Squirrel Eyes

by Scott S. Phillips

  I poked my head around the side of the hanging blanket. Taylor, shirtless and running fingers through his tangled hair, sat up in his narrow twin bed. He still had a good build on him – he'd gained weight over the years, but it was spread across his body in an even layer; however, it was still something I didn't want to say out loud.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, fingering a nugget of crud from the corner of his eye.

  I stepped around the blanket. "Your mom told me to come down," I said, plopping into the chair at Taylor's drawing board.

  "She's out to get me," he growled around a wad of snot. "What time is it?"

  "I dunno, eleven-thirty or so."

  Heavy fabric was tacked over the basement windows. I watched the dust kicked up by Taylor's movements swirl in the thin shafts of light that managed to sneak in.

  "Some of us don't go to bed until six AM," he said.

  He was gonna love what I had to say.

  I apologized for waking him up and offered to buy him breakfast. He accepted both, and as he tugged his jeans on, I flipped through the sketchbook that lay on his drawing table. I was trying to find a way to couch what I'd come about. The sketchbook was full of drawings of masked wrestlers receiving oral favors from ugly yet strangely appealing women.

  "Do you still have a copy of the script for The Blue Man?" I asked, unable to think of any better approach.

  "Fuck no," Taylor said. He shuffled into the afterthought of a bathroom (the cats were far better equipped) and began brushing his teeth.

  Amidst the well-rendered depictions of filth, I came across a simple sketch of a cute, sweetly smiling girl. Scrawled at the bottom of the page was the caption Heartbreak on the prowl.

  Taylor appeared in the bathroom doorway, froth oozing from his mouth. "Whatta you want with that piece of shit?" he asked, barely intelligible. He held his toothbrush at attention, a ribbon of toothpaste and spit dribbling down the plastic handle and over his fist.

  "I'm gonna finish the movie," I said. "Remake it, really."

  He jammed the toothbrush into his mouth, working it feverishly and contemplating me as if I'd told him I planned to climb Everest in my underpants.

  "You're just chock-full of dumb ideas, aren't you?" he mumbled. A dollop of foam dripped from his sawing hand, spattering the concrete floor.

  I held up the sketchbook, displaying Heartbreak on the prowl. "Who's this?"

  Taylor stopped brushing and stared at the sketch for a moment, expressionless. "Sadness," he finally said, disappearing into the bathroom again.

  I heard him spit, rinse, and clear his throat; then silence, for so long a time I almost went to check on him. After what seemed like several minutes, he spoke again:

  "What'd you do, give up on that whole banging-Kelli thing?"

  I filled him in on events of the previous night, careful to portray myself as less of an asshole, focusing instead on how wrong he'd been about Kelli's appearance and marital status. My nose threatened to sprout when I told him Kelli had casually brought up The Blue Man in conversation, and our nostalgic talk had set me to thinking about tackling the movie again.

  "Yeah, but what happened when you tried to fuck her?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

  "I haven't broached the subject yet."

  "You never change," Taylor said. Sitting on his bed, he pulled on his boots and began lacing them. "That goddamn movie crushed our souls – what the hell do you wanna go back to it for? I'd just as soon never think about it again."

  "I don't know."

  I honestly didn't. Sure, there was the lure of Kelli, but as arousing as the thought of a tumble with her was, it wasn't enough. The Blue Man had left a brutal burn scar, and I hadn't a clue as to why I was ready to plunge my hand into the flames again.

  "I don't know what I'm doing," I said. "But I've gotta do something."

  Taylor finished lacing his boots and stood up, looking around the cluttered basement room. "I've still got my camera around somewhere," he said.

  I had him.

  17

  We ate breakfast at the Frontier, this time sitting directly beneath the puzzling cowboy nail-portrait. For the first time, I noticed a little sign spattered with ketchup under the artwork. Wadding up a napkin, I wiped it clean; the sign proclaimed the image to indeed be that of John Wayne. I felt a twinge of sadness at solving the mystery.

  Taylor refused to look for his Super-8 camera until after I fed him, but he was sure it was still in working order. Super-8 film was expensive and the processing even more so; however, I had a friend in LA who had a friend who worked for a lab, and I was betting I could get a deal.

  It was no problem convincing Taylor to play the Blue Man – he had too much vanity to let anybody else do it.

  "I'm not getting up early, though," he insisted. "And don't expect to me to do a bunch of crazy-ass stunts – I'm not as young as I used to be." He stuffed a chunk of sweet roll the size of a child's fist into his mouth, his jaw working like a spider monkey's.

  Grinning, Taylor gestured with his fork toward a table nearby. I glanced over my shoulder. The table was erupting with an assortment of stunningly cute college girls.

  "Let's ask them to be in the movie," Taylor said.

  "Let's not get carried away. It's going to be hard enough to get you to show up on time."

  I dropped Taylor off at his house, wringing a promise from him that he would actually go in and look for the movie camera, no matter what might be on TV. Then I drove to an arts and crafts store, where I bought a bottle of liquid latex, some cheap, crappy paintbrushes, and a spiral notebook. There was plenty of other stuff I'd need to buy, but I didn't want to jump the gun.

  Returning to my mom's house, I called Nathan in LA and told him I was going to extend my stay in Albuquerque for a little while. There was still no interesting mail.

  I went to the den, where Mom was sprawled in her recliner. She appeared to be smoking in her sleep. I put my hand on her shoulder and she jumped about a foot high.

  "Shit, Alvin," she said.

  "Sorry. Uh, if it's okay, I think I'm gonna stick around a little longer. There's something I want to do."

  "There goes my sewing room," Mom said, folding the chair's footrest and drawing a bead on the TV with her remote. She settled on an old World War II spy movie starring Robert Donat. It looked good, so after making the pot of coffee she demanded, I sat down and watched it with her.

  I waited until after seven to call Kelli, wanting to give her time to get home from work, have dinner, maybe pile some laundry on the sofa. The phone rang once and a little kid answered. Thinking I had a wrong number, I almost hung up until I realized who I was talking to.

  "Lydia?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I don't know who you are so I'm not really supposed to talk to you."

  "It's Alvin," I said. Lydia giggled when I said Alvin. "I'm a friend of your mom's." (Why did saying it make me feel like a liar?) "Is she there?"

  "Yes, Alvin." My dumbass name elicited another girlish chuckle. "Hold on a second, please."

  She set the phone down and I heard her voice trailing away as she called to her mother. "It's Alvin! Alvin Alvin Alvin!" she screeched, nearly hysterical.

  After a moment, Kelli shushed the guffawing little girl and picked up the phone.

  "Hey," she said.

  "Hey Alvin!" Lydia yelled, dissolving into squeals of laughter. I pictured her rolling on the floor, tangled in T-shirts and sweat socks.

  "I'm glad I can provide such entertainment," I told Kelli.

  "Sorry – she's easily amused." In the background, Lydia's laugh became a breathless hoo-hoo-hoo sound. "Thanks for the flowers," Kelli added.

  "I owe you a lot more than that. I feel rotten."

  "Don't worry about it. I thought about things a lot last night.... I think I understand where you're coming from. Sort of. But I'm still pissed," she added.

  Another female voice piped up in the background: "What are you laughing at?"


  "Is that Kendra?" I asked.

  "Hey, shut up," Kelli barked at the two. "So you're gonna finish The Blue Man?" she asked me.

  "God help us. I talked to Taylor about it, and he's in. But you have to play the Blue Man's Woman."

  "No way, not a chance," Kelli said.

  "Hey, c'mon, that's like Star Trek without Mr. Spock," I argued.

  "I can't, Alvin" — more laughter from Lydia – "I have a job, not to mention a maniacal little kid. I want to watch some of the filming, but I can't be running around all day to do it."

  Something told me this movie stuff was going to be a lot tougher now that we were all adults.

  "All right," I said. "But you have to let Lydia play a little mutant girl."

  "As long as you don't get latex in her eye," Kelli said.

  I hung up the phone feeling pretty good, in spite of the outrageous laughter my name inspired. I decided to take a shower and get to work on the script.

  The Blue Man had kept my mind off of Alison most of the day, but the instant I stepped into the shower I started crying. It was worse than it'd been in weeks; I feared my mom would hear the miserable, gulping sobs that wrenched my body. Snapping the water off, I wrapped myself in a towel, biting down on a wadded corner of the fabric and shivering in the tub.

  I wanted to shoot her into my veins.

  Dressing, I went to my room and sat down on the bed. I missed our bedtime routine, the way Alison used to lay out an assortment of vitamins for us both and sternly demand that I "take my poison." Then we'd both crawl into bed and watch TV, the cats, Digby and Curtis, curling around us.

  In those days, I always fell asleep before Alison.

  18

  Our short film scripts looked nothing like real screenplays. This was partly because we were shooting silent movies, but also because, in those days, we didn't have a clue what a real screenplay looked like. We just outlined shots and action, winding up with fifteen pages or so that looked like this:

  THE BLUE MAN

  1. ESTABLISHING SHOT: WASTELAND

  2. WORM'S EYE: THE BLUE MAN crests a hill in the distance, running like hell. He races past CAMERA, glancing back over his shoulder as TWO FOOD RAIDERS top the hill. They're pissed off and waving various edged weapons.

  (Various edged weapons always meant whatever we could boost from our moms' kitchens and/or dads' toolboxes)

  3. C.U.: The Blue Man's feet tromp past.

  4. C.U.: Blue Man glances back again, teeth clenched in fear.

  And so on. We were always at our best writing scenes involving bloodshed or girls. I'd like to think I had improved somewhat – matured, perhaps – when it came to the screenplays I'd written over the last few years, but somehow I doubt it (and Terror Town only proved the point).

  I'd slept for shit the night before, only getting something like two hours' worth before dragging myself from the sack around nine. My mom had gone bowling with her league (a bunch of rough-and-tumble old gals – I once found a spent shell casing from a .38 on the floor of my mom's car after she'd gone to an out-of-town "bowling tournament," and she still only chuckles slyly whenever I mention it), so I had the place to myself. After throwing some water on my face (and discovering, to my dismay, the beginnings of a gray streak at my right temple, like Reed Richards in the Fantastic Four), I took my new notebook and a can of Coke and went into the backyard.

  The stump left behind when Daniel cut down the cottonwood tree made a nice desk. I sat in the grass, struggling to dredge up whatever I could of the old Blue Man script. I printed the title across the top of the first page (the tree stump was ringed with a fringe of tall grass that tickled my arms as I wrote), then stared across the yard.

  My dad had planted the cottonwood tree when I was a tiny kid – I'm not sure how old I was, but I remember that I'd had a pet rabbit that died, and dad buried it under the tree. I imagined its bones intertwined with tree roots a few feet below me. The tree was pretty big by the time dad bought me my first Super-8 camera. I guess I'd been driving him crazy with my endless babbling about Famous Monsters of Filmland and Ray Harryhausen and Roger Corman, because he packed me into the car one Saturday morning and we went to Jay's Camera Castle, where we picked out a Sanyo with single-frame capability and a macro-focus lens, along with a projector, tripod, and a small screen. The drive home was a dangerous one, what with me bouncing around the inside of the car like an over-excited bullet.

  At home, dad showed me how to load the film, hooked up the cable release, and cut me loose. Gathering up my Mego Star Trek action figures, I ran out back and spent the rest of the day shooting Space Explorers, my first movie. I used stop-motion animation to send Kirk and Spock on a wild adventure through my backyard (including a perilous climb up the gigantic space cottonwood tree), but the little guys wouldn't stand properly, so our intrepid heroes appeared to be suffering from back trouble. As the sun began to sink, my fevered mind came up with a way to continue shooting on into the night: Kirk and Spock were transported (courtesy of a spot of bleach on the emulsion, once the film was processed) into my bedroom, where they would face their deadliest foe yet – the giant Lhasa Apso. However, my mom's dog refused to cooperate (try getting a dog to sit still while you animate a couple action figures around it) and wound up with nothing more than a cameo appearance.

  I stayed up most of that night working on Space Explorers, and to this day I think it was the most fun I've ever had.

  After dad died, more than one person told me that from his perch in the heavens, dad could see how I was doing, that he knew what I had accomplished. I don't buy it, even when mired in the depths of raging sentimentality – besides, why would I want to? I certainly hadn't given him much of anything good to look at. Accomplishments? Fwah. Dad would've loved Alison – hell, he would've adored her – but even that would've ultimately proved just another disappointment for the old man.

  I scribbled a few more lines in the notebook, then swigged Coke while I read over what I'd written.

  The food raiders were no problem, but the mutants concerned me. The liquid latex was cheap enough – that and some toilet paper made terrific irradiated skin – but the lead mutant needed to be big, intimidating. There was no way I could afford foam rubber to build the suit up, like I had done originally. My dad was always good about taking on the role of "producer," understanding the limitations of allowance money, most of which went for film stock, and was quick to throw in a few bucks for added production value like fake blood or vampire fangs. He was pretty handy as a smoke machine, as well; I once nearly killed him by recruiting him to fill my bedroom with a thick haze (from rabidly puffing on cigarette after cigarette, of course) to create the aftermath of an alien attack. That was one of the best scenes I ever shot, but it left Dad wheezing and gasping for hours afterward.

  Christ. That was probably the birth of the embolism.

  I wrote the rest of the opening sequence as best I remembered it, adding a few things in desperate hopes of improving upon the original. I couldn't stop picturing Kelli in those cut-offs while writing the first appearance of the Blue Man's Woman (who I finally gave a name to, calling her Suspiria, after the Dario Argento movie). I doubted it would be possible to improve on Kelli's particular brand of production value, but the act of putting the character on paper had given me an idea.

  Two pages down, so far. I blazed through the next scene, a cheesy bit where the Blue Man and Suspiria find a place to hide and Blue feeds the starving girl a can of sardines. That was one of the scenes that never got shot the first time out, because Kelli refused to eat the sardines and I refused to let her eat anything else. I vowed to be more reasonable this time.

  I went on like that for an hour or so, scrawling about six pages' worth before hitting a dead end and going back inside. Carless, I spent the rest of the day falling in love with actresses in old movies.

  Mom rolled in shortly before dinnertime, bringing a bucket of chicken with her. It wasn't Roscoe's, but it was damn good and I he
artily stuffed myself. Mom offered no explanation as to why she had been out all day when her bowling took two hours, tops.

  I drove to Taylor's after dinner. He and his folks were just finishing up their own meal, some kind of horrific-smelling cabbage rolls that looked exactly like cat turds. Mr. Merritt pretended to slug me in the stomach and asked how things were going with the ladies.

  Taylor ducked into the basement, returning with a small plastic case: his Super-8 camera. As we were leaving, he whispered that it was the third day they'd had those cabbage rolls; they were so awful the leftovers were plentiful and Mrs. Merritt didn't take the hint.

  "Kelli refuses to play Suspiria," I told Taylor in the car. We were on our way to Jiggy's Tiki Room.

  "Who the fuck is Suspiria?"

  "I gave the Blue Man's Woman a name," I said.

  "Jeez, this is already turning into too much of a production," Taylor griped.

  I wheeled the car onto Lead, a one-way street headed west. "There's a waitress at Jiggy's I wanna ask to do it," I said.

  "You'd better ask her to be in the movie first, haw haw haw," Taylor said. "Who is it, which waitress?" He picked his nose and wiped the booger on the underside of the front seat.

  "Hey, this is my mom's car," I said.

  Taylor retrieved the crusty snot with a fingertip and deposited it on the bottom of his shoe.

  "Now it's just gonna wind up on the carpet."

  "Well, I'm not gonna eat it," he said. "There's all kinds of shit on this floor anyway."

  I figured that was the best I could hope for where that booger was concerned. "I don't know the girl's name. I just hope she's working."

  "What difference does it make? We should just ask any good-looking waitress in the place."

  "Yeah, but I kind of want to sleep with this one," I admitted.

  "All roads lead to Rome with you, don't they?" Taylor said.

  Jiggy's was fairly crowded, but there were still booths open. My waitress was there. We hung back by the jukebox for a bit to get an idea of what tables she was working, then took a booth in what I hoped was her section. She bounced over to the table, all smiles and heartbreak. Neither one of us managed any witty repartee. We both ordered the Planet of the Apes, a drink made with banana and cocoa liqueur. It was actually kind of lousy, but it was called Planet of the Apes and was therefore a must. Fortunately, it didn't pack too much of a wallop.