by TJ Klune
“That sounds awful,” Gus said. “I wouldn’t even know where to keep it.”
“Ha,” she said. “I like it when you attempt humor. It makes me feel better about myself. Also, we’re setting up booths in front of your store so you’ll probably need to close early today. And good job getting in the strawberry spirit by wearing red. Have a strawberry day! Toodles!”
He looked down as the door closed behind her. Sure enough, he was wearing the red Hawaiian shirt. Either it was a coincidence or his subconscious was a bastard.
And Gustavo Tiberius didn’t believe in coincidences.
(Pastor Tommy did. Pastor Tommy believed in a lot of things. He believed in coincidences because he thought they showed the universe had a sense of humor. He believed in Bigfoot, because no one had been able to say it didn’t exist. He believed in the power of the dream catcher he kept above his bed to chase away nightmares. He believed 87 percent of the people on House Hunters International were complete and utter morons, “because really? They really decided to pick the shack in the woods over the chateau on the sea cliff? What the hell is wrong with them, oh my god, this show has to be fake, I don’t know why I’ve been watching it for the last five hours.” He believed in the Strawberry Festival because he thought it brought the community together (granted, he also believed in the Fall Festival, the Winter Carnival, the Halloween Extravaganza, the Christmas Pageant, New Year’s Eve Spectacular and Hey, Hey It’s Arbor Day! where a group of people went into the forest to plant trees and sing old Grateful Dead songs). And three days before the last time he went into the hospital and thirteen days before he died, he said, “I believe in you, Gus. I believe that you’ll take care of things after I’m gone. I believe that you’ll be strong and brave and that you’ll be so good. I wish I could be here to see everything you’ll accomplish, but just know that wherever I am and wherever you are, I’ll always believe in you.” Gus’s hands had shook and his voice had gone away but he’d nodded, and for Pastor Tommy, that had been enough. For Pastor Tommy, Gus had always been enough.)
Twenty minutes after Mrs. Von Patterson had disappeared to wherever Fun Committee members went when they weren’t spreading misery and cheer, people began to gather on the sidewalk outside of his doorway, setting up tables and booths.
Gus glared at them.
They waved back, laughing at his strawberry in the window, the one with the sordid tale.
By the time the We Three Queens strolled in (decked out in brand-new matching red leather jackets that proclaimed them Strawberry Queens), Gus could barely see across the street between all the booths. He would most certainly not be renting any movies today, aside from those the We Three Queens selected. He was strangely conflicted about that. On one hand, nobody would be experiencing the joy of cinema. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to deal with people.
He decided to take it as a win.
“Happy Strawberry Festival Day,” Bertha said.
“The most strawberry day of them all,” Bernice said.
“Cadet!” Betty said. “Message for today!”
Gus sighed because he no longer questioned the inspirational calendar. “It said that the seeds we plant today will blossom into the fruits of our labor tomorrow.”
“Spooky,” Bertha said. “Because of what today is.”
“And also because Gus is a fruit,” Bernice said.
“Jesus Christ,” Gus muttered.
“Well,” Betty said, “be that as it may, it’s good advice to follow. And given that you are going on your first official date with Casey, it’s time that you plant your seed in him so you can pick his laborious fruit tomorrow.”
“That was quite unfortunate phrasing,” Bernice said as Gus began a good sputter that would last just under two minutes.
“Indeed,” Bertha said. “Especially given their romance.”
“Quite,” Betty said. “I should have thought ahead before I spoke. I feel badly that I might have put undue pressure on Gus’s expectations in relation to his future with Casey.”
“Anyone could have made that mistake,” Bernice said, patting her sister-lover on the arm. “Just as long as Gus understands that he should not expect sexual exploits from Casey, they should be just fine.”
“My life,” Gus said as he held his head in his hands. “My life.”
The door opened again as Gus continued to moan. He didn’t look up until he heard Casey say, “You all right, man? The Queens break you?”
He was sure his face was red when he looked up, if the sound Casey made was any indication. “No,” he said. “I’m—” and then his words died in his throat as he really looked at Casey.
He was wearing dark red skinny jeans, a white V-neck shirt that clung to his arms and chest, and a red and black vest cinched tight just above his hips. His hair was messier than usual, half hanging on his shoulders and around his face. His beard had gotten longer since Gus had known him, the end of which was almost in line with his clavicles.
In other words, he was by far the hottest thing Gus had ever seen in his life.
And for some unknown reason, Gus had a date with him.
Casey grinned at him as if he could read Gus’s mind. “Strawberries, man,” he said. “Gotta get in the spirit, ya know?”
Gus could only nod, having just enough awareness to keep from drooling. He really wanted to hug Casey right now, but wasn’t sure if he had the balls to ask for it yet. Any hugging they’d done in the past had always been initiated by Casey. Gus never said no, but he didn’t know how to be the one to start.
But when he figured it out, he was going to hug him so hard.
When he focused back in on the conversation, he heard Casey telling Bertha that she needed to take their picture so they could commemorate this day, man. “That way Gus will always remember the awesomeness that is Strawberry Festival.”
Gus thought to remind him that there was positively nothing awesome about Strawberry Festival and he did not want yet another picture of him ending up online, but for some reason, he decided to let it go. Just this once, of course. Because he could.
(But that would be it. He didn’t want any more pictures of himself on the Internet, as Casey’s fans had started “shipping them hard”—whatever the fuck that meant—and Casey said they were writing stories online about the two of them. Gus hadn’t believed him until he accidentally stumbled across one—meaning he’d searched for it—and it started out okay, but then Gus read a line in the story where his character told Casey, “I want to sit on your face and have you tongue-fuck my asshole” while he scowled and glared, and Gus knew that the Internet was a terrifying place filled with way too many horny people that should be focused on more important things like narwhals and battered women who believed in unicorns.)
Casey pulled him out from behind the counter and wrapped his arm around Gus’s shoulder, his hand dangling against Gus’s chest, fingers pressing lightly. Gus hesitated, but then put his arm carefully around Casey’s waist, making sure he moved slowly so Casey could pull away if he wanted to. Gus respected Casey and didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. He never wanted Casey to be uncomfortable around him, and he didn’t know when that had started, only that it had.
But Casey didn’t move away at all. In fact, he pulled Gus tighter. He leaned over and whispered in Gus’s ear, “Hi, Gus.”
Gus rolled his eyes, but it was mostly for show. It should have bothered him more than it did. “Hi, Casey.”
“What’s the difference between a strawberry and a prostitute?”
Gus choked a bit. “I have no idea.”
He could feel Casey smiling. “The strawberry isn’t as messy when you eat it.”
Gus burst out laughing. He couldn’t stop it even if he tried.
Of course, that’s when Bertha took the picture.
As his laughter died, he caught the looks the We Three Queens gave him. He felt almost self-conscious, like he’d done something wrong, but they were looking at him with something a
kin to awe.
“What?” he asked, still hearing the laughter in his voice, noticing how Casey hadn’t moved away.
“Nothing,” Bernice said, recovering first. “It’s nice. You know. Hearing you laugh. It’s just nice, is all.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Casey said, briefly touching his forehead to Gus’s temple.
Gus wondered if this was what Pastor Tommy had meant by having belief.
“FULL DISCLOSURE, man,” Casey said as Gus locked up the Emporium. The noise on Main Street was deafening, and Gus was already dreading the idea of mingling. Harry S. Truman was on his leash, squeaking happily as he scented the air.
“What?” Gus asked.
“I’m slightly stoned,” Casey said, sounding almost sheepish. “Not a whole lot. Just a little bit.”
Gus snorted. “I feel like you want me to act surprised. Is your stigmata acting up?”
“My eyes?” Casey said. “Nah, that’s—oh. Oh. I see what you did there. Bleeding Jesus, right? Man, you really need to start that bongo band. I could be your groupie. Throw my underwear onstage or whatever.”
Gus was thankful they hadn’t started walking yet because he was sure he would have tripped over his own feet had he heard Casey say that.
“Please don’t throw your underwear at me,” Gus said.
Casey shrugged. “It’s cool. I’m not wearing any.”
Somehow, Gus tripped over his own feet. And he wasn’t even walking.
Casey grinned at him. “You all right, Gustavo?”
“I’m fine,” Gus managed to say. “Also, shut up with your smugness. You know I don’t care if you smoke, right?”
Casey searched Gus’s face for something, and Gus didn’t know what he was trying to find. Eventually, he said, “Just not when I’m working, huh?”
“You got my coffee right. All that matters.”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because black coffee is so easy to fuck up.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I was nervous,” Casey said, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his eyes.
“Pouring the coffee?”
“Ha. No. Well, yeah, because it was my first day, but that’s not what I mean.”
“What were you nervous about?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you.” He bit his bottom lip.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gus said. He thought about reaching out and touching Casey somehow, but didn’t know if it would be welcome. Then he realized that he was on a date with him, that normal people when on dates, and normal people touched, so why the fuck not?
He reached out, ignoring the way his hand shook slightly. He dropped his hand on Casey’s shoulder and squeezed once before letting go. Harry S. Truman wanted in on the love too and rubbed up against Casey’s battered Converse, winding between his legs.
Casey sighed, the smile coming back. “Yeah. I know. I was nervous about our date. So I might have smoked to calm my nerves a bit. Apparently, I was very nervous because I’m pretty stoned. To be fair, I didn’t mean to smoke the whole joint. Or the bowl after. It just sort of… happened.”
Gus thought he hadn’t heard quite right. “You were nervous? About me?”
“You can be quite intimidating when you want to be,” Casey said. “And I like you. And I want this to go okay because even though we haven’t even gone on our first date, I already want there to be a second one. And a third. So. I got stoned.” He grimaced. “My bad.”
Gus gaped at him, synapses firing all at once, his brain short-circuiting. Which provided the plausible explanation for why he said (through no volition of his own), “Me too, I want that too, I think you’re so cool, oh my god, and a fourth date where we go to a botanical garden with a butterfly exhibit or eat spicy chicken wings. Or we eat spicy chicken wings at a botanical garden butterfly exhibit.”
“Yes,” Casey said as he nodded furiously. “All the dates. Like, so many dates. You’re not even going to believe how many dates.”
“There aren’t even numbers for how many dates we’ll go on,” Gus said, pretty sure he could smell the burning that must have been pouring from his ears as his brain broke down. “They’ll have to make up new numbers just to quantify how many dates we’ll go on.”
“I can’t even count that high,” Casey said. “I don’t even know if I can count right now.”
“Oh my god,” Gus choked out. “You’re so fucking stoned.”
“Fuck yeah,” Casey said decisively. “Let’s go eat some fucking strawberries.”
“WHAT DO you mean you’re allergic to strawberries?” Gus said after they’d taken five steps.
“I totally forgot!” Casey said, eyes wide. “I didn’t even think about that until I saw that booth over there that is selling strawberry pizza and thought, man that sounds good. But then I remembered that one time, when I was, like, six or something, I went to a birthday party for Timmy Marino and he had this piñata, man. This fucking piñata, and it was shaped like Darth Vader, man. I was so mad when people started hitting it because it was so cool. Like, you have no idea. But then they started hitting it with the stick and I got mad. I ran over to Tommy Marino and grabbed the stick from his hand and told him he couldn’t hit it, because it was so perfect. He told me that he could do whatever he wanted because it was his birthday. I didn’t even like Tommy Marino, but my mom made me go because he’d invited me and she said it was rude to not show up. I even had to get him a present, man, a fucking present, but whatever, you know? It was fucking Darth Vader. So then he started crying and I started crying and everyone else started crying and we were all crying because of fucking Darth Vader, man. It was one of those first moments of clarity I could remember having when I knew that I was different than all the other kids. That I knew I wasn’t like everyone else, you know? Fuck, man. That’s some deep fucking shit I’m laying out for you. I don’t even know. Hey, Gus. What were we talking about?”
“What,” Gus said, “the hell. What does that have to do with strawberries?”
Casey frowned. “What does what have to do with strawberries?”
Gus sighed. “You’re so stoned.”
Casey nodded. “Yeah. Seriously. Oh hey, look! They have strawberry jam over there. I wonder… oh wait. Gus. Gus.”
“Yes, Casey?”
“Dude,” he said. “I’m fucking allergic to strawberries.”
“Yes, Casey.”
“I’m allergic to strawberries and our first date is to the Strawberry Festival!”
“Yes, Casey.”
“Oh, man,” Casey said, shaking his head. “This is going to be one of those stories we talk about when we’re reminiscing as old men, sitting in our rockers on the porch holding hands. Memories, man. It’s all about the memories.”
Gus didn’t know quite what to do with that. Sure, they’d somehow agreed to go on an infinity amount of dates, but now Casey was talking about being old men together? Either Casey was fucking insane or that was some really good weed.
“It’s both,” Casey said and only then did Gus realize he’d been speaking aloud. “I am fucking insane and it was a strain called Origami Star Fucker. The guy at the dispensary said it was awesome. I had it in a cookie to start. Guess what. It’s awesome.”
“And that’s why everyone takes marijuana so seriously,” Gus said. “I mean, why wouldn’t they with names like Origami Star Fucker.”
“Exactly!” Casey was beaming at him.
“Will you die if you stand near strawberries?”
Casey shook his head. “No. I just can’t eat them. It’s not that bad of an allergy, but my tongue gets swollen and my face turns splotchy and I can’t breathe and have to go to the hospital.”
“You’re right,” Gus said. “It doesn’t sound that bad at all.”
“Man, I’ve got the munchies,” Casey said, linking his arm through Gus’s. Gus didn’t even know what to do with that, so he just rolled with it. Why the fuck not. “Think the
y’ve got something here to eat?”
“Yes,” Gus said. “Strawberries.”
Casey made a face. “I was thinking like a gigantic turkey leg or some quiche.”
“I don’t think they sell quiche at the Strawberry Festival,” Gus said. “Or any festival, for that matter. It’s not really a festival food.”
“Hey, Gus,” Casey said. “What’s that sign say over there on that booth? My stigmata is acting up and the words are blurry.”
“Um. Which one? Oh. It says…. Cup O’Quiche. Buy Some Quiche in a Cup.”
“Wow,” Casey said. “I bet you feel awkward right now.”
“For more reasons than you could possibly know,” Gus said.
“Do you want some quiche in a cup?”
“No,” Gus said. “That is not something I want.”
“What do you want?” Casey asked, pulling him toward the quiche. Gus tried to ignore the smirks from the people around him, townspeople, tourists, everyone he probably knew somewhere around him, watching as a stoned asexual hipster pulled him toward a food that should not be available at the Strawberry Festival. Or any festival, really. Harry S. Truman kept up, little legs pumping as his eyes darted everywhere.
“Seriously?” Gus said. “I have no idea.”
And all of a sudden, Casey just stopped in the middle of the street. Gus yelped as he bumped into him. The crowd milled around them. Casey turned slowly toward Gus, mouth curving up in what was probably the most evil smirk Gus had ever seen on his face. If he was being honest with himself, it sort of turned his insides to mush and he was this close to hugging Casey all on his own.
“I know what you need,” Casey whispered, eyes glinting.
Gus was quite sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, and he had to remember all he had learned about how to hide an erection. He berated himself silently for forgetting his fanny pack at home. What good did it do him there?
“And what might that be?” Gus asked, not sure if he really wanted an answer.
