Squirrel Eyes

by Scott S. Phillips

  "You do it," Lydia demanded, blinking.

  "It's not my eye."

  Unable to argue with that, Lydia got up from the table and trotted down the hall, still driving her fist into her eyeball.

  Sighing, Kelli gave me a look that said this kind of thing happens all the time. Hell, I knew that — I was always getting food in my eyes. Lydia was a kid after my own heart.

  "Where were we — girl at Tiki Lounge, right?" Kelli said. "Is she going to do it?"

  It was the question I'd been dreading since I'd brought the subject up. As usual, I couldn't think of a phony way to turn my failure into some sort of expression of my inner coolness, probably because none existed. "I haven't asked her yet," I said.

  "Which means you like her."

  How did she see through me so easily? "I didn't say that."

  "You asked the scabby guy and Taylor."

  "I like Taylor!"

  "You know what I mean," Kelli said.

  Enjoying the show, Kendra gnawed the last bit of sauce and cheese from her pizza crust and tossed it into the empty box.

  "All right, she's okay," I admitted, "But that's not the point – I just didn't feel comfortable asking somebody I'd just met if they'd like to go out in the woods with me to make a movie about a guy who fights mutants."

  "He's right, I would've said no," Kendra said.

  Lydia returned then, her head drenched, and took her seat at the table.

  "You were supposed to wash your eye out, not soak your head," Kelli told her.

  "The water slipped," Lydia said. "I wish we had ice cream sandwiches."

  I felt like I'd been dropped into MTV's production of Little Women.

  Kelli rotated her glass of Kool-Aid, contemplating the way it rode atop the ring of condensation on the table. "Y'know, I should have some kind of say in casting, especially since she'll be taking over the role I originated," she said.

  When I didn't respond right away, her eyes flicked up to mine, looking for an argument.

  "Okay," I said.

  She just stared at me for a long moment. It wasn't the friendliest I've seen her look, but being near her was starting to feel comfortable again. I looked away, smiling at Lydia, whose lank, wet hair hung like gnarled twigs in front of her milk-chocolate eyes.

  "Alvin," I whispered.

  The kid nearly fell out of her chair laughing.

  25

  Jiggy's was packed; it was karaoke night, after all. A snarly-haired, skinny slacker-type in an Atari T-shirt was onstage belting out Una Paloma Blanca while apparently suffering a violent seizure of some kind.

  Kelli and I found an empty stool at the bar and she settled in, ordering a vodka cranberry for herself and a Coke for me. I stood next to her, feeling self-conscious and uncool as hipsters wriggled past me in the narrow pathway, expensive Doc Martens and Skechers treading across my ratty slip-on Vans. I didn't see Mia anywhere.

  Drink in hand, Kelli shifted on her barstool to face the crowd. "So point her out."

  "I don't think she's here," I said into the face of a guy sporting sunglasses and a bright pink goatee. He looked at me questioningly. "You got some frosting there," I said, indicating the colorful growth. The guy made a show of checking Kelli out before moving on.

  "What's her name?" Kelli asked, watching Pinky McBillygoat as he walked away.

  "Please tell me you didn't think that guy was cute."

  She grinned. "Jealous?"

  "Annoyed." I scanned the mob for any sign of Mia's glossy 'do. I was beginning to entertain the notion of writing the Blue Man's Woman out of the script.

  "Are you going to tell me her name?"

  "Sorry, I was sidetracked by blinding hatred. Her name's Mia." I tried to whisper it so nobody'd know I was talking about her. Of course, Kelli couldn't hear over the lousy singing and I was forced to shout, which caused the bartender, a cute blonde with a tattoo on her neck, to give me the once-over. She was unimpressed.

  Seizure-boy concluded his number and left the stage, replaced by a drunken college girl who had forgotten to button her pants. She began shrieking Ice Ice Baby, undulating in an awkward yet rather appealing manner, her jeans threatening to drop around her ankles at any moment. As I stared, I heard Kelli ask the bartender if Mia was working.

  "She's not on tonight, but she's here," the bartender said. "She never misses karaoke night."

  Kelli thanked her and turned toward me. "That's got to be a bad sign."

  "That she's here, or that she never misses karaoke night?"

  "Would you wanna listen to this every week?"

  I watched the drunk girl as she clutched her jeans with one hand, struggling to keep them up. Her panties had some kind of cartoon character across the butt — possibly Sailor Moon, although it was tough to tell from my vantage point. I wondered what a guy'd have to do to get a closer look.

  "Never mind," Kelli said. "Just keep an eye out for your sweetie, will you?"

  Frustrated, I turned to face her. "Look, this is a professional endeavor, okay?"

  I felt like I'd already had to suffer more shit in the couple of days I'd been working on The Blue Man than was really necessary, especially since I knew it would only get worse once shooting began. I angrily lipped my straw and sucked back a mouthful of Coke.

  "Have you forgotten why you're even bothering with this movie?"

  All right, maybe this shit was necessary. I certainly deserved any that Kelli wanted to dish out, anyway.

  "Hell, why do you think any movie gets made?" I said. "Sex, baby. The Hollywood machine is driven by the pleasures of the flesh."

  "Jesus, with that line I'm surprised you didn't have more success at it."

  "Yeah, well, I talk a big story."

  "You should try talking it on Mia."

  "Sure, that's gonna happen."

  Where the hell was that damn waitress, anyway? I scanned the bar again, but she was nowhere to be seen. The drunk girl finished her song by falling off the stage, her pants finally getting the best of her. The crowd hooted in approval, one or two of them actually stooping to help the girl up. Like most tumbling drunks, she was none the worse for the wear, smiling stupidly at all the attention as she was led back to her table.

  I didn't turn around when the hand fell on my shoulder, thinking it belonged to Kelli. It was the voice that got me, yelling to be heard over the beginning of the next song.

  "Hey, Planet of the Apes!"

  You see people use the word whirled all the time, but I think the sound of that voice led to my first-ever occurrence of actual whirling.

  So I whirled. Mia stood there, lips like chewy candy twisted in a cockeyed smile, her hand still occupying the space where my shoulder had been before the whirl happened.

  "You're in here all the time now, huh," she said. Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, dry from the cigarette she held. "What's your name?"

  Oh boy, the good part. "Alvin," I said, trying to imbue my voice with irony.

  "I'm Mia."

  She didn't laugh.

  "I know," I said, then became worried that the knowledge somehow made me creepy. "You know, the other waitress – she told me last night."

  No sweat. Mia didn't break stride. "What's your story?" she asked, taking a drag on her smoke.

  "Excuse me?"

  "What do you do, where ya from, etcetera." She cocked her head to the side, exhaling away from me but keeping those dark eyes on mine.

  "Uh," I said, flummoxed.

  "He's a filmmaker," Kelli said.

  Mia and I looked toward her in unison. I prayed that Mia didn't catch the look Kelli gave me — the one that said Thanks for forgetting me, you fuck, but any shame I might have felt was overcome by the chagrin instilled by Kelli's words. I didn't want to explain to Mia that in my case, being a filmmaker meant I actually didn't do anything at all. And as if that weren't enough, I also experienced a twinge of fear that Mia would think Kelli was, you know, with me, thereby wrecking my chances to score (admi
ttedly already low).

  I performed a hasty, stammering introduction, trying to duck any word or phrase that might give the wrong impression, hating myself all the while. The two girls exchanged nice-to-meetchas, both exuding an edgy territoriality – like the meeting between Michael Beck's gang and the Orphans in The Warriors. It was kind of cool, to be honest, especially when Mia gently took hold of my arm in what seemed to be a bid for possession.

  "Wait, now," she said, leaving her hand on my arm as she spoke. "You're a filmmaker, like, Hollywood filmmaker? A Kevin Smith kind of thing?"

  Okay, granted, pretty much everybody of slacker age with a video rental card has seen Clerks and knows who Kevin Smith is, or has at least heard of him; but this girl just used his name in casual conversation and I was plenty willing to give her points for that. Sure, it would've meant more if she'd said "John Cassavetes," but you take it where you can.

  "Not exactly." I looked to Kelli for a bailout, since she was the reason I was in this predicament. She just smiled sardonically, wanting to see how I'd handle my new girlfriend. "I've had one piece-of-shit movie produced – I only wrote it – but, y'know – " Another glance at

  Kelli, this one more pleading than before, yet still no aid was forthcoming. "I've been making the rounds in Hollywood...."

  I was coming off like a complete ass, and once again proving what a kind and forgiving person she was, Kelli finally intervened.

  "We're making a short film – it's going to be Alvin's director's reel. I'm producing."

  Thank you, beautiful. Director's reel. I never would've come up with that kind of amazing bullshit.

  "That is so cool," Mia said. "I'd love to help out, if you need anyone."

  It took me a moment to respond, busy as I was trying to figure out when the Earth had shifted on its axis. How exactly did this Blue Man crap become cool?

  "You ever done any acting?"

  Mia smiled. "No."

  "Doesn't matter," I said. "I want you to play the female lead."

  "No way." Mia's eyes bugged in excitement, her fingers tightly squeezing my rapturous arm.

  Kelli kicked me in the back of the leg; I believe I even heard a muffled snort escape my producer.

  A perfectly timed burst of applause rose from the crowd as the latest karaoke joker wrapped up his number, the uproar adding to the thrill I felt. My arm was ablaze where Mia's hand gripped it.

  The karaoke host or emcee or whatever took the mike and announced the next performer: the lovely Mia. She was obviously a favorite; the bar's customers erupted in a jungle cacophony of screeching and whistling. I heard it all as though my head were wrapped in blankets.

  "Shit," Mia said, releasing my arm. "I've gotta sing." She asked the bartender for a pen, then grabbing up a napkin, began scrawling her number. "Give me a call, okay? I'm usually awake after about eleven."

  She stuffed the napkin into my hand, clasping it between both of her own, as Boone Butters had done earlier. I don't think I have to mention that I didn't get a boner when he held my hand – nor did that mysterious lump of unease wriggle around in my stomach like it was now.

  "Promise you'll call? I really want to be in your movie."

  And then I woke up. Or at least I kept expecting to.

  "I promise," I said.

  Mia's lips drew into that bent smile one more time, then she scampered off to the stage, accompanied by plenty of fanfare from the crowd.

  I turned toward Kelli. "Did you see that?"

  "You're an idiot," she said.

  The music kicked in. My dislike of Tori Amos was very nearly swept away on a pair of rhythmically swaying hips as Mia began singing Cornflake Girl.

  26

  Kelli had been too kind in her assessment: I was way beyond idiot, heading directly into fucking moron.

  Mia had brought out the drooling nitwit in me, and I didn't realize how badly I'd screwed up until I saw my breath on the frosty air in the car as we drove back to Kelli's place. I swear, there was a time when I'd actually had some sense; apparently it got packed into the same suitcase that carried Hope and Illusion out of my life.

  "Hey, let's stop and get some ice cream sandwiches for Lydia," I said, going for the dodge.

  "No."

  It worked about as well as the dodge ever did. "Come on, don't you want some ice cream?" I asked, forging blindly ahead.

  "No. And Lydia doesn't need it. She gets enough crap at her grandmother's."

  I chewed at my lower lip and considered my next move, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. An apology (overflowing with pathetic justification, of course) was beginning to come together in my head when Kelli took the initiative.

  "You act like you and – and Frank Sinatra are the only people who've ever had their hearts broken," she said, not looking at me.

  "Frank Sinatra?" I asked, stung but stupidly pleased to be included in such company.

  "The world eats the ass out of everyone sooner or later, Alvin. You should be grateful it took so long to get around to you."

  We rode the rest of the way to her house in silence.

  I was wondering why being around Mia made me feel so goddamned guilty while I watched Kelli walk to her front door.

  27

  I realized Taylor had the right idea about working for Butters when the car backed over my foot.

  As I dropped to the pavement in agony, the car continued on its destructive path, rolling into the bumper post I'd finished painting only minutes before.

  "FUCKING shit!" I howled, clutching my crushed dog and thrashing on my back like an upended turtle.

  The gas station's customers looked up from filling their tanks and washing their windshields, probably thinking some lunatic had wandered into the station.

  I'd been awakened around seven that morning by a call from Boone Butters, wanting to cash in on our deal. I was so out of it from lack of sleep (upsetting Kelli wasn't the best of sleep aids, as it turned out – especially when taken with a stiff shot of Mia) that I agreed to show up. Didn't even ask what I was showing up for, just scrawled the address Butters gave me on the back of my notebook and dragged my ass out of the house.

  My mom had to give me a ride since she needed the car. We drove around aimlessly for a bit because my handwriting at that ungodly hour was nearly illegible, but I vaguely remembered Butters saying something about a gas station, so we pulled into what seemed the likely place. As I got out of the car, Butters came trundling out of the station, all smiles and filthy pants. After a too-friendly handshake, he shoved a paint brush into my fist, pointed out a can of safety-yellow paint, and set me to work painting the station's bumper posts – those two-foot high metal poles intended to keep people from driving into the gas pumps.

  I had just started on my second one when the car ran over me.

  A couple people had strolled over to where I lay flopping on the ground, staring down at me with mild interest, as if I were break dancing. The driver of the car that hit me got out and walked back to inspect his bumper where it had hit the post, oblivious to my pained-yet-stylish moves.

  "You ran over my foot," I warbled.

  One of the gawkers knelt beside me for a closer look.

  "Doesn't look so bad," he said.

  "It's inside my shoe," I pointed out.

  The murderous driver walked up, peering over the shoulder of Dr. Dumbass. "Does it feel broken?" he asked, fingering the stunningly large dimple in his chin.

  "How should I know? It feels like a car ran over it."

  "I didn't even see you — what were you doing, lying on the ground?"

  "I was painting that fucking metal post," I snapped, wrenching myself into a sitting position. "How could you not see me?"

  "Probably shouldn't get excited," Dr. Dumbass said.

  "Too late." I made a move to get to my feet. Chin-Dimple grabbed my arm, steadying me as I rose.

  "Maybe you can walk it off," Chin-Dimple said.

  "Walk this off."

  I gingerly t
ouched my throbbing foot to the pavement, testing it. I nearly did a backflip. It felt like razor blades were shooting up my leg and into my skull.

  Butters, who was painting the building, finally poked his head around the corner, drawn by the commotion. Childishly, I felt mad at him, as if it were somehow his fault.

  Becoming bored with the scene when they realized it wasn't going to escalate into a brawl, Dr. Dumbass and the other gawkers returned to their cars. Chin-Dimple remained, making excuses as Butters prodded at my foot.

  "Go get your gas," Butters said. "He's okay."

  Chin-Dimple, glad to be released, practically scampered back to his car.

  "Okay? I can't walk!"

  I realized just how enormous Butters was as he rose alongside me, the human-flesh equivalent of the Star Destroyer flying overhead at the beginning of Star Wars. As his grin went by, my eyes locked on that mysterious hole in his tooth.

  "My feet have been run over a bunch of times," he said, sucking down a deep breath. "It'll hurt like hell for a few days, then you'll be fine."

  A bunch of times? I thought. "What if it's broken?"

  "Does it feel broken?"

  "Hell, I don't know."

  "You will in a few days," he said.

  "What do I do then?" Testing the foot again, I limped around in a tight circle.

  "Then you go to a doctor," Butters said. "But right now it's time to eat donuts." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, aiming me towards a sprawling black Buick convertible parked near the station's air hose. "I'll pack up the brushes."

  I stopped hobbling and stared toward the convertible, my ass clenching in fear, the pain in my foot forgotten.

  I was going to ride in a car with Boone Butters behind the wheel.

  28

  Butters might as well have been Burt Reynolds; we reached the donut joint in a hair-raisingly few seconds, but he was solidly in control of the vehicle at all times. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.