A/N: Shoot it's been a long time. Since last February. Yikes. I'm really, really sorry, guys. Really REALLY sorry. I just want you all to know I never stopped caring about this story and I still intend to see it to the end. I only meant to take break from it for a couple months, not a year, but a bunch of other stuff got in the way. My new job, some other fandoms, having an original project in the works, etc.
I'm also sorry very this chapter is short after waiting for so long. It's named "Back Pay" because it's like money you should have been paid months ago...the words you should have read months ago. It ended up being a recap-type of chapter to help me get back into the story, as it touches upon all the latest happenings. I was going to write more before updating, but I'm sure looking at the huge mountain of work I had to do was a big part of the reason I kept procrastinating. So please understand I just had to ease myself back into this thing.
Thank you new reviewers/followers/fav'ers/people who showed up as hits on my traffic stats. It really helped knowing people were still finding this fic during the hiatus, reading it all the way through, and wanting to see it continued.
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The Customer Is (Not) Always Right
Chapter 22: Back Pay
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When I took that Goddess plume from Beedle, I made a deal with the devil.
There are two types of people in this world. People who revere Beedle as a deity and would bow to kiss his smelly feet for a discount extra wallet. And people who know what an honest-to-Goddess son of a bat he is. As far as I'm aware, I am the only living member of the second type.
'Beedle's Air Shop is environmentally friendly! How trendy!'
Beedle's Air Shop is emitting a noxious body odor strong enough to smoke a three hundred pound octorok to death.
'Beedle powers his flying shop all by himself with no mechanical assistance! He's so strong!'
Beedle's Air Shop is a death trap waiting to snap.
'Did you see the eye candy while you were up there? -Winkwink-'
Did you see the half-child, half-billboard mutant monstrosity while you were up there?
'He drops his ladder JUST FOR YOU to climb up! Ohhhh!'
You'd better pray he doesn't BREAK YOUR SKINNY LITTLE LEGS on the way down. Don't believe me? Then go ahead and let your eighty-year-old grandmother climb up there. Go right ahead.
'Ohhhh! Beedle's always so excited to see his customers! OHHHH!'
Yeah, maybe a little too excited.
I act enthused to see my customers too, and what do I get? The stink eye! Unreasonable refund requests! Inappropriate hugs. Middle-aged women eyeing my wares.
No one sees what I see, smells what I smell. It's blindness, is what it is. Beedle Blindness. And it's an epidemic that has swept this sorry little island like a second Thunderhead. It's a true act of godliness that I've kept my vision clear for this long, and remained staunchly anchored in the eye of the storm.
As of yet, there has been no discussion as to when the deal I made with Beedle expires. For all I know, it's indefinite. He thinks I owe him until the day we stumble upon that scummy little insect, no matter how long it takes. Just for setting me up with that stupid little shiny chunk of rock. An eye for an eye. A jewel for a 'jewel of a beetle'. And I'm all too aware of the dirty, underhanded tactics he's capable of employing to keep me under that green thumb of his.
"He saves his waste materials in old potion bottles and uses it to fertilize his pet tree!" I vent to my mother while working at my desk one evening. "Can you believe that?"
"I don't know Rupin," she replies idly from her perch on the couch. She flicks over a page of the novel in her lap, entitled Love Handles. "I think you should be more tolerant of other peoples' life choices."
I let out something between a scoff and a laugh. Tolerant? Tolerant? HER? Now she's just messing with me. She just likes to disagree to disagree with me. This has nothing to do with tolerance.
"You have this completely backwards, mother," I argue, scowling in her general direction. "You assume I care how Beedle lives his life. I don't. I don't give a flying feather what Beedle does with his bodily fluids, so long as he leaves me out of it! I want no part in his conservation efforts." I crumple up a piece of paper and toss it in the trash bin beside my desk. "Now Beedle on the other hand, if anything he's the one who's intolerant. He judged me for taking a leak off the edge. He scrutinized me with those creepy little eyes of his and condemned me for having normal bodily functions."
"Rupin! That's disgusting!"
My mother snaps her book shut and throws it down on the coffee table, swiveling to glower straight at me. For a few seconds I just stare back in bewilderment. Women don't get it.
"Is this how I raised you to be?!" she shrills. "T-hat's what—what greasy, ill-mannered pig men do! Not MY son!"
I give her an irksome look. Greasy pig men? "Sorry to ruin your innocence, but every mother's son does it. In fact, it's perfectly sanitary and far more clean than what Beedle is doing. So long as the wind is blowing in the right direction—"
"STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW! I will hear none of your filthy, barbaric escapades! Keep your pecker in your pants!"
I throw my arms up in resignation, and down, allowing my forehead to collide with my desk. Now I am reminded why I never confide in my mother.
"Have you seen the toilet at the Lumpy Pumpkin, mother?"
She snatches up her book, refusing to look up at me as she thumbs through the pages to find her place again. She's acting like I exposed myself in public and shamed our entire family.
"You can't seriously tell me you would sit on that toilet seat," I say. "I think I'll contract hepatitis if I breathe the air in front of the door. There's a reason I have regular nightmares about public restrooms."
"That's why you HOLD IT until you can make it to a proper restroom. Have I taught you nothing?!"
"Sure, sounds like a great way to get urine poisoning. Sign me up."
She turns once more to shoot me a dirty look before shoving her nose back in her novel. She looks like she's one step away from throwing me out of the house again. I glare at her in secret as she takes a sip from her teacup. I wonder how "tolerant" she would be if she knew how those tea leaves were grown. Should I tell her? ...
Nah. She can eat it for the rest of her life.
As she re-immerses herself in her questionable literature, I return my attention to the drawing board spread across my desk, where I just so happen to be sketching out plans for a garden. I've already picked out a name for my little project: Rupin's Environmentally Unfriendly Garden. AKA Operation Lengthen Rupin's Lifespan. Because If I'm going to hell, I want to put it off as long as possible.
Our backyard would be a perfect place to break ground if there weren't corpses decomposing beneath the soil. I'll have to scout out an island, when I can find the time. Too bad that won't happen any time soon. It will probably end up being a resolution best left for after retirement. Haha...what a joke.
I put down my quill and climb into bed earlier than usual, too mentally exhausted to continue working, but still too restless to sleep. The past week's torments whirr in my mind: my unwitting responsibilities to Beedle, my unwitting responsibilities to Dovos. Ugh. I don't need any of it. I don't need enemies. I don't need friends.
I'm so tired.
-:-:-:-:-
As always, sleep seems to compress the hours and the next morning arrives on swift wings. And by swift wings, I mean a guay colliding with my window at the crack of dawn. For a few minutes it lays on the ground beneath the window, stunned by the blow. Then it picks itself up like nothing happened and flaps away.
'An omen of Pain! Death! Misfortune!' That's what the loonies in town would have to say about this. People like Sparrot, and Beedle. There are deku nutcases everywhere I look.
I start to close the curtains, but then a ripple of movement catches my eye. Dozens of people are gathered in the graveyard out back. My heart lurches in alarm. This can only mean one thing. Oh…Gods.
DOVOS!
I scramble to dress myself, fear pulsating through my veins and far faster than caffeine ever could. Dead. Someone is dead. Why else would so many people congregate out there at once? I fly out the door and around the house, wide awake.
"Hey!" I cry out.
I reach the edge of the small crowd and tap the shoulder of the nearest person—Croo. He turns around.
"W-what is this?!" My voice falters and cracks. I look over Croo's head and peer through the small forest of bodies, but look away almost immediately, dreading what I might see. "What's going on here? Did someone die?!"
For what feels like an age, Croo just fixes me in that judgmental old man stare of his. Like I should already know. Croo and Dovos occupied all the same hangout spots, drinking at the Bazaar café by day and drinking at the Lumpy Pumpkin by night. Catch sight of one of them, and the other was never far away. Of course they must have exchanged words on multiple occasions. Of course Croo knows him on a personal level and would attend his funeral. Oh no.
"This is Henry's Memorial," Croo replies in grave deadpan.
My knees buckle underneath me as I'm hit with a wave of relief, as well as the urge to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. I whip around and run as fast as my shaky, jelly-like legs will carry me, out of the graveyard and down the path to town. Until I'm sure to be free of Croo's beady-eyed gaze.
It wasn't for him.
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By the time I get to the Bazaar, the shock from the death scare still hasn't quite worn off. An anxious knot has formed in my chest and won't go away no matter how many times I tell myself to calm down, making me feel ill. That was just too real. And I think there's a part of me that knows just because it hasn't happened, doesn't mean it can't or won't happen. It's possible he really did kill himself and no one realized it yet. I mean, it's not like he has any family around these parts or anyone who gives two craps about him. I guess I give one crap.
Before I know it, I am mere feet away from my shop, my entire walk to the Bazaar having been eaten up by my preoccupations with Dovos's fate. The first thing I see when I make it around the fortune telling tent is a wild plume of hair I would know anywhere, sticking up behind my counter.
"Kukiel!" I gasp. I am unusually relieved to see the little girl. The knot in my chest loosens, but doesn't disappear.
"WUPIN! You're late!" she scolds me, hands on her hips. She runs over, grabs my arm with both hands and hoists it over her shoulder, pulling me toward the storeroom.
"C'mon! We have to open up the store before witches get here!"
"Why...?" I mouth absently, letting her drag me over to the door. I feel only half here, like I left a piece of my soul back at the graveyard.
"Because! C'mon."
She reaches one hand up and pries at the door handle. This jolts me back to my senses. Small child. Weaponry. Bombs. Bad combo.
"Wait, Kukiel! Let me take care of that," I say, wriggling out of her grasp and sliding between her and the door. "You've helped around here plenty. Go ahead and get your tip jar."
"Hmm..." She sucks in her cheeks thoughtfully, but does as I say. She hugs the tip jar close and does what I think is supposed to be some imitation of a knight salute. "Okay! I'm goin' out!"
"'Atta girl."
I catch myself with a fond smile on my face as I watch her toddle away on her mission. I shake it off in embarrassment, then slap it back on when I remember where I'm at. That Kukiel. She really is impossible not to like.
As Kukiel's ponytail gets lost in the thickening crowd, who should she run straight past but Dovos himself. Dovos! I jump when I see him.
"Hey Rupin!"
"Dovos! You're—" Alive! Above ground! "Not in jail!" I go with.
He beams from greasy side burn to greasy side burn, undoubtedly mistaking my genuine relief for joy. I am relieved to see him. I am not necessarily happy to see him.
"That's right! And guess what!" He bounces up to my counter in excitement, resembling how I would imagine Gully to look if he were twenty years older and ten times larger. Wow. What brought this on? He's so...happy. Overjoyed, even. I should be happy for him, but for some reason I just feel irritated.
"I don't play guessing games. Just spit it out."
"Pumm gave me a job!" the news explodes out of him.
I raise my eyebrows, legitimately shocked at this positive turn of events. More shocked than I would be had that memorial been his.
"Um, wow. That's...great news!" I force an enthusiastic reaction out of habit, but I'm skeptical. For the first time, I notice the very official-looking delivery satchel slung over his shoulder, as well as the pristine, freshly-pressed pumpkin apron that hugs his girth. He surely did not dig that out of a dumpster, so it must be true. But how? Something isn't adding up here. "...How is this possible?" I ask, not concealing my puzzlement all that well.
"Pumm said he was thinking of hiring a part-time delivery boy, so he made a deal with me. I take orders all over Skyloft before lunch and dinner, and then I get to deliver the food! All by myself! I wonder how much money I'll make by the end of the week? Maybe not as much as I did when I was a trash man, but definitely more than I did as a gourmet!"
Oh. Now it all makes sense. Gods. Each day, he says something stupider than he did the day before. And each day I think, there is no way he can top that. But dammit, he finds a way to top it.
I exhale. I'm going to tell him. Someone has to tell him.
"And the best part about my job is getting to chat with people. Suddenly everybody loves me and wants to talk to me. It's like I'm not invisible anymore!"
Yeah, because now they don't have to get off their lazy butts to get some of the best pumpkin soup in the sky. "Er, Dovos?" I attempt to interrupt him with an awkward clear of the throat.
"Like, sometimes I would try to talk to Piper, the uh...the lady who makes the food. But she never said anything back. Do you think maybe she has bad hearing?"
"Yeah. That's probably it." I find my opening. "Dovos, I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Again." I press my lips together, bracing myself for his reaction. "But you're not working for money."
Predictably, Dovos's smile slowly vanishes. "I'm...not?"
"No," I say, "you're working off the debt you cost them for the smashing their pumpkins."
His posture slumps. "...Oh...I...uh. I guess...that makes...sense," he mumbles out. He scratches his temple. "But...if I do a really good job they might want me to keep working for them, right? And then they'll give me a real paying job!"
"I wouldn't get my hopes up."
His lower lip juts into a pronounced frown. Sheesh Rupin. What are you saying?
"I mean, um, it's not impossible. But don't count on it." I amend. "Just do the best you can do and don't expect anything good to come of it."
"Uh," he responds, seeming downtrodden. His gaze sinks to the floor. I guess he was hoping for a more reaffirming answer? Well, I'm not going to stand here and lie to him. Even though I am a pretty good liar.
"So...how many bottles of soup do you wanna order?" he asks, considerably less zealous than before. He produces a notepad from his satchel.
"Ahaha! Me, order pumpkin soup for an inflated delivery price? When I can just stroll over to the café and buy some there?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"...Sure. Put me down for one."
He brightens a little at this and scribbles down my order. Why not. I already expertly dashed his hopes and dreams once today.
"Okie dokie. One bottle of pumpkin soup for the super salesman!" Grinning, he puts away the order form and pats his bag, looking proud of himself. "There's a lot of people in the café, so I'm gonna see if I can take some orders over there."
"Ahaha, I'm not so sure the Bazaar cafe is the best place to peddle pumpkin soup," I tell him lightly, cringing at the thought.
He gives me a clueless stare.
"You know, what with the competition and all. If you're going to do that, you might as well use my counter space to sell your own wares."
He blinks in surprise. "Really?! I could I do that?"
"NO. No, Dovos. I was trying to make a point." I sigh. It's not worth trying to explain. "Nevermind. Listen. If I were you, I would make a trip up to the Knight Academy. Commander Eagus will jump at the opportunity to order some of his favorite soup."
"Oh! That's a good idea. I think I'll do that. Yeah..."
I still feel like I haven't left this conversation on a good note. Better throw in a little more hope to balance out the despair.
"Dovos, I know you're disappointed by what I've told you today..." I'm still having trouble figuring out how there was a misunderstanding. Didn't Pumm go over his terms and expectations? "But think of it this way. You have a purpose now!"
"Hey...you're right. I do have a purpose!" He pipes up, but he still seems sad, somehow. "It feels great, because you know...it wasn't like that before. I started getting desperate for a while there. Really desperate. I started thinking about doing some awful things to get out of debt. Like, maybe I could steal something valuable from Beedle's Air Shop and get away with it."
Well. This is unexpected. And deeply personal. Why is he telling me this all of the sudden?
"I wouldn't have actually done it! But I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while. It seemed like an easy way out. Just had to go into the shop when there's nobody else up there and grab something. He never looks right at you, so you wouldn't have to wear much of a disguise, and it'd be pretty easy to get away. He couldn't chase you or anything or his shop would fall out of the sky and crash."
I laugh out loud, evilly. I can't help it. The image he's describing is too funny. I can't help that I derive pleasure from the thought of Beedle's turmoil.
"I'm sorry, it's not funny at all. I don't know why I laughed just now. Pff." I cover my mouth, but this is one grin I can't seem to wipe off my face. This may just be the highest degree of critical thinking I've ever seen Dovos display. "Now you know, as a shopkeeper myself I could never condone shoplifting—"
"I-I wouldn't have actually done it!" he insists again. I'm pretty sure he thought I was laughing at him, thankfully.
"I know. I was just going to comment that your line of thinking is a bit unoriginal. Perhaps you're unaware, but someone already beat you to the punch. Remember good old Pidge, the escaped convict? He attempted to rob Beedle of his valuables several years ago. What a mess that caused, and guess where he ended up."
"Yeah...in the slammer," Dovos drawls. "I guess I got that bad idea from him. Whoops."
"Mmhmm."
Dovos seems torn between being embarrassed by his out-of-nowhere confession and confused by my reaction to said confession. He stands there and fidgets for a few seconds, like he wants to ask me something else.
"Hey, uh," he starts off a little tentatively, "we're still on for tomorrow night, right?
"Huh?" Tomorrow...tomorrow. What was tomorrow?
"Y-you know...the...Lumpy..."
"Oh! Yeah. Right. I hadn't forgotten about that or anything." I totally did. "Sure. We're still on."
"Yay! I can't wait! Maybe this can become a regular thing or something."
"Ahahaha..." I just smile back and chuckle, not wanting to give a straight yes. Or a straight no. Good grief. Just because I bought him a drink once doesn't mean I signed up for a lifetime of counseling and awkward, one-sided friendship.
"Well, I'd better get up to the academy and take some more orders before it's time to start delivering," Dovos says with a parting wave."See ya later, Rupin!"
"Haha. Yeah. See you."
He waddles off toward the exit of the Bazaar with a small skip in his step, though I could be imagining it. I guess he'll be all right...
For now.
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