Squirrel Eyes (12 page)

19

On the way back to Taylor's, we ran over a chunk of two-by-four that bounced around inside the left rear wheel-well, tearing hell out of the tire. I knew a guy who'd once had a flat on the freeway, and while he was changing the tire, a car slammed into him. He woke up in the hospital minus a leg. Ever since then, it was all I could think about whenever I had a flat.

I opened the trunk so we could pull the spare. It was like unscrewing the lid from one of those prank cans of peanuts and getting the spring-loaded snake in the face. A Vesuvius of Detroit steel, the car spewed stuffed plastic bags onto the asphalt and our feet. 

"What's all this shit?" Taylor yelped. He looked like Captain Kirk after he opened the locker full of Tribbles.

      Realizing I had jumped into the middle lane, I quickly stepped back behind the car, gawking for oncoming traffic in the one-way street. Even with the half-dozen or so bags that had leapt free, the trunk was still crammed full. I pulled one of the bags open.

      "It's yarn." 

Taylor leaned in and opened a bag as I poked into another. His was more yarn; I found scraps of fabric.

"My whole bedroom is stuffed full of this junk – why the hell would Mom cram more of it into her car? 

      "Is she one of those crazy people who save pieces of plastic and old bagels and shit?"

      We started hauling bags out of the trunk and dropping them in the street. There must've been sixty bags of fabric and yarn in that trunk. I even found one bag that was stuffed full of more bags. Eventually, we reached the spare tire and wrestled it out. 

Taylor wandered off to take a leak and I started jacking the car up, staring down the road the whole time. There was a pickup truck in the far left lane about two blocks away. I couldn't take my eyes off it, mesmerized by the lights and that hollow, lonely hum of tires on pavement. I froze, waiting to spring out of the way if the truck should drift towards me as it approached. I wished I had asked Mia to be in the movie.

The truck grumbled past, staying in its lane. My head swiveled with it, making damn sure. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw someone standing behind me.

"Jesus," I hissed, thinking it was Taylor. "You scared the hell outta me."

"Sorry, buddy," an unfamiliar voice said. 

I spun around, completely forgetting that the tire iron I held would make a fine bludgeon. The old winesoak teetering in the street was well aware of the fact, however; his hands shot above his head in immediate surrender. The sudden movement startled me and I thumped back against the fender of the car.

Taylor returned, dashing across the street.

"God damn," the winesoak muttered, backing away slightly, hands still held high. "No harm, fellas."

"What's going on?" Taylor asked. He stood like a man ready to fight, if need be.  

      The old man reeled, and for a second I thought he'd fall over. Then he caught himself, straightened for a moment, then began tilting the other way. 

"I uz jus' wondrin could you give me a lift," he said. 

I counted all of one tooth as he spoke. His face looked amazingly like a dog's ass, hundreds of puckered wrinkles radiating outwards from his mouth. His eyes were nearly engulfed by meaty bags and folds of skin. The only evidence they were there at all were two tiny, wet reflections of the streetlight overhead.

      "No, sorry – we're in a hurry," Taylor said. 

      I went back to changing the flat, happy to let Taylor deal with the souse.

      "I gotta pick up my girlfriend," the old man said.

"Put your hands down, okay? Somebody's liable to think we're mugging you." 

The old man lowered his hands. I noticed what appeared to be an ancient piss-stain spread across the front of his encrusted khaki pants. 

"I gotta do somethin' nice for her," he mumbled. "She's good to me alla time."

Taylor shot me a look, rolling his eyes. I wondered if the old drunkard really had a girlfriend. I spun the last lug nut loose and struggled the tire off the axle. Another car rolled past, slowing to check out the scene.

"Well, I'm really sorry, but we can't give you a ride," Taylor said. He pulled his wallet and extracted a couple dollars, holding them out for the old man. "Why don't you buy her a present? She'd like that, I'll bet."

"She's a good one," the old man said. "Good to me alla time." He took the money from Taylor, wadding it into his palm. "God bless, buddy."

"Sure, sure," Taylor said. 

We both watched the old guy totter off across the street. 

      "You think that guy's really got a girlfriend?" Taylor finally asked.

      "If he does, he's doing better than both of us," I said.

      "Yeah, whatever, Mr. Melancholy."

      Taylor wound up being late for work but didn't seem bothered about it. When I rolled up to my mom's place around 10:45, Daniel's fabulous pickup was parked at the curb. I considered leaving, just driving around for an hour or so, but was too beat to fight it. 

20

      "Party boy returns," Daniel said as I walked through the door. His girlfriend April was with him; she was on deck to become his third wife. I couldn't have told you how old she was if you'd beaten me with a hammer – she appeared to have had lots of remodeling done but threw off the results by wearing that late-sixties Nancy Sinatra hairdo and eye makeup. I guessed she was sniffing at forty-five's tail, at least. She was tolerable, I suppose, but I hated seeing her because she was such a phony.

      "
Hel
– loww Alvin," April enthused. Every time she talked to me I felt like I was on a game show. 

Although their asses were planted firmly on the couch, at least they appeared to be on their way out; April had her purse slung over her shoulder and Daniel was jingling his overburdened key ring. Mom occupied her usual spot behind her quilt frame, blowing smoke towards an episode of
The Andy Griffith Show
on TV (Barney had his gun out and was scratching his face with the barrel).

I made with some strained chitchat for a few minutes, then Daniel and April got it in gear and headed for the door. Before I could recover, however, Daniel poked his head back inside.

"Why's the spare on Mom's car, Alvin?" 

I winced. I'd been planning to tell Mom about the flat after they were gone, never considering that Daniel unfailingly noticed the tiniest of details on any car.

"I ran over a board," I said, suddenly feeling very guilty.

Daniel sneered. "Been doing a little drinking?"

"No," I said, a little too emphatically. "It was a two-by-four in the middle of the road." 

"And you couldn't avoid it?"

"It jumped in front of the car."

"Don't worry about it, it's just a tire," Mom said.

Daniel sighed theatrically and held out a hand. "Let me have the keys, I'll take the flat and have it fixed."

"I can do it," I said.

"Alvin," he said, like a scolding TV dad.

"I broke it, I'll fix it." I left the room before Daniel could say anything else, but I could picture the disapproving look he surely gave my mother, dismayed by what a fuck-up his little brother was. I thanked Jesus that I'd made it through the whole scenario without having him ask about the movie camera I was carrying.

Going to my room, I sat on the bed and flipped the camera case open. The sight and smell of the little metal-and-plastic beauty resting within finally gave me that moment of time-travel I'd missed upon entering my bedroom the first time. My own movie camera had inexplicably broken down soon after my dad died, while I was toying with the idea of making another short film; I took it as a sign from God and just tossed the thing into the trash. I'd missed it ever since. I lifted Taylor's camera from the case, clenching the pistol grip and feeling the heft. Nice. Lifting it to my eye, I peered through the viewfinder and fingered the focus ring, watching mom's sewing stuff blur, then bounce back to crystal clarity. Gently, I squeezed the trigger and listened to the motor clacking away. I felt like a junkie fixing in an alleyway. 

The sensation almost shut out the muttered shit Daniel was saying to Mom. After a few moments, the front door opened and shut, then Daniel's truck started, roaring away. 

      I thought about working on the script, but there was no way in hell I could concentrate after all that. Instead I went into Mom's room, where I picked up the phone and dialed information.

      "What city?"

      "Cincinnati," I said. 

I wanted to talk to Katrina, see if she knew about me and Alison. The robot voice came on, giving me Katrina's phone number. I scribbled it on the palm of my hand. I dialed quickly, before I could lose my nerve. It rang about seven times before Katrina picked up.

      "H'lo?" she mumbled. 

      "Katrina?"

      "Yeah...."

      "Hey, it's Alvin," I said, hoping she'd remember who I was.

      "Uhh...."

      That's when I realized it was two hours later in Cincinnati. "Shit – did I wake you up?"

      "S'okay, I had to get up to answer the phone," she said. "How are you doing?"

      The tone of her voice said it all: she knew.

      "I guess Alison told you about us, huh?" 

      "Yeah."

      She wasn't being as talkative as I would've liked, that's for damn sure. I was hoping for something along the lines of
That dumb bitch, boy did she make a mistake
or
I tried to talk her into going back to you, but since she's too stupid, I'll take you myself
. 

      "What about you, are you doing okay?" Katrina asked again.

      "I don't know," I said. I tried to come up with something that might elicit sympathy, then felt crummy for the effort. "I'm kind of floundering a little, I think."

      I heard Katrina light a cigarette, dragging deep. 

      "Well, it certainly came as a shock. I thought you guys were for keeps." She exhaled and I pictured the smoke encircling her head. I wondered if her boyfriend was in bed with her. "For what it's worth, she only has good things to say about you."

      "Then why did she dump me?"

      Katrina took another drag on her smoke. "Have you asked
her
that?" she said. 

      "We've only talked a couple times since we split up," I said. "I was a little bit pathetic, probably ... both conversations were mostly me begging and her asking me to stop." 

      Katrina laughed, low and phlegmy. I liked it.

      "Maybe it's time to talk to her again, y'think? But Alvin" – and here she did the ominous,
you're-going-to-be-crushed-by-this
pause – "I should warn you, that guy – what's his name?"

      "Fucknut?" I guessed.

      "Something like that – he moved in with her."

      "Yeah, I knew that. Thanks, though. Look, I should let you get back to sleep – I'm really sorry I woke you up."

      "You're okay?"

      "Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks, Katrina."

      We said our goodbyes and hung up. 

      Jesus Christ.
They were living together
. 

I felt like my lungs were collapsing. A feeble, croaking sob puked out of me, but I was too heartsick even to cry. After a couple of minutes, I crossed the room on wobbly legs and began beating my head against the doorframe, just to make something hurt worse.

After the seventh or eighth whack, I stepped back and took a deep breath.

      Like I said: I don't buy the idea of my ethereal dad watching everything I do, but it
is
something I think about.

21

"You've captured the crappy, low-rent feel of the original," Taylor said, handing the script back to me. "I especially like the part where the Blue Man slices the mutant open and uses his guts to strangle another mutant."

      We sat in grimy white plastic chairs outside Richie's Auto Repair, waiting for the flat tire to be fixed. There were about seven people ahead of us, most of them getting lube jobs or something – whatever it was, it meant a long wait for us. I could've chewed rubber out of a tree and fixed the tire myself in less time.

      Unable to sleep after learning about Alison and Scranton (or whatever his goddamn name was), I had forced myself to finish the script for
The Blue Man
. It was a little bit tough considering that all I wanted to do was slit my wrists, but by four-thirty in the morning, I had the son-of-a-bitch written.

      "You gonna be able to do all this effects shit in the time we've got?" Taylor asked. 

He suddenly leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the pavement between his feet.

I rubbed the knot on my skull where I'd beat my noggin on the doorframe. "Most of it's fairly simple stuff," I said. "It's more a question of money than time."

      "I can probably get a couple guys from work to be in the thing." 

      "Any of them big enough to play the lead mutant?"

      Taylor looked up at me, squinting. "Fuck," he said. "I'm not doing it if you don't play the mutant."

      "We don't have the money or the time to make the suit."

      "How did we have money the first time? We didn't even have jobs."

      "My dad, remember?"

      "Oh yeah," Taylor said. He returned his attention to the pavement once again. "He was always good for a touch." 

I looked around, but couldn't figure out what was so interesting. "What are you looking at?" 

"Ant."

I still couldn't see it.

"Well to hell with all that," he said, straightening. "Nobody's gonna see this thing anyway – let's just smear some bacon fat on you or something and call you a mutant."

      "I'd like to at least act like we're making an effort," I said. "We just need to find somebody big and mutated."

      Taylor lifted his foot. I finally saw the ant, crawling over the top of his boot. 

My mind was on what I'd just said, however.

      In particular,
big and mutated
.

      "Hang on." 

I went into Richie's and asked for the white pages (which, when presented to me, bore the same gray smudges as the chair I'd been sitting in). Outside, I walked past Taylor to the pay phone. 

      "Who are you calling?"

      "Mutant," I said, flipping pages. 

It wasn't tough to find – how many guys named Boone Butters can there be in any given town? 

He answered on the second ring. "Improvements."

I hesitated, having had no rehearsal time. "Uh, Mr. Butters?" 

Taylor looked up from the ant, now crawling along his index finger. "Mr.
Butters
?" he asked.

"This is Boone Butters." A pause, followed by that wheezing intake of air. "How can I help you?"

"My name's Alvin Bandy, I met you on the flight from Los Angeles – "

"Stomach distress!" Butters exclaimed.

That tripped me up, sending me into a stammering fit.

"Sounds like you still got it, too," he snorted.  

"Just caught me off guard there," I said, faking a laugh.

He sucked air. "So what's your beef?" 

Now that I'd heard him talk again, I wasn't so sure I wanted to tell him my beef. I thought about just hanging up and returning to my grease-slathered seat, but, like a persistent little goat, the memory of our failure with Mia prodded me forward. 

"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.