Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection

by Max Florschutz

  “What’s the matter, church boy?” A.D. asked, leaning forward and glaring at him. “Think you’re good just because you went out in the woods and prayed for a little while? What’s that? Eating a salad? Never gonna work, fat-ass, unless you start running away those miles! Then again, that’d involve getting off your knees once in a while.”

  Lame, Mark thought as he took another bite of his salad. Not even the rest of A.D.’s clique had been able to make their laughter at that sound real. Somebody is scraping the bottom of the barrel today.

  “Look at me when I talk to you,” A.D. said pushing his face up close to Mark’s. There was a warning whistle from across the room.

  Lunch lady to the rescue, Mark thought as A.D. pulled back, his angry glare so sharp it felt it could have cut to the bone.

  “You know what I think?” A.D. began. “I think being on your knees is the best position for you.”

  Mark couldn’t help himself as his eyes narrowed. I see where this is going.

  “Yeah, it shows the rest of us real people what you’re good for,” A.D. continued. “Being below us, with your bigoted beliefs and—”

  Mark tuned out his words, his eyes fixed on the distant bank of microwaves as A.D. continued to talk. Third from the left, right? he thought as he focused. That was the one you put your lunch in.

  He’d had a long talk with his dad at one point during the trip. As it turned out, his dad was a bit more shrewd—and vindictive—than he’d ever imagined. And he’d had plenty of ideas about what to do.

  “Hey, A.D.,” he said, cutting off the older teen’s tirade—something to do with Mark’s genitals and what they were good for. He pointed at the microwave, which now had smoke pouring out of it. “Wasn’t that your lunch?”

  “Shit!” A.D. bolted across the cafeteria, his taunts forgotten in his haste to get to his food. He wasn’t quick enough, however, and by the time he opened the microwave, the entire cafeteria was watching as he pulled the slightly charred remains of his meal out into full view. Laughter rolled through the students like a wave, broken only by A.D.’s cries of “Shut up!” as he tossed most of the ruined lunch into the garbage.

  Mark just went back to his salad, a faint smile on his face.

  He was still in Montana. He still didn’t have any friends. There still wasn’t any soccer. His school still hated him.

  It sucked, and he’d have to deal with it. For now, though … He took another bite of his salad, watching as A.D. weaseled his way into half a lunch from one of his followers.

  He just had to keep going. Do what he could with what he had. Get in shape. Keep practicing with the ball. Don’t give up. Figure out whether he wanted to register himself or not. Where he wanted to go to college. He smiled as he took another bite of his salad.

  It wouldn’t be easy. But he always had his parents. They’d help out where they could.

  And until things died down and the school got bored? Well …

  He grinned. As it had turned out, his dad had come up with quite a few good suggestions for ways to use his new power to get even in sly, subtle ways.

  Me … an Unusual. He took one last look at the disgusted A.D.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Monthly Retreat

  Monthly Retreat is one of those ideas I just had to get out on paper. Not only does it combine a lot of my favorite elements to write about into one story, it also explores an avenue that I think resonates with a lot of us. Which is perhaps why I like it so much: not only does it touch on a topic that can strike close to home for many, it does so in a manner unexpected but at the same time familiar, while still wrapped in that shroud of the fantastic and surprising.

  In short, it’s one of my favorite stories in this collection.

  “So you haven’t told him yet?”

  Alma let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping as she lowered the ream of paper she’d been unwrapping to the table. “No, Jane, I haven’t.”

  “You need to tell him,” her friend said, clicking her tongue. “Sooner or later.”

  “I know, Jane,” Alma said as she tugged the printer drawer open, possibly with a little more force than was needed. The ream of white printer paper dropped into place with a neat series of clicks. One good shove later and the printer was ready to get back to work at … whatever it was they were printing for the customer in the front of the shop. Probably flyers for some event at the community college.

  “And I know that tone,” Jane said, giving her a wide grin. “That’s your ‘we’ve talked about this already, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore’ tone.”

  “I have one of those?”

  Jane laughed. “Alma, honey, you got one of those the moment you became a mom. It came with the territory.”

  “So you can tell what tone it is enough to harass me about it, but not enough to actually take the hint?” Alma asked, reaching down under the cupboard to grab another ream of paper. I might as well fill the other drawers while I’m at it, she thought. Smooth, painted wood met her hand. Unless we’re out down here too. That meant a trip to the back room.

  Well, she thought as she rose, straightening her back. At least it’s a convenient way to escape this conversation. “Sorry, Jane,” she said, interrupting what was undoubtedly about to be another lecture on why she should’ve told her husband already. “We’re out of paper; I’m going to go get some from the back. You’ll have to take over for me.”

  “Oh,” Jane said, pausing. “Are you sure?” she asked after a moment. “I could have sworn there were two left down there.”

  “Pretty sure,” Alma said, tugging the cabinet door open once more. She crouched, probing the shelf for another ream. Her fingers met paper, and after a second’s consideration she pushed it back.

  “Yeah, we need more,” she said as she shut the cabinet. “I’ll get it.”

  “Well, all right,” Jane said, frowning. “I could have sworn I grabbed another one yesterday. I must have miscounted.” She stepped over to the printer as Alma backed up, her fingers swooping in to neatly tuck themselves beneath the small stack of paper on the out tray. “Go ahead; I’ll pester you when you get back.”

  Hopefully not, Alma thought as she headed towards the back of the small print shop. I really don’t want to go over this again. I know she’s just trying to help, but … She shook her head as she passed into the back, her long brown hair whipping around her face. Ugh … why me?

  Behind her, the door to the shop swung closed, throwing the room into darkness. She stood still for a moment, her eyes adjusting and changing faint shapes into objects that she recognized: Reams’, rolls’, and boxes’ worth of different types of paper: Everything from plain printer paper to cardstock filling the stockroom’s shelves. The shop’s metal stepladder, slightly off-balance on the uneven concrete. The fluorescent light fixtures overhead, slowly transforming from long, rectangular shadows into housings of depth and definition.

  Amazing. She glanced back at the doorway. The only light source the room offered was from the cracks around the door: Bright lines etched against the wall that shifted as someone beyond them moved about. Probably Jane, moving from point to point as she ran the shop.

  Alma turned back to the dark storage room. Her vision hadn’t adjusted much further, but she still felt impressed. The whole room almost looked like it was aglow under some pale luminescence, everything built of shades of blue and black. No wonder Jane always has a low electric bill for this place, she thought as she took a step forward, towards one of the shelves. I wonder if— She squinted. Nope. Her eyes were good, but not that good. The bluish tint to everything had made it even harder than normal to read the tiny labels on the sides of the reams.

  Well, so much for that, she thought as her fingers found the light switch and flicked it upward. Blinding, white light filled the room, and she squinted once more as her eyes fought to adjust to the sudden shift.

  And … That one, she thought, reaching out and grabbing three ream
s of plain-white printer paper. Must be a lot of parties going on this weekend. Not for her, thankfully enough. She still had another week and a half before she had to worry about that.

  And I’m right back at thinking about it anyway, she thought as she flicked the light off. Wonderful.

  She took a quick look up at the front of the store as she stepped back into the front of the shop. Jane was manning the register, her long, jangling earrings swinging with every shake of her head as she chatted with one of the customers. The college student that had been waiting in line for his flyers was gone, probably already down at the corner stapling the first of them to the nearest telephone pole. There were two more customers standing in line behind the one that Jane was helping, but both of them had a relaxed look about them, and neither of them moved to take up a position behind the other register. Either they were waiting for something that was going to be coming out of the printers momentarily, or they were there to pick up an order. Either way, Jane could handle things on her own up front.

  Hell, she did for years, Alma thought as she crouched next to the printer cabinet and shoved two of the new reams into place next to the one she’d pushed into the back a minute earlier. You’re here to just be an extra hand, and as a favor. She can handle three people easily enough. The final ream she’d grabbed went into the printer’s second drawer, the plastic sliding shut with a satisfying snap. But at the same time … She wandered over to the shelving on one side of the shop, running her eyes down the list of completed, plastic-wrapped orders before settling on a stack of business cards for something called “Marcus Meats.” There was a note rubber-banded to it that said it had been pre-paid.

  Right, she thought, glancing back at the line. “Excuse me,” she said, holding up the small pack of cards as both the customers waiting in line looked at her. “Is this yours? Pick-up, pre-paid?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s mine,” said the first customer, waving his hand as he stepped up to the counter. “I’m Marcus.” He had a thick, heavy beard, long enough that she couldn’t even see the neck of his t-shirt, and he smelled like blood. She had to fight to keep her nose from wrinkling. There were things you could get away with doing to a customer, but acting like they smelled wasn’t one of them.

  “All right,” Alma said, nodding as she set the stack of cards on the counter. “We’ll need a receipt or we’ll have to ring you a new one as proof of pickup.”

  “No need,” the man said, grinning as he flipped his wallet open and pulled out a battered slip of paper that brought with it a fresh scent of raw meat.

  Hmm … Alma thought as she smiled at him and took the receipt. Which is worse? People’s food smells? Or bad perfumes and cologne? There had been a student in earlier that Jane had actually refused to serve until she’d sprayed him down with Febreze. No wonder Jane goes through so much of that stuff.

  “Here you go,” she said, pushing the small, plastic-wrapped set across the counter. “You a butcher?”

  The man nodded. “Yup. Guess the cards made it pretty clear.”

  “You have good prices?”

  “Of course! And a good range too. Want a card?”

  “Actually, yeah,” she said, extending her fingers as he cracked the plastic wrapping between his hands. “You know, with summer coming and all.”

  “Hey, if you’re looking to do some grilling, check the back,” he said, tapping one finger on the top of the card as passed it to her. “If you bring in a receipt from a new grill purchase, I’ll give you twenty percent off of any order weighing more than fifty pounds.”

  “That’s … actually really appealing,” she said, flipping the card in her fingers and eyeing the declaration across the back. “Really. You might see me soon.”

  “I hope so,” he said, giving her a nod. “Speaking of which, I’d best get back. Lunch break … You know how it is.”

  “Sure.” She returned his nod as he walked out the door, then glanced at the card. It was high-quality stock, with a smooth, blemish-free surface that was fairly durable as far as business cards were concerned. Marcus was apparently serious about making the most of his butcher shop.

  I’ll have to stop by and see what he’s offering, she thought as she slid the card into her pocket. It’d be nice to find a better place to pick up some good cuts. Especially with the way she’d been so ravenous for meat lately. Even Jon had noticed the shift in her diet—not that he was complaining. He’d always been a bit of a carnivore. For him, his wife’s sudden upswing in meat consumption was just one more reason to pick up steaks more often.

  And drop hints about a new grill, Alma thought as she checked the rest of the store. Jane had moved outside the counter, helping out the last customer with one of the computers as she tried to print something. Which he’ll probably get pretty overt about if he sees this card.

  Then again, that wouldn’t be that bad. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the extra money. Between the raise he’d gotten at Christmas and the paychecks she’d picked up working for Jane over the last three and a half months, they were building a tidy little savings account. Nothing earthshaking, but useful if something unexpected happened or they wanted to splurge a little on a luxury. Like a vacation trip.

  Or a barbeque, she thought as the printer began spewing out pages. She walked over to the machine and slid her hand underneath the outflowing papers, frowning slightly as the tips of her fingers caught against the bottom pages. In the months she’d been working for Jane, she still hadn’t managed to master the art of slipping her hand along the bottom of the tray in some way that wouldn’t catch on the bottommost paper, creasing the side. No one had complained yet, however, since she’d never managed to do worse than leave the lone blemish.

  It took the printer another minute to finish spitting out papers, by which time Jane had already moved on to help another customer who’d wandered in—this one smelling strongly of cigarette smoke—which left Alma free to ring up the older customer’s order. She passed the woman’s papers over, accepting her payment of five dollars and twenty-three cents in assorted small change and carefully counting it out under a watchful eye. By the time she was done and the woman had walked out, the new arrival had already left, leaving Jane leaning against the counter nearby.

  “So?” she asked as Alma closed the register.

  “So what?”

  “So when are you planning on telling him?”

  This again, she thought with a sigh. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Well, we could, but I feel like I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t.”

  Alma let out a scoff as she turned, leaning her back up against the counter. “Trust me, Jane, you’re not a bad friend. These last few months would have been nuts if it hadn’t been for you. Covering me with this job, giving me advice—”

  “Not that you’ve taken all of it,” Jane cut in, pointing a single finger at her. “That’s why I’m getting after you for it.”

  There was another sigh welling itself up inside her chest, and Alma let it out, shifting her shoulders with it. “I know,” she said. “You’re right. I need to tell him. I really do.”

  “For that matter, you should really be doing it before next year’s tax season rolls around,” Jane said, pushing herself away from the counter and moving to tend to one of the heavy-duty printers as a light began to flash on its surface. “You can get some nice tax breaks. Your insurance takes a nice cut too. You won’t need dental anymore.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Dental,” Jane said, pausing as she looked back at her. “You didn’t notice? You don’t have fillings anymore, chica.”

  “No,” Alma said, running her tongue along her teeth. “I hadn’t.”

  “Yup,” Jane said, tending to the machine. “One of the little perks of our ‘condition.’ Kind of like having a much higher metabolism.”

  “I do like that part.” Alma said as the corner of her lip turned upward. “If you’d told me two years ago that all I would have had to
do to get rid of that belly fat from having Adrien would be this … Well …” She paused.

  “Admit it,” Jane said, rolling her eyes. “You still would have said no.”

  “Yeah, I would have,” Alma said, nodding. “I definitely would have.” Fitting into her old jeans just wasn’t worth … Well, it wasn’t worth it.

  “So, you all set for next week?” she asked, changing the topic. There was no need to specify what she was referring to. Jane knew.

  “Yep,” Jane replied, nodding. “Cabin’s rented, and it’s all ours for four whole days. You tell Jon about it?”

  “About the retreat? Yeah. I think he’s a little amused by the fact that we’re having these retreats almost monthly, but at this point he’s pretty much convinced it’s just you and I using it as a tax dodge and an excuse to have a girls’ night.”

  Jane laughed. “Well, he’s not far off. Though I’ll bet what he’s picturing is a little off from what we’re actually doing. Sitting around trimming each other’s nails? He’d be surprised if he saw how that would go down.”

  Alma let out a laugh of her own, but it felt hollow. It had been a good joke … but the timing was still a little too fresh. Jane had lived with it for most of her life, she was used to making cracks about it—though usually only with those who knew.

  “Speaking of which,” she said, changing the topic slightly. “What are we going to do for the actual girls’ night stuff? Got anything in mind?”

  Jane grinned. “I’ve got a bunch of old Hitchcock movies. I figure after our run we can dig into some comfort food and watch some old black-and-white suspense films.”

  “Hitchcock?” Alma asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Aren’t those kind of spooky?”

  “What?” Jane shook her head, her curly hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Maybe a little. Mostly they’re just suspenseful. But what do we care? We’re way scarier than anything in those movies.”

  “Right.” There it was again. Another reminder that their “girls’ retreat” had turned into something else entirely. “What if we get tired of those?”