12 Ebony And Ivory

“If you’re struggling, you deserve to make self-care a priority. Whether that means lying in bed all day, eating comfort food, putting off homework, crying, sleeping, rescheduling plans, finding an escape through a good book, watching your favorite tv show, or doing nothing at all — give yourself permission to put your healing first. Quiet the voice telling you to do more and be more, and today, whatever you do, let it be enough. Feel your feelings, breathe, and be gentle with yourself. Acknowledge that you’re doing the best you can to cope and survive. And trust that during this time of struggle, it’s enough.”
~Daniell Koepke~

Phoenix Wright
Wright Talent Agency
May 12, 2019, 11:30 AM

Phoenix didn’t get to mope over the loss of Maya for too long. There had barely been time to press one last kiss onto her sweet lips before, to both their heartaches, she’d had to leave or risk being spotted. She’d managed to scamper out of his apartment with only a few moments to spare before Trucy had come bounding up the stairs at 4:00 on the dot from the school bus, which dropped her off right outside the building.

Normally he met his daughter outside at the bus stop and dropped her off there, every morning. However, right after Maya’s hasty retreat, he’d been too busy getting re-dressed and straightening out his clothing. The most time-consuming task had been trying to tuck his wildly disheveled hair, which was seemingly irreparable from Maya’s madly roving fingers, back into the beanie hat Trucy had made for him, making sure the yellow smiley face and pink letters spelling ‘Papa’ was displayed in their usual fashion.

Luckily, the bubbly little girl had been so breathlessly excited about sharing the news of her classmates’ delighted reactions to her wooden marionette, Mr. Hat, during the show and tell that day that she hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was awry with her Daddy. The only comment she’d made was that she was glad to see him smiling somewhat that day, even if his eyes still looked a little sad.

That morning, Phoenix had gone through his daily fatherly routine with his daughter as if he’d been doing so for ages, rather than mere days. While he was focused on making sure Trucy finished her cereal for breakfast and ensured she brushed her teeth and was washed up in time to take her to the bus stop, he did these actions as if on autopilot. His mind was entirely elsewhere.

The conversation he’d had with Maya, speaking out loud in detail about his adoptive situation with his daughter, had definitely helped put things into perspective. If he was going to be able to put food more substantial than empty-calorie, nutritionally unsound, sugary cereals and Chinese noodles into Trucy’s belly, he needed to step off his self-pity wagon, get off his duff and get a damn job to support himself and his growing little girl.

And regardless of how good he’d been, and how much he’d enjoyed creating caricatures back when he was in art school, being a street artist was hardly a pragmatic way to make a living. With his luck, his attempt to cash in on his meager drawing skills would end up with them demoting their diets down from Eldoon’s savory noodles to instant ramen noodles, in the manner of Dick Gumshoe!

But where to begin? Career choices were slim pickings for disbarred former attorneys. He wasn’t qualified for any non-lawyer-related office work with daytime hours that he could do while Trucy was at school. His clerical skills were pitiful; he was a hunt and finger-pecking, two-fingered typist and was nowhere up to snuff where he should have been for office software programs to be effective in administration. That had been why he’d had an office assistant in the first place! (God he missed his Maya!) Short of email and web browsing, Phoenix simply wasn’t a tech-savvy sort of guy; in this modern era of Smart Phones, he still had his ancient  Dumb Phone; a basic flip-style cell with the Steel Samurai ringtone that Maya had put on it back in the day. He kept it as such for two simple reasons – partial nostalgia of happier times with the woman he loved, and secondly, because he had no inkling (nor desire to learn) how to change it!

He couldn’t work in a store. They’d assume an alleged forger was also a thief who would pilfer their merchandise and make off with their wares in the middle of the night. As it was, his hobo appearance made the convenience store clerks look at him with trepidation, and had the cashiers at the supermarket eye him with clear suspicion that he wasn’t smuggling an unpaid-for item under his bulky sweatshirt. He’d seen the misgiving in their accusing eyes when he’d scrounged up the change to buy milk and bread for Trucy and coffee for himself that morning after dropping his daughter off at the stop. It was downright insulting.

Should he ever plot to steal anything, it would be stuff much cooler and valuable than produce! Hell, if Phoenix Wright ever chose the criminal path, he’d opt for a full-blown, Ocean’s Eleven film-style heist!

Back at his apartment, he munched at his peanut butter sandwich, which was to suffice as his lunch and hopefully dinner as he perused the want ads in that day’s paper. Nothing. Not a damn thing.

He didn’t want to sell Avon or Mary Kay catalog cosmetics. But what a kick Edgeworth would get if Phoenix opted to actually sell enough of the stuff to get that company bubblegum pink car though, especially after all the times he’d busted the prosecutor’s chops about his feminine choice of pink suit color!

He didn’t even have a regular driver’s license, never mind one to drive a big truck or forklift, so that was out of the question.

And he was very skeptical about the numerous ads asking for ‘beautiful ladies, discreet clientele, free training offered for personal massages, cash daily’. As much as he was willing to do anything for his daughter, dressing in drag and demeaning himself to giving rub n’ tugs to business-suited perverts that he possibly used to work alongside was too horrific a thought to even contemplate. And after reading the ad, the disturbing images of the screechy-voiced, balding prosecutor Winston Payne as the first and foremost sort of client who’d leap at the opportunity for a ‘happy ending’ couldn’t be shaken from his mind!

That was when he remembered Trucy’s offhand comment a few days earlier, after Edgeworth’s momentous visit.

“I saw an ad for a piano player at the Borscht Bowl, and who knows? Maybe you’ll be even better at piano playing than lawyering!”

True, he wasn’t a pianist, but it wouldn’t be the first time in his life he would be attempting the whole fake it till you make it approach. Hadn’t he become a renowned defense attorney by perfecting the fine art of bluffing, after all?

Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride
Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no
I got to keep on movin’
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride
I’m running and I won’t touch ground
Oh no, I got to keep on movin’

Humming the catchy reggae tune under his breath with his face set with grim determination, Phoenix swapped his comfortable sandals for a pair of trainers better suited for the half-hour walk. Bus fare cost extra, so his two feet and a heartbeat would have to suffice as his sole means of conveyance until he got a paycheck of some sort!

The greatest challenge in life is discovering who you are. The second greatest is being happy with what you find.

Phoenix Wright
The Borscht Bowl Club
May 12, 2019, 12:00 PM

The Borscht Bowl Club was a charming Russian restaurant, set in a double-story stone-walled building, with tiled mosaic floors. On the bottom level was a quaint tavern, featuring blue-tin ceilings and red velvet walls, mingled with twinkling chandeliers. Since it was daytime, only a small handful of customers were seated on the plush velvet chairs at the oak tables.

Standing inside the lower entrance doors of the bar, Phoenix felt beads of perspiration forming by his temples as his confidence threatened to leave him. He hadn’t been at the establishment since the fateful night of his girlfriend’s birthday. While he’d been a bar regular shortly after Maya and Pearls had moved back to Kurain, he’d snapped out of his funk before he’d become completely dependent on alcohol to ease his lonely sorrows. That, and the overly flirtatious advances of Tiffany, the blonde bombshell server who had always waited on him, had quickly turned from flattering to unnerving. He’d been too busy moping about the newfound loss of his beloved assistant and surrogate daughter at the time to indulge himself in meaningless dalliances and had also been too wrapped up in his career back then to pay heed to much else.

Good Lord! The hobo was officially sweat-dropping now. He was looking to work in the same place as Tiffany, the scorned waitress from his girlfriend’s birthday party! The same woman he’d made a complete fool of himself in front of and to whom Maya had been indefensibly discourteous! What on earth was he thinking?! Surely the buxom beauty would give the management a horrible character reference, whether one was solicited or not! Under the miraculous circumstances that he even got the gig, the sexpot would most certainly ensure his working life there was an utter and complete hell! Or at the very least, she’d probably ascertain that no bottle of grape juice he ever ordered would be without the inclusion of some creative addition to it!

He turned on his heel to leave, but then suddenly pulled an about-face and took a deep breath. No, he had to at least try. This was for his little girl. He couldn’t be a cowardly wimp about this. And besides, even if he did have to eventually face Tiffany, he knew for a fact it wouldn’t be then. She worked the night shift. Maybe he’d get lucky and she wouldn’t even recognize him in his current bum gear anyway!

Phoenix slowly approached the bar, which was being tended solely by a blonde woman wearing entirely too much eye makeup and toxic perfume. She was dressed for the chilly atmosphere of the bar, perhaps a tad overly so, in a fuzzy black winter hat and a cobalt blue coat with white fur trim, over which she wore a white apron. On her hands, she wore pink mittens.

Catching sight of him standing before her, in a heavy Russian accent, she nervously, and nearly inaudibly, asked if she could get him anything.

“No, thank you. I’m not here for a drink…”

“We serving food too, down here in the tavern for lunchtime, sir. You like try my homemade Borscht for lunch? I make special. Very good.”

“No thank you,” Phoenix repeated politely. “I’m actually regarding your help wanted sign for the piano player.”

He gestured to the large black baby grand in the corner of the room, which was presently devoid of a pianist.

A look of panic flickered across the woman’s overly made-up features.

“I know nothing of this needing pianist.” With her thick Slavic accent, the word sounded hilariously similar to penis and the ex-lawyer had to exercise every ounce of his self-control to keep from snorting with derisive mirth. “I am waitress upstairs only. I no hiring people. You talk to bartender. But he no here now.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Do you know when he’ll be in?”

“I know nothing.”

“I see. So … you don’t normally work here in the bar, huh? You work in the restaurant upstairs normally, you say?”

“Da.” The server nodded solemnly. “Bartender is late today. You stay here, he coming soon.”

“No problem. I can wait,” he assured her. “I’ve nothing else to do. Could I get a grape juice in the meantime?”

The woman reached down under the counter and handed him a glass bottle, shyly avoiding his eyes and holding it high at the neck so his fingers wouldn’t even accidentally brush her mittens during the interaction. He gave a smile of thanks and she returned it weakly before dropping her gaze.

They sure employed one helluva introverted gal to be waiting on their customers! He mused as he unscrewed the cap of his drink and took a hearty swig.

He sat there silently for a few moments watching the Russian wipe the glasses with a towel and clean off the counter. While he’d grown accustomed to being a recluse the past few weeks, he was suddenly starved for adult conversation. Besides, there was something about this dame that intrigued him somewhat, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why; it was as if there was more to her than met the eye. The hobo’s still not extinct attorney probing radar was in full force now.

“My name’s Phoenix,” he said affably. “Phoenix Wright. What’s yours?”

For a split second, he could have sworn the woman’s brown eyes widened slightly upon hearing his identity, but then her face resumed its stoic composure before he could be certain. In his present garb, the beanie-wearer was virtually unrecognizable from the lawyer images of him that had been splashed across all the papers and TV after the whole forging scandal. Ergo, her odd expression could have been attributed to having merely recognized his name, but somehow, he doubted that was the case. His instincts told him this didn’t appear to be the type of gal who followed the news of any sort.

“I am Olga,” she informed him stiffly, avoiding his eyes again. “Olga Orly.”

Oh really, Ms. Orly? Olga? Ugh, there’s the mother of all hideous names that no man wants to picture shouting out in bed!

He mentally berated himself for the crude notion, which was something more along the train of thought – or speech! – of his normally crass friend, Larry Butz. Not only did he not regard this strange woman in any sort of sexual light, but he’d only been disbarred a few weeks, and while his life was in the gutter at the moment, he saw no reason for his mind to so swiftly follow it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Olga.” He attempted to keep his tone pleasant despite the waitress’s incomprehensibly guarded countenance. “Do you know what happened to the other piano guy that used to play here? Mr. Willie Effastop?”

“I not hear of this man. I am new working here.” Olga did not appear to be enjoying conversing with him in the least. In fact, she looked downright pained; as if she dreadfully needed to pass gas but didn’t want to say anything.

“He played weekend nights from what I remember,” he persisted. “Do you normally work the day shift? Are you ever here on nights?”

“I working nights. I here daytime only because bartender coming late today. When he is coming, I go home, come back later for night shift.”

“Well then, maybe you did see Willie in action at some point? He was my age or maybe younger, with slicked-back blond hair. He was an OK pianist but a terrible singer?”

“Willie quit last month,” a deep male voice intoned smoothly, cutting into the dialogue and saving the job-seeker from the tooth-pulling task of attempting conversation with the tight-lipped waitress. “We’ve been searching for his replacement ever since.”

A tall young guy, about 6′ 4″ and broad-shouldered, suddenly appeared behind the bar, allowing Olga to make what could only be described as a hasty, grateful retreat. The new arrival was in his early 20s and clean-shaven, with chestnut hair that kept falling into his coffee-brown eyes, which were twinkling with amusement as he grinned at the anterior legal legend.

“Poor thin-skinned sap had a mini breakdown of sorts one night because some guy hauled his seagull-sounding ass off the piano bench to sing a song for his girlfriend. Mr. Frog-Voice never got over the ego-crushing agony of the crowd cheering more for this, and I quote: ‘damn showoff with lackluster pianist skills but somewhat passable singing voice’ more than they ever had for poor old Willie himself!”

He paused to take a breath and offered his hand to shake.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Tyler, the bartender/HR at this place until the owners, Boris and Natasha, get back from Russia tonight.” He smirked at the hobo’s incredulous expression upon hearing the names. “No, I don’t think they went there to go moose hunting!”

Fighting the slight blush tinging his cheeks about the reason for Willie’s departure, the would-be pianist stifled a snort upon hearing this while and he shook the proffered hand. Unlike Olga, the young man exuded a friendly kindness that he couldn’t help but be touched by, which somewhat softened the glacial formations around his heart, however briefly.

“Phoenix Wright, prospective Borscht Bowl piano player.”

And of disgraced, forging attorney acclaim.

An interesting thing that differentiated Tyler from the jittery waitress was the fact that if he had recognized Phoenix by sight or name, his visage never registered it. Instead, he smiled broadly.

“This is great! Weekends have seemed so dull without someone here to tickle the ivories since Willie left, and we’ve had a hard time finding someone that the owners approve of! I’m pretty easygoing, but they get the final say in the new musician. I’m going to give you a little trial, and if it’s passable, I’ll have you come by tonight to play a set for the owners to listen to, and see how the crowd takes to you. How’s that sound?”

“It’s fine.” The ex-attorney cleared his throat. “Um, just how good do I have to be? I’ve got to be honest here, Tyler … Willie was a far better player than me.”

“Nevertheless, the man cleared the room whenever he sang!” The barkeep laughed. “He would probably still be here if he’d just shut the hell up and played without the ear-piercing caterwauling! I have no idea why that tone-deaf tool thought that he could croon! Don’t stress too much about tonight; I’m going to be on duty so you’ll have me for moral support. I usually work the 12:00 PM to 10:00 PM shifts. The only reason I’m late today is that I had to take my wife to the doctor.”

The job hunter raised his eyebrows. The kid was married? He didn’t look a day over 21!

“I hope that she’s all right?”

“She’s better than all right – doc says she and our little one are doing just great! The baby is developing healthily and the constant kicking is a sign of vitality.” The bartender beamed, then gave a rueful shake of his head. “The doctor was a bit worried that the heartbeat was a bit strange, but he attributes it to Sasha’s high rate of caffeine consumption.”

“Oh, you guys are expecting? Congratulations! When’s the baby due?”

“In two months,” Tyler declared proudly. “Our first. But enough about me, let’s get you on that piano and hear what you can do!”

Ugh, was it that evident he’d been delaying the inevitable?

The spiky-haired man dragged his feet over to the instrument and sat down on the edge of the bench, willing his hands to stop trembling.

“I’m ready anytime you’re ready,” the young man called from behind the bar. “Trust me, I can hear you from here!”

That’s what I was afraid of.

With clumsy fingers, the ivory-tickler hurriedly hammered out a satisfactory rendition of Chopsticks, followed by Chariots of Fire.

Tyler flashed him a polite, encouraging smile.

“Not bad, but that’s only a couple of short bars! Can you play a full song?”

There was only one song Phoenix knew by heart. But there was no way he was going to sing the individualized lyrics to them.

No way, Jose! Not unless the bartender wants to see his new wannabe pianist have a complete breakdown in front of him due to the melancholic memories attached to “I Would Break Every Law For  You!”

With great reluctance, he began to play the opening bars to the famous Bruno Mars song.

Tyler listened intently, nodding his head in time to the beat.

“Grenade!” He exclaimed, applauding loudly when the song was finished. “A great, classic tune! Not bad at all. A little rusty…but I figure that’s just nerves, right? But … I thought you said you couldn’t play the piano?”

I can’t! I can just play that one song. And only because I personalized the stanza for the love of my life, who life has cruelly decided to snatch away from me, along with my badge, my hopes, my dreams, my dignity…

The faux-piano player gave a strained smile.

“So … does that mean I’m hired then?”

“Well, as I said, Boris and Natasha have the ultimate say when they come in tonight, but ultimately, yeah, you’re in. We’ll need you for the 6:00 PM till 2:00 AM Thursday to Sunday.”

“Six in the evening?” Phoenix echoed blankly. “Until two in the morning?”

“Well, of course, buddy. Those are the busiest nights at the bar! Did you think we needed a pianist for our non-existent lunch-hour clientele?” Tyler chuckled and spread his muscular arms out widely, indicating the nearly empty tavern. “Why? Is there a problem?”

The would-be musician scratched the back of his neck and gave the bartender a sheepish grin.

“A small one.” He tried to speak lightly. “See, I was sort of hoping this was a kind of day job. Or at least, not such a late-night job! The thing is, I have a daughter. She’s only eight…”

“And you can’t leave her alone. I gotcha.” Tyler crossed his arms and frowned. “Can’t she stay with her mom?”

“Her mom’s not in the picture. I’m a single father.”

“Damn! Can’t you figure something out? The job pays cash, plus tips.”

Tips? Huh. Maybe customers will pay me not to play? Then again, Willie would have made a fortune if they’d paid him not to sing…

“Maybe… I can work something out.” he hedged. “Could I get back to you?”

“Sure thing. I’m here till 10:00. Let me know.”

“I will. Thank you, Tyler.”

Phoenix reached into his meager wallet to pay for the grape juice he’d just consumed, but the bartender shooed his hand away.

“Forget about it. Consider it a welcome aboard drink.”

“But it wouldn’t be right to accept just yet,” he protested, embarrassed but touched by the unexpectedly kind gesture. “I’m still not sure if I can even commit to this!”

“I’ve got a good feeling about you.” Tyler winked. “You’ll be back.”

Phoenix nodded, then turned and slowly headed to the door, feeling as if his feet weighed like a ton of bricks with each step home. The good news was, he had a job. Starting that night. The bad news was, what to do about Trucy? He could hardly drag an 8-year-old to a tavern with him!

…Could he?

No, of course, he couldn’t! There had to be a better way than choosing the child-care method of a low-life, redneck, which would only result in the Old Battle-axe from Children’s Services having Phoenix’s head on a platter!

Once back at the office, the new hire picked up his desk phone and dialed a familiar phone number. After what felt like a million years, the other party picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hi, it’s me,” he blurted out quickly before he lost his nerve. “I know it’s been a while since we talked, and that things have been kind of weird between us since I sort of fell off the face of the earth. I’m truly sorry about that. But the point is, we’ve always been there for one another whenever it counted, and now, more than ever, I really need your help…”

Paul McCartney & Stevie Wonder – Ebony And Ivory

Matthew Wilder – Break My Stride