How to Be a Normal Person

by TJ Klune

  “This is going to be so awesome,” Casey breathed.

  “Right?” Gus said. “It would be called Stone Fire Stoner Pizza Place for People Who Are Stoned.” He frowned as he reached for the doorknob. “Okay. I’m still working on the name, but you can’t Instagram me because then I won’t be able to make pizza.”

  And with that, he opened the door to find—

  “Oh shit!” he squeaked, slamming the door and leaning against it.

  “Dude,” Casey said. “Is it pizza?”

  Gus shook his head. “No. Worse.”

  Casey frowned. “Worse than pizza? So. Like. Tacos? Do they even deliver tacos? God, I want some tacos.”

  “Worse,” Gus hissed.

  “Worse than tacos?” Casey asked. Then, the blood drained from his face. “Is it cauliflower? Gus. Gus. I have cauliflower PTSD! What if I start having flashbacks to when my parents tried to make me eat it? I’ll need to get stoned to calm me down. Oh. Wait. I’m already stoned. Okay. Never mind. I got this. Bring it on.”

  “It’s not cauliflower!” Gus snapped. “It’s polyamorous lesbians and/or sisters and your aunt!”

  “Oh,” Casey said, looking immensely relieved. Then, “Do they have pizza?”

  “No, they don’t have pizza!”

  “Why are you freaking out?”

  “Because I’m stoned!”

  “They’ve never seen you stoned?”

  “No!”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Gus couldn’t really explain why he was freaking out, so he said the only thing he could think of. “Because I’m the landlord.”

  Casey got up and walked toward Gus. He stopped in front of him and reached up to touch his cheek. “S’cool, man,” he said. “No worries. Just act normal and they won’t even be able to tell.”

  Gus could do that. Gus could do that very well. After all, he was on his way to being the most normal person on the planet.

  “Normal,” Gus said. “Got it. I don’t have my fanny pack, but I don’t have an erection, so it’s all good in the hood.”

  “What,” Casey said.

  And since Gus hadn’t meant to say that out loud, he pushed Casey away slightly before opening the door.

  “Heeeey,” he said normally. “Ladies. Welcome to Casa de Gustavo.”

  The four women on his porch stared at him.

  “They really don’t have any pizza,” Casey whispered behind him. “The disappointment I feel is the same I felt while watching the series finale of Lost.”

  “Monumental?” Gus asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “Exactly.”

  “So,” Gus said, looking back at the women gathered before him. He crossed his arms over his chest and adopted what he assumed was an awesomely relaxed pose. “S’up. Pop a squat. If you wish.”

  “Did you just use slang?” Bertha asked.

  “What is even happening right now?” Bernice whispered. “I don’t understand the world anymore.”

  “I don’t know that you normally do,” Betty said, patting Bernice on the shoulder.

  “Someone overheard you saying you were allergic to strawberries,” Lottie said to her nephew. “We came to check that you were okay. What are the chances of them having an entire festival dedicated to the one food you’re allergic to? And why didn’t I know this about you?”

  “Aw,” Casey said, coming to stand next to Gus in the doorway. “Auntie Lottie. You’re the best. I live to fight another day.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “He’s so alive, that he gives life… to other things. Or whatever.”

  There was some more staring, but Gus was so normal, it didn’t even bother him.

  Bertha said, “How is everything else going?”

  Bernice said, “Yes. How is it going?”

  Betty said, “Is it going good?”

  Lottie said, “Gus, you look like you have beard burn on your chin.”

  Casey said, “Well, this just got slightly awkward.”

  Gus said, “Nah, man. It’s cool. I just tripped and fell on my face. Okay, that was a lie. He kissed me. And it was nice. But before that, we got stoned. I’m stoned right now. I’m so stoned. And then we played Scrabble and I couldn’t make up good words because of the fucking vowels, and then he spelled out words that were probably the most romantic thing ever and he kissed me and it was nice and I really forgot how much more I talk when I’m stoned and have the inability to lie about anything whatsoever. So. Let’s all pretend that I haven’t said a single word and now I can’t stop thinking about pizza, for fuck’s sake. Would it have killed you to bring a pizza when you came over and knocked on my door, oh my god.”

  Casey coughed.

  Gus said, “So that happened. What do I need to do to make sure that any of you never bring this up again?”

  APPARENTLY ABSOLUTELY nothing, because they brought it up almost daily.

  Chapter 15

  IT WAS only a couple of weeks later when Casey came to Gus and said seven words that struck fear into the very heart of him. And things had been going so well, too. They’d kissed a couple of more times, hugged a whole hell of a lot more, skirted around the need to call each other boyfriends (and god, didn’t that sound juvenile), had gotten stoned again (well, Casey had; Gus was still trying to escape the knowing looks from the women in his life). It was a shame, that this was all coming crashing down and that Gus was going to have to sell his house and move away, never to be seen again.

  “So, my friends want to meet you.”

  Now, it shouldn’t have to be said that Gustavo Tiberius had never found himself to be in this position before. If any of his past dalliances had been any indication, he was the love ’em and leave ’em type (and by love ’em and leave ’em, he meant that he awkwardly sexed ’em and then ran home to overanalyze every single part of the interaction only to decide to never do it again).

  But now, he found himself in a relationship of sorts, the kind where you went out to dinner, texted, shared pot cookies, and apparently met friends. Gus thought maybe this is what normal people did, but he couldn’t quite figure out how normal could be so goddamn terrifying. When he had been abnormal, weird, and strange, he had never had to worry about anything like this. He had his routine down to a science. Sure, maybe he had been a little bit lonely, but who wasn’t these days? Loneliness seemed a small price to pay to avoid situations like this. After all, he—

  “Gus.”

  Gus looked at Casey, who was standing in front of the counter at the Emporium, looking amused. “What?”

  “You okay?”

  Absolutely not. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you my friends wanted to meet you, and you got this look of horror on your face, and for the last four minutes, you’ve been staring at the wall making these tiny little noises at the back of your throat.”

  Gus scowled. “I did not.”

  “You sounded like a frightened kitten,” Casey said. “I almost recorded it. I bet I could have sold it and made at least forty dollars.”

  “I was not making frightened kitten noises,” Gus said. “That was Harry S. Truman.”

  “The ferret with merit has been asleep since I got here,” Casey pointed out.

  Sure enough, Harry S. Truman was sleeping in his cage. “Traitor,” Gus muttered.

  Casey reached out and took Gus’s hand in his own, tugging on his fingers in a way that had become a habit of his. Gus couldn’t say that he minded it one bit, but he did have to keep up appearances, after all. He sighed the sigh of the heavily put upon, but Casey grinned right through it, no longer falling for Gus’s bullshit.

  It was one of the worst things that had ever happened to Gus.

  Seriously.

  That bastard.

  “How am I supposed to meet them?” Gus asked with a frown. “Aren’t they all in LA? Because I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going to LA. That’s where the Kardashians live, and ever
since you made me watch them on TV, I am convinced they are the worst people in the world and are scary and will eat my soul if they find me.”

  “Well,” Casey said. “We can’t have that happen. And I didn’t make you watch shit, man. All I did was turn on the TV and it was already on that channel. You watch it all the time, don’t front.”

  “I don’t,” Gus insisted. “Harry S. Truman must have sat on the channel changer. He does stuff like that. Ferrets are notorious for wanting to watch trashy reality shows. I read encyclopedias. I should know.”

  “Someone’s a little defensive.”

  “You’re defensive.”

  Casey waited, a smirk on his face.

  “Okay,” Gus allowed. “That wasn’t one of my better comebacks.”

  “I still like you,” Casey said, patting his hand. “So much so that I won’t make you go to LA. In fact, you won’t even need to leave Abby. Because they’re coming here.”

  Gus held in the gasp he felt bubbling in his throat because he was not a gasper, even if the situation was dramatic enough to be one. Instead, he said, “Are they all… you know. Like you?”

  Casey arched an eyebrow. “Asexual?”

  “What?” Gus said. “No. I don’t care about that. Are they all hipsters?”

  “Josiah, Serge, and Xander can be—”

  “Those are their names?” Gus asked, sounding scandalized. “Oh my god. Even their names are ironic! What the hell.”

  “—called hipsters, yes,” Casey finished. “Do I have to remind you of your name again? It’s practically your birthright to become a hipster with that.”

  “You take that back,” Gus said with a scowl.

  “Never. They’re cool cats, man. Laid-back and everything.”

  “And you want them to meet me?” Gus asked. “What happens when you guys all get together and start talking about indie bands that no one has ever heard of called things like Don’t Cry For Me, Anorexia or Aphrodite’s Back Fat? And then you’ll talk about how much you love British comedies more than American comedies because the British have sarcasm that is so much more real. And no, I don’t want to buy your patchouli-smelling hand soaps made from goat’s milk and flaxseed called ridiculous things like Morning Refresher. I use Ivory like everyone else!”

  “That sounds like a lot of stereotyping,” Casey said, looking down at his phone.

  “Is that the latest iPhone you’re texting on?” Gus asked. “How long did you stand in line for it the day it came out?”

  “Thirteen hours, but I had to because my other iPhone was already eight months old and—oh. I see what you did there.” He grinned at Gus and squeezed his hand. “Well played, sir.”

  “You walking cliché,” Gus said.

  “It’s okay, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “To be nervous.”

  Gus narrowed his eyes. “What? Shut up. I’m not nervous. What even. Pfft. I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

  “Whoa,” Casey breathed.

  “Please forget I said that,” Gus said with a groan.

  “I don’t think I can,” Casey said. “I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan. That, like, works. On so many levels. Sort of. I’m stealing that and putting it in a book. It’s mine now. You can’t have it back.”

  “I don’t want it back.”

  “Liar. You’re jealous because I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

  God bless him for trying. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  “They’re going to like you because I like you,” Casey said. “And since I like you a lot, they’re probably going to end up being your new best friends.”

  Gus rolled his eyes, trying hard to ignore that fuzzy warm feeling in his chest. “I’m pretty sure you’re the exception there, buddy.”

  “Thank you,” Casey said, beaming.

  “No, I didn’t mean—never mind. I don’t make the best first impression, Casey.”

  Casey laughed. “When I met you, you walked in soaking wet carrying a ferret in a cage. Which ended up being pretty spot-on about you. You make the best first impressions out of anyone I’ve met.”

  Gus sighed. It was hard to argue with someone when they apparently thought you were awesome. Gus didn’t have many people that thought that, so who was he to dispute it? No one, that’s who. “I really don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?”

  “Not even for all the business dinners in Uruguay,” Casey said. “Besides, it’s only for a few days. And if it makes you feel better, we can introduce them to your friends, too.”

  “My friends?” Gus asked, confused. “I don’t have any—oh no. Casey, no. Don’t you even think about it.”

  “About what?” Casey asked. “Oh look. The We Three Queens just texted and said they most definitely have an evening free next weekend to go out to dinner. How fortuitous.”

  This.

  This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

  Gus needed to research everything he could as soon as possible.

  HOW TO Meet Your Boyfriend’s Friends

  So! You’ve made it to the point in the relationship where it’s time to meet the boyfriend’s friends. This can be a stressful time for anyone, given that his friends will likely act as judge, jury, and potentially a relationship executioner. If they don’t like you, there is the potential that could have an adverse effect on your relationship. But if you follow these easy steps, you’ll have no problem in making an impression that will last a lifetime!

  Step 1: Do Your Homework

  Find out as much information about them as possible before you meet them. The best way to go about this is to ask your boyfriend. It probably isn’t the best idea to attempt to stalk his friends, either online or in person. If you’re caught, that can be somewhat difficult to explain away. It’s better to find out about them from a reliable source.

  IT WAS two days before hipsters were set to descend upon Abby, Oregon. They were going to be staying at the only bed-and-breakfast in Abby, a little cottage owned by Leslie Von Patterson, she of the unicorn dreams and strawberry nightmares. There wasn’t enough room at Lottie’s house with Casey in the spare room for them to stay there. Gus thought about offering up his house, but realized that was a positively terrible idea (because he and Casey had yet to work up to staying overnight with each other, and what happened when Casey went home? Gus would have to entertain his friends and the very thought of such a thing made him sick to his stomach). Also, Mrs. Von Patterson’s bed-and-breakfast had dozens of pictures of unicorns hanging on the walls, so Gus was somewhat vindictively looking forward to that.

  But still, he needed to be prepared. The Internet told him as much.

  “So,” Gus said, going for casual and missing by at least a mile, “your friends. Tell me all about them. You know. Normal stuff. Like their fears and weaknesses. Not that I would exploit that at all. I just want to know. For science.”

  Casey looked away from the TV nearest to him in the Emporium, currently playing North by Northwest because Casey knew Gus secretly thought Cary Grant was dreamy, though he would rather die than ever say those words. “Hmm,” Casey said. “For science.”

  “Or something,” Gus said. “And what’s your word count so far?”

  Casey scowled at him and glanced at his opened laptop. “Enough.”

  “Your agent and your editor are going to yell at you again.”

  “You can’t rush this level of literature,” Casey said.

  “You’re writing a scene where Desmondo and Martindale are searching for Catarina in the Catacombs of Sadness,” Gus said. “You are the heir apparent to Tolstoy.”

  Casey laughed. “Catacombs of Despair, Gus. Come on. You should have known that since you’re my number-one superfan.”

  “No one should use the word superfan to describe me about anything,” Gus said. “It’s reprehensible and you should feel ashamed. Now, tell me all your friends’ secrets. I assume they all shop at thrift stores to find faded pr
int T-shirts from the eighties.”

  “This much is true,” Casey agreed. “One time, I found a Camp Easter Seal shirt from 1986 that they only wanted a dollar for. I would have paid at least three times that. That was a good day.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gus said. “It sounds like all your dreams came true. Spill, Richards.”

  Josiah was a waiter who was waiting for his big break as an actor. He’d had a few parts already, playing a cadaver of a procedural crime show that had fifty-seven spinoffs. He was also an audience member in an infomercial who questioned the validity of the host’s claim that the revolutionary blender could actually blend everything. He played the role with such gravitas that the producers apparently allowed him to ask a follow-up question about certain salsa recipes that came with the revolutionary blender. He’d then tried to ad-lib a line or two (“Wow, this blender would be perfect for my blended family!”) and was immediately escorted from the room.

  Serge was a yoga instructor who had traveled around India for eight months trying to find out how to access his inner chakras, and had ended up in the hospital for three weeks with a rather explosive case of dysentery that caused his inner chakras to become his outer chakras in a most foul and disgusting manner. Having recuperated, he then decided yoga was his calling and opened his own yoga studio with his trust fund, telling anyone who would listen that he most certainly didn’t want to use that money built upon dark Ivy League promises and corporate greed, but he really had no choice in the matter. “He imported Italian tile for his studio,” Casey said. “I still haven’t stopped making fun of him for it. That was six years ago.”

  And Xander. Xander, Xander, Xander. As Casey showed Gus pictures of them, sometimes all together, sometimes just individually, Gus noticed there seemed to be quite a few of Casey and Xander looking awfully cozy. Granted, it took a few minutes for Gus to notice this, given that he was distracted by the fact that they all had equally ridiculous facial hair (“Does he have a handlebar mustache?” Gus asked, looking at an egregiously filtered photo of Josiah. “Is he a villain from 1860 that’s going to tie me to train tracks if he doesn’t like me?” Casey laughed harder than Gus had ever seen before and felt oddly proud of himself). But there was more and more evidence that something was there.