13 Let It Go

“We have to accept that there are certain things in our life that are inescapable. These are the things that come naturally to us and are necessary to our existence.”

Phoenix Wright
The Borscht Bowl Club
May 12, 2019, 8:45 PM

The bar was surprisingly packed despite still being early in the evening, and most patrons were already in the ‘happy zone.’ They didn’t even appear to mind or notice that for the last couple of hours, Phoenix had been playing the same half dozen little ditties he’d hastily attempted to teach himself via YouTube earlier in the day, practicing the easy keyboard tunes on the small children’s piano of Trucy’s at home.

However, as one of the few still-sober people in the bar, he couldn’t help but notice Tyler attempt to hide his cringing expression when the new hire launched into his Pirates of the Caribbean theme song for the eighth time that night.

The crowd didn’t seem to mind. They appeared to get a kick out of the Disney-themed music (since Phoenix had an 8-year-old girl, Team Rodent soundtracks were what she liked and hence, all that he knew!) and cheered loudly.

As he began another repeat performance of Let it Go, some of the customers even began to drunkenly sing along to the chorus.

Let it go, let it go
Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door
I don’t care what they’re going to say
Let the storm rage on
The cold never bothered me anyway

Let it go, let it go
Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door

Let it go (go, go, go go, go go, go go, go, go, go go)

Let it go
Let it go
Let it go

“No, no, not again!”

The music man heard the agonized, piercing wail from behind him out of the blue, startling him into breaking off in mid-song. He spun around in his seat to find, standing behind him, a tall, slender woman in a purple jersey dress, arms crossed over her chest in the identical manner of the man beside her, who was clad in a pinstriped dark grey suit and black bowler hat.

The woman was presumably in her mid-to-late 40’s, with sharp Slavic features and jet-black hair cut into a severe, geometric bob. Thick, Cleopatra-style bangs fell across her ivory forehead, grazing the heavily mascaraed lashes of icy blue-grey eyes, which were regarding him with undisguised irritation. Beside her stood a much shorter, stocky man of about the same age, with a pencil-thin brown mustache, piercing dark eyes, and bushy brows, which were knitted together with an irked expression, not at all dissimilar to his comrade.

Phoenix already had a sinking suspicion of who they were, so he hurriedly spoke into his microphone, citing that he was taking a quick break and would be back shortly, before turning back and flashing his most disarming grin at the unsmiling duo.

“I take you aren’t a fan of Frozen?” The new pianist quipped, addressing his comment to the woman who’d voiced the loud protest.

He took a moment to take note of her sleeveless frock. While she didn’t appear to be showing any evident sign of discomfort, there were visible goosebumps on her bare arms, undoubtedly from the frigid atmosphere of the bar.

“Perhaps it seems like I was making a mockery of the temperature of this place, huh?” He added sheepishly. “I honestly wasn’t! And it’s not like I should be complaining! I mean, sure my bare feet are cold in these sandals … But at least I’m in a hoodie and pants … whereas you – you’re in a strapless dress and must be freezing half to death…”

“Not at all. I am Russian!” Her voice was more Arctic than the sub-zero chilliness of the room. “The cold never bothered me anyway!”

“Right. Er, sorry, I guess us sun-worshipping Californians seem like a sissy bunch for thinking the atmosphere here is at all comparable to the climate of Siberia, or wherever in Russia it is you’re from…”

The hobo realized he was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. He chuckled nervously as they continued affixing him with their frosty stares, and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.

“Um, how do you do? I’m Phoenix Wright, your new pianist…”

“I insist that you stop this endless drivel, you no-goodnik pianist!” The man snapped, his eyebrows drawing together even more. In his agitation, his thick Russian accent made his words nearly unintelligible and made his pronunciation of the word sound like penis, just as hilariously inappropriately as Olga had. It was evident that the protesting wail earlier had come from him, and not his wife. “We knowink who you are! What I not knowink is what that durak, Tyler, was thikink! Or why anyone was thinkink  you  be suitable musician for our establishment!”

The spiky-haired man wasn’t quite sure what durak meant, but he was sure the presumably Russian word intended for the kind-hearted bartender hadn’t been a complimentary one. He hoped the younger man’s job wouldn’t be on the line for having taken a chance on him, since the owners, who this couple most certainly were, found his piano skills to be less than worthy!

“Dahlink, sharrup your mouth!” The Russian woman suddenly directed her glare away from the musician and toward her spouse. “This be no way for speakink about, or addressink, our loyal, valued employees!”

She turned back to Phoenix, her glacial gaze somewhat thawed now as she extended a slim, well-manicured hand.

“Please excusink my husband’s ill-manners,” she went on, in an accent that while as distinctly Russian as her partner’s, was infinitely more tangible. “I am Natasha Fatale Slotzky, one of the owners of the Borscht Bowl.”

She turned to her stoic husband, who seemed quite sullen at his wife’s reprimand, and slightly nudged him with the toe of her pointy-toed pump. When Boris still didn’t react, she literally stamped on his suede loafer with the spiky heel of her stiletto, causing him to yelp in pain and scowl indignantly at her before turning back to their new hire with a strained smile as he let out a pained hissing noise.

“Allow me to introducink myself. I am Boris Badenov, the other owner of this bar.” He offered his meaty, multi-gold ringed hand to shake. “Forgive my bad manners, Mr. Wright. We have been watchink you last couple of hours now. I sorry, but my likink for children’s movie song is runnink its course now.”

“Phoenix, please,” he insisted, blushing furiously. “I’m very sorry for incessant reruns, Boris, Natasha, it’s just first-night jitters, I suppose. I, er, haven’t played piano in an awfully long time…”

Like, for the past 27 years!

“…And I’m afraid my rusty skills are, therefore, the cause for my, ah, limited repertoire this evening.”

“You sair it!” Boris laughed. “Limited? I hearink less song repetition at Disneyland theme park!”

His spouse cast him a filthy look for this rude comment, and he flushed.

“Pardon me, um, what I meanink to say is, Phoenix … can you no be playing somethink unique? Maybe original tune of your own makink?”

“I, er…” the ex-lawyer felt himself sweatdropping at the unexpected request. “I’m a small-time ivory-tickler and hardly a composer, sir! But … I can certainly try…”

“I havink faith in you, music man,” Natasha assured him. “I am thinkink that we will get our money’s worth from you, somehow, as we be explorink some of your untapped talents.”

Her red lips turned upwards into a smile then. However, it didn’t appear to reach her shuttered, dramatically made-up eyes, and Phoenix suddenly felt a chill run down his spine that had naught to do with the temperature of the room.

Boris appeared to brighten upon hearing his wife’s words.

“Da, da Kotik,” he enthused, smiling adoringly at Natasha. “The best is yet to comink!”

Did he seriously just call her pussycat? The only reason I know that word is Mia told me Diego tried making that her pet name initially, but she put the immediate kibosh on that! Hence, he had to forsake it and opt for calling the Chief his kitten instead!

The Russian man turned back to his new employee, a sly smile creeping across his mug.

“Phoenix, you keep playink for one more half-hour, then we comink to see you again and talk about business, da?”

“C – Certainly, s-sir,” he stammered, feeling both slightly shaken at the command to become a composer barely three hours into his pianist career, yet relieved he would only need to pretend to play the piano for another thirty minutes.

“Original music playink only, Phoenix,” Natasha emphasized pointedly, flashing him a wink before sauntering off into the crowd. “You have been told!”

“Da, no more Disney songs, Phoenix, I beggink you!” Boris joked, tipping his hat at him before turning to follow his wife. “Else, I might be havink to kill you!”

Despite the fiendish grin that accompanied the words to pass them off as a jape, there was an instinctive, terrifying fear in Phoenix’s mind that the sinister-looking man had been jocoserious! He felt zero relief that the owners had left him alone for now, as he knew they would be remaining in that bar, perhaps out of sight, yet ensuring he was still visible to them. 

Together somewhere… Listening. Watching. Waiting…

With shaking fingers, the scrutinized new hire fumbled his way through a piece that sounded partially like an old crooner’s classic and part ragtime. He didn’t even have to glance up towards the bar area to know that Tyler was probably burying his head in his hands and ruing ever hiring him in the first place! A discreet glance at his new friend told Phoenix his guess had been correct. The bartender was staring at him, completely aghast, his thoughts stamped across his face as clear as day: Is he just making this shit up as he goes along?!

Suddenly, a shrill voice cut across the din, louder than Boris’s had, but this time, the high pitch was all too disturbingly, mind-numbingly familiar.

“What in tarnation is this dad-blasted so-called music y’all got here tonight? I’ll swanee that pianist must be more blind drunk than Cooter Brown, cuz he ain’t got no dang rhythm to speak of!  He’s just piddlin’ around and done hit the wrong keys at least three times just since my arrival!”

Good Lord. It can’t be…!

Phoenix had managed to get this far into his shift without any irreparable turmoil or drama, despite his less-than-stellar meeting with the owners. He had been thanking his lucky stars that he’d somehow managed to go all evening without even once having to see her.

His luck had run out. It was all over now. His past had come back to haunt him, and as much as he’d have loved to cut and run, there was no place for him to hide.

Unfortunately, dematerializing into thin air wasn’t among his hidden talents any more than piano playing was. He was trapped at that piano bench facing one of his worst nightmares come to life.

Standing next to Tyler at the bar, larger than life and shooting a glare that could have bored holes through a brick wall, was the jilted Southern Belle from Maya’s birthday party. There was no mistaking the indelible pneumatic blonde waitress anywhere.

It was none other than the one, the only, Miss Tiffany Pierce herself.

Idina Menzel – Let It Go (Disney’s Frozen Soundtrack)