Squirrel Eyes

Praise for
Squirrel Eyes
and Scott S. Phillips:

"If you somehow cloned the perfect science bastard love-child of Cameron Crowe, J.D. Salinger and The Kinks, it couldn't build a better story of underdog charm than
Squirrel Eyes
.
Scott S. Phillips creates fascinating and endearing characters, then drops them in the hot zone of their own mangled lives, with nothing but their wits and pop culture to protect themselves."

— Axel Howerton, editor,
Dark Moon Digest
, author of
Hot Sinatra

"
Squirrel Eyes
is a crazy voyage into Scott S. Phillips' twisted, pop culture cluttered mind. He touches on universal emotions in this insightful, often laugh-out-loud journey through protagonist Alvin Bandy's — and the reader's — most denied memories of love lost."

— Robert E. Vardeman, author of
Burn the Sky

"The F**ker can write!"

— Elwood Reid, author of
D.B.
and
If I Don't Six

"With his goofball characters, ear for quirky dialogue, and always-colorful turns of phrase, Scott S. Phillips is like a modern beat writer — tempered with postmodern sensibilities and a generous dash of observational comedy... But that's just an erudite, flashy way of saying that no one makes me laugh louder or harder than Scott S. Phillips."

— Brian Jay Jones, author of
Washington Irving

"Scott's narrative blasts and rattles down the road, chasing rabbits and stray chickens out of its path, while his dialogue sprays the countryside like full-automatic fire."

— Victor Milan, author of
The Wild Cards Series
and
CLD: Collective Landing Detachment

"Triangulate funny, creepy and melancholy, and you'll find Scott S. Phillips, waiting for a bus."

— Nathan Long, author of
The Blackhearts Series

SQUIRREL EYES

SCOTT S. PHILLIPS

PENULTIMATE DITCH EFFORTS

Bernalillo, NM

Squirrel Eyes

© 2010 Scott S. Phillips

Cover art designed by Andy Kuhn

Without limiting the rights under copyright as reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored into or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic bulletin board, e-mail or any other means now known, extant, or yet invented), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the Publisher.

Penultimate Ditch Efforts

Bernalillo, New Mexico

Without question, this one is dedicated to

my mom, Ellie Phillips –

because it's about damn time.

THANKS TO:

Don Adams, Tony and Tamara Couture, Scott Denning, Gail Gerstner-Miller, Shannon Hale, John Howard, Axel Howerton, Brian Jay Jones, Andy Kuhn, Nathan Long, Victor Milán, John Jos. Miller, Scott Phillips (the other one), Keith Rainville, Elwood Reid, Patricia Rogers, Kirsten Smith, Richard and Maura Thumma, Anthony Trifiletti, Ian Tregillis, Bob Vardeman, and Michael Zapp.

EXTRA SPECIAL THANKS TO:

Jen, who makes me very happy.

TITLE CARD: 1999

1

I was a terrible drinker. When I say this, I don't mean I was an alcoholic or that I drank a lot, particularly; I mean that I just wasn't any good at it. My skinny frame condemned me to a life as a lightweight, and that was making me rather angry. 

I took another swig of alcoholic lemonade. Girl-drink though it was, clutching the bottle of Wally's Hard Squeeze made me feel kind of manly in my own pathetic way. It was my second one, and I was already lit.

      Contributing to my fury was an outstandingly overwrought episode of
The E! True Hollywood Story
about some washed-up actor on the verge of a comeback. As the show (filled with scandalous gossip concerning the guy's drug, alcohol and prostitute binges and his near-death experience after a particularly rousing weekend) wound down, the actor grinned like a shark and trundled out the old saw about having "no regrets," and how, if forced to live his life over again, he "wouldn't change a thing." It had all been a great learning experience. Movies, he said, were his life.

What a load of crap. I wanted to tear his intestines out and beat him senseless with the ropy ends.

I've had my heart broken – I mean
really
broken, that how-can-I-go-on, slit-wrists-are-the-only-remedy broken – twice in my life. The second time was because of a girl. 

Movies got to me first. 

Technically, though, I didn't catch on to what they had done to me until after the girl had done it, too. 

      Regrets? I had a few. Like getting out of bed in the morning. If I had to do it all over again, would I change things? Starting early and often. For instance, if I could relive the third grade, I might raise my hand and ask to go to the boys' room rather than piss my pants and have to deal with the other kids' vicious teasing. Fifth grade? Maybe I'd stand up to Mike Shipton – even if it meant an ass-kicking – rather than act like a damn pussy and let myself be picked on mercilessly for the rest of the year.

      The Big One, though? 

I would've steered Alison towards a different job. Maybe I wouldn't have lost her to Franzke or whatever the fuck the bastard's name was. 

No regrets, my ass.

I am the Golem built from the mud of Hollywood. My brain processes life at 24 frames per second; my heart pumps sticky concession-stand muck through veins of curled celluloid. And maybe like the Golem of legend, I too am a soulless creature, animated only by the thousands of hours of pop-culture imagery funneled into my body over the course of a lifetime.

But at least the Golem served a purpose.

Normally, I'm a pretty gregarious drunk, on those rare occasions when I do drink – all goofy grins and back-slapping and professions of undying love – but my usual pleasantly soused persona had been beaten into submission by events of the last year, turning me into a sort of William Holden with a considerably smaller reserve of testosterone. Sour and surly – and anti-social to the point of becoming agoraphobic – I spent most of my inebriated hours staring at the television in my pocket-sized studio apartment, especially since the bottom fell out of Big Planet Entertainment, the b-movie production company I'd been working for. Suddenly I was heartbroken
and
unemployed, and what money I did have was running out fast. This was Los Angeles, after all. 

I realized I shouldn't have spent the seven bucks on those damn lemonades, instantly becoming irritated at the thought. Why the hell
shouldn't
I have something to dull the searing pain of the numerous red-hot pokers lodged firmly up my ass?

      I grabbed the remote and switched over to the Food Network, where Emeril was whipping up a mouth-watering oyster-bacon pie. Maybe if I stared at the screen while eating my dinner of potatoes (my main source of food since losing my job) I could somehow hypnotize myself into enjoying them. I thought about Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles and absent-mindedly picked at the shredded orange upholstery of the thrift-store daybed I was perched on, previously used as a scratching post by a couple of cats. Man. Waffles. And
chicken
. Chicken and waffles. I took another pull off my lemonade and stared blankly at the television. The cable was the last thing I was going to let go of, just before electricity. 

      Things started going wrong shortly after Alison and I moved to LA, almost exactly a year earlier. It didn't occur to me how badly until a few days after I moved out of the apartment we shared; then one night while struggling to sleep on my friend Chad's miserably uncomfortable couch, it all finally sank in: the sound editing job I'd been promised wasn't there, Alison had no luck finding work (until later, of course), and I was dropped by my agent. I guess I didn't realize how shitty things were going at the time because nothing ever seemed all that bad when I was with Alison. She had a way of smoothing out the rough edges, no matter the situation.

      Then she pulled the rug out from under me. 

      Before the move, I'd been making regular trips to LA – about five years earlier, I had landed the agent on the strength of an action script I wrote, and while the hoped-for Big Sale ("low-to-mid six figures," you always hear) never came for that one, the script had scored me a lot of meetings at the studios. Nothing came from those, either, although in an effort to please all those development execs, I had written numerous pitches and even went through four drafts (unpaid, of course) of a treatment for an action film about a heart transplant before cooler heads prevailed. When a second spec script went out, I landed a writing assignment that eventually went sour, but paid enough that Alison and I could afford to move to LA.

During one of my visits to the big city, I met the guy who promised me that editing job. He was a bit of a scoundrel, and since I was already used to being jerked around by Hollywood-types, it wasn't much of a surprise when the job never materialized. However, being unemployed had made Alison as distraught as I'd ever seen her, and
my
lack of meaningful work wasn't improving her condition any. 

Desperate for some way to cheer her up, make her feel like we hadn't made a huge mistake in moving to LA to pursue our respective dreams, I tracked down Drew McCarney, an old friend of mine who worked for a post-production house in Santa Monica. As luck would have it, the post house was hiring, and Drew lined up an interview for Alison. 

      If I'd had any idea what that would lead to, I would've worked
two
jobs – Fatburger
and
Astro-Burger, anything – rather than let Alison take the job at that post house.

      Oh yeah – my agent? She was just "reducing her client list," and was very apologetic. 

I tried to focus on Emeril's oyster dish, but a phlegmy cough echoed from the bathroom as the guy next door choked up an oyster of his own. I could hear everything he did, not because the walls were thin but because the bathroom window opened onto an airshaft traversing the space between our apartments. I rarely saw the man and almost never spoke to him – he had invited me over for a glass of wine once, but mostly we communicated only through the sound of our various bodily functions. The man was in his late forties or early fifties and had been an actor at one point. While I was having that wine with him, he had very excitedly dug out his reviews for a play he'd been in sometime around 1977 — the praise for his acting was glowing, but he didn't seem to have ever done anything else. Now he was making a living by collecting signatures for some kind of political organization or cause or something, and was pinning his hopes on a board game he had come up with – some New-Agey thing wherein players have to ask questions of one another by using their innate psychic abilities. I figured it must take longer to play than Monopoly.

      As my neighbor began splashing around in his tub, I found myself paying less attention to the TV and giving far too much consideration to the idea that I would probably end up just like the poor old sap. I had one writing credit – a crummy horror movie, shot on digital video – and the thought of trying to pick up girls ten years from now by bragging about that piece of shit terrified me. 

      Truth to tell, at that point the thought of trying to pick up girls terrified me all by itself. 

One night after driving a couple of Alison's female co-workers home, I'd told Alison that if she ever dumped me, I would never be able to date anyone else. Those girls had done nothing but talk the most inane shit – the best night to hang out at Durvey's Lounge (Thursday, because that's when the cute softball players came in after their game), how annoying men are (
damned
annoying), and which of their male co-workers was the most fuckable (a pretty long list, causing me to bite my tongue lest I say something mean about desperation).

      The irony, of course, was that at that point, Alison already had a list of her own. There was only one name on it, but then Alison was never the sort to be desperate.

      I shakily got to my feet, the daybed springs thunking as my bony ass released them, and wobbled over to the window. LA was a big, forlorn, miserable place. The street my building was on was lined by thin, towering palm trees, and now and then huge fronds would drop onto parked cars below, setting off their alarms. As one might imagine, this generally happened in the middle of the night. My cigar box of an apartment was on the second floor, overlooking the back yard of a house next door to the complex. In the yard was a smaller guesthouse, which stood directly beneath my window. 

Woozy from the alcohol, I pressed my face against the glass and peered down at the guesthouse, trying to will the cute Asian girl who lived there to come outside. I didn't see her often, but her appearance was always enough to stop me dead in my tracks no matter what I was doing. She had a thing for tank tops, which I liked just fine, although I didn't approve of the baggy jogging pants she usually wore. Most of the sightings involved the girl walking from her car to the house (or vice-versa), usually accompanied by her boyfriend. How I loathed that guy. He was the typical Aspiring Hollywood Weasel, spending most of his time posturing in the driveway while talking on his cell phone, and from what I'd overheard, his conversations usually centered on how drunk he had gotten the night before. He and the girl seemed to fight a lot, too. I sometimes fantasized about finding her in tears after one of these fights; I'd throw open the window and ask what was wrong, being tender, caring, witty – all the things her boyfriend obviously wasn't, and soon her head would be resting upon my shoulder while I stroked her hair and soothed her pain. Usually, these fantasies just made me feel crummier. 

      The best sighting by far had occurred about three weeks earlier. The cute Asian girl had come outside to water her plants, sending me into an hysterical fit of ducking and weaving as I awkwardly attempted to position myself to gawk at her without being seen. She handled her business far too quickly, turned to stare at her car for a second, then went back into the house. My disappointment turned to overwhelming delight when she re-emerged moments later with a bucket and began washing the car. 

      Jesus, what the hell was I doing? Thirty-four years old and here I was chewing my fucking lip in abject desperation, hoping for a glimpse of my sassy neighbor. I hadn't changed at all, not one damn bit since I was fifteen years old and roaming my backyard, shovel in hand as if I might actually be doing something other than peeping at Gina, the teenage girl who lived next door. 

      Man, I could've fucked her, too – her and Kelli
.
If only I hadn't been so lame.

      Kelli. Christ, I hadn't thought about her since forever. She was thirteen when I met her, and looking back on it, I felt certain she had already had sex at that point; she was built like a brick shithouse full of bobcats even then, and never missed an opportunity to let the world know it. At fifteen I hadn't even held hands with a girl, due mostly to my devastating shyness, but also because in a way, I almost resented my newfound (and ever-increasing) horniness; it only distracted me from my unfortunate obsession with filmmaking (and let's face it, it was a hell of a lot easier to remain holed up in my bedroom slathering my face with breakfast cereal and liquid latex until I had a decent zombie thing going on than it was to get into a girl's pants).

      Kelli and Gina were an incredibly troublesome duo, especially for a lad such as I. Their awkwardly nubile shenanigans kept my teenage libido racing like a Ford Mustang being double-clutched by Steve McQueen. You see, about the time she was sprouting breasts, Gina's parents installed a swimming pool in their backyard. Didn't they realize the
insanity
of that – giving their blossoming young daughter license to run wild in a ludicrously small bikini when a
teenage boy
lurked next door? Hiding behind the aforementioned shovel, I wandered my backyard for hours on end, digging holes as if searching for lost Nazi gold, all the while straining to get an eyeful of the burgeoning flesh on display one yard over.  

      And then Kelli started coming to visit. Her flesh had burgeoned some time before, delivering unto my youthful masturbation fantasies the equivalent of the Playboy Mansion a mere stone's throw away. 

By this time, I was in deep shit with my mom for having wrecked a large portion of the yard by digging dozens of inexplicable holes, and it was tough to find a reasonable excuse to hang around back there. I began mowing the lawn every few days, weeding the flowerbeds, and trimming the shrubbery without being asked. This heretofore-unseen level of responsible behavior smoothed things over with my mom, but I started to worry that Kelli and Gina would think I was some sort of gardening-obsessed Nancy-boy and find me undesirable for their making-out needs. I convinced my dad that my very life depended on the immediate purchase of a baseball, glove and a rebound net. It took me less than twenty minutes to realize that I threw like a girl; the baseball glove wound up buried at the floor of my closet (later, with the aid of some latex and cotton, it became the misshapen hand of a mutant monster).