wait—my smile springs onto my face—that's a good thing!

"Good afternoon, Piper!" I bounce forward to meet her, beaming. "Were you interested in purchasing a fine satchel of slingshot ammo for your son?"

"We don't need the fancy bag, we just need some of those rocks."

"They're deku seeds, mom!" Gully chimes in, before I can politely correct her.

"Deku seeds then," says Piper. "How much are they?"

"The seeds are sold separately in bundles of ten, for twenty rupees each," I answer like clockwork.

Her expression is set in a stern scowl, a look that is not flattering on her in the least. Ah, yes. That face always seems to turn up when customers hear my prices. Their eyebrows scrunch together. Their friendly smiles—if they had one to begin with—vanish into thin air, replaced by disapproving frowns. They all make that same damn face. Either that or they hang their mouths open like doofuses and pretend to look dumfounded.

"Are you kidding me? That's half a day's salary right there," Piper says. Unsurprisingly. I guess we're all poor here. "Well, you haggle, right? Can you knock the price down a bit?"

"I certainly can! All prices are negotiable," I say, suppressing a twinge of annoyance. She has a lot of nerve asking me after brushing me off earlier. "What do you say I lower the price to seventeen rupees? Does that sound fair?"

She contemplates for a moment, looking doubtful. "I don't know. I still think that's a bit much for me to afford."

"But mom! That's not fair! You promised!" Gully whines, tugging on her skirt and bunching the fabric in his hands. Spoiled brat.

Piper sighs, gently prying his filthy fingers off of her skirt. "Can't you go any lower than that, Rupin?"

"Perhaps..." Of course, sometimes it's better to sell something for a few rupees short of the full price than to not sell it at all. But I still have to use my discretion and make sure my customers aren't taking advantage of me. In most instances when they pull this crap, they can afford things just fine and this haggling business is just another ploy to rip me off. And mark my words, I will not be ripped off twice in one day.

"How about for a reduced price of fifteen rupees?" I offer. "Do we have a deal?"

"Fifteen rupees for a couple of deku seeds? Your prices are unheard of. I mean, they're just seeds for Gods' sakes! They should be free."

I refrain from bashing my head into the wall. No. Because then what would be the point of me offering them then? The only reason I stock them is because people keep buying them! "Well, deku babas aren't exactly common, dead ones even less so. We wouldn't go to such painstaking lengths to harvest their seeds if they weren't a valued projectile among slingshot enthusiasts." I mask my contempt with a lighthearted chuckle. Pure ignorance. "Out of curiosity, why does your son need slingshot ammo?"

"To get to Beedle's shop!" Gully blurts out. Oh. Well isn't that just delightful.

"I'm gonna hit his bell and climb the rope to get to the top!" he squeals. "I'm gonna climb up there and buy a net from him!"

"Not at this rate, you're not," says Piper, giving me the evil eye. "Can't you make an exception just this once?" she presses me, with a demanding edge that makes me not want to make an exception. She must sense this, because she eases up a little bit. She glances at Gully warily. "Please?"

"I'm very sorry, Piper, but I cannot give you these for free, because then I would have to do the same for everybody." And I would hardly make any money. "I'm afraid I cannot part with these for any less than fifteen rupees."

A very unpleasant moaning noise rises up in Gully's throat, like a siren. "C'mon, c'mon mom! Just buy them! Beedle might run out of nets soon!" he whines, getting visibly worked up. Several heads turn in our direction. I do believe my shop has just become the main attraction of the Bazaar. For all the wrong reasons.

"Would you please just lower the price a bit more?" Piper pleads with me. There's something resembling desperation in her eyes. She casts another worrisome look at Gully, who has become very, very antsy, and says to me quietly, "you don't know what it's like, being a single mother. It's not easy keeping him happy on a cook's wage."

I shake my head, my resolve only hardening. I have been subjected to guilt tripping and attempted emotional manipulation far too many times for either to have an effect on me anymore. This woman will not get the better of me with this scheme of hers. "Fifteen rupees. That's my final offer."

Gully watches his mother, awaiting her response with baited breath.

Piper frowns decidedly. "I can't. I just can't."

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Gully instantly wails at the top of his lungs, bursting into tears. His snot is dripping into his mouth.

Piper's unremarkable features contort with rage. "Now look what you've done!" she screams in my face. "Come on, Gully, we're leaving!"

She snatches her distraught son by the wrist and stomps off. He struggles to break free of her grasp as she drags him toward the exit, one arm still outstretched toward my shop. He howls like a wild animal, his face beet red and streaked with a disgusting mixture of tears and snot.

For a few seconds I just stand in the same spot, too shocked to even feel grossed out by the wet glob of spit she sprayed onto my face. Look what...I've done? What, because I refused to give away my wares for free? I'm not a charity! Anger surges through my veins like hot metal, momentarily blurring my vision. My head pounds. I grip the counter for support, trembling.

"You know, we are living in a society!"

I pause, surprised at myself. The words just boiled over before I could stop them. In that moment, dozens of eyes lock onto me. I'm perpetuating a scene. I'm perpetuating a scene but I don't care.

"You're supposed to act in a civilized way!" I yell after the mother and child, my voice cracking.

Without looking back, Piper raises her free hand and flips me the bird on her way out the door. I gape in disbelief, wanting nothing more than to rip into her. But now I'm very conscious of all the curious stares I'm getting. Waiting to see my reaction. I take a shuddering breath and choke down some expletives before I can say anything I'll regret, avoiding all eyes. Money. Rupees. Just stay calm for the sake of not losing rupees.

Once the moment has blown over and all the nosy bystanders have gone their separate ways, I snatch up the seed satchel they wanted so badly and start strangling it. How dare she insult me that way in public, while I'm manning my business. It's not fair that she can say whatever she wants while I'm forced to remain professional. If we were anywhere but here, I would have...I would...

I let out a ginormous sigh, the end of that thought dying along with it. Whatever fueled that outburst has been expended and left me emotionally drained. I can't believe I let her push me that far. It's not like I haven't had to deal with irrational customers countless times, but for some reason I'm never any less angry each time this happens. It just gets worse and worse.

I flex my fingers, squeezing the seed satchel a little harder. Deku seeds. It's always the deku seeds. That's it. After I sell the rest of my stock, I'm not restocking them again. Especially now that I know people are using them to get to Beedle's Air Shop. These pesky little seeds are just feeding my competitor, in the end. And besides, I'm sick of digging through rotting deku baba pods like some kind of scavenger.

I get the feeling there is still a pair of eyes on me. It's Manhands. She's still staring at me from across the room, even though the scene is long over. Indiscreetly, she sidles over to Bertie and whispers in his ear, throwing a not-so-secretive glance in my direction. Since she's so inept at lowering her voice, I hear every word.

"Rupin needs to chill out."

...

Chill out.

'Chill out?' Chill out?! I'm the one who needs to chill out?! Did she not see what just happened? Was she sleeping?!

What is wrong with this world we live in? Why is it that when someone behaves in an insolent manner, the person who calls them out is the one at fault? Why are people never held accountable for their actions any more? Why is it that?

The customer is always right, they always say. The customer is always right. Always right. Piper was wrong.

Is that a contradiction? No. Because she's not my customer anymore.

I fling the satchel I crushed into the storeroom and make a beeline for the exit. I need another break.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A/N: I felt like this story needed just one chapter with some really negative customer experiences, so this is it. Orielle and Parrow's scene was a challenge to write because I wanted them to be angry, but I didn't want to them to come off as totally irrational or OOC. Especially since people seem to generally like those two. But seeing as Piper has next to no characterization to begin with, I felt I could...shall we say, take some more creative liberties with her. Better yet, the stuff in this chapter was loosely based on some of my real customer service stories from when I worked the front desk at a public pool last summer. Because when bad things happen to you, just think of it as good writing material! I'm pretty sure the day I had a mom furiously blame me for her kid's meltdown was the day I came up with the idea for this story, so it only seemed right to pay a little homage to that.

Anyway, it is great to be back! After four months. Yeah, I know, that's so terrible. I'm sorry. I'm aware there's this pattern of authors updating less and less until they eventually give up and quit, but look, that is not going to happen to this one. I feel strongly about it and there's no way in heck I'd abandon it, at least not permanently. Along those lines, I would also like to say thank you for not abandoning this story, and an extra special thank you to everybody who has shown their support by fav'ing, following, recommending, and/or reviewing. The main reason I started writing this was because I wanted to make people laugh (no, not as an outlet for all my petty customer service angst), so it means a lot when you guys let me know you're out there paying attention. It's always cool to see when something I thought wasn't all that funny got a laugh out of somebody, or people trying to step back from Rupin's cloud of hatred and form their own opinions of the characters. Thank you so much for your continued patronage. :)