Mr. Cherry's Oddities

Mr. Cherry was a man troubled with an unusual problem. 

Though he believed himself entirely ordinary, with ordinary beliefs and ordinary habits, oddities, size and shape varied, befell him at a frustratingly frequent rate. It was a maddening sort of thing, really. Observant and well-travelled colleagues of his, most of whom he admired dearly, generally encountered no more than half a dozen strange, unusual, or bizarre happenings in a year. Lowly Mr. Cherry was subject to thrice that number in a single week. 

At times of particular irritation, Mr. Cherry would often write in his journal, he felt he was at the center of a large, naturally supernatural, conspiracy. Perhaps one orchestrated by a large committee or society of peculiarly inclined creatures. Yes, he believed a powerful bureaucratic body was at the heart of his predicament. Chance, in all its prowess, was simply too inconsistent to orchestrate such a routine. What he could not grasp, however, was the why behind it all. He was not powerful enough to be held to such constraints, nor was he meek enough to be bullied so indiscriminately. It was highly unlikely he had something of value or interest either. He was paid well below the threshold he considered to be wealthy. There was, he suspected, an odd purpose for his torment. 

In time, Mr. Cherry learned to document his encounters with the bizarre more closely; remarking their size and shape and, perhaps most notably, the circumstances of their manifestations. And, by product of this extensive personal research, he arrived at the less than comforting conclusion that oddities, size and shape varied, occurred to him only when he was alone. Believing it possible to resolve the issue amicably, however, Mr. Cherry began to orchestrate the necessary conditions for a meeting. 

A location would be necessary; somewhere isolated and with little possibility of company. Perhaps night would work best too, after all, 84% of his encounters transpired at night. And, if he could be so fastidious, somewhere comfortable would be preferred. Always best to be comfortable if one has to wait. With due deliberation, Mr. Cherry quickly arrived at a place. 

Under the guise of unfinished reports and general commitment to the company, Mr. Cherry found himself alone in his office one night. The custodians, of which there were three, left at a quarter to eight. It seemed the perfect location for Mr. Cherry's hopeful diplomacy. Sitting in his office, his back reclined and cushioned, Mr. Cherry waited patiently. Though he was not one to boast or relish in his cleverness, Mr. Cherry could not help but smile. All that was left to do now was wait. And with his feet kicked up onto his desk and the lamp light dimmed, Mr. Cherry was okay with that. 

***

Having dreamt of a great fall, Mr. Cherry awoke in a sweat. His eyes fluttered with haze and his stomach growled. He wondered, frightened, of course, if he had slept through the entire night. That would be disastrous, he thought to himself. Mr. Cherry looked at the wrist on which he kept a watch, and read the time. Sleep, it would seem, had stolen a little more than an hour from him. A minor setback, to be sure. Distrusting of his chair, however, Mr. Cherry headed toward the bathroom. A splash of water and a quick tinkle should get him sufficiently alert. 

He took his pick of a stall, unzipping his pants in the third from the right. When he was finished, he washed his hands meticulously on the central sink. The soap smelled delightfully fresh but the water was rather cold. He thought of changing the temperature of the water, warming it just slightly, but decided against it. Mr. Cherry already had one close call with comfort, a second would be far too risky. As he dried his hands, he took a moment to look in the mirror and compose himself. He was not a vain man by any means but he wanted to look presentable for his meeting. As he brushed his hand through his hair, noting how gray he had gotten, he caught something strange in his reflection. Proud of his etiquette, Mr. Cherry was certain he had closed the stall door. Yet, in his reflection, it appeared left ajar. Ashamed of his carelessness, Mr. Cherry turned around with the intent of correcting his mistake. But as he did, he discovered his manners had indeed not failed him; the door was closed as were all the rest. He turned around once again, inspecting the mirror before him. The mistake remained.  

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “This is not correct at all!” 

He turned toward the closed stall behind him. 

“You see, that door is closed!” he said, turning back around to face the mirror. “But you have-”

The mistake was corrected. Such frustration had rarely permeated Mr. Cherry so. He slammed his fist against the porcelain sink.  

“Right. I would like to speak with a representative, please.” 

Mr. Cherry waited patiently for a response. He imagined there might be some chain of command his demand must be subject to. And while he was not particularly fond of pointless bureaucracy, he understood his role in it. But as his wait approached the forty minute mark, his conviction weakened and he was driven out of the bathroom by frustration. Discouraged, he tried to rationalize his situation. 

“I will just have to wait for the next one. Perhaps they will be more responsive then!”

And so, he headed back toward his office, turned on the overhead light, stiffened his chair, and waited. Mr. Cherry was sure he would not fall asleep now. He was simply too uncomfortable to be seduced. Still, he supposed some light reading would be fine. Mr. Cherry was a patient man but not one immune to boredom. 

He searched for an interesting piece of literature in his small bookshelf. Among exciting reads such as annual company compliance reports and human resources policies, he uncovered a cook book he had not seen in some time. Authored by an individual Mr. Cherry recognized from television, he imagined it suitable enough for his needs. 

He opened the book to the dessert section, landing on page sixty-one. Mr. Cherry was not a big fan of pies, much less those involving fruit, but he figured a pecan was far enough removed. He started with the ingredient list, which was short and quite manageable. Beyond the pecans, which he expected, he saw eggs, butter, corn syrup, sourdough discard, sugar, flour, salt, and soy sauce. Entirely aware of his incompetence within a kitchen, he was confident that the last ingredient was highly unusual. Curious, he flipped a couple pages over to another pie recipe, this time a strawberry.

Mr. Cherry perused the ingredients here again, noting once more that beyond the strawberries, sugar, eggs, butter, corn syrup, sourdough discard, flour, and salt, soy sauce was once again required.

“Huh. How strange,” he thought aloud.

Mr. Cherry flipped the pages back to the pecan pie recipe, hungry for confirmation. Back on page sixty-one, he read through the ingredients again, seeing not only that vinegar had remained but that the quantity required was now three liters. His lips curled so hard a laugh nearly escaped through them. 

“Well, well,” he began, looking around the room. “Seems like quite a recipe for pie. Three liters of soy sauce? I’d say that’s highly unusual.” 

He leaned back on his chair. He knew this to be far too obvious an oddity to be left unanswered. All he needed to do was keep the page open and his eyes on the ingredient list. They had to respond, he thought. 

He waited for a few minutes, nearly wavering when his watch marked the half-hour. Still, he was filled with conviction and thus persisted.

“Really fellas?” a voice shrieked from above Mr. Cherry’s head. “Who’s behind this one?”

Mr. Cherry’s neck nearly snapped as he looked to the ceiling. There, just between two incandescent light rods, a little purple spot met his eyes. He looked hard at this colorful sphere above him, watching it move to the left and to the right at a hurried pace. 

“I mean, c’mon. Three liters of soy sauce?” it spoke once again.

Mr. Cherry stood up on his chair quickly. He could not believe his eyes.

“Seriously! I want to know who’s responsible for this one!” 

“Who are you speaking to?” Mr. Cherry asked as he poked the little orb. 

A soft, squishy thing, the purple sphere disappeared shortly after being touched. 

“I’ll be with you in just a moment, Mr. Cherry,” the voice spoke, now from behind Mr. Cherry. “Mark, see if you can calm him down.”

Mr. Cherry’s eyes widened. He stepped down and turned around. Before him, draped in a tailored suit, was a small creature best described as a red ball with limbs. 

“Right, hello, Mr. Cherry. Please forgive my colleague, he’s quite colorful in his language,” it began, tucking away a tiny device into his small breast pocket. “New hires, huh? Barely out of school and already think they’ve got it all figured out! Ah, the folly of the young, am I right?”

“S-sure, I suppose. Where did that purple thing go?” Mr. Cherry replied. 

“I am not sure what you mean,” it responded coldly. “Now about the small mishap with the culinary literature.”

“Yes. YES!” Mr. Cherry spoke with excitement. “I caught that one quite quickly!”

“Indeed, you have.”

“And now I’ve got you here! You can help me, I presume?”

“Right again.”

“This is great! Just great! Okay, so-”

“Please allow me to extend our deepest apologies. This was a clear breach of our contract and I assure you it will not happen again,” the creature interrupted, pulling out a small clipboard from behind his back. “In terms of compensation, there’s a few packages we can offer you now, Mr. Cherry.

“We can suit you up with a 30% increase on all animal and food related oddities for the next eight months. This would include any visual and auditory queerness but I am afraid we cannot guarantee you any tactile experiences. New policy, I’m afraid. Alternatively, I may be able to grant a 63% boost on all peculiar human interactions through the next six months. Now, this second offer does have some limitations as to wh-”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Cherry interrupted as he leaned toward the creature. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah, my apologies. I am moving too quickly,” the creature responded. “The first package incl-”

Mr. Cherry grew frustrated. 

“No, no,” he interrupted. “You misunderstand me.”

“Hm?” the creature grunted inquisitorially. “How do you mean?” 

“Right, who are you?” Mr. Cherry asked, “and what contract have you breached exactly?”

“Oh, where are my manners? Please, call me A.J. It is a pleasure to meet you!”

Mr. Cherry extended his hand out cautiously and shook the small ball’s outreached hand. 

“A.J.? Is that short for something?”

“No?”

“Right. And my second question? The contract?” Mr. Cherry asked.

“Yes, that one I am afraid I am a little confused about as well. Surely, you do not mean to tell me you are not aware of your contract with us?” the little red creature asked. 

“I am afraid I am.”

“One moment, please,” the small creature asked, pulling out the tiny device from his breast pocket once again. It turned away from Mr. Cherry, brandishing a polite smile and an apologetic look.

“Sure, sure,” Mr. Cherry agreed, averting his gaze in turn. 

Mr. Cherry knew it was impolite to listen in on this creature’s conversation. Sure, he had been tormented for quite some time but he considered his manners to be among his most envious qualities. And so, he made no effort to hear the conversation occurring before him. After a few minutes spent looking around the room and distracting himself with thoughts of dinner, Mr. Cherry was called back into the conversation.

“Just a very quick clarification, Mr. Cherry.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Your first name,” it asked, “would you mind spelling it for me?” 

“Of course. That’s R-A-I-N-E-R,” Mr. Cherry responded. 

“Ah, okay, okay. And that’s always been the case?” it asked as it flipped through the clipboard. 

“Has my name always been spelled R-A-I-N-E-R?” Mr. Cherry clarified.

“Yes.”

Mr. Cherry nodded quite profusely. 

The pair stared at one another for a moment. A.J. looked down at his clipboard and back up at Mr. Cherry before whispering something into the little device.

“So there’s no Y in there? Not even a little one?”

Mr. Cherry nodded adamantly once again. 

“Right. Okay. That’s a problem,” A.J. spoke as he paced. 

“Alright Mr. Cherry, it seems our system mixed you up with another client. Please rest assured you will not be charged for any past oddities, strange occurrences, or peculiar creatures you may have come across. And we will, of course, be sure to revert you back to the appropriate plan in the next five to eight business days.” 

“What plan!?” Mr. Cherry asked in irritation. 

“Do not worry. We will be in touch,” A.J. responded. 

Just as it spoke, it was gone. A little dent marked where A.J. had stood. 

Mr. Cherry, naturally uncertain about what he had just experienced, reached for the only tangible proof he could think of, the culinary book. And there, written just below a nicely framed image of a delectable pecan pie was a list of ingredients required to bake a formidable pecan pie. And though it offered no clear explanation for what had happened, Mr. Cherry was delighted to find the three liters of soy sauce had been crossed out in a red pen and marked “under review”.