How to Be a Normal Person

by TJ Klune

  Eventually, Gus went back to the computer, typed in Pastor Tommy’s password (CANNIBUS4CANNIGUS). He quickly clicked off the devil site known as Tumblr, vowing never to go there again.

  He didn’t know where to start.

  With encyclopedias, it was easy. You knew the topic you wanted, you picked the volume that contained information on the topic, you researched the topic, and then you put the volume back.

  The Internet was vast and had men with disproportionately large testicles.

  Gus wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have a simple mind. He couldn’t even necessarily be called naïve. If he was sheltered, it was because of his own doing. Pastor Tommy was all for anything that Gus wanted to do, and Gus loved him for it. Gus was not simple, but he liked it when things were. He liked routine. He liked order. He liked things in their places so he could find them when he needed them.

  Maybe it was a little lonely. But it worked for him.

  Because he was abnormal and weird and strange.

  And it wasn’t normal.

  And he needed to be normal.

  So, for the first time in his life, Gus asked the Internet for help.

  In the search bar on the top right of the screen, he typed six words.

  How to be a normal person

  He hit Enter.

  There were over a billion hits.

  Gus almost died.

  A billion.

  He looked at the first one.

  It wasn’t Tumblr, so he figured that was a start. He didn’t want to see what it looked like after the large pornographic man tried to get the woman’s mouth pregnant.

  And if it was the first out of the billion, then it had to be the best, right?

  That’s what he told himself. It was logical, and Gus was nothing if not logical.

  He clicked on the first link.

  Are you tired of being unique? It can be exhausting standing out in the crowd. You may have to see and do things that you just don’t have the time or energy for. Oftentimes, even if you do nothing at all, you are still considered an “individual” merely by existing. And it’s okay to not want this. It’s okay to want to be like other people.

  If someone has ever called you strange or weird or, worse, abnormal, it’s okay! You just need help stifling your more quirky qualities. If you follow these step-by-step instructions, you’ll fit in just like everyone else in no time. Are you ready to be normal?

  “Yes,” Gus said reverently. “Fuck yeah. Yes, I am.”

  Chapter 10

  HOW TO Be a Normal Person

  Step 1: Dressing like a Normal Person

  For many, what clothes you wear helps to advertise what kind of person you are and what social class you belong in. For example, if you wear drab and dark colors all the time, you may be considered a “Goth” or “Repressed Suburban White Kid.” If you wear sports shorts and tank tops everywhere you go, people might assume you are a basketball player or a lazy college student. Men in suits or women in power suits all the time tend to make people believe they are a very important businessman and/or woman going to a meeting or quite possibly just a douchebag.

  It’s best to not attract attention to yourself clothing-wise. For men, a little color never hurt anyone, but try matching a pair of sensible shoes with a pair of jeans and a nice button-down shirt. Nothing says “normal” like button-down shirts….

  Gus looked into his closet and groaned. “I’m a Gothic Repressed Suburban White Kid.” He didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he was a Gothic Repressed Suburban White Kid or the fact that he didn’t know he was one. All his clothes were dark and muted colors, from the uniforms he wore to the Emporium to the slacks he wore when going shopping. Even his underwear and socks were black and gray. The only bit of color he could see was his Yasser Arapants, and he couldn’t wear a dead Palestinian leader’s face out into public. They were pajamas, after all. Pajamas had no place outside of a home.

  Even the button-down shirts he had were black. Gus didn’t know when he’d made the unconscious decision to become a Goth, but he hoped he could reverse the trend before it was too late.

  There wasn’t much he could do right now. It was getting late and he had to work in the morning, no question. The We Three Queens were starting to make noise about coming over and checking on him, and he knew he couldn’t push them off for a third day.

  (And maybe just a little part of him realized he hadn’t seen Casey since Sunday night and maybe he wanted to see him. Maybe, but probably not really. It was all very convoluted.)

  He could probably try and go shopping next Sunday. Or even better, he had the Internet now and he could order clothes online.

  (That got him thinking that he could order groceries online now too, and if he hired someone to run the Emporium, he would never have to leave his house again. He recognized rather quickly that this was a dangerous train of thought and that knowing his luck, he would probably end up some kind of hoarder, probably of either cats or calendars from the 1970s.)

  He didn’t want to be a Gothic Repressed Suburban White Kid tomorrow, not now that he knew how to start making changes to his life to become more normal. He had to start now before he spent too much time thinking about it. If he did, he’d never—

  Holy shit.

  Pastor Tommy.

  He still had all of his dad’s clothes.

  (Was that creepy? He didn’t know if that was creepy.)

  He debated for a few seconds.

  He and his father had been about the same size. Well. At least before Pastor Tommy had gotten sick and started to shrink away until he was nothing but a faded shell of who he used to be. His eyes, though. They never faded. Neither did his smile, even at the very end when he’d—

  Gus took in a great, shuddering breath. When he exhaled, it sounded almost like a sob.

  He didn’t move until his breathing evened out again.

  It wasn’t always like that when he thought about Pastor Tommy.

  Only sometimes.

  Sometimes it hurt like it had happened yesterday.

  Sometimes it was just a faint buzz at the back of his head.

  But he was okay. He was fine.

  Pastor Tommy would kick his ass if he wasn’t.

  (The day before he died, Pastor Tommy took a hit off his coal-fired clay pipe that Gus had snuck into his hospital room. He grinned up at his son from his hospital bed, eyes bright, and said, “Thanks, Gussy. That really hits the spot. Hey, open the window so we don’t get shit from the nurses. Did I ever tell you the story of this pipe? I think I have. Probably a million times. Things are a little fuzzy for me right now, ha-ha. I made this myself. This pipe. In New Mexico. 1979, on the Jicarilla Apache Indian reservation. Nicest people you could ever meet. They made the most beautiful works of art out of clay and there was a man. Jimmy, I think. Jimmy. He showed me the art of pipe-making. He was my friend and I loved him a lot. You would have liked him. I know you would have. Gus. Gus. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. You can’t be sad forever, okay? You can’t. You just can’t because I can’t bear the thought. So don’t be sad. Maybe smoke a little, drink a little, cry a little if you have to, and remember me a lot. But be happy. You promise me. That’s all I ever wanted for you was to be happy forever. You make me happy, Gustavo Tiberius. You make me the happiest I’ve ever been. Because as much as I love this little clay pipe, you will always be the greatest thing I have ever created.”)

  It could be a start, maybe.

  He went to his dad’s old room, into his dad’s old closet, and looked at his dad’s old clothes. There was definitely more color here than Gus ever had. But then Pastor Tommy had always been more colorful than Gus. It was just who they were.

  It only took a moment for him to find what he was looking for.

  And it was perfectly normal.

  HE LOOKED absolutely ridiculous.

  This was why Gus wore dark colors.

  He looked like a traffic cone. From Hawaii.

  You see, Pastor T
ommy had very specific tastes when it came to clothing.

  Namely, a never-ending fascination with short-sleeved floral-print shirts in a variety of bright and offensive colors.

  Today, Gus had decided on the nice orange one, adorned with white flowers.

  “What the hell,” Gus said, grimacing at his reflection. “I look like I have Hep C.”

  But the Internet had told him this was normal. He’d even found a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and some worn Birkenstocks. And if the Internet told him this was normal, he was going to have to trust it, even if it had initially led him to porn.

  He could do this. It was the start of a brand-new Gus.

  A normal Gus.

  (Granted, he was in a bit of a pissy mood as he fretted all night, wondering about everything he’d learned so far. He had tried to research asexuality later into the night, but it might have intimidated him a little, given how much contradictory information there seemed to be. All he could really figure out was that there was no one way to be asexual. And that answered absolutely none of the questions he had. It also didn’t help that he somehow ended up on a dating site for Wiccans and witches, and he realized that maybe his problems weren’t so big as compared to others.)

  (And maybe he was a bit pissed off because the inspirational calendar had said Don’t change yourself for anyone. Be happy with who you are. It was like the calendar knew what he was trying to do and Gus reminded himself to look up if there had ever been a record of a calendar turning sentient. If there was, he hoped it also said how to kill it.)

  “Today is going to be an okay day,” he told himself.

  But then he thought about it. Isn’t that what he always used to say? The old Gus said that. Not Hep C Gus. Hep C Gus wore Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks. Hep C Gus didn’t want things to just be okay.

  He squared his shoulders, scowled at the mirror, and said, “Today is going to be super.”

  He grimaced because that sounded fucking awful.

  But whatever.

  Hep C Gus didn’t care.

  He straightened his name tag.

  He left the bathroom.

  Ate his apple in the kitchen.

  Harry S. Truman played with his pellets.

  Once they finished breakfast, they left the house and prepared to have a super day.

  “HOLY MAGNUM, P.I.,” Lottie breathed when Gus stepped into the coffee shop, trying to act as if nothing were amiss. Gus was not disappointed that Casey wasn’t behind the counter. Not at all. Not a single smidgen of disappointment.

  “Yes,” Gus said, determined not to blush. “Hello. Good morning.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have a fever? Are you still sick? Come here and let me touch your face.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something that’s going to happen,” Gus said.

  “Gus.”

  “What?”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Never better. Today is going to be super.”

  “Super,” Lottie repeated.

  “Super,” Gus agreed.

  “You stay right here,” Lottie said and disappeared into the kitchen in the back.

  Gus fidgeted. Should he order his usual black coffee? Or should he try something a bit more adventurous? He didn’t know if he was ready for a complete overhaul just yet, and asking for a latte with steamed nonfat milk sounded outside of his comfort zone. (It also sounded absolutely disgusting and Gus could never understand how people could drink something so ostentatious.)

  He didn’t have to think on it long, because Casey burst through the door to the kitchen, being shoved by Lottie. He was wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. The collar was open at his throat, and the shirt was missing the top two buttons. Underneath, he wore a black tank top. His hair was pulled back again. His glasses were perched on the top of his head. He was looking over his shoulder, saying “—what’s the rush, man, I just lit that joint, it’s not as if—”

  And then he saw Gus and the smile that split over his face caused Gus’s heart to stumble in his chest. “Gustavo,” he said warmly. “Up on your feet, I see. Welcome back to the land of the well. Man, are you a sight for sore eyes. Do me a favor, all right? Can you put down the ferret with merit for just a moment?”

  Gus, lost in a light fog of Casey, put Harry S. Truman’s carrier on the floor.

  And then, before he could even begin to process, Casey was in front of him, wrapping his arms around Gus, hooking his chin over Gus’s shoulder and… what? What. He was—

  Hugging.

  Gus was being hugged.

  By Casey.

  (If Gus were to be asked the last time anyone had hugged him, he would be able to tell you the specific date and time. It was the day Pastor Tommy died, March 16, 2011, at 3:47 in the afternoon, and his father had gripped Gustavo’s hand weakly, pulling him down until they were chest to chest. His thin arms had come up around and he’d held Gus close. Gus had felt his heart thrumming weakly in his chest, and he’d known. He’d known right then what that moment had been. He’d held on as tightly as possible and four hours later, Pastor Tommy was gone and Gus had sat in a plastic hospital chair, his head in his hands.)

  So it’d been a while since he’d been hugged. He wasn’t exactly the sort to invite people up into his space. Even the We Three Queens had only gotten as far as touching his arm or hand, and he’d known them for years.

  But here was Casey, stoned, confusing Casey who was hugging Gus like they did it every day, and he wasn’t even put off by the fact that Gus had yet to hug him back. And Casey had been right, he was good at hugging. Their bodies were perfectly lined up with each other, barely a space between them. Casey’s arms were under Gus’s, hands clasped at the back. Gus could feel Casey’s breath on his neck, and it wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t arousing, it was just… it was good. It was sweet and kind, and Gus hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being hugged.

  Before he could hug back (and it had gone on at least a minute), Casey pulled away, stepping out of Gus’s immediate space, and Gus missed it, for fuck’s sake, missed the goddamn touch like he’d been starving for it.

  This… this was not good.

  Mostly. Mostly not good.

  Casey said, “That was great, man. That was real great.” He grinned that lazy smile that Gus was starting to recognize. “I felt it. Right down to my bones. It always feels good to get that first hug out of the way. Makes it easier for follow-up hugs.”

  Gus said, “Yes. Well. I suppose. It was all right.” His hands were sweaty and he felt slightly dizzy, but his treacherous mouth still managed to say, “I’ll be ready next time.”

  If anything, Casey’s smile grew wider. “Good to know. Feel better?”

  “Uh, yes? Yes.”

  And Casey was amused. “Not freaking out or anything?”

  “This is happening right in front of me,” Lottie whispered feverishly somewhere in the background.

  “I don’t freak out,” Gus said with a glare. “I didn’t freak out. There was no freaking.”

  “Uh-huh. So, gang-bang babies and I saw an Internet truck in front of your house yesterday.”

  “Completely unrelated topics,” Gus said. “You stalker. They aren’t related at all. Not that there were gang-bang babies. That was a lie spread by someone with an alliterative name, so she obviously can’t be trusted.”

  “Obviously,” Casey agreed. “And the Internet truck?”

  “I am researching the Philippine flying lemur,” Gus said and Jesus Christ, he was supposed to be normal. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, for fuck’s sake.

  “Why does the video recorder not work on my phone?” Lottie hissed.

  “You like the Philippine flying lemur?” Casey asked.

  “As much as anyone,” Gus said. “No more and no less than a normal person would.”

  “Huh,” Casey said. “Black coffee, Gustavo?”

  And so Gus said, “I’m okay with you. Being who you are. It�
�s okay. For me. And the future. Or whatever.”

  Casey’s eyes widened and something that Gus couldn’t quite make out crossed his face, and he said, “Good, that’s real good.” His voice was rougher than it’d been before.

  And Gus thought about saying I hope you can say the same for me, but he remembered that Casey had called him abnormal and weird and strange, so maybe he couldn’t quite say that, not yet. Some part of Gus, some part ingrained deep inside him, placed there by life and Pastor Tommy, whispered that he shouldn’t have to change for anyone, that if someone didn’t appreciate him as he was, then they had no place in his life. But Gus ignored that voice, because he wasn’t quite convinced he was doing this because of Casey. Or, rather, not just because of Casey. Maybe he wanted to do this for himself, too. It might work. It might not. But Gus had the Internet now, and he would never know unless he tried.

  Only then did Casey seem to realize what Gus was wearing. He looked Gus up and down, and while there was no heat to the gaze, nothing that quite resembled lust, there was a fondness there. He said, “New threads? Kickass sandals, man. Retro. You sure you’re not a hipster? I bet you have a couple of fingers of rye whiskey every night before you go to bed while you listen to old jazz records.”

  “Oh my god,” Gus said. “What the hell. I don’t even remotely do anything like that. That’s ridiculous. Nobody should do that.”

  “I’ve done it,” Casey said. “I still do it.”

  “Well, yes,” Gus said, “but you’re a stereotype, so.”

  And Casey laughed.

  HE WAS feeling okay about it.

  Mostly.

  Yeah, the Birkenstocks were stupid, and his kneecaps were cold from the holes in the jean, and he really hated the shirt with a passion, but it was a start.

  Gustavo Tiberius had made a start.

  He should have known it would not have gone unmentioned.

  At 11:54, the door to the Emporium opened.

  In walked the We Three Queens.