Squirrel Eyes

by Scott S. Phillips

  "Well," I said, dragging the words into the open, "I'm making a short film – "

  "Ooh, porno," Butters interrupted. "If you need a stunt cock I'm your man. Pardon my French."

  I nearly hung up again. "'Fraid it's not that exciting," I said, struggling against the vision of Butters's cock, stunt or otherwise. "But there is a part I'd like you to play, if you're interested."

  "I've always wanted to try my hand at the acting thing," Butters said. "Why don't you come on over to the office and we'll chew it?"

  "Chew ... chew it?" I repeated, skin crawling.

  "I'm not chewing anything until I know what this is all about," Taylor said. He gingerly brushed the ant from his hand.

  "Yeah – you got something to write on? I'll give you the address," Butters said.

  "Uh, actually, I've got a flat tire...."

  "Want me to fix it?"

  "No, uh, no – "

  "It's no problem," Butters insisted.

  "No, I mean, thanks, but I'm at the shop right now. It looks like it might take awhile, too – "

  "Shoulda called me, I would've been right out."

  "Yeah, next time."

  "Let's say four o'clock, then? If it doesn't work out, call me back."

  "You got it," I said, exhausted by the conversation.

  I scribbled Butters's address on a corner of the phone book cover and gratefully hung up the phone, then returned to my seat. Taylor snatched the scrap of paper from my hand, looking at the address.

  "Who is this guy?"

  "Uh-uh," I said. "You've gotta meet him for yourself. He's a motherfucking mutant if ever there was one, that's for sure."

  Taylor was curious as hell about Butters and anxious to see the freakshow; I secretly hoped the car wouldn't be ready by four and I'd just let the idea of putting Butters in the movie die a quiet death. Then the logjam at Richie's broke, and I'll be damned if we weren't out of there in plenty of time.

  22

  Cut to tumbleweeds: Butters's office was in a nearly-empty strip mall, the only other tenant an electric razor repair place. There was a burrito joint across the street where I imagined Butters spent many a lunch hour, fueling his bulk with carne asada and soggy french fries.

  Painted in a half-circle on the glass door was the legend Boone Butters Improvements, very Sam Spade. I hoped for a gorgeous secretary, then remembered Butters answered the phone himself. I experienced a moment of relief when I tried the door, finding it locked. Taylor pointed out the buzzer mounted on the door's metal frame. I stabbed the button. Somewhere behind the glass an insistent, angry bee voiced its fury. After a few moments, the bee was answered by a pleasant chime and I tugged the door open.

  We stepped into a sluggish cloud of bad cheese. Taylor made a face.

  The lobby was decked out with two mismatched chairs, one riddled with cigarette burns roughly outlining the shape of a person's ass, as if someone had performed a variation on the old knife-throwing act. A small table held three battered magazines: Time, Teen People, and something without a cover. A Styrofoam cup sat on the floor between the chairs, a stale butt floating in an inch of thick coffee. On the wall was a faded poster of Bruce Lee. Below it, a piece of paper hand-printed with the words Don't Concentrate on the Finger Or You Will Miss All That Heavenly Glory.

  From the back room, Butters's voice sliced through the stink. "Mr. Spielberg?"

  "No, it's Alvin," I said. "Oh – ha ha," I added once the joke sank in.

  Something heavy shifted behind the thin wall that separated lobby from office. I shot a glance at Taylor. He was Kerwin Mathews in The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad, waiting for the Cyclops to step into view.

  Gulping air with the effort, Butters lumbered into the doorway, arms wide as if to greet his oldest chum.

  This was my mutant. His oily hair had been shorn down to fuzz, revealing the gorilla-like cranium beneath. The familiar bulk was girdled in a black pocket-tee riddled with tiny holes, over which he sported a jaunty corduroy vest, the fabric worn thin on the sides from the friction of those meaty arms. His pants were huge.

  "Alvinnnn...." Beaming, he revealed the mysterious hole in his tooth.

  Jerkily, I stuck out a hand. Butters clasped it in both of his crusty mitts, shaking it like a paint mixer working over a gallon of latex enamel. The movement made my entire body tremble. When he let go, I had to fight the impulse to wipe my hand on my pants. I introduced Butters to Taylor, who was doing a fine job of keeping his horror in check, then Butters led us back to his office.

  The room was dominated by one of those gigantic toolboxes on wheels, the kind with eight thousand little drawers and cabinets, adorned with dozens of racing stickers – Hooker Headers, Holley Carbs, NASCAR. The desk, huge until Butters wedged his mass behind it, was littered with the pieces of a disemboweled toaster oven and a couple Mars Bars. A dorm refrigerator hummed away within easy reach. Atop the fridge was a microwave and an assortment of ketchup packets, non-dairy creamer and other condiments. Bruce Lee looked down on the scene from all directions.

  Taylor took a seat in an old kitchen chair tucked back in one corner, while I leaned uncomfortably against the toolbox. Butters's funk was more potent in the small room.

  After insisting that we call him Boone rather than Mr. Butters ("You know the drill: that's my daddy's name"), the big man offered us a soda, pulling cans of Sam's Choice Cola (the Wal-Mart brand) from the tiny fridge. While the door was open, I noticed a half-eaten burrito from the place across the street, but thankfully, no human heads.

  Butters popped the top on his own can and leaned back in his seat, sipping the cold soda. "You guys like Bruce?" he asked, gazing around the room at his idol.

  "Bruce who?" Taylor asked.

  An odd, drainpipe-laugh rattled from Butters's throat, followed by a good long wheeze. "He was the man, for real," he said. "I try to follow his teachings."

  Taylor gave me a look that said Except for the part that involves Kung Fu or any other kind of physical activity.

  "We're both big fans," I said, wanting to get to the point and get the hell out.

  The stink was already making me a little queasy, and I was beginning to question my reason for being there in the first place. I wondered if there was any way I could convince Kelli to give me an advance of some kind, maybe just roll me around on the floor for a half-hour, slap me on the ass. "If you like Bruce, I think you'll definitely want to be in our movie – it's all action."

  "Kung Fu?" Butters asked.

  "Just whatever half-assed shit we can pull off without hurting ourselves too badly," Taylor said.

  Butters seemed to enjoy that. "How long you gonna want me?"

  "I think we can shoot it in four or five days," I said.

  Butters let out a pained groan, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk. "That could be tough. I gotta work for a living, after all."

  "We wouldn't need you every day," I said, suddenly worried that Butters would back out. "We can shoot around your schedule, at least to a point."

  "Problem is, what I do, it's basically odd jobs, no real schedule. Sometimes I work days, sometimes nights. Hell, sometimes all night."

  Butters's creepiness rating rose about 72% with that one.

  "Odd jobs," I said, confused.

  Butters indicated the gutted toaster spread across his desk.

  "But what about LA? I thought you had business there."

  "Driveaway," he said. "Guy moved to LA, paid me to drive his car out there for him. I do it all the time. Drove an old Rambler all the way to Alaska once. It was a piece of shit, but the guy who owned it was nuts about that car. Heater didn't work and I had to wrap my legs in blankets. I looked like the goddamn Michelin Man driving that car."

  A freelance rogue, Butters had called himself. The Toaster-Oven Musketeer. But again, here was a guy providing a service — what the hell was I doing for anyone? Hey Boone, you wanna know how much it cost Mario Bava to make Danger: Diabolik?

  Butters thought
about it for a moment, breathing like a falsetto Darth Vader. He fixed me with a squinty eye. "What if you guys helped me out?"

  "What, you mean like fixing shit?" I said. "I'm lucky if I can pull one paper towel off the roll."

  "Yeah," Butters said, obviously not listening. "If you two gave me a hand on some of my jobs, I'd have time to spare — and I'd really like to be in your movie."

  Taylor was trying to act like he didn't understand English, his attention fixed on a poster of Bruce Lee putting the hurt on some anonymous round-eye.

  "You've got it," I told Butters.

  He seemed almost absurdly enthusiastic, practically hurling himself over the desk in order to furiously wag my hand once again. All I wanted was to get this damn movie in gear – and escape Butters's reek for the moment.

  23

  "I can't believe that freakish fuck really thinks we're going to work for him," Taylor said as we drove back to his house.

  I felt my chest tighten up. "What do you mean?" I asked, knowing damn well what he meant.

  "I mean I'm not lifting a finger." He looked at me as it sunk in. "You weren't actually planning on helping him, were you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I want him for the movie."

  "Well, I'm not doing anything for the guy. He stinks like the inside of a colon."

  "What do you suggest we do? We need him to play the mutant."

  "We can blow the whole thing off for all I care. It's not like we're going to make any money from it."

  "Money? Come on — it's supposed to be fun."

  Whoa. Where'd that come from?

  "Fun doesn't mean anything to me anymore," Taylor said.

  I'd had numerous similar arguments with Taylor over the years. He hit a point somewhere in his mid-twenties where everything had to have a payoff or it wasn't worth doing. It was a real sore spot with me, although in this case it was hard to take the moral high ground since I had a sizeable paycheck in the form of Kelli's lovely flesh waiting at the end of the cinematic workweek. I'd do Taylor's share of the work if I had to – no busted toaster-oven or foul human stench was going to keep me from collecting my hard-earned pay.

  24

  Kelli arrived home from work at 5:27 PM. I knew this because I was lurking in the parking lot of the Payless Shoe Store on the corner, positioned so I could see her driveway. She was allowed to wear very tight pants at her data processing job; pants that made my own a little tighter. I gave her a couple minutes, then drove up in front of her house.

  As I approached the door, I heard hooting and squealing from within the house. I hesitated until I was pretty sure it was gleeful in nature, then rang the bell. The hooting was cut short, replaced by an ecstatic machine-gun burst of Oh boy oh boy oh boy. Instantly, I realized I was going to have to face the little creature who had been so delighted by my chipmunk name.

  "Pizza!" Lydia shrieked as she swung the door wide.

  Seeing her for the first time made me wish I'd been bearing one. She was as pasty as one of the Mole People, with a stringy blonde hair-helmet clutching the sides of her narrow face, and damned if she didn't have her own set of squirrel eyes, the soft brown orbs fairly glowing, so white was the skin surrounding them. She was as cute as a little albino monkey, which made it sting all the more when her big grin collapsed upon sight of me.

  "Oh," she breathed, chin dropping into her Powerpuff Girls T-shirt.

  I thought I might be able to fix things, at least a little: "I'm Alvin," I said.

  She tried, she really did, but the veil of politeness simply couldn't withstand the flood of giggles that surged forth to rattle her teeth and escape in tiny, spitting bursts before finally reducing her to a helpless mass of hysterical goo.

  "What's wrong with you?" I heard Kelli say. She appeared at the door, a confused look on her face until she saw me. "Hey, Alvin, what's going on?"

  That second Alvin dropped Lydia to the floor like she'd been body-slammed, her laughter becoming a pained, wheezing intake of air. The kid clutched her stomach and writhed desperately, legs kicking.

  "It's like third grade all over again," I said.

  Kelli waved me in. I stepped over Lydia's twisting, gasping body. Taking her by the feet, Kelli dragged the little girl inside and shut the door.

  "I don't get it," Kelli said. "I don't think your name's that funny."

  I watched Lydia thrash about on the floor for a moment. She was beginning to sound like she wasn't going to survive.

  "Let's pour water on her," I suggested.

  "What the hell's wrong with Lydia?" a voice called from down the hall. Kendra came into the living room wearing sprayed-on black bell-bottom hip-huggers and a bra. "Shit," she yelped, seeing me. She ducked back into the hallway, out of sight.

  I hadn't seen Donna yet, but it seemed to me that time had been merciful towards the Dayton clan.

  "Thanks for the word on the strange man in the living room, Kelli," Kendra said.

  I looked at Kelli, frowning. "This isn't going so well."

  "What are you doing here, anyway?" she asked.

  "You mean besides creating turmoil?"

  "But seriously, folks," Kelli said, a little perturbed. Lydia was gasping for breath now, and Kelli was obviously in no mood for all of this.

  "I wanted to give you an update." I felt more than a little sheepish about being there. "But first you should let me buy you guys a pizza."

  "Yaay," Lydia cheered weakly.

  "You don't need to do that," Kelli said.

  "Let the strange man buy us a pizza if he wants to," Kendra said, still hiding.

  "It's Alvin," Lydia gasped.

  "Alvin the guy you used to go out with, Alvin?"

  Apparently Kelli hadn't told Kendra about our fabulous dinner date. "Hi, Kendra," I said, watching Lydia to see if the barrage of Alvins would have any effect. She grinned back at me, too exhausted to laugh anymore.

  "Hi, Alvin," Kendra said, peeking around the wall. "I'd love a pizza if you really want to buy one."

  "I love pizza too, Alvin," Lydia added.

  I looked to Kelli, who merely sighed in resignation.

  It was slightly annoying to see that the pizza delivery guy's ridiculous uniform didn't garner a single chuckle from Lydia, but the feeling was quickly swept away when I saw how overjoyed the little girl was to dig into the pizza. We all sat at the small kitchen table (Kendra had changed into jeans and, sadly, a T-shirt) wolfing the stuff down and listening to Lydia describe her day's adventures between (and sometimes around) mouthfuls. I'd forgotten how easy it was for a kid to turn a day at grandma's into something exciting. Mrs. Dayton's grassy, overgrown backyard became a forest of romantic splendor, filled with friendly creatures, threatening, black-hearted minions of the evil sheriff, and of course a handsome, heroic lad (whom Lydia described as looking like Freddie

  Prinze Jr.). The tuna sandwiches for lunch were a big turn-off, however.

  "I'm making you a producer," I told Kelli after Lydia's story had wound down.

  Kelli had relaxed somewhat, but still seemed edgy, uncertain. I guess I expected a warmer reception considering her demeanor the last time we spoke on the phone. I couldn't blame her, though; she was probably sitting there thinking about the dumb shit I'd said the night we went to dinner.

  "Forget it — I don't have any money," she said.

  "Not that kind of producer. I just want somebody to share the worries — you've got to back me up somehow, since you refuse to be in it."

  "Do I now," she said, but I could tell she was softening. "Give me the update, then."

  "I cast the lead mutant today —"

  "You're the lead mutant."

  "Alvin's a mutant," Lydia chimed in, collapsing into giggles once more.

  "Not anymore, I'm not."

  "That's no fun," Kelli said.

  "Fun? Nobody wants to be in the damn thing — you cheesed out, I don't want to be in it, Taylor's half-hearted about it because there's no money involved — the only person who actually
seems excited about it is a stinky maniac with scabby hands and a hole in his tooth!"

  Kelli pilfered a chunk of pepperoni off the slice of pizza Lydia was stuffing into her yap. "Nobody's holding a gun to your head." She grinned slyly, chewing the pepperoni. She knew she had me.

  "Mutants, maniacs, scabs — I don't know what the hell's going on anymore," Kendra said.

  "What about the Blue Man's Woman?" Kelli asked. "Have you found anyone to play her?"

  "Maybe Kendra can do it," I said, remembering the way she looked in that black bra.

  "Do what?" Kendra said, growing more confused by the second.

  "No way — leave my little sister out of your filth."

  "What filth?" Kendra's head was about to explode.

  "Am I supposed to be listening to this?" Lydia asked.

  Jesus. Without even trying, I'd veered down the on-ramp to the Guilt-Trip Highway. Lusting after Kendra when I was going to all this trouble solely to get into Kelli's pants had to put me amongst the ranks of the truly heinous.

  "Actually, I found someone I want for the part," I said, desperate to turn my thoughts to something else. Or someone else, in any case.

  "Hey, what about me?" Kendra asked.

  "You have to work," Kelli said. "So who's the lucky

  girl? Did you meet her at a record store?"

  I was well aware of how badly I sucked, but I would've given anything for a chance to let that particular issue drop the hell dead.

  "Tiki Lounge."

  "Jiggy's? I've been there a few times," Kendra said.

  "Ow!" Lydia yelped suddenly, grinding her knuckle into her eye socket. "I got cheese in my eye."

  "Let me see." Kelli reached across the table, and with thumb and forefinger, held Lydia's eyelid wide open.

  "Ow ow ow," Lydia said, that big squirrel eye rolling wildly.

  "There's no cheese in here," Kelli said. "Go wash it out with some cold water." She released the eyelid.