by TJ Klune
This, of course, was when Harry S. Truman (finished with being completely ignored, the drama queen) chose to chitter quite loudly.
“What the hell,” the man said, eyes going wide. “Um. Not to alarm you, dude, but the box you’re carrying is squeaking.”
Gus rolled his eyes. “That’s just Harry S. Truman. And I’m not a dude.”
“Harry S. what now?” the man asked, squinting at Gus, and when had Gus taken enough steps forward to see that the guy was roughly the same height as him? Close enough that he could stare into the other man’s eyes and see the dark hazel, little flecks of gold and green and—
“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. H
ey. 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.
Chapter 5
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.”
“There’s the snark,” Betty told her lesbian lovers (sisters?).
“But it seemed so delayed,” Bertha said.
“Hmm,” Bernice said.
Gus tried to salvage what he could. “And a simple hello?” he said. “What’s that even supposed to mean? What if you said hello to someone who then turned out to be worse than Hitler or Michael Bay and unleashed another holocaust or another overstuffed, CGI-heavy excuse for a film starring Shia LaBeouf. Could you live with that on your conscience? Because I couldn’t.”
“Weak sauce,” Bertha said, flipping up the collar on her pink leather jacket, looking very cool, though Gus would never say so.
“Definite weak sauce,” Betty agreed, standing at parade rest. “Possibly the weakest sauce to have ever been sauced.”
“Hmm,” Bernice said, leaning across the counter until her face was inches from Gus’s.
He didn’t flinch. Not even a little bit.
“Tell me your secrets,” Bernice whispered and reached out to touch his eyebrows.
Now he flinched.
The door to the Emporium opened.
Lottie said, “It looks like you’re all about to rumble,” as she entered the store. “Don’t do it. The bloodshed would be terrifying.”
Gus narrowed his eyes. “You,” he said. “I’ve got some words for you.” Because yes, he was about to rumble so hard. And there would be bloodshed.
“Here we go,” Bernice said. “Reveal to me your secrets.”
“And what words would those be?” Lottie asked. “I brought you egg salad today. No pickles or onions.”
Well, that was good. Pickles and onions were things of the devil and should never be anywhere near egg salad, so.
But that was beside the point. “You!” Gus said. “You had a hipster in your sto
re! He—he—he Instagrammed me. I have never felt so violated in my—”
The door opened again.
In walked the hipster. He grinned when he saw Gus.
“Meep,” Gus squeaked.
The We Three Queens turned their heads slowly and gaped at Gus.
“That,” Bertha said, “is not a sound I would have ever expected you to make.”
Gus coughed roughly. “Yes. Well, something in my throat. Allergy season. Quite bad this year. The pollen count is high. It’s global warming.”
“I bet there’s something warming in your throat,” Bertha said, her grin a bit smug.
“Things make much more sense now,” Bernice said. “Secrets revealed.”
“Hey, Aunt Lottie,” the man said as he approached the counter. “Hope you don’t mind that I tagged along. Had to see who our neighbors were. And would you look who it is.” He hopped up onto the counter like be belonged there, like he’d done it a million times before.
“Aunt Lottie?” Gus echoed, feeling something akin to betrayal even as he resisted the urge to punch the hipster in the back of the head to get him off the counter.
“I don’t mind at all,” Lottie said rather innocently, like she wasn’t some kind of diabolical villainess whose sole reason for existing was to bring Gus pain. “The more the merrier. Ladies, this is my nephew Casey Richards. Casey, these are the We Three Queens. Oh, and from what I understand, you already know Gus over there.”
Casey Richards. It had a name.
This was quite possibly the worst day of Gustavo’s life.
Okay. Maybe not the absolute worst, but it was close. Gus wasn’t typically prone to hyperbole, but it seemed to fit the situation. Worst. Day. Ever.
(Almost.)
“Whoa,” Casey said, looking the We Three Queens up and down. “You have to be the fiercest things to have ever existed. You have matching jackets. That’s… man, I don’t even know what that is. Your level of awesomeness literally just blew my mind. I’m speechless. Speechless.”
Gus thought he was speaking quite a bit for someone who claimed speechlessness, but he kept that opinion to himself and remained motionless in hopes that Jurassic Park had been right and that Casey was like a dinosaur and his vision was based upon movement.
