by TJ Klune
It was the 135th day of the year, May 15th, 2014. It was a Thursday in the spring with the sun shining and the smell of pine trees in the cool, mountain air. It was going to be an okay day, because Gus had said so. He didn’t need inspirational messages given by polyamorous lesbians (who could actually just be sisters). He didn’t need banana-nut muffins made by alliterative short women with drag queen hair. He had his father’s ferret, his father’s ancient computer, and Pastor Tommy’s Video Rental Emporium (all seventeen hundred square feet of it) was now officially open, serving the people of Abby, Oregon, and the surrounding areas, Monday through Saturday, opening daily at nine and closing at five. Gift cards were available upon request. Tuesdays were ninety-nine cent rental day, up to three rentals.
God, how Gus hated Tuesdays. At least four people came in on Tuesdays.
But it was Thursday, now.
And it was going to be an okay day.
Chapter 2
NO ONE came into the store all morning, but that was to be expected. It was a Thursday, after all, and Gus would have frowned at anyone who actually had the time to rent a movie instead of being at work. Granted, he would have frowned at anyone regardless, but that was just part of who he was. This specific frown would have been one of judgment and mild disdain. The fact that the store was only open when people should have been at work didn’t really cross his mind.
But Pastor Tommy had always instilled in him that the customer was number one!!! so Gus sat on his stool behind the counter and watched the front door, waiting in case someone who obviously contributed nothing to society came in on a Thursday morning to rent a movie.
But no one did. Gus felt better about that.
It was 11:54 exactly when he received his first customers of the day. But they were expected as they came in every day he was open at 11:54. Not a minute earlier or later. Gus thought they stood out of sight, syncing their watches until the exact moment arrived to descend upon him and rent their movie for the day. He did not frown in judgment at them because he was in awe of them, though he would never admit it.
The We Three Queens: Bertha, Bernice, and Betty.
They arrived on their matching Vespas, their pink leather jackets bedazzled with a queen’s crown on the back. Bertha, as always, was in the lead. If there ever could be considered a lesbian leader of Abby, Oregon’s, very own biker (Vespa) gang, it would be her.
Bertha was in her late seventies, had an almost perfect afro of white hair, curled weekly at Midge’s Hair Salon a couple of blocks down on Main Street. Her hands were boney and her eyes were sharp. Her voice was whiskey smooth.
Bernice wore a green wig today, given that she was susceptible to female pattern baldness, something she’d told Gus even though he hadn’t wanted to know. He told her as much, but she went on and on as to how it could be just as common for women as it was for men, how she wasn’t ashamed of it because of all her nice wigs, and she would show him her balding head if he truly wanted to see it. He hadn’t. She showed him anyway. She was seventy-two.
Betty kept her hair cut short these days, shorter than even Gus had his own. While Bertha and Bernice wore dresses under their pink jackets and sensible shoes, Betty wore jeans and chaps and boots with silver buckles that jingled as she strutted. The other two called her a bull dyke, and Gus wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what that meant. Gus found it was often easier to not ask questions. People left him alone more that way.
But not the We Three Queens. They’d roared into town (well, as much as a Vespa can roar) three days after Pastor Tommy was put into the ground, claiming they were going to cross the country. They’d started out in Ashland, Oregon, and only made it 67.8 miles to Abby and decided they liked it enough to stay and forgo a scooter trip across America. They stayed in the only motel in Abby until they could finalize the purchase of a house and never left.
And for some reason, they adored Gus.
At first, Gus had hated it. His father was dead. He was in mourning. He wore black wherever he went and growled at anyone who tried to talk to him.
But they came into his store, day after day, deciding they would rent alphabetically to watch every movie in the store, one at a time. Currently, they were on the Cs. Gus had thought to point out that there would be no way they’d finish the entire selection before they croaked. Somehow, he’d managed to keep that thought to himself.
They’d seen his grief for what it was and took it upon themselves to shape it into something worthwhile. He’d resisted, of course. He wouldn’t be Gus if he hadn’t.
Now, though? Now he tolerated them. Mostly.
“Gustavo,” Bertha greeted, holding the door open for the others. “I’m glad you’re alive today.”
“That’s debatable,” Gus said. “Every moment we live is another moment we’re already dying.”
Bernice giggled as she reached over and pinched his cheeks. “You know,” she said, “it takes more muscles in your face to frown than it does to smile.”
“That’s not true,” Gus said. “You’ve been lied to. It takes twelve muscles in your face to smile and eleven to frown. Medical science is fact. Not your Internet memes you share when you have nothing interesting to say.”
“Oh boy,” Bertha said. “It’s one of those days, is it?”
“No,” Gus said. “It’s the same as always.”
“Hmm,” Betty said, leaning in close to inspect Gus’s face. “His scowl is a bit more pronounced today. Maybe a centimeter or so.”
“I smiled,” Gus insisted. “In the mirror this morning. It was awkward and I regret it ever happened.”
“Did you flex again too?” Bernice asked, running her fingers up his arm. “Big strong man, you.”
And god, did he regret the day he ever told them that. “No. I don’t do that anymore. That was one time. Or whatever. Shut up.”
The We Three Queens stared at him.
He stared right back.
“Gus,” Betty finally barked, and he stood a bit more at attention without even meaning to. Apparently Betty had been in the military for years before she retired. She didn’t seem quite able to let that go. “Inspirational message for the day!”
“Ugh,” Gus said, firmly regretting all his life’s choices.
“Now, cadet!”
“I’m not your—”
Her mouth thinned. That was not a good look. Even Gus knew better than to fight that look. One did not want to face the wrath of a biker (Vespa) lesbian.
“There is no elevator to success,” Gus grumbled. “You have to take the stairs.”
“Oh, how true!” Bernice exclaimed, clapping her hands. “What a lovely sentiment.”
“You have to work for it,” Bertha agreed. “Nothing comes easy.” She flipped up the collar of her pink jacket and gazed off into the distance, obviously ruminating on all the work she’d had to do and the rewards she’d received for said hard work. Like that jacket. Or her hair.
“True, true,” Betty said. “Hard work is worth the results at the end.”
“Elevators only kill approximately six people a year,” Gus said, because he couldn’t not say it. “Stairs kill thousands. If anything, I’d want to take the elevator to increase my chances of not dying.”
They all stared at him again.
“It’s true,” Gus said. “Look it up in the encyclopedia. I did. That’s how I know.”
Bertha snorted. “Gus, it’s 2014. I can look it up on my smartphone.”
“Oh, Bertha,” Bernice said, pursing her lips. “You know Gus still has a flip phone from the last decade. There’s no need to rub it in.”
“It does stuff,” Gus said. “I can text.”
“Not picture messages,” Bertha said, fingers flying over her phone’s touch screen.
“I don’t need picture messages,” Gus said. “I have a phone. It’s for making phone calls. Not hipster Instagramming a picture of a plate of quinoa salad in what is supposed to be artistic lighting
so everyone can see what I had for lunch.”
“What the hell is quinoa salad?” Bertha asked.
“Sounds Lebanese,” Bernice said. “Or maybe Icelandic.”
“And who do you call?” Betty asked him, cocking her head.
“People,” Gus said, averting his eyes. “For stuff.”
“People,” Bertha repeated, not even looking up from her phone. “For stuff.”
“Yes,” Gus said with a scowl. “Like… the pizza place. For pizza.”
“Huh,” Bertha said. “Six people die a year in elevators.”
“Ha,” Gus said. “Take that, Internet.”
“Harry S. Truman is waking up,” Bernice said, bending over until she was level with the cage. “Oh look at those pretty red eyes of evil.”
Harry S. Truman yawned.
Even Gus said aww. He would deny it until his dying day, though. Because that was just ridiculous.
“Ladies,” Betty said. “We’re here on a mission.”
“Ah, yes,” Bertha said. “Gus, we need to return Cannibal Rollerbabes. And go on to the next movie. Which probably also has cannibal in the title given that this is your video store.”
“That is most likely correct,” Gus said. “Opinion?”
“Using radio-controlled female cannibals on roller blades to lure men to eat was positively a stroke of genius,” Bernice said. “I admit, however, to thinking there could have been more babes in Cannibal Rollerbabes.”
“It’s from Canada,” Gus said.
“Ohh,” the We Three Queens said, because that explained everything.
“What’s next?” Betty asked.
Bertha sighed from the shelf where the Cs began. “Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death. Seriously, Gus?”
“It’s a movie with very strong feminist moralistic backbone,” Gus said seriously. “And also, it has a battle between the Barracuda Women and the Piranha Women. Both are cannibal tribes. You know. In the Avocado Jungle. Fun fact, it’s based upon Heart of Darkness.”
“Betty,” Bernice whispered.
“Yes, Bernice.”
“Did Gus just say ‘fun fact’?”
“I believe he did,” Betty said.
“Whoa,” Bernice breathed.
“I did not,” Gus said, glaring at all three of them in turn. “You misheard.”
“It’s the inspirational calendar,” Bertha said, ignoring him completely. “It’s bringing him out of his shell and making him a bright burst of light and color.”
“He’s like that Katy Perry song,” Bernice said. “He’s a firework. Boom, boom, boom.”
Gus knew then that something had to be wrong with his life when a probable lesbian could compare him to a Katy Perry song. He made plans to burn the inspirational calendar as soon as he got home, and to spread the ashes over a four-mile radius. He hoped that would be enough to negate the effects of being a firework. He would wear more black tomorrow too. He was not a firework. Or, if he was, he was those black snake ones that you light and they do nothing but ash a long line. That was an acceptable firework to be. Nobody liked them and they did absolutely nothing.
“Definitely scowling more,” Bernice said as she cooed at him.
“You need to go watch feminist cannibals,” Gus said. “Trust me, your life will change.”
“That is not a group of words I’d ever thought I’d hear,” Bertha said. “Gus, I think our taste in movies might be different.”
“Name a good movie, then,” Gus said.
Bertha shrugged. “I liked the Transformers movies.”
“Get out of my store,” Gus said. “You heathen. You blasphemous creature. Michael Bay is to filmmaking what candirus are to urethras.”
“Um,” Bernice said. “What?”
Gus rolled his eyes. “Candirus? The Amazonian relative to the catfish? If a human urinates in the water, the candiru mistakes the stream of urine from a stream of water from the gills of a bigger fish. It swims up the urethra and attaches itself with spiny barbs and then starts to chew on the insides.”
“So,” Betty said, “just to be clear. You’re comparing Michael Bay to fish that swim up penises and starts to eat them from the inside out.”
“Yes,” Gus said, feeling rather pleased to have successfully pulled off an analogy. “I have very strong feelings about Michael Bay. None of them are good.”
“I found a picture on my phone,” Bertha said. “My word, that’s a lot of catfish in penises. I knew there was a reason I was a lesbian.”
Validation! Gus had to bite his tongue, however. He didn’t know if now was the appropriate time to ask about threesomes. “I would rather have a fish in my penis than sit through a Michael Bay film.”
Of course, that was when the door opened to the video store. Lottie walked in, drag queen hair trailing behind her. “That is not something I ever thought I would hear a person say.” She eyed Gus curiously. “Much less you.”
“He seems to be saying a few things like that today,” Bernice said. “He’s an oddity, our Gus is.”
Gus absolutely refused to acknowledge the warm feeling that bloomed within him at being called somebody’s anything. He was not Katy Perry’s Firework, after all.
To counteract the feelings that clawed at his chest and made him want to smile and say things like Let’s find a meadow and have a picnic among the daisies, he said, “That had better not be tuna salad. I’d hate to have to boycott your business for the rest of my days.”
“It’s chicken salad,” Lottie said.
“Are there pickles in it?” Gus asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
“Of course not. Do you really think I’d do that to you?”
“Again.”
“What?”
“You meant to say do you really think I’d do that to you again. You did it once before.” And she had. It was pretty much one of the worst days ever.
She grinned. “And did I sure learn my lesson. You thought I did it on purpose and didn’t speak to me for two days. My life felt empty and dark without your scowls darkening Lottie’s Lattes, where we like you a lottie.”
“Ooh,” Bernice said. “That’s catchy.”
“Like chlamydia,” he muttered under his breath.
“Thank you,” Lottie said to Bernice. “I’m glad you think so. Gus tends to look like he bit into a lemon when I say it.”
“I do not,” he said.
“You’re doing it right now.”
“That’s my normal face.”
“Ah,” Betty said. “It explains so much.”
“Smile,” Bernice said. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“It really does,” Gus said. “What would happen if I got a heart attack while smiling? My face would freeze like that in rigor mortis and you would have to see my smiling, frozen corpse at the viewing because I would insist upon it being an open casket just to spite everyone.”
“I’ll make sure you’re cremated,” Bertha said. “And I’ll spread your ashes at Michael Bay’s house so he has to walk on you every day.”
“Out,” Gus said. “I have business to attend to.”
“He has to eat his sandwich alone,” Lottie said, as if they all didn’t know. “He doesn’t like eating in front of people.”
“It feels unnatural,” Gus said, slightly defensive. “You all aren’t eating and I am and you’ll watch me as I chew. It’s private.”
“Fine,” Betty said. “Give us Avocado Cannibal Babes or whatever it’s called and we’ll go be pro-feminism while you masticate in private.”
“Heh,” Bernice said. “Masticate in private. That sounds dirty.”
Gus wouldn’t even dignify that with a response. He took the We Three Queens’ video card, charged them two bucks (even though it should have been four; he told them it was because they were regulars, and that was mostly true. It also was because he loved them deeply and didn’t know quite else how to say it. Gus was nothing if not a reticent person), and sent them on their way. They promised the
y would see him tomorrow and he said flatly, “The joy I feel knows no bounds.”
They laughed, not fooled in the slightest.
He wondered, as the door closed and those Vespas fired (whined) up, when exactly he’d lost control of the situation and found himself with people that could be considered friends. If he had warm and disgustingly fuzzy feelings at the thought, well. No one was there to see them and hell would freeze over before he’d ever admit it.
NO ONE else came in the rest of the day. That was okay. It was a Thursday, after all.
THE AFTERNOON was warm when he closed up the Pastor Tommy’s Video Rental Emporium. He flipped the sign, shut off the light. He walked the shelves to make sure every movie was perfectly in its place. It’d only been We Three Queens today, so nothing had been moved, but it helped to be meticulous.
He reshelved Cannibal Rollerbabes and pondered, briefly, at the mysteries of Canadian filmmaking. He should like to see Canada one day, but probably wouldn’t. That would require leaving Abby, Oregon, and aside from a trip once to Seattle to a medical marijuana dispensary with Pastor Tommy a year before his death (which had included cookies and cupcakes and suckers laced with quality THC; Pastor Tommy had been in literal heaven as he proudly displayed his medical marijuana card and loaded up on enough pot products to last him at least two months), he’d never really stepped foot outside of Abby. Or at least, rather, Douglas County. There’d been no need. The world was big and scary and unknown. Gus didn’t need it. He had everything he needed right here. With Cannibal Rollerbabes and all the other high quality cinema.
(Yes, he even had Transformers. All of them. But fuck Michael Bay right in the face for ruining the childhood memories of millions of people and continuing to do so with soulless sequels.)
Harry S. Truman chittered happily as he splashed in the water in his cage, waiting for Gus to be done so they could head home.
Once the chores were finished and the receipts counted (okay, the one receipt, but whatever), he loaded Harry S. Truman back in his carrier, switched off the lights, and locked the doors to head home a block or so away.