Squirrel Eyes

by Scott S. Phillips

  Then, from the bedroom, the snorting began.

  Wretched, thunderous, as if a pig the size of a buffalo were going into labor. Alison and I both nearly leapt from our skins, untangling like a hose had been turned on us. Sweating and panicky, we cowered in the dark, clutching the blankets to ourselves. At first, I attributed the god-awful racket to Katrina's boyfriend, but as the bedroom light came on and the sound of agitated voices reached us, I realized it was something else.

  Wrapping a sheet around ourselves, Alison and I ran to the bedroom, tapping at the door and worriedly asking if everything was all right. Katrina's boyfriend whipped the door open to reveal Pugsley, Katrina's sausage-like pug, thrashing around on its back like John Hurt before the alien burst through his chest. Frantic and tearful, Katrina knelt over the dog, hands clawing at her face in panic. Absurdly, I was reminded of the famous photo from the Kent State shootings.

  Pugsley's writhing body violently danced across the floor, a snorting, wheezing little freight train, froth bubbling from his clenched jaws; then, with one final, rattling, slobber-disgorging choke, the hapless pooch shuffled off this mortal coil, spraying a geyser of urine into the air as he did so. We buried the portly corpse in the backyard that very night, Katrina's pitiful weeping providing appropriate atmosphere. The poor girl was inconsolable, only emerging from her dolor the night before Alison and I were to leave. Proving how damn cool she was, Katrina made a rather loud and disgusting joke about Pugsley's bladder-control problem over dinner at a nice Chinese place.

  I wondered how Katrina reacted to the news that Alison had sent me on my way.

  A strict rap at the bathroom door made me jump, banging my knee. "Excuse me," a bored-but-polite female voice probed. "You'll have to take your seat — we're beginning our descent."

  Already well on my way, thanks, I thought, standing and unlocking the door.

  A flight attendant with severe eyebrows, shellacked blonde hair and crow's feet hidden under a layer of spackling – a Trog-era Joan Crawford-as-cheerleader – waited outside, stepping back to evade the anticipated wave of stink.

  "Please take your seat, sir," she repeated, with an expression that said I know exactly what you've been up to, you loathsome creature.

  Slipping past the woman, I returned to my seat, giving Butters a self-conscious grin.

  "Everything all right?" he asked, followed by another whistling gasp.

  I nodded, that foolish smirk clinging to my face. "Guess that bump shook it loose," I joked. As I buckled my seat belt, I noticed the business card Butters had given me laying on the aisle floor, dropped in my mad dash for the bathroom. I felt a little guilty that I didn't bother to retrieve it.

  3

  How I wound up with such an asshole for a brother was a source of eternal mystification to me.

  I was hoping to get through the visit without seeing my older sibling, but Daniel had been waiting for me when I came off the plane; now I was trapped in a vehicle with him for the twenty-minute drive across town.

  "Mom's worried sick about you, you know," Daniel said, breaking the uncomfortable silence we'd been riding in since leaving the airport parking garage.

  And so it begins. "I know," I groused, unable to think of any better response.

  "I'm not kidding around, Alvin – she's losing weight, it's not healthy."

  "So I'm supposed to not do anything with my life because the alternative means Mom loses weight?" Instantly, I knew I'd blown the phrasing and would pay the price. Daniel fixed me with the anticipated sanctimonious gaze. "Don't you think that's kind of a selfish attitude, especially since she practically supports you?"

  "That's not – "

  "I'm just asking you to think about somebody besides yourself once in awhile," Daniel interrupted. "She's getting pretty old, you know."

  I stared out at the city blocks rolling past. Nothing had changed, yet somehow it all felt unfamiliar, unfriendly. The city had plenty of beautiful neighborhoods, but we seemed to be traveling only through its drearier sections. Endless stretches of strip malls, fast-food joints and gas stations, all low, flat buildings, much like the more depressing parts of North Hollywood. It was as if my brother's assholism were manifesting itself through the very landscape.

  "She helped you out a lot when you started your business," I muttered, knowing full well there was no point in bringing it up.

  "That was different," Daniel asserted.

  "How?" I asked, only because it was expected of me. Might as well take the full beating.

  Daniel's voice took on the tone one usually reserves for retarded children or certain employees of the Motor Vehicle Department. "Because that was real. A serious attempt to make something of myself. And it was successful, I might add." He waved a hand, indicating the splendor of the pickup truck we rode in. "All you've done is blunder around with this movie crap for as long as I can remember – Mom might as well be flushing her money down the toilet."

  My teeth ground together. You hand a fuel injector or a radiator cap to somebody and they give you cash, I wanted to say. It only seems like I'm not doing anything real, because the desperate faith required to poke at a computer on a daily basis in hopes that one day someone will fork over money for the words I'm puking out isn't visible; it can't be held in your hand like a crisp ten-dollar bill. Those are the words my stomach was churning to gush forth into my brother's $45,000 pickup truck with the company name stenciled on the side: Bandy's Auto Parts, est. 1986.

  What I actually said was "It doesn't matter anyway." I laid my head against the tinted window, any desire to stand up for myself thoroughly routed. "I've had it. I'm thinking of throwing in the towel."

  Daniel gave me a textbook beautiful double take, brow furrowing. "Don't get grease on my window," he barked.

  I sat up straight, wiping the glass with my sleeve.

  Satisfied that his vehicle was unsullied by my dubious hair oils, Daniel continued. "You'd better not be fuckin' with me. Don't tell me that just to make me happy."

  While the last thing I wanted to do was make the self-righteous heel happy, I was indeed telling the truth. Each passing day made it more apparent that my pursuit of a career in filmmaking (along with everything else I had ever done) had only created misery, in some manner, either for myself or for others. How could it be anything but good if I were to shitcan the whole ridiculous idea? If it weren't for Daniel's holier-than-thou horseshit, it wouldn't even bother me so much – it was, after all, part of my Grand Plan For The Future, part of the reason I had wanted to return to Albuquerque for this visit. Happiness through disconnection.

  It occurred to me that all my problems with my brother probably stemmed from the movie nonsense, too. I mean, he really couldn't be that bad a guy, right? He was just unhappy with my inability to make something of myself. Undoubtedly, Daniel wouldn't be such a prick to me if my life had followed some other path, so long as that path didn't involve heroin, prostitutes, homosexuality, or wearing a sweater-vest. Maybe we would've even been friends, hanging out on weekends, drinking beer, going fishing. Aw, screw it: let's face it, Daniel was a close-minded, money-grubbing douchebag, and even if he treated me like the second coming of Steve McQueen, I'd rather eat my own shit than spend time with him.

  The situation with my mom was a different matter, however. While she hadn't exactly been supporting me in the sense that Daniel meant (although she helped me out financially more often than not), she had always been supportive, ready to offer encouragement in whatever form I needed at any given time – especially after my dad died. I knew that the months since the breakup with Alison had been hard on her, though; worrying over how despondent I was, that I wasn't eating right or sleeping enough – not to mention waiting for that phone call telling her of my brains having been blown out by a borrowed shotgun – and I couldn't help but think she'd be relieved to hear of my plans to ...

  To what, exactly? Aside from the first couple steps of my Grand Plan, I obviously hadn't given this enough thought.


  "Y'know, you manage to get your shit together," Daniel snorted, bubbling with smug satisfaction, "And I can probably set you up with a job."

  Well then, that's settled – auto parts it is. I felt as if I were being swallowed by the plush, velvety seat covers.

  4

  Daniel poisoned me when I was three. It wasn't deliberate, or so the story goes, but I suspect it was the beginning of our misunderstandings.

  I don't remember any of it, of course. What I've been told is that Daniel was out in the backyard stripping the paint off an old desk chair (even at ten years old, he was involved in manly, useful pursuits). I guess I was thumping against the sliding glass door, staring out at my brother and drooling on the glass, and my mom decided I could use a little playtime in the yard. She tells me she informed Daniel I was toddling on out and that he should keep an eye on me. What mom didn't know was that Daniel had filled my favorite Flintstones glass with paint remover and left it sitting on the ground, a thirst-quenching lure, and I was one fast-moving little grass-gorilla.

  Apparently what saved me is that the shit burned my mouth so badly, I didn't have a chance to swallow much of it. At the hospital, they pumped my stomach and admonished my parents for being inattentive. I always picture Daniel standing off to the side, his sinister grin unnoticed by the adults around him.

  It wasn't all bad or uncomfortable back in those days, but since Daniel was so much older than me, we didn't exactly hang out or anything. I do remember him being pretty hacked-off when he'd get stuck babysitting me, and there were several occasions while in his care I found myself perched on the fender of some old beater Daniel and a couple of his friends were working on, holding a shop light and feeling cool because I was helping the big kids. We weren't Wally and the Beaver, but in those days – despite the poisoning incident – I always felt secure when I was with Daniel.

  When he was fifteen, Daniel got a job at a gas station a few blocks from our house. One night when he was scheduled to work the closing shift, my parents had to attend some last-minute social event and Daniel got stuck with babysitting duty again. Rather than drag me to the station with him, he talked a co-worker into taking over his shift. I couldn't tell you anything about our evening at home, but I remember plenty of what happened after the phone rang around midnight. The gas station had been robbed and Daniel's friend had taken a lead pipe to the skull. He managed to call the cops and Daniel before passing out. Since he didn't have a car (or a driver's license), Daniel threw me up on his shoulders and ran like hell all the way to the gas station. Daniel's friend was just being loaded into the ambulance – he was conscious again and while he had a pretty nasty wound on top of his head, he would be okay. I remember standing inside the gas station, staring at the trail of blood leading from the office out to the service bay where the guy had finally passed out, lights from the cop cars flashing across the scene. I also vividly remember Daniel ruffling my hair and telling me that if he hadn't had to baby-sit for me, it would've been him in that ambulance.

  The thought of that gave me nightmares for quite some time.

  5

  Thankfully, Daniel didn't hang around once we reached Mom's house, begging off to go check in on a new employee at his second location (I wasn't even aware that Daniel had opened a second shop, and the news sent me into an even deeper spiral of shame and inadequacy).

  Upon sight of her youngest boy, my mom reacted as a mom can be expected to: fretting over the 20-odd pounds I had lost (as Daniel said, she had lost a little weight too, but it looked good on her), complaining about the length (and unwashed condition) of my hair, and rapidly hustling me into the kitchen to feed me until my shrunken belly threatened to burst.

  The tasty dinner of bacon, eggs and pancakes (Mom was big on breakfast served any time) was tempered with a barrage of questions about Alison, and what I had done to drive her into the arms of another man, and if I really hadn't done anything, why in the world would she do it – is this other fellow rich or spectacularly good-looking, or both? Is Alison stupid? Had the passion simply gone out of our relationship?

  My response to most of Mom's inquiries was a muffled "I dunno" mouthed around heaping forkfuls of home cooking. We had already been over all of this on the phone, shortly after Alison had sent me packing; however, I felt it best to let Mom get it out of her system during this one meal and perhaps it wouldn't be brought up again during my visit.

  "You know, you smell pretty bad," she said, changing the subject to one I felt more comfortable discussing.

  I paused in stuffing my face long enough to sniff my armpit. "Phoo," I responded, appalled by my own tang. "If I didn't know it was me, I wouldn't be able to eat. I'm surprised Daniel didn't make me ride in the back of the truck."

  She looked me up and down for a moment, concluding her inspection with a sad little shake of her head. "I hate to see you let yourself go like this," she clucked.

  "I haven't let myself go."

  "You stink, you're sickly thin, you need a haircut, you look like you haven't shaved for a week – "

  "Three days."

  "You used to be so clean-cut, Alvin...."

  "I'm not uncleanly-cut, Mom," I protested, "just a little unkempt. I couldn't afford a haircut."

  "I'll give you a haircut." She smiled mischievously.

  "No thanks," I said, having experienced the disgrace of her haircuts in the past.

  "At least take a shower and shave that nasty crap off your face, then." She tugged a cigarette from her ever-present pack of Pall Mall Golds and lit it, frowning at my stubble.

  With dinner out of the way and the small talk thankfully at an end for the time being, I hesitantly set out to do as Mom requested. Entering the bathroom that was once considered mine, I dropped my backpack and the gym bag containing my clothes, then turned my attention to finding a bar of soap that wasn't shaped like a seashell.

  Ordinarily, the sort of nit-picky back and forth I'd engaged in with my mom would have driven me crazy. Instead, and for reasons I certainly could never hope to fathom, I felt as if I were decompressing somehow – relaxing for the first time in months.

  That all went out the window as I turned the shower on and stepped under the spray. Eyes closed, water drumming on the back of my neck, I suddenly began crying. It was as if a switch had been thrown – my body instantly heaving with violent sobs, tears streaming down my face.

  I rested my head against the cool tile and watched through bleary eyes as a string of slobber ran from my trembling lips. This sort of shit was the reason I didn't like to take showers anymore.

  Rummaging through my bag, I discovered that most of my "clean" clothes smelled fairly rank. I settled on pajama bottoms and a reasonably inoffensive T-shirt, then shoved the rest of the stuff into the washing machine and joined my mom in the living room to watch Matlock while I waited for the laundry. She was suitably impressed when I pointed out an actor that I knew in a bit part as a hoodlum. Unfortunately, this led to her standard question: "Why can't you write something for this show?" (Variations on this question included "Why can't you write something like Lethal Weapon 4/The Green Mile/Runaway Bride" and "Why can't you just find yourself a woman your own age with a good job?").

  After transferring my clothes to the dryer, I decided to call it a night. Giving my mom a hug (burning myself on her cigarette in the process), I shuffled off to my old bedroom.

  In the movies, this was always something akin to walking through a time warp, the bedroom unchanged, still decorated with the trappings of youth and all the memories that entails. In my case, it meant shoving aside a mountain of quilting supplies in order to reach the twin bed buried beneath. My room – site of the illustrious tickling incident, the place where I'd hidden my Playboys and dreamed of Hollywood – had been turned into a sewing room.

  Flopping onto the bed, I stared at the scraps of fabric, the plastic boxes full of needles, thread, tape measures, the bags of quilt batting. No model planes hanging from the ceiling, no fo
rgotten pin-up photos curling with age, no secret stashes of comic books or beloved toys tucked away in corners. This was a grandma haven now. Gifts were crafted here, clothes and quilts destined for the children of all those relatives – cousins, my brother – who had become real adults while I had somehow remained 15 years old, unmarried, childless. I couldn't help but feel I had missed an important seminar somewhere along the line, the pep talk or ritual beating that ushered boy into man.

  Surprisingly, I fell asleep quickly (thank you, exhaustion) instead of suffering the usual anguished tossing and turning. I suppose it was being at home again, but I dreamed I was standing in my mom's kitchen, where a tremendous pile of dirty dishes spilled from the sink. The smell of rot was staggering. Cockroaches crawled among the filthy pots and pans, pausing to nibble at bits of crusty food here and there. A swarm of flies took to the air with a sonorous hum as I approached the sink, staring in bewilderment at the mess.

  As I came to a stop, the flies settled, skittering across grease-slathered plates and bowls lined with stinking rinds of sour milk.

  Suddenly, the flies took wing again, frightened by a movement behind me. I spun as the kitchen door swung open, revealing the tottering, decomposing, yet quite-mobile corpse of my dad. The zombie lurched towards me, arms outstretched. "Alviinnnn ..." Dad hissed through exposed, yellowed teeth, "you were supposssssed to dooooo those dishesssssss...."

  I snapped awake, gasping softly, and gazed around the dark sewing room for a few moments, unable to remember where the hell I was. As awareness returned, I settled back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. A poster for Night of the Living Dead had once hung there; no wonder I was dreaming about zombies. I had only been asleep for a half-hour or so. It took another three hours of brutal self-flagellation before I drifted off again.