by TJ Klune
“We tend to do that wherever we go,” Bertha said. “It’s kind of our thing.” She looked off into the distance as if reminiscing on all the minds she’d blown.
“And you call yourselves the We Three Queens?” Casey asked. “The fact that you exist and are standing in front of me is seriously a highlight of my life.”
Gus thought that maybe Casey’s bar was set a little low if that was a highlight, but he said nothing because he didn’t just blurt everything out like a commoner would.
“Why thank you, young man,” Bernice said, beaming, and Gus considered her to now be a traitor to the cause.
“We have to do a selfie,” Casey said. “All of us. I have to have a picture of us. Like, you have no idea.”
Gus blurted out, “Oh my god, selfies, fuck my life,” and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth and stood stock-still because they would see him.
“You too, Gustavo Tiberius,” Casey said, glancing back at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”
And because he’d been spotted and the cat was out of the bag, Gus scowled in response and said, “I can’t do selfies. It’s against my religion.”
Casey cocked his head. “The whole Bleeding Jesus folk bongo band thing?”
“What? No. Just. Shut up. I don’t even know you.”
“Oh,” Casey said. “You will.”
“Don’t you threaten me!”
Casey shook his head. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
That didn’t sound good. “I have nothing to discuss with you,” Gus said.
“Uh, yeah you do,” Casey said. “How about the fact that you work at a video rental store and it’s 2014? That’s… that’s, like. Retro. And shit.”
“Retro and shit,” Gus said. “Wow. Is that your professional opinion? Are you going to go blog about it?”
“Snark,” Betty said. “So much snark.”
“I feel like we should have popcorn,” Bernice, said to her sister-lovers. “It’s like a play.”
“A tragic comedy,” Bertha agreed.
“Indeed,” Casey said to Gus. “Because Netflix and Redbox aren’t actual things that exist in this day and age.”
“People want brick and mortar,” Gus said. “And I give them what they want. I carry high-quality films—”
“Is that a Sharknado display?” Casey asked, pointing at a Sharknado display.
“—for the discerning public who want to come and look at a selection face to face instead of sitting in front of a computer screen to pick out healthy film choices—”
“Wow, that’s a very big Sharknado display,” Casey said.
“It’s supposed to be ironic!”
“Such a hipster,” Casey said, sounding fonder than anyone ever had when speaking to Gus, except for maybe Pastor Tommy. “Doing things ironically.”
Gus gaped because he doubted he’d ever been called anything more offensive in his life.
“So,” Casey said, ignoring Gus’s muttered death threats as he hopped off the counter. “Selfie. Everyone, gather around Gus and smoosh together as much as possible. We all need to fit.”
“What? No! No gathering around Gus and smooshing—”
Everyone gathered around Gus and smooshed together, Casey pressed against his side, their cheeks touching as he raised his phone out in front of them. It was awful, even if Casey smelled like coffee and Altoids and the faintest sweet hint of pot and—
“Perfect,” Casey said, and they all stepped away, Gus not even aware when the picture had been taken. Casey looked down at his phone and started cackling. “Oh man. Gus, your face. I am posting the shit out of this.” He started typing furiously. “Hey, followers. Making new friends. Yes, those jackets are real. Hashtag fierce. Hashtag mountain town adventures. Hashtag ironic video store FTW. Hashtag Grumpy Gus.”
“What?” Gus said, outraged. “I’m not—”
“Hashtag pink ladies. Hashtag rolling stoned smoked up the moss. Hashtag—”
“See?” Gus hissed to the We Three Queens. “He’s Instagramming me. Without my expressed permission. With hashtags! I don’t even know what those are. I’m not a fancy dinner that no one cares to look at!”
Bertha was already on her phone. “Follow us,” she said to Casey. “We’re the WeThreeQueens4Life on Instagram.”
Gus stared at her in abject horror.
“Followed,” Casey said as his phone made a musical little sound.
“Affirmative,” Betty said. “We’re following you now too.”
“Done and done,” Casey said and they all put their phones away.
“Sandwich?” Lottie asked.
IT WAS while Casey was helping the We Three Queens pick out their daily movies (two this time, as the next day was Sunday and Gus was closed on Sundays) that Gus realized that all of this could be blamed on the inspirational calendar. Because he had said hello, and it had led to a million things happening in the last five hours, all of them difficult and wrong. Gustavo Tiberius was not a man built for things that were difficult and wrong. Everything had an order. Everything had its place. And Casey Richards was ruining it. He was ruining Gus.
“You’re staring at him,” Lottie said.
“I am not,” Gus said as he stared directly at Casey. “I’m watching to make sure he doesn’t steal anything.”
“Yeah,” Lottie said. “Heaven forbid he should steal an empty movie box. Oh no. What is the world coming to?”
“He was stoned on the job,” Gus whispered furiously.
“Did he get your order right?”
“What? Yes! It was—”
“Then what does it matter? I have no problem with it. It’s medicinal. Sort of.”
“He said he had stigmata!”
Lottie grinned. “Yeah, he isn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed when he’s baked. Doesn’t hurt anyone, though. Like an adorable little puppy.”
“It hurt me,” Gus said. “A lot. Mortally, even. And if he’s an adorable little puppy, he’s the kind that shits everywhere.”
“You think he’s adorable?” Lottie asked, arching an eyebrow.
Gus’s mind sort of went fuzzy at that. “What? No! I don’t. Just. He shouldn’t be smoking while working!”
“Because you’re so anti-weed and all,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No son of Pastor Tommy would ever have a problem with pot.”
Which. Sure. Fair point. But whatever. “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming here?”
“Because I wanted to see the look on your face when you saw him for the first time,” she said. “I was hiding in the back and watched everything. It was precious. Your face was priceless. Such feigned righteous indignation. I forgot to get video, though. I had muffins on the brain.”
“Oh my god,” Gus said. “I am evicting you from the coffee shop. Hand in your keys now. Leave town.”
“Landlord-tenant acts,” she taunted him. “I’m protected by law.”
“Who’s a landlord?” Casey asked and Gus absolutely did not squeak again, no matter what Casey’s smile said. And he was standing so close, like he had a right to be behind the counter.
“Gus here,” Lottie said. “He owns the building the coffee shop is in. And the video store. And the hardware store. And the convenience store. Now that I think about it, pretty much all the buildings here. Treats all the tenants real good.” She patted his arm and Gus refused to feel warm at that. He failed miserably.
Casey’s eyes widened. “Whoa. You own everything? Far out, man.”
“No,” Gus grumbled. “I don’t own everything. Just almost everything.” Actually, Pastor Tommy had owned almost everything. He’d bought most of the storefronts in the eighties and nineties, flipping them and lowering the rent for the business owners. When he had died, everything had gone to Gus. But Casey didn’t need to know that because Gus didn’t know Casey. And he didn’t want to. Not even a little bit.
“Well,” Casey said. “Still. Impressive. Hey, you eating that?” And h
e plucked the sandwich out of Gus’s hand and took a bite, before giving it back and grinning through a mouthful of egg salad. He started to masticate, even as more words fell out of his mouth. “Also, since I’m living the dream here, I’ve decided to sign up for a video membership so I can rent high-end movies like Sharknado. I even saw Leprechaun 4: In Space. Or, you know, the one where the murderous leprechaun goes to space. Lay an application on me, Grumpy Gus.”
“Get out,” Gus said, completely serious.
Casey grinned and didn’t even look remotely offended. Gus was obviously losing his touch. He would have to try harder next time. “Nah,” Casey said. “I’m good.”
“You have to be eighteen,” Gus tried. He hoped it didn’t sound like he was fishing. Because he wasn’t.
Casey squinted at him. “Man, I have a beard.”
Gus tried not to look at said beard and most certainly did not want to touch it. The idea alone was ridiculous and Gus would not entertain it in the slightest. “Congratulations. Maybe you’re a hairy child.”
“I’m twenty-three. And this beard took months to get right, dude.”
“Yes, twenty-three, dude,” Gus mocked.
“You got nothing left, Grumpy Gus. May as well give up now.”
Well, fuck. Gus decided to play his trump card. “You have to be a resident of Abby, Oregon, or the surrounding area. I can’t rent to out-of-towners. They may leave the state with my movies and I would have to call the police and fill out paperwork and there’d be wanted posters, dude.”
“To get your movies back,” Casey said.
“Exactly. Not saying you would, but if I make an exception for you, then I’d have to make an exception for everyone.” And Gus felt good again. Because he’d won.
Casey leaned back against the counter, colorful arms crossing his chest, cool as you please. He said, “Hey, Gus.” He sounded amused.
“What,” Gus said warily. He did not sound amused.
Casey’s lips twitched. “It’s probably good then that we don’t have to worry about that. Though, I’m slightly hurt you’d be okay with having me arrested.”
No.
“But, no worries,” he continued, running a hand through his beard. “Because guess who just moved here?”
No, no, no.
“Yep,” Casey said, as if he could hear the running horror in Gus’s head. “This mountain air is just speaking to my muse, man. Settling in for the long haul. So, how about that application? Something tells me that I’m going to be in here quite a bit as I’ve decided that you and I are going to be friends.”
And then he winked.
That was the moment Gustavo Tiberius realized he was most certainly doomed.
Chapter 6
GUS DIDN’T know if he believed in God, but he certainly gave thanks as the next day was Sunday, the only day he didn’t open the Emporium. Since he didn’t have to open the Emporium, he didn’t have to go to Lottie’s Lattes and therefore did not have to run the risk of seeing a certain bearded hipster.
“Today is going to be an okay day,” he told the ceiling.
He rolled off the bed and tried to exercise.
Instead, he lay on the floor.
Harry S. Truman peered over the edge of the bed and chittered at him.
“I don’t even know,” Gus told him.
Eventually, he got up.
He ignored the inspirational calendar.
He left the room.
He came back into the room and frowned at the calendar. He didn’t want to know what today’s message said, because yesterday’s was the absolute worst. He’d said hello and everything had turned upside down.
Gus frowned, because he was good at it.
“Ugh,” he said. “Fine.”
We don’t meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason.
Gus stared at the inspirational calendar.
“Are you spying on me?” he eventually whispered.
The inspirational calendar did not reply.
Gus left the room.
HE DEBATED, quite seriously, not going to the grocery store that day. He thought it might be a better idea if he stayed in the house all day. Not to hide, mind you, but rather to not be seen by anyone else. There was a difference, he told himself. An absolute difference because Gustavo Tiberius didn’t hide. He avoided, sure, but he didn’t hide.
But then he realized he was short on TV dinners and apples, and for some reason, he got into his head that he needed string cheese, even though he hadn’t had it since he was twelve years old.
Needless to say, Gus couldn’t just stay at home. It wasn’t feasible. And it wasn’t like he’d actually run into any specific person (hipster) while grocery shopping. The market was in the next town over, a few miles down the road. He’d have to drive to get there, something he only did on Sundays, and there was no chance he’d meet anyone he didn’t want to see (hipster) so it would be fine.
“Yes,” Gus said. “I can do this.”
He showered and dressed.
His reflection looked slightly wide-eyed, so he scowled at it and everything was better.
He loaded up Harry S. Truman into the pet carrier and made sure to pack his leash, because Harry S. Truman absolutely refused to be left behind. Gus paid for days the last time he’d left the ferret at home. Harry S. Truman could be extraordinarily vindictive when he chose to be. Gus didn’t know if it was a ferret thing, or an albino ferret thing, or just a Harry S. Truman thing.
It brought him attention, sure, but most people just cooed and smiled before giving Gus a wary look. He would rather deal with uncomfortable attention than a pissed-off ferret. And as he had that specific thought, he really wondered what his life had become.
“Grocery store,” he said as he locked to door to his house. “There and back and everything will be fine.”
He got into his father’s 1995 Ford Taurus. (“Ah, what a year for the Taurus,” Pastor Tommy had said on a regular basis. “The sleek lines! The torque! The handling, my god, Gus, the way it handles! The men will fall at your feet when this car becomes yours!”) It was lovingly maintained with only 237,000 miles on it. It didn’t like the cold, but then neither did Gus. They were compatible that way.
He turned on the car and it filled with the sounds of NPR talking about paleontologists unearthing what could potentially be the largest dinosaur ever found somewhere in Argentina.
Gus smiled because it was going to be okay.
IT WAS not okay.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Casey said, coming up beside Gus with his own shopping cart. “I was absolutely convinced you would have groceries delivered so you wouldn’t have to step foot outside Abby.”
“Meep,” Gus said, startled. And then, “What.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Casey moaned and that went places Gus tried very hard not to think about. “He’s on a leash. Gus. Gus. You’re walking your ferret on a leash in a grocery store. I don’t even—this is. What are you even—” He whipped out his phone and took multiple pictures.
Gus, still shocked to find out Casey existed here too, didn’t say a single word. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He also couldn’t help but notice Casey wasn’t wearing a beanie today and Gus could see his hair and the sides of his head were shaved, the long strands down the middle pulled back and tied with a thin leather strap at the rear of his head, pulled up into a slightly messy bun. For a horrifying moment, Gus wondered what Casey’s hair would feel like. But since Gus was neither creepy nor interested, he thought nothing of it, except for the fact that he had a bun which just looked stupid and not even remotely attractive, even if it fit him really well and made him look—
Nope. Not even going to go there.
Eventually, Casey got over the sight of a ferret on a leash and put his phone away, looking back at Gus. “Gustavo,” he said, a lazy smile on his face. “How are you?”
Gus said, “I’m buying groceries,” because he was incapable of even th
e most basic of human interactions. He scowled, but it was more at himself because he was a functioning human being and he should not be this flustered at someone like Casey. Casey was like anyone else Gus had ever dealt with. Even if he was wearing a thin white V-neck shirt where Gus could faintly see the outline of his nipples underneath and even if the sleeves of tattoos were true sleeves and went up his arms and biceps. Yes. Even if. Because he was like everyone else, and Gus should be treated as such.
Which, unfortunately, meant resorting to epic assholery. “Shouldn’t you be at Trader Joe’s?” Gus asked. “I highly doubt there’s anything organic at Billy Hampton’s Shop and Save.”
Casey laughed and it was deep and wonderful and Gus despised it. “No Trader Joe’s up here,” Casey said. “Billy’s is fine. They have black bean hummus, so I’m good.” He glanced down at Gus’s cart. “That’s… a lot of TV dinners.”
“Good,” Gus said. “You can count. I’m happy about that. And black bean hummus is pretentious.” He started pushing his cart down the aisle, absolutely refusing to feel embarrassed by the contents of the basket and the admitted lack of burn to his insult. Sure, there were TV dinners (maybe two or three weeks’ worth, whatever), but that was just who Gus was. That was who Pastor Tommy had been. They’d never learned to cook, never really had any need for it, and Gus had continued that tradition on after Pastor Tommy had died.
They could bake, though. They baked a lot. Only because Pastor Tommy had been partial to pot brownies. And pot cookies. And pot cake and pot pie (marijuana, not chicken) and pot raspberry crumble.
Gus hadn’t baked in a while. He didn’t need it.
(Sure, the idea of it made him sad, but he chose not to think about that part.)
Casey didn’t seem to get it, but then he was a stoner, and it might take a more less-than-subtle hint to get it through his fogged-out skull. He followed Gus, pushing the cart quickly and jumping up on the bar along the bottom, rolling ahead and laughing when Harry S. Truman squeaked and tried to chase after him.
