Squirrel Eyes

by Scott S. Phillips

  6

  Night of the Living Dead was where it all started for me. Oh, I had been scared before that – I was terrified of Perry Mason, for instance. My bedtime as a nine-year-old put me in the sack right before the hefty lawyer went on the air (in reruns, of course), and while at the time I didn't have the slightest idea who or what Perry Mason was, the show's unearthly theme music – Da DAAAAAA Da DA! Da DAAAAA Da DA DA! – left me quivering in bed, covers pulled up to my face, convinced that at any moment my bedroom door would slowly swing open to reveal the terrible silhouette of Mr. Mason. After all, with theme music like that, how could he possibly be a good guy?

  But as frightening as I imagined Perry Mason to be, I was fully unprepared for the Living Dead.

  Late summer; school was only a few weeks away and the unnamable dread of it had begun to creep up on me. My best friend in the world then was a kid named Monk Evans. We were together constantly, but had the most fun whenever we could wheedle our parents into letting us sleep over at each other’s houses, which was fairly often. The choice of whose house it was going to be was always difficult – I lived in an actual house, while Monk lived in an apartment and therefore had no yard to play in, so that meant serious points in my favor. On the other hand, Monk had a fifteen-year-old sister named Suzie. At nine years old, I didn’t have the slightest clue as to why Suzie was so goddamn interesting, but it sure made me feel funny to be around her. The throes of pubescence had made her snotty as hell, which jacked me up all the more, so even with the backyard in my column I tended to lean towards sleeping over at Monk’s whenever possible. Monk, to my considerable amazement, was oblivious to his sister’s enigmatic charms.

  “You’ll just end up following Suzie around all night,” Monk said, seeing through my suggestion that we sleep at his place. “You’re all fagged off for her.” (At that age, we weren't quite up on the derogatory remarks).

  I made a sound like a cat horking up a hairball to cover my guilt. I was indeed fagged off for Suzie, but I sure as hell didn’t want to discuss it.

  “Your TV’s better,” I volleyed, “and tonight’s Creepy Creature Feature.”

  Monk had a thing for camping out in my backyard, because in those days we could get away with having a small fire and he liked to throw cicadas into the flames. To counter that sort of fun, I had to hit hard and fast, and figured the promise of a late-night monster movie would do the trick.

  “I dunno,” Monk hedged.

  If I didn’t come up with something quick, my night would be Suzie-less. Swimming wasn’t going to work; Monk’s mom wouldn’t let us dip so much as a toe into the apartment pool unless it was at least 75 degrees outside, and the weather had been unseasonably chilly. It was a rule that drove me nuts because she didn’t seem to have a problem with the two of us sleeping outside as late as mid-October, but God forbid we should get wet at 72 degrees on a summer’s day.

  Lying. That was all I had left.

  “I don’t think my dad’ll let us camp out,” I said with appropriate solemnity. “He’s still mad ‘cause we set that bush on fire last time.”

  “He thought it was funny!”

  “He did at first, but it was Mom’s favorite bush and she didn't think it was funny at all.” Mom’s favorite bush. I winced. What a pathetic excuse for a liar I was.

  “We don’t have to have a fire, we can just make a fort and stuff. It’s gonna start getting cold pretty soon and we should camp out as much as we can.”

  How do you argue with a guy like that? Why couldn’t he just see how fascinating his sister was and play along?

  “I guess,” I sighed, giving in.

  My parents okayed the deal way too fast, and I had to satisfy myself with a glimpse of Suzie bounding up the stairs while Monk was asking his mom. I thought about telling her we planned to spray each other with the hose just to see if the “no swimming” rule might kick in and leave us housebound (thereby ruining the appeal of my place), but it seemed like a lost cause at that point.

  Daniel was off somewhere with his friends, which was fine by me because they'd recently taken to picking on me like mad. The sun was beginning to set when we dragged our supplies into the backyard and began construction of the fort. I moved several lawn chairs into place while Monk dug some rocks out of the waterfall my dad had built the summer before. He poked a few fingers into the water and wiggled them around, terrorizing the pair of fat goldfish that lived in the pond at the base of the falls. As I flapped a large blanket out and spread it over the backs of the lawn chairs, Monk used the rocks he’d chosen to pin each corner down.

  I was a little envious as I watched Monk crawl inside to lay his sleeping bag out on the ground. My own sleeping bag had caught fire in the same mishap that had destroyed “Mom’s favorite bush,” and while it hadn’t been badly damaged, it reeked of burnt feathers and my dad had thrown it out. I was reduced to using a couple of blankets, which didn't seem very cool at all.

  Finishing our nest, we sat back and assessed our work. The blanket didn’t quite reach the ground all the way around, but overall, the fort was solid.

  “I’m glad we didn’t stay at my place,” Monk said.

  I kept my mouth shut. Monk plucked a handful of grass from the lawn, contemplating me in a truly unsettling manner.

  Then he dropped the best-friend equivalent of the A-bomb. “Suzie’s gross. She has a period.”

  I gawked stupidly at him. I had no idea what Monk was talking about, but the disgust in his voice made she has a period sound like she eats goat shit. My naiveté is perhaps unsophisticated in these days of children owning firearms and online businesses, but back then it was difficult to find four nine-year-olds who could’ve explained what a nipple was, let alone intelligently discussed the menstrual cycle.

  Monk stared at me, nodding soberly. “She gets all bloody,” he continued, indicating his crotch, “in her important parts.”

  I could feel my eyeballs straining to burst from their sockets. What in the hell sort of horror story was this? Suzie gushes blood from her important parts? Jesus Christ.

  “You lie.” It was the only thing I could think of to say.

  “No way. I saw it happen.”

  “How?”

  “We were swimming and when she got out of the pool, this bloodstain just spread out on her swimsuit.” Monk's hands acted out the part of the bloodstain, much to my distaste. “She got all weird and took off running back to our apartment.”

  I felt like running myself.

  “It was all over her thighs and everything,” Monk added.

  I wanted to choke him, anything to make him stop talking. My stomach was wadded up like a washrag.

  Monk and I sat in the fort, not speaking, until it was too dark to see each other.

  Creepy Creature Feature came on at 11:30. My initial shock at learning of Suzie’s period – whatever the hell it was – had eased, giving way to the suspicion that Monk had made the whole thing up in order to keep me camping out for the rest of the summer. We took up a comfortable sprawling position on the floor a couple feet away from the television screen, munching Jiffy Pop and waiting to see what tonight's movie would be (this was in the days before home video, and one had to hope for the best and take what the TV offered up. As happy as I am to own DVDs of movies like The Monster That Challenged the World and Mr. Sardonicus, I must admit, I kind of miss the old way – highlighting exciting movies in the TV Guide, anxiously awaiting the big day and then struggling to keep my eyes open through commercials for used-car lots and Ronco products, to be rewarded with some incredibly cool black-and-white monster flick I had never seen before – and as far as I knew, might never see again. Just try getting a kid to even watch a black-and-white movie nowadays. The little bastards).

  The blood-dripping Creature Feature logo faded away, replaced by the stark black-and-white image of a car driving along a deserted country road, accompanied by eerie, warbling music.

  Night of the Living Dead had begun.

&nbs
p; As the band of weary humans trapped in a remote farmhouse struggled to fend off an army of shambling, flesh-eating zombies, Monk and I stared on, rapt, only occasionally uttering a whispered "Whoa," or shocked "Jeez." This movie was like nothing we'd ever experienced before – no cheesy rubber monsters, no reassuring comic relief, and ultimately no hope whatsoever.

  By the time it was over, both of us had moved away from the TV to plaster ourselves in compact little bundles against the back of the couch, eyes wide with fright, feet pulled up, arms wrapped tightly around knees. There would be no camping out that night.

  In fact, Monk's desire to camp out seemed to leave him entirely, although he wouldn't admit that it had anything to do with zombies. While Monk was barely willing to speak about the movie, Night of the Living Dead had driven me around the bend, in a cinematic sense. It haunted me day and night, finally leading me, a few days after seeing the movie, to another milestone: the discovery of Forry Ackerman's Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine – and the knowledge that movies were something that people made.

  Flush with the thrill of it all, I called Monk, suggesting that I spend the night over there in order to show off the already-dog-eared monster magazine (and to illustrate how great my newfound obsession was, the thought of Suzie hadn't even crossed my mind). To my surprise, Monk put up no argument in favor of my house.

  The moment I walked through Monk's door, Suzie gave me the same contemptuous sneer one might direct at members of the American Nazi Party on the march, thereby obliterating my ability to explain to Monk how Paul Blaisdell built the alien costumes for Invasion of the Saucer Men.

  As we ate a dinner of brown rice and vegetables (Monk's mom was on a health kick – no meat, no dairy, and Good Lord, no candy), Suzie hammered a painful kick into my shin beneath the table. The little shiver of excitement the wallop gave me was quickly supplanted as I remembered Monk's cautionary tale of the period. What if it should happen while I was there? I didn't know if I could take it. Disconcerted and fretful, I avoided making eye contact with Suzie through the rest of the meal.

  Around 10:30, while Monk and I ate bananas and intently studied the photos accompanying an article on The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad, I heard Suzie's bedroom door open. She had been cloistered in there all evening, making her way through Elton John and Rod Stewart before finally settling in to repeated listenings of Bowie's Space Oddity.

  Reflexively, I turned to look, banana in hand, freezing as Suzie appeared in the doorway clad only in T-shirt and panties. I stared stupidly, mouth poised over the tumescent fruit.

  "Don't ever fuck with my records again, you little turd," Suzie growled, glowering at Monk. Her use of such fiercely verboten language made my skin feel delightfully crawly.

  "I didn't touch 'em," Monk said, not even looking up from the magazine.

  "Then why is there a big scratch on Maggie May?"

  Monk had no answers.

  Exasperated, Suzie's gaze fell on me, still gaping over my banana. "You gonna suck that thing or just tease it?"

  Jarred not so much by the question itself as by the fact that Suzie had spoken to me, I lowered the banana, eyes still glued to her scantily clad frame. She smirked haughtily at me and disappeared back into her room.

  I stared at the space she had occupied for a long moment.

  At bedtime, Monk and I went through our usual routine: amusing one another with armpit farts, discussing cool toys we needed desperately, agonizing over the impending start of school. Through it all, though, I had felt strangely sick, almost feverish, unable to concentrate on anything but Suzie. The thought of blood spreading from her important parts to flood across those pristine thighs broke my heart, made me want to hold her close or fight somebody or just go home and cry. This weird affliction was making me angry and confused; I felt as if the only way I could put it to rest was to see her again – see her in those little form-hugging panties.

  My mind latching onto a hastily concocted plan, I swallowed hard.

  "I wanna get back at Suzie," I whispered guiltily.

  "What are you talking about?" Monk asked, voice slurred with the beginnings of sleep.

  "For being mean to us. Plus she kicked me earlier."

  As I outlined my plan for vengeance, I was relieved to find that Monk thought it was a good idea. Getting up, I quietly moved to the wastebasket in the corner and extracted my discarded banana peel. I removed the Chiquita sticker and stealthily moved into the hallway, Monk following a few paces behind me. Suzie's door was slightly ajar, inviting me into the darkness beyond.

  My limbs trembling with a fear I'd never felt before, I hunkered down commando-style and ever so cautiously pushed Suzie's door open further. On all fours now, I crawled into the bedroom, heading for the bed. Monk took up a sentry position at the doorway, keeping an eye out for his mom.

  Like the invading creature of the night I was, I crept to the edge of Suzie's bed, slowly poking my head up to peer across her shadowy form. My breath became audible, shaky, when I saw that Suzie was lying atop the sheet, covers shoved aside to reveal the girl in all her splendor.

  She slept on her belly in that same T-shirt and panties, her right leg folded so the knee was near me. Her round, half-girl, half-woman face was turned toward me, lips slightly parted, her breathing smooth, regulated by slumber. My eyes traveled from the knee – mere inches from my face – up the expanse of pale thigh, coming to rest on her taut buttocks. Her panties had ridden up, the fabric wedged into the crack of her ass to expose most of her right cheek. Upon sight of the fleshy mound, my breathing stopped entirely for a long moment.

  Finally remembering my mission, I brought my hand up, the Chiquita sticker clinging to the tip of my index finger. Gingerly, I reached out, arm extending with deliberate and controlled speed above this foreign terrain. I delicately placed the sticker on Suzie's bare butt, quickly glancing up at her face. She still slept, blissfully unaware of my evil misdeeds. I lifted my hand, leaving the sticker in place, then slowly, carefully, brought my finger down again to secure the gummy label.

  As I pressed downward, I became acutely aware of the pleasant give of Suzie's bottom. The sensation made me lightheaded, flushed. In a sort of trance, no longer thinking in any rational way, I simply continued to languidly press and release the sticker, overwhelmed by the soft resiliency of Suzie's flesh.

  After some time, my gaze drifted up to Suzie's face.

  My breath caught. Her eyes were open and looking directly at me. The motion of my finger stopped. We stared at each other for a moment, her expression oddly glazed, like that of a dog being scratched in a place it can't reach. Then, spellbound, I resumed softly prodding her rear end, eyes still locked on hers.

  "Alvin," Monk whispered from the doorway.

  Disoriented, I turned towards my forgotten friend. Monk stood in silhouette, a wounded specter, then turned and went back to his room. With one last look at Suzie – who was still staring at me with that puzzling expression – I followed, my mind a muddle.

  Monk and I never spoke to each other again.

  A little over a month later, I met Taylor Merritt.

  7

  "I've got to hand it to you, Alvin," Taylor said, violently twisting a can opener around the top of a can of Spaghetti-Os. "You're the one constant in an ever-changing world."

  Fed up with the stubborn can, he stuck a fork in the jagged slot he'd managed to cut and pried the top of the can up slightly. He scooped a soggy forkful of Spaghetti-Os into his mouth, chewing like a hamster. "I mean, you're just as fucking stupid as you always were."

  I hadn't seen Taylor for almost four years, since shortly after we had met a couple girls at a midnight showing of The Killer. Out for coffee afterwards, I stumbled into a rip-roaring argument with my girl, who went off on a preposterous tirade about the lack of merit in the films of John Wayne – in particular, Rio Bravo. Now, first off, nobody talks that way about Rio Bravo. Secondly, this little half-wit was one of those self-appointed defenders of the opp
ressed who love to spout meaningful nonsense they've overheard somewhere, and the minute I mentioned that John Woo's manlove/loyalty/brotherhood-saturated films were heavily influenced by John Wayne movies, she tore into the Duke, even whipping that dead horse about "the irony of The American Icon being a racist and an Indian-killer." How she managed to single out Rio Bravo was beyond me, considering there's not an Indian to be had in that flick.

  I went home alone and furious. Taylor married his girl.

  It was one of those isn't-it-cool-we-both-hate-mocha-lattes-and-the-people-who-drink-them relationships, topped off by what I understand was some fairly astounding sex. She was a college student/nudie-booth dancer with aspirations of becoming an editor for Spin magazine. In pursuit of this goal, she convinced Taylor that they should move to New Zealand, which seemed rather ill advised to me, since Spin's headquarters were in New York. As it turned out, an ex-boyfriend of hers was spending that summer in Auckland, and it was only a matter of days before Taylor caught the two going at it in the bushes outside their house during a party. Taylor and his wife immediately called it quits, but lacking the money to return to America – and his parents could've paid his way but thought this might be a nice lesson – Taylor found himself stranded. We lost touch soon afterwards, partly because I had met Alison, and pretty much everything else went out the window once that happened.

  Taylor made it back to the States – and Albuquerque – about three years later, just after Alison and I had moved to LA. He settled into his parents' basement, landed a job on the graveyard shift stocking shelves at Gregory Alan Books (the largest bookstore in New Mexico), and more-or-less gave up on humanity, love, and any hope for the future.

  Yet, here he was, eating cold Spaghetti-Os out of the can while his elfin mother stomped around above our heads singing He's Funny That Way to her cats, and he's telling me I'm stupid. But what else would you call a guy who just told you he's going to change his life – rebuild his past and correct the path of his future – by having sex with the girl he never made?