How to Be a Normal Person

By TJ Klune

Gustavo Tiberius is not normal. He knows this. Everyone in his small town of Abby, Oregon, knows this. He reads encyclopedias every night before bed. He has a pet ferret called Harry S. Truman. He owns a video rental store that no one goes to. His closest friends are a lady named Lottie with drag queen hair and a trio of elderly Vespa riders known as the We Three Queens.

Gus is not normal. And he’s fine with that. All he wants is to be left alone.

Until Casey, an asexual stoner hipster and the newest employee at Lottie’s Lattes, enters his life. For some reason, Casey thinks Gus is the greatest thing ever. And maybe Gus is starting to think the same thing about Casey, even if Casey is obsessive about Instagramming his food.

But Gus isn’t normal and Casey deserves someone who can be. Suddenly wanting to be that someone, Gus steps out of his comfort zone and plans to become the most normal person ever.

After all, what could possibly go wrong?

Never
, ever let anyone tell you that who you are is wrong.

It’s okay to be gay. Or straight. Or bisexual.

It’s also okay to be asexual, demisexual, pansexual, or aromantic.

You do you, and if anyone gives you grief for that, remember one thing:

You are exactly the way you’re supposed to be.

IT WAS
seven in the morning when the alarm clock belonging to Gustavo Tiberius rang and he opened his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling and thought,
Today is going to be an okay day.

He rolled out of bed and onto the floor and began the set of one hundred push-ups. Pastor Tommy had told him that a body was a temple and should be treated as such. Granted, Pastor Tommy wasn’t really a pastor and he’d been stoned out of his mind when he’d said it, but the point remained the same. “God gave you that body, boy,” Pastor Tommy said. “Make sure you take care of it. Now, it seems as if I have the munchies. Please bring me the coffee cake and the liter of orange Slice from the pantry. I’m completely ripped and feel the need to disparage Hemingway as a pretentious hack.”

Gustavo’s arms burned in a good way by the time he’d finished. He stood and looked down at the small chest of drawers next to his bed. On top of the drawers was a calendar advertised as having
365 DAYS OF INSPIRATIONAL QUOTES! EVERY DAY IS A NEW MESSAGE OF HOPE!
It’d been given to him by the We Three Queens, the trio of elderly lesbians who were either sisters or in a polyamorous relationship. He hadn’t worked up the courage yet to ask. He didn’t know the proper way to broach the subject of either being related or in a threesome. But that wasn’t anything new; he didn’t know how to broach many subjects at all.

Gustavo (or Gus, as he preferred to be called because what the
hell
had Pastor Tommy been smoking the day he’d named his only child?) tore off the previous day’s meandering and read the 135
th
inspirational message of the year.

There is no elevator to success. You have to take the stairs.

“That is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever read,” Gus muttered.

Gus hated inspirational messages, but the We Three Queens felt he tended to be a bit dour and needed daily affirmations. Gus had learned early on that when lesbians gave you presents, you accepted them with a smile on your face. If you didn’t, there was the potential that the lesbians (who were either sisters or lovers and he
really
needed to find a way to ask) would come to your house with tuna or beef casseroles every day for a week and make you eat it in front of them all the while telling you that you deserved nice things and honestly, Gus, stop making that face, it’ll freeze that way and where will you be then?

So Gus had promised to try, but the We Three Queens were not in his room this morning and therefore he didn’t need to hide that he was not inspired, and in fact, he was pretty much the
opposite
of inspired because of the inspirational message.

But that was okay. He only had two hundred and thirty more to go. The joy he felt at such a thought knew no bounds.

And they’d better not give him another one next year.

He would simply lock his door to avoid further casseroles.

Before he could ruminate on the further shortcomings of being inspired so early in the morning, Harry S. Truman chittered behind him from somewhere out in the hall.

Not
the
Harry S. Truman, mind you. No,
that
Harry S. Truman had died of multiple organ failure in December of 1972, so it would be quite startling to have him in Gustavo’s house, demanding to be fed. Gus wouldn’t know what to do if he’d been haunted by the ghost of a former president. Just his luck, President Truman would probably have a million more inspirational quotes and Gus would have to find an exorcist or something to get the president to rest in peace and leave Gus alone. He’d feel bad about that, at least for a little bit. And he didn’t know how to go about finding presidential exorcists. It seemed like a lot of work.

No,
this
Harry S. Truman was a three-year-old albino ferret that Pastor Tommy had adopted before he’d died. On his deathbed, body riddled with cancer, Pastor Tommy had made Gus promise that he’d care for Harry S. Truman for the rest of his days.

“He’s my spirit animal,” Pastor Tommy had said. “Like, guides me and shit. Shows me the great secrets of the universe. He can be yours, you know? If you want.”

“Sure,” Gus had said, eyes burning ever so lightly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You’re a good son,” Pastor Tommy said with a smile. “Now, bring me my bong and let’s watch
House Hunters International
and make fun of the people when they pick the worst fucking house because they always do, oh my god.”

Harry S. Truman was waiting for Gus in the hall, red eyes watching, whiskers twitching. When he saw he had Gus’s attention, Harry S. Truman chittered again and ran toward him, little legs sinking into the carpet. As soon as he reached Gus, he lay flat on his stomach, blocking Gus from taking any further steps. He knew it was the easiest way to get Gus’s attention.

“You’re a jerk,” Gus told him, but he reached down and picked up Harry S. Truman, who proceeded to climb on his shoulder and lick his hair.

Gus walked to the kitchen as Harry S. Truman bathed him and snuffled his ear wetly. Gus tried not to grimace, but it was a close thing. He was used to ferret baths by now, but it didn’t mean he appreciated whiskers in his ears. But, like the president, the ferret Harry S. Truman didn’t give a shit about what whiskers went where, so Gus dealt with it.

Harry S. Truman jumped off his shoulder and onto the counter when Gus bent down to the cabinet near the sink, chatting away with his little clicks and squeaks. Gus rattled his pellets in their rubber container, and Harry S. Truman spun in a circle.

Gus filled his bowl, made sure he had fresh water, then sat on the floor next to Harry S. Truman while he dug through the pellets, eating an apple and thinking.

“I’m not going to take the elevator,” Gus said, finally deciding. “Or even the stairs. I’m fine just the way I am.”

Harry S. Truman ignored him completely, but that was okay.

GUSTAVO TIBERIUS
(no middle name because Pastor Tommy didn’t think they were necessary. Come on, Gus, why do you need
three
names when your
two
are already brilliant? Gus didn’t know if he quite agreed with Pastor Tommy on that last) was twenty-nine years old on this 135
th
day. He was alive, had no zits on his face this morning, and had good gums. His skin was pale, and his dark hair needed a cut, curling down around his forehead and neck. He’d tried to shave his head once, but found out only after he’d done so that his head was disproportionately big compared to the rest of his body and he looked odd. Pastor Tommy had said he absolutely did
not
look like a penis, for which Gus was grateful, but then Pastor Tommy had apologized for lying and said he absolutely
did
look like a penis. Gus never shaved his head again.

He had blue eyes that Pastor Tommy had described as Eurotrash pleasant (what the hell?) and had spent a year when he was six convinced they were too close together and taped the edges back every morning in an attempt to stretch them out. It hadn’t worked, but by the time he’d turned seven, he’d discovered poker and forgot all about being beady-eyed because he was too busy owning Pastor Tommy and winning hundreds of dollars in Monopoly money.

He had a nose and ears too, but he didn’t have problems with those, so….

Gus looked at himself in the mirror and flexed his arms. It lasted only momentarily because Gustavo Tiberius was not a douchebag. At least not a complete douchebag. His arms had bumps on them that could be construed as muscles, so he thought flexing maybe every once in a while was okay. Not all the time, though. He had
some
dignity, after all.

The We Three Queens said he was too skinny, but he thought it was the duty of elderly ladies everywhere to say that about young people, so he didn’t think much about it.

He showered and shaved and brushed his teeth. He grinned at his reflection, but it was awkward so he stopped. Smiling was always awkward for him. He knew very well that he had resting bitch face, but there was nothing he could do about that. So he didn’t. People said he should smile more. He generally avoided those people.

He dressed in his work uniform, put on his name tag (though, really, Abby, Oregon, only had six hundred and fifty-seven people in it and everyone knew who he was, much to his dismay), and mentally prepared himself to walk out the door and interact with the human race.

Today was going to be an okay day.

He secured Harry S. Truman in the pet carrier, the ferret grumbling at him, opened the front door to the house, and began to face his day.

TO START,
he only had to walk across the street to Lottie’s Lattes, a coffee shop with the most ridiculous name. He’d told Lottie as such, and she’d grinned at him and made him drink a fruit smoothie instead of his usual black coffee. It was sweet and creamy and everything about it had been terrible, so he kept his opinions on alliteration to himself (it was an awful thing and anyone who thought otherwise should be punished accordingly).

It was cool outside, but the sky was blue and the sun was bright. Birds were chirping and people said hello as they walked down the street. Gus did his best not to scowl, because apparently it was unbecoming of him (
Gus, oh my god stop with that face
, as said by Pastor Tommy, may he rest in peace). He even managed to grunt a hello back once and congratulated himself silently for doing so well.

The bell rang overhead chipper and welcoming, and Gus rolled his eyes.

Lottie stood behind the counter, all four foot three of her, big frizzy hair dyed an alarming shade of red. (“I was a drag queen in a past life,” she’d confided in him once.) She was in her fifties and honestly took no shit from anyone. He’d seen her take down a man twice her size with a swift kick to the nuts when he’d drunkenly made an aggressive pass at her. She was calm and peaceful, but she believed that sometimes violence was the only answer. “With great power comes great responsibility,” she’d told him solemnly, and he had to remind her that was Spider-Man and she had drag queen hair. Lottie also had a shotgun she kept hidden underneath the counter. She had named it LeVar Burton, but kept the reason why to herself. Gus thought it was because Lottie got a lady boner over Kunta/La Forge/
Reading Rainbow
.

“Your aura is brown today,” Lottie said in lieu of a greeting.

Gus frowned. He didn’t believe in auras or crystals or whatever hippie-dippie bullshit Lottie subscribed to, but why was it
brown
? “What does that mean?” he asked, trying to sound like he didn’t care at all. He thought he succeeded admirably.

She shrugged. “I have no idea. I can see them. I don’t research them. I don’t have time. No one else is going to make these banana-nut muffins.” Then she narrowed her eyes and said, “Best supporting actor category and winner 1957.”

“Anthony Quinn, Don Murray, Anthony Perkins, Mickey Rooney, and Robert Stack,” Gus recited automatically. “Anthony Quinn won for
Lust for Life
.”

She sighed. “One day, I’ll get you,” she said. “I still don’t know how you know every single Academy Award category and winner ever.”

“It’s a gift,” Gus said.

“Like the auras,” she said, nodding sagely.

No. Not like the auras. Because those were bullshit. “Exactly,” he said because he didn’t want a goddamn fruit smoothie this morning. Or a muffin.

She began to pour his coffee. “How is the president today?”

Harry S. Truman squeaked.