How to Be a Normal Person (5 page)

“Harry S. Truman,” Gus said, trying to stop himself from rhapsodizing about the pretty man in front of him. “My ferret.”

“Your ferret,” the man repeated.

God, it was so hard to hire good help these days. Poor Lottie. Also, he was going to give her so much shit later for not telling him. The equilibrium was off now and the whole day was probably ruined. “Ferret,” Gus said. “They are things people have. I have one. Like other people. It’s perfectly normal to have a ferret. I should know. I have one. And I’m normal.”

“A ferret named Harry S. Truman.”

“That wasn’t
me
,” Gus retorted. “That was Pastor Tommy. He said he looked very presidential.”

“Pastor Tommy?”

What the
hell
was going on? “My dad. He wasn’t a pastor, but everyone called him that anyway, oh my god.”

The man shook his head. “I’m either way too stoned or not stoned enough. God, that’s a flux state to be in.”

“You shouldn’t be stoned at work,” Gus said rather stiffly. “It’s not proper.” He cringed internally as it came out sounding like he was a 1920s debutante. He tried to correct it and add “Man,” and that just made it
worse
.

“Lottie doesn’t care,” the man said, waving a hand in easy dismissal. “She knows this is me.” His eyes widened. “But no. No, it’s okay. I’m not
always
stoned. I needed it. Mostly. Nerves, ya know? First day and all. And you’re my first customer! But it’s really medicinal. I have a card and everything.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning!”

“It’s wake and bake, man. And I helped.”

“I don’t care,” Gus said. He wondered what would happen if he ran in the opposite direction. Would the man follow him? Would he have to leave town? Where would he go? Canada, maybe. He could work in their film industry and make terrible movies.

“It’s a medical thing,” the guy said with another shrug. “I have stigmata.”

Gus stared at him.

The guy grinned back, wide and wonderful and oh so
shiny
and
new
.

Gus hated him.

“You have stigmata,” Gus said flatly.

“Yeah,” the guy said, trying to peer into the pet carrier, making faces at Harry S. Truman like he thought the ferret would laugh. “It’s this whole… thing. Grr rawr, little ferret.”

“Your hands and feet bleed similar to the wounds afflicted on Jesus Christ during his crucifixion and that’s why you have a prescription for medical marijuana.”

The guy looked back up at Gus. “Wow. That was heavy. Like. Whoa. Can I take a picture?”

Gus took a step back. “What.”

“I need to Instagram this moment,” he said, pulling a smartphone out of the front pocket of the apron. “No one is going to believe me. You’re like… walking around with a ferret and shit. With your face. The world needs to see this. I need to tell
everyone about this
. You’re—”

“Oh my god,” Gus groaned, wondering if maybe he’d been drugged during the night and was having a bad trip. “You’re a stoned hipster who thinks he’s a bleeding Jesus. And you have an iPhone. Because of course you do.”

He looked up from his phone. “Bleeding Jesus?” he said with a frown. “Man, you’re, like, badass. That’d be a great name for a band, though. Bleeding Jesus. People would think you’d sing hard-core Christian rock or something, you know, screaming about your love for Christ and how your blood burns for him and shit because
fuck the devil
, and then you would surprise them by coming out and playing backwoods folk music on the bongos. Man, that’d be awesome. Do you have bongos? I’ve always wanted to—”

“I just wanted coffee,” Gus said, sounding rather desperate, “and you told me you smoke weed because you bleed like Jesus.”

“No I didn’t,” he said before raising his phone and snapping a picture that Gus was pretty sure would show him with the most impressive of glares. “I smoke weed because I love it. And also, I have this thing with my eyes.”

Oh for fuck’s—

“You mean astigmatism?” Because
what is even happening right now
.

“S’what I said. What filter should I use for your picture? And what’s your Instagram name so I can tag you? We should be friends on it. And in real life. Anyone who has a ferret and your face should be my friend. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

“I don’t
have
Instagram, oh my god. I have
priorities
. And marijuana doesn’t do
anything
for astigmatism. There is no medical backing that supports—”

“Cool,” the man said. “I used the Valencia filter. Brings out your eyes. And Harry’s eyes.” He started typing on his phone and mumbling. “Hey, followers. Second day in and I met Gustavo Tiberius and his ferret. Check it out. They both have pretty eyes. Blushing smiley face. L-O-L. Hashtag awesome. Hashtag presidential ferrets. Hashtag mountain town adventures. Hashtag—”

“I don’t have pretty eyes,” Gus snapped, flushing miserably because
what
.

“It’s okay,” the guy said. “You don’t have to think so. I do. Hashtag ferret with merit. And posted.” He put his phone away and grinned at Gus, eyeing him expectantly. “Welcome to Lottie’s Lattes where we sure as fuck like you a lottie. What can I get you?”

“Black coffee,” Gus ground out, trying to hide how sweaty he suddenly was.

“Black coffee coming right up. Can I interest you in a muffin? Lottie just made them this morning. She seemed awfully proud of them. Like lemon poppy seed was her religion. Maybe you could sell them at your Bleeding Jesus concerts.”

“I hate muffins,” Gus said rather savagely. And even if that wasn’t
quite
true, he certainly felt it at the moment because everything was
wrong
.

“Ooh,” the man said as he filled a large cup with coffee. “Some muffin-related tragedy when you were young? I get it, man. Trust me. I get it. I had a bad experience with cauliflower when I was, like, eight or something. Can’t even be near it without having flashbacks.” He shuddered. “Cauliflower PTSD, ya know? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s my Vietnam. Therapy helped. Mostly. But we’re all a little crazy, right? Oh, and I just remembered. I don’t have stigmata. It’s glaucoma. And that reminds me of guacamole. Which would be
awesome
right now.”

“What the hell did you smoke?” Gus asked.

The guy shot a grin over his shoulder. “Pot, man. And none of that scrub brush in the city sold by some WASPy tween from the suburbs that’s all seeds. You got some fine shit up here. The growers know what they’re doing. Legalization works wonders. Maybe we’ll all be Colorado someday and be able to smoke in the streets.” He set the cup on the counter, snapping on a lid and sliding it over. “One large black coffee. Lottie says you don’t get charged for stuff here. Like, that’s cool, ya know? She kinda loves you. I can see why, man. You’ve got this whole…
vibe
about you.”

“I don’t have vibes,” Gus insisted, trying to not let out any vibes at all. “I’m vibe-less. I’m vibe-free. I’m so devoid of vibes, I’m like the anti-vibe.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “That’s cool. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s… you just… are you—”

“Hey, you smoke?” he said like Gus wasn’t trying to speak at
all
.

“I have to go to work,” Gus said, struggling not to snatch the coffee and flee.

“Awesome,” the guy said. “Hey. Hey. I totally forgot. Your muffin.”

“I don’t want one!”

“You sure? Lottie said you love them.”

“Lottie literally lies about a lot.”

He blinked at Gus. “Whoa. Man, good alliteration. That gave me goose bumps. That takes skill. You’ve got skill, Gustavo Tiberius.” He grinned again.

Gus grabbed his coffee and fled.

AND IT
threw off his
entire
day.

He was
late
getting to the store,
late
dusting the shelves and fixing the movie cases. He was
late
turning on the computer and by the time he flipped the sign to Open and unlocked the door, Gus was flustered and flummoxed, and for some
goddamn fucking
reason, he couldn’t
stop
thinking in alliteration, and it was
fucking frustrating for real
.

Given that it was a Saturday, he actually had
customers
. Two of them. Over a three-hour period. And he felt like he wasn’t
prepared
for them, even though Pastor Tommy had always reminded him that customers were
number one!!!
and that they were
always right
, Gus, remember that, and look,
look
, a couple picking the wrong house on
House Hunters International
, what a
surprise
, it didn’t even have indoor
plumbing
, oh my god.

Martin Handle, an old guy who lived off in the middle of the woods, came in at ten that morning, and Gus was so surprised to see him that he almost told Martin to get the fuck out.

Thankfully, Gus remembered the customer was
number one!!!
and was able to give a twitch of a smile that, if Mr. Handle’s wide-eyed reaction had anything to say about, came across as more of a I’m-thinking-about-bathing-in-your-blood sort of grimace.

Mr. Handle rented
All About Eve
and
Gone in Sixty Seconds
, and Gus wasn’t even in enough of a right mind to mock him silently for that last, given that Michael Bay’s films were the tumor on the skin of filmmaking.

The
second
person (what was this,
go fucking rent a movie day
?) came in a little after eleven and
wanted to sign up for a new account
. Gus, having been trained at a very young age by the indomitable Pastor Tommy, was able to get through the tedious four-minute application process without giving in to the urge to grimace or roll his eyes. It didn’t help matters that his new customer was Mrs. LaRonda Havisham, a housewife who lived in town and whose husband was a long-haul trucker. Rumor on the street was that Mrs. Havisham entertained men in her husband’s absence. Gus never paid such things any mind, but even
he
couldn’t ignore her rental choices of
The Graduate
and
Unfaithful
.

“Welcome to the Video Rental Emporium family,” he said, as he’d been taught to say to every new customer. “In this family, you’ll find thousands of selections at unbeatable prices. Remember, if it ain’t Pastor Tommy’s, it’s most likely bootleg and the FBI will find you. Have an Emporiumajestic day.”

“Well, now,” Mrs. Havisham said, all but
purring
as she leaned forward, ample cleavage on display. “You’ve grown up, haven’t you? Tell me, Gustavo. What are your thoughts on having an experienced lover?”

“Not many,” Gus said. “In fact, none at all. Also? I came out when I was thirteen. You were there. As was the whole town. Pastor Tommy announced it at the Fall Harvest Festival. On stage. Into a microphone. There was apple pie afterward.”

“Still?” she said with an exaggerated pout.

“Yes,” Gus said, deadpan as he could make it. “Still. Funny how that works.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said, dragging a pink fingernail down his arm. “My door is always open. Like my body.”

“That’s not even remotely healthy,” Gus said with a sniff.

“Maybe that’s why I need your protein,” she said with a wink.

“Nope,” Gus said. “Nope, nope, nope.”

“You sure about that?”

“Maybe you should close that door. And your legs.”

“I tried,” Mrs. Havisham said as she picked up her movies and turned to leave.

“The movies are due back by Tuesday!” he shouted after her. He sighed as the door shut behind her. He blamed the coffee shop hipster for this. All of it. The mad rush to rent movies, the blatant flirtation by a cougar, and the all-around fuzzy feeling that Gus’s brain seemed to have sunk into. It was the hipster’s fault because he
existed
and
existed near Gus
.

“I’m going to give Lottie so much shit,” he said to Harry S. Truman. “You just watch. She will pay for her crimes against my humanity.”

Since he was a ferret, Harry S. Truman didn’t reply.

At 11:54, the We Three Queens entered the Emporium and immediately
knew
something was off.

Because of course they did.

To be honest, though, it really wasn’t that hard to figure out.

“Your face is extra twitchy today,” Bertha said.

“And your upper lip is sweaty,” Bernice said.

“And you also look like you’re about to punch a baby goat,” Betty said.

“I’m fine,” Gus said. It was almost believable. “And I’m not going to punch a baby goat. God. What the hell. Who
does
that?”

They stared at him.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Absolutely nothing is different and everything is the same and I’m
fine
.”

“Hmm,” Bernice said.

“Indeed,” Bertha said.

“Cadet!” Betty said. “Inspirational message for the day!”

And
that
was normal.
That
he could do. “A simple hello could lead to a million things.”

They waited.

He waited too, but mostly because he was thinking about tattoos on forearms and
beards
—

“Oh my goodness,” Bertha breathed. “Something is
definitely
different.”

“What?” Gus said, flushing furiously. “Shut up. No it’s not. What are you talking about? Shut up.”

“Hmm,” Bernice said again.

“You didn’t snark,” Betty said, narrowing her eyes. “You snark and today there was no snark. You
always
snark, especially when it comes to the inspirational messages. Where’s the snark?”

“That’s not even a real word,” Gus said. “Don’t you dare bring your slang into my place of business. This isn’t a YMCA basketball court. We’re not shooting hoops. No slang.”