How to Be a Normal Person (2 page)

“Good,” she said. “His aura is red. Like his eyes. It mixes strangely with your brown.”

“That’s super,” Gus said and realized he was not a sixteen-year-old girl and immediately struck the word
super
from his vocabulary. He should have said
stupendous
. It sounded much more age-appropriate. And sarcastic.

“Robert Stack is handsome,” she said, putting a lid on his coffee. “I wouldn’t shove that out of my bed in the morning.”

“He’s dead,” Gus said. “I hope he wouldn’t be in your bed. You don’t strike me as a necrophiliac.” But then, what did he know? She saw auras. Maybe the simple fact of Robert Stack being deceased wouldn’t stop her carnal lust.

“My mother was a hemophiliac,” she offered.

He stared at her.

“What did you learn today?” she asked, ignoring the look on his face, as she was prone to do. It was annoying that she had somehow become impervious to his facial expressions. He told himself he’d just have to try harder next time.

“Don’t take elevators for success because the cables could snap and you would plummet to your death. Take the stairs but watch your back because someone could push you down and you could break your neck.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very inspirational.”

“Lesbians,” he said, because that explained everything. And if not, then it should. He thought more of the world’s problems could be solved that way.

“Or Gus,” Lottie said, that knowing glint in her eyes.

He scowled.

“Muffin?” she asked sweetly. “They’re banana nut. I made them, in case you didn’t know.”

He scowled harder.

She gave him a muffin anyway.

He scowled the hardest of all.

“And your coffee,” she said, handing him the cup, having drawn a heart on it around his name. “As black as your soul.”

“I thought I was brown,” he said, grimacing at the heart. It was cute. God, he hated fucking cute. It went the way of
super
.

She grinned. “I’ll bring you lunch at noon.”

“No tuna salad,” he warned her before he turned to walk away. “May god have mercy on you if there is tuna salad.”

“Thanks for coming to Lottie’s Lattes!” she shouted after him. “Where we like you a lottie!”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered as the bell rang overhead.

HE WALKED
down Main Street, away from his house and Lottie’s Lattes, before crossing to the other side of the road. Harry S. Truman chittered at him as he walked, juggling the cage, the coffee, and the goddamn muffin. He thought about dropping the muffin in the street, but Lottie would find out somehow and he would get tuna salad for sure.

He stopped in front of his store a block farther down and set down Harry S. Truman’s carrier before pulling the keys from his pocket and unlocking the door. He reminded himself he needed to fix the lock later, as it stuck every now and then.

He picked up Harry S. Truman and stepped inside the store, flipping on the lights. They flickered on overhead and he moved toward the center of the floor where his counter stood. He set Harry S. Truman on the counter and leaned down to turn on the Gateway 2000 computer and monitor.

While it booted up, he opened the large pet cage that sat on the counter. He cleaned the litter box inside and poured fresh water in a bowl from the bottles he kept under the counter in a small refrigerator. Once these tasks were complete, he opened the carrier. Harry S. Truman squirmed playfully in his hands and squeaked when he saw his cage and the tiny toys inside. Gus left the cage door open for now. Like the president he was named for, Harry S. Truman wouldn’t stray too far.

He took the feather duster from underneath the counter and went up and down each aisle, dusting the merchandise and fixing any box that looked slightly out of place. There were thousands of such boxes, but Gus was nothing if not efficient. It helped that he did the same thing every night before he left too, so dust had little chance to accumulate.

It gave him plenty of time to think, and today, he thought about the documentary he’d watched on television the night before on the breeding season of mountain goats. Mature male goats, or billies as they’re called, will stare at the females, the nannies, for long periods of time. They’ll then proceed to dig ruts and fight the other males to impress the nannies. Once a mate is chosen, the breeding is quick and chaotic, and nannies may choose multiple partners while the male chooses only one. Gus had been slightly horrified at the fact that there were promiscuous female goats. He decided he was glad he was human. Most of the time.

He finished dusting thirty minutes later. He went back to the counter. Harry S. Truman was blinking sleepily from his blanket. Gus put the feather duster back in its place, entered his password into the computer (
WiTcHITA123KANSas
because he’d never been there and nobody would ever guess), and straightened his name tag.

He looked at the clock and counted down the last minute in his head.

“Okay,” he said out loud when the second hand crossed the twelve. “Today is going to be an okay day.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Gustavo Tiberius, named by his father who was three years dead and a mother who took off when he was three years old never to be seen again, moved to the front of the store. He unlocked the door, turned the plastic sign hanging on it to Open, and flipped the switch to light up the neon letters hanging in the front store window.

It was the 135
th
day of the year, May 15
th
, 2014. It was a Thursday in the spring with the sun shining and the smell of pine trees in the cool, mountain air. It was going to be an okay day, because Gus had said so. He didn’t need inspirational messages given by polyamorous lesbians (who could actually just be sisters). He didn’t need banana-nut muffins made by alliterative short women with drag queen hair. He had his father’s ferret, his father’s ancient computer, and Pastor Tommy’s Video Rental Emporium (all seventeen hundred square feet of it) was now officially open, serving the people of Abby, Oregon, and the surrounding areas, Monday through Saturday, opening daily at nine and closing at five. Gift cards were available upon request. Tuesdays were ninety-nine cent rental day, up to three rentals.

God, how Gus hated Tuesdays. At least four people came in on Tuesdays.

But it was Thursday, now.

And it was going to be an okay day.

NO ONE
came into the store all morning, but that was to be expected. It was a Thursday, after all, and Gus would have frowned at anyone who actually had the time to rent a movie instead of being at work. Granted, he would have frowned at anyone regardless, but that was just part of who he was. This specific frown would have been one of judgment and mild disdain. The fact that the store was only open when people
should
have been at work didn’t really cross his mind.

But Pastor Tommy had always instilled in him that the customer was
number one!!!
so Gus sat on his stool behind the counter and watched the front door, waiting in case someone who obviously contributed nothing to society came in on a Thursday morning to rent a movie.

But no one did. Gus felt better about that.

It was 11:54 exactly when he received his first customers of the day. But they were expected as they came in every day he was open at 11:54. Not a minute earlier or later. Gus thought they stood out of sight, syncing their watches until the exact moment arrived to descend upon him and rent their movie for the day. He did not frown in judgment at them because he was in awe of them, though he would never admit it.

The We Three Queens: Bertha, Bernice, and Betty.

They arrived on their matching Vespas, their pink leather jackets bedazzled with a queen’s crown on the back. Bertha, as always, was in the lead. If there ever could be considered a lesbian leader of Abby, Oregon’s, very own biker (Vespa) gang, it would be her.

Bertha was in her late seventies, had an almost perfect afro of white hair, curled weekly at Midge’s Hair Salon a couple of blocks down on Main Street. Her hands were boney and her eyes were sharp. Her voice was whiskey smooth.

Bernice wore a green wig today, given that she was susceptible to female pattern baldness, something she’d told Gus even though he hadn’t wanted to know. He told her as much, but she went on and on as to how it could be just as common for women as it was for men, how she wasn’t ashamed of it because of all her nice wigs, and she would show him her balding head if he truly wanted to see it. He hadn’t. She showed him anyway. She was seventy-two.

Betty kept her hair cut short these days, shorter than even Gus had his own. While Bertha and Bernice wore dresses under their pink jackets and sensible shoes, Betty wore jeans and chaps and boots with silver buckles that jingled as she strutted. The other two called her a bull dyke, and Gus wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He wasn’t quite sure he
wanted
to know what that meant. Gus found it was often easier to not ask questions. People left him alone more that way.

But not the We Three Queens. They’d roared into town (well, as much as a Vespa
can
roar) three days after Pastor Tommy was put into the ground, claiming they were going to cross the country. They’d started out in Ashland, Oregon, and only made it 67.8 miles to Abby and decided they liked it enough to stay and forgo a scooter trip across America. They stayed in the only motel in Abby until they could finalize the purchase of a house and never left.

And for some reason, they adored Gus.

At first, Gus had hated it. His father was dead. He was in mourning. He wore black wherever he went and growled at anyone who tried to talk to him.

But they came into his store, day after day, deciding they would rent alphabetically to watch every movie in the store, one at a time. Currently, they were on the
C
s. Gus had thought to point out that there would be no way they’d finish the entire selection before they croaked. Somehow, he’d managed to keep that thought to himself.

They’d seen his grief for what it was and took it upon themselves to shape it into something worthwhile. He’d resisted, of course. He wouldn’t be Gus if he hadn’t.

Now, though? Now he tolerated them. Mostly.

“Gustavo,” Bertha greeted, holding the door open for the others. “I’m glad you’re alive today.”

“That’s debatable,” Gus said. “Every moment we live is another moment we’re already dying.”

Bernice giggled as she reached over and pinched his cheeks. “You know,” she said, “it takes more muscles in your face to frown than it does to smile.”

“That’s not true,” Gus said. “You’ve been lied to. It takes twelve muscles in your face to smile and eleven to frown. Medical science is fact. Not your Internet memes you share when you have nothing interesting to say.”

“Oh boy,” Bertha said. “It’s one of those days, is it?”

“No,” Gus said. “It’s the same as always.”

“Hmm,” Betty said, leaning in close to inspect Gus’s face. “His scowl is a bit more pronounced today. Maybe a centimeter or so.”

“I smiled,” Gus insisted. “In the mirror this morning. It was awkward and I regret it ever happened.”

“Did you flex again too?” Bernice asked, running her fingers up his arm. “Big strong man, you.”

And god, did he regret the day he ever told them that. “No. I don’t
do
that anymore. That was
one
time. Or whatever. Shut up.”

The We Three Queens stared at him.

He stared right back.

“Gus,” Betty finally barked, and he stood a bit more at attention without even meaning to. Apparently Betty had been in the military for years before she retired. She didn’t seem quite able to let that go. “Inspirational message for the day!”

“Ugh,” Gus said, firmly regretting all his life’s choices.

“Now, cadet!”

“I’m not your—”

Her mouth thinned. That was not a good look. Even Gus knew better than to fight that look. One did not want to face the wrath of a biker (Vespa) lesbian.

“There is no elevator to success,” Gus grumbled. “You have to take the stairs.”

“Oh, how true!” Bernice exclaimed, clapping her hands. “What a lovely sentiment.”

“You have to work for it,” Bertha agreed. “Nothing comes easy.” She flipped up the collar of her pink jacket and gazed off into the distance, obviously ruminating on all the work she’d had to do and the rewards she’d received for said hard work. Like that jacket. Or her hair.

“True, true,” Betty said. “Hard work is worth the results at the end.”

“Elevators only kill approximately six people a year,” Gus said, because he couldn’t
not
say it. “Stairs kill thousands. If anything, I’d want to take the elevator to increase my chances of not dying.”

They all stared at him again.

“It’s true,” Gus said. “Look it up in the encyclopedia. I did. That’s how I know.”

Bertha snorted. “Gus, it’s 2014. I can look it up on my smartphone.”

“Oh, Bertha,” Bernice said, pursing her lips. “You know Gus still has a flip phone from the last decade. There’s no need to rub it in.”

“It does stuff,” Gus said. “I can text.”

“Not picture messages,” Bertha said, fingers flying over her phone’s touch screen.

“I don’t need picture messages,” Gus said. “I have a phone. It’s for making phone calls. Not hipster Instagramming a picture of a plate of quinoa salad in what is supposed to be artistic lighting so everyone can see what I had for lunch.”

“What the hell is quinoa salad?” Bertha asked.

“Sounds Lebanese,” Bernice said. “Or maybe Icelandic.”

“And who do you call?” Betty asked him, cocking her head.

“People,” Gus said, averting his eyes. “For stuff.”

“People,” Bertha repeated, not even looking up from her phone. “For stuff.”

“Yes,” Gus said with a scowl. “Like… the pizza place. For pizza.”

“Huh,” Bertha said. “Six people die a year in elevators.”

“Ha,” Gus said. “Take that, Internet.”