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 the 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.

Gus did not laugh or squeak.

“So, Gus,” Casey said, “Tell me more about yourself.”

“Why?” Gus asked, already suspicious. He thought it possible that Casey was a spy sent by a bigger video rental corporation, but then reminded himself that they were all pretty much out of business. Gus then decided he probably worked for some shady land developer and was trying to get an in with Gus to convince him to sell his properties so they could be torn down and made into a parking garage for people with BMWs and no souls.

“Because that’s what new friends do,” Casey said. “They learn about each other so they can grow as people both together and apart.”

“I like that,” Gus said. “Let’s grow apart.”

Casey laughed. “You’re funny. Ooh, organic yogurt. Gus, you said they didn’t have organic anything.” He stopped in front of the cooler and started plucking flavors at random.

“I didn’t know they did,” Gus said. “People here don’t buy that crap.”

“Sure,” Casey said. “Crap. It’s from the earth. It’s why it’s organic. You know, modern processing puts in so many chemicals into the products we use. I don’t want that shit in my body. It’s why I like weed, man. It grows. If it grows, the body knows.”

“Oh look,” Gus said. “I think I hear slow jazz being played outside. You should go listen.”

Casey stopped, cocking his head. “I don’t hear any—” He grinned as his eyes widened. “I see what you did there. Man, you’re good.”

“It’s not that hard to pull one over on someone when they’re stoned,” Gus said.

“Nah, man. I’m not stoned today. Woke up with the muse caressing my face and whispering in my ear. I put it to good use. Plus it’s Sunday, ya know? God and Jesus and shit.”

“Yes,” Gus said. “I’m sure God and Jesus are happy you didn’t smoke weed on this the most holy of days.” Then, before he could stop himself, “Muse?”

Casey glanced at him, teeth flashing. “Yeah.”

And said nothing more.

Now, Gus should have let it end there. He should have. He normally would have. There was no reason for this conversation to continue. He came to get his TV dinners, his two-ply toilet paper, and maybe, if he was feeling really frisky, a package of beef jerky he could have as a dessert after dinner. And his string cheese. He needed it now like air.

However, the inspirational calendar had forced Gus to say hello the day prior, and a million things were happening, and Gus couldn’t stop his mouth from opening and saying, “You paint or something?” It came out aloof and sounding bored, but it was still a follow-up question.

Gustavo Tiberius rarely asked follow-up questions.

And never to hipsters. It was one of the unspoken rules.

“I’m a writer,” Casey said easily.

Gus stopped. “What.”

Casey stopped too, leaning his elbows down on the handle of the cart. “I write.”

That… that did not compute. “You what.”

Casey shrugged. “I write. Words. I am a wordsmith. Wordslinger. I have ideas that fill up pages and create worlds that blossom young minds into—”

Gus suddenly understood. It made much more sense. He felt sort of relieved that the world had a working order to it. “Oh,” he said. “So, like, you write poetry about misogyny and racism in corporate America and perform it live in smoky coffee bars while snapping but achingly wishing you were writing Pablo Neruda romance instead. Got it.”

Casey threw back his head and laughed. Gus did not track the long lines of his neck, did not feel his heart thump a bit strangely when the Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and most certainly did not feel the urge to stare in awe.

Gus was not prepared to not feel anything like that at all.

“Oh, Gus,” Casey said, wiping his eyes. “You are a delight. I am delighted by you.”

Gus grimaced. “That should not be a word used to describe me.”

“Ah,” Casey said. “But I’m a writer. Words are what I do. And no, I’m not some bohemian rhapsody that you have going on in your head. Pablo Neruda, though. I like that shit.”

Gus scowled. “Then what do you write?”

“Why, Gus,” Casey said, leaning a bit closer. “Are you trying to learn about me? So we can grow together?”

And yes, that is exactly what Gus was doing, but he wasn’t doing it of his own volition. He didn’t even know why he was asking. He was certain then that the supernatural existed, because the only way this conversation could have occurred was if Gus had been placed under some kind of spell. He glared at Casey and hissed, “Witch!” Because really! “Come along, Harry S. Truman,” he said. “We have shopping to finish.”

But of course, Harry S. Truman decided he would rather be a jerk and lay flat on his stomach, not wanting to walk. Gus was not above dragging him through the store, but he did not want to be seen as an irresponsible ferret owner in front of a hipster poet, lest he be the subject of Casey’s next poetry slam:

I’ve SEEN

(*dramatic pause*)

Men of my generation

Pretending love and making war

(*pause for raucous applause*)

All the WHILE

Sweet sweet mustard gas child

Dragging ferrets through the store

So he stood there.

And so did Casey.

Harry S. Truman did not stand. He lay flopped on the floor as if all his bones had mysteriously disappeared.

Gus started to sweat.

Casey grinned.

Gus said, “I don’t read books, I read encyclopedias,” and desperately wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “There’s nothing wrong with that. A lot of people do that.”

Casey said, “Cool, man. Knowledge is power. Hey, question. How do you get all those movies to your store? They probably don’t have distribution centers for that stuff anymore.”

Gus said, “I go to the mall in Glide and buy them and then put them out to rent.”

Casey said, “That’s great. Epic. Right? Okay. That’s so weird. You do that? Wow. I don’t—”

Gus said, “Once a month. I go on a buying spree,” and then felt ridiculous for saying buying spree, what the hell. “I mean, I just. What were we—”

Casey said, “Oh crap. You’re blushing. Why are you blushing? That’s so unfair. I can’t even—”

Gus said, “I’m not. I’m feeling overheated. The air conditioning must be broken. I’m not blushing and everything is fine. I don’t blush.”

Casey said, “I write books. Novels. Like, full-on books about stuff. And things. Crazy things.”

Gus said. “Oh. I only read encyclopedias, so.”

Casey said, “Yeah. Yeah. Sure. That’s cool, man. Gotta do what you do. Do you like curry?”

Gus said, “No. It’s awful. I hate the way it tastes. Did you really move here?”

Casey said, “No curry, got it. That’s okay. Yeah. Live with Lottie for a while. Clearing my head. Finding my mojo. It’s working. I think it’s working. Being here is working.”

And not once did they break eye contact.

Eventually, Gus left, dragging Harry S. Truman behind him.

If he spent the rest of the day in a dumbfounded fog, well.

No one was there to see it.