Squirrel Eyes Read online

  "Ouch," Taylor said.

  "The whiskey numbed most of the pain," Butters assured us. "At least for awhile. I woke up the next morning feeling like a rhino had butted me in the mouth."

  "What about the diamond?" I asked, checking my watch again. Mia was twenty minutes late now, a fact that boded ill for The Blue Man.

  "Who had money for diamonds?" Boone said, braying with laughter. "Couple weeks later, Frenchie ran off with a college football player she met in the club."

  Taylor stared at Butters with a sort of newfound respect. "We are all broken men," he finally said.

  "Preach on," Butters said.

  I watched in disbelief as the two swapped some kind of soul-brother handshake.

  "Let's eat, I don't think Mia's gonna show."

  I shoved at Butters to get up, following the big man from the booth. We took our place in line at the order window. I was already planning to excise the Blue Man's Woman – Suspiria, whatever – from the script when I noticed Mia walking across the parking lot.

  She was stunning, of course. I prodded Butters in the shoulder, cocked my head towards the beautiful girl coming in the door.

  "Sweet crap," Butters whispered.

  To my surprise, Mia strode right up to me, sumptuous lips parted in a glistening smile, and gave me a big hug. I took great pains to be aware of her ample bosom pressing against my scrawny torso. She smelled great.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, face buried in my T-shirt.

  I cursed myself for being too lazy to bathe, but not so much that I wasn't sorry when the hug came to an end; she held onto my arm, however, making me feel pretty cool.

  "My friend Sazz got sick, so I'm gonna have to work for her tonight."

  "Oh ... do you need to split?"

  That smile lit up again, with all the promise of a neon sign outside a drive-in theater – or at least it gave me the same aching thrill deep in my chest.

  "No way man, I don't go in till eleven. Buy me a hamburger."

  I take it back. That smile was a million times better than any damn drive-in marquee.

  Butters kicked me in the leg. Once again, Mia's delights had clouded my mind to the presence of others.

  "Oh shit – Mia, this is Boone Butters."

  As Boone hastily extended a meaty, scabrous paw, I had a sudden flash of panic, afraid Mia's reaction would be similar to that of the Bride of Frankenstein's upon sight of her mate. Instead, Mia flashed him the smile and firmly shook his hand.

  "Uh, Boone's gonna be our bad guy," I added.

  "You're huge," Mia said, clearly delighted by the giant.

  Butters emitted a shy, strangulated laugh.

  After we'd scored our burgers (and three orders of Munchers for Butters alone), I explained the recent developments, careful to make it seem as if the inability to actually shoot the movie was only a small hurdle.

  "Well fuck, if we can't get film, what're we gonna do – perform the thing on stage?" Taylor asked.

  "My brother's got a video camera – a digital 8 camcorder – and I don't think he ever uses it."

  "Yes, but your brother hates you," Taylor pointed out.

  My scalp – among other things – tightened as Mia's hand brushed my thigh, then settled there.

  "Why would he hate you?" she asked, as if the answer weren't obvious.

  "Give it time," Taylor said.

  Mia giggled a little, but beneath the tabletop, she gave my thigh a gentle, caring squeeze. Simultaneously, those fingers of guilt began clenching my chest again. Where was that shit coming from?

  Tugging my backpack open, I gave Butters and Mia copies of the script.

  "Cool," Mia said, flipping through the piece of crap. I was utterly confused by her.

  "I'm gonna get the video camera from Daniel tomorrow," I said. "I don't know how yet, but once that's taken care of, we have to start shooting the day after tomorrow. Does that work for everybody?"

  "What about pre-production?" Mia asked, so very cutely.

  "You read too much Entertainment Weekly. This has got to be fast and dirty or it's never gonna happen."

  "I knew it was a porno movie," Butters said.

  And I knew he was going to say that.

  32

  How the hell did two kids who dropped out of the same mama's guts wind up in such completely different places? Although I suppose most people would consider Daniel the "normal" one, I just cannot fathom how a person can go through life with absolutely no real interests – especially when you take into account our upbringing; Mom and Dad read to us both and encouraged us to learn about all manner of things, yet I challenge you to find a book anywhere in Daniel's house. And for a guy who had so many friends as a teenager, he is the most antisocial human being I think I've ever known – he once told my mom that he didn't like having people over because they ruined the furniture. Who the hell were his houseguests, Mötley Crüe?

  On the surface, you could say that Daniel had an interest in cars, but as far as I could tell there was no passion there, at least not anymore. When he was a teenager, he and his friends were genuinely excited to rip into some hunk-of-shit car one of them had purchased for a couple hundred bucks, doing their best to turn it into a low-budget approximation of a "Big Daddy" Roth hot rod. Now he seemed interested only in accumulating – ATVs he never rode, a boat that had seen water maybe three times, a pair of motorcycles he would occasionally push out of the garage and wash. And since he had no longer had friends, I always wondered just who he was trying to impress.

  I was eleven the last time I remember feeling any real connection to Daniel. He was eighteen; it was the middle of summer and we were going to the drive-in. This was just about my favorite thing in the world to do – I still get a tingly feeling at dusk on a summer's evening when I catch a whiff of car exhaust or hear a tire scrunching on gravel in a particular way.

  We piled into the haggard Mach One Daniel had picked up for cheap (after its previous owner had plowed it into his ex-wife's front porch) and rolled out of the driveway with Grand Funk Railroad blaring from the 8-track. Daniel swung by a drive-through liquor window and scored a six-pack (for some reason, whenever I was in the car with him, people would happily sell him beer), then we made our way across town to the Tesuque Drive-In. As much as I liked going to the drive-in with my parents, it was a much more pure experience to go with Daniel – Mom and Dad always made popcorn at home, then stopped at some fast-food place for dinner, while Daniel preferred to gorge himself on the various treats offered at the theater's concession stand – and I was right there with him.

  Daniel found a good spot to park the car and we took off for the concession stand. They served up the shit buffet-style; you'd walk down the line checking out the odd-colored barbecue sandwiches, stiffening slices of pizza, greasy fries, stale popcorn (it squeaked when you chewed it) and overpriced candy bars, selecting whatever you desired. Daniel and I usually tried our best to get one of everything. I remember this particular trip well because it was the time we saw the french-fry guy check the temperature of the grease in the deep fryer – by horking up an oyster and spitting into it. Daniel and I swapped a look, then just stared at the wad of spittle as it danced around in the spattering fat. The incident didn't stop us from ordering fries, however.

  Armed with an array of destructive food, we settled into the Mach One's bucket seats, the stink of grease hanging in the air. The Tesuque was unspooling a double-feature (as usual): the classic mutant-baby flick It's Alive, followed by something I have no memory of, since I rather uncharacteristically slept through most of it (nothing made me more angry than falling asleep during a movie, especially when it was something I might never get another chance to see, and this particular movie has never surfaced again that I'm aware of; I vaguely recall a little girl befriending some zombies, however).

  Other than my lack of stamina, it was an ordinary trip to the drive-in for me and Daniel; we ate ourselves sick, got home late, and wandered off to our respective bedrooms.
The only other difference was that It's Alive scared me so badly I waited until Daniel fell asleep and sneaked into his bedroom, where I slept under his bed. Of course, I now realize this is the first place the flesh-eating infant would've gone looking for food, but at the time, being near my older brother made me feel safe (albeit a little wimpy).

  How things do change.

  I don't know what happened; there was no screaming fight, no moment of betrayal that drove the wedge between us. I think Daniel just decided to be an adult. Sometimes that's all it takes.

  There were a few instances later on when I thought there might be hope, that my brother might still be in there – once when I was about fourteen, I overheard him talking to his friends about a movie they'd seen; when I realized it was Night of the Living Dead, my heart thudded with delight. Here, then, was something we could share! I tried to bring up the subject that evening, but Daniel just gave me some disaffected response and went on his way. I guess if he were to hear me talking to someone about rebuilding a carburetor, he might feel like I did when I heard him mention my favorite movie.

  33

  Automatic doors. The newest shop in the Bandy's Auto Parts empire had automatic doors. I walked through. The rubbery-sterile smell shared by all auto parts stores enfolded me. In comparison, Boone Butters's ripe stench was like a pleasant whiff of perfume, mostly because I associated this odor with Daniel.

  The doors hissed shut behind me. Trapped on the Death Star.

  At least he was hiring cute girls to work the counters, although I noted that he had frat boy types doing the actual parts-retrieval work – can't trust a girl to do a man's job, after all.

  "Hi can I help you?" the perky thing at the nearest register yelped, rapid-fire.

  "Is Daniel in?"

  "Daniellll ..." she repeated, puzzled. It occurred to me that I'd given at least this particular female employee – and Daniel – too much credit; Daniel would never hire a girl for any reason other than her boobs.

  "Daniel Bandy? The owner?" Nearby, the frat boys were eyeballing me like a rodent in a snake pit.

  Ms. Perkyteats clasped her hands in front of her, cocking her head in the traditional ditzy pose.

  "Oh – duh!" she chirped, rolling her eyes.

  I wondered if she was putting on a show for the frat boys, trying to score some manly action by acting dumb.

  "He's in the back. Is there something I can help you with?"

  "Yeah, I'd like to talk to him. Can you tell him his brother's here?"

  My reputation preceded me, apparently – the frat boys all stared on with expressions that said Oh, this is the guy. One of them let out a barely-muffled derisive snort. It surprised me, really – if Daniel was so embarrassed, why spread the word about his loser sibling?

  The counter girl thumbed the intercom and buzzed Daniel, telling him I wanted to see him. There was a long pause, then, sounding chagrined, he told her to send me back.

  His office was larger than my apartment, and certainly cleaner. Framed pages from tool calendars featuring busty honeys clutching immense wrenches hung on one wall. Opposite that were several autographed photos of local racecar drivers, all thanking Daniel for his contributions to their pursuit of speed.

  I flopped onto the black leather sofa. The slightest hint of vexation tweaked Daniel's lips, then he buried it in a parts catalog on his desk.

  "What's up? Don't tell me you want a job," he said.

  "Not just yet." The next words were much harder to get out. "I need a favor."

  His eyes left the catalog, flicking up to look at me. I knew the expression all too well: Fat fucking chance.

  "Like what," he asked, wary.

  "I'd like to borrow your video camera, if you don't mind. I want to shoot some footage around town to show to some friends of mine in LA." I sure as hell couldn't tell him I was making a movie.

  "Which one?"

  "Which friend?" I asked, confused.

  "Which video camera?"

  He already had me jumping through hoops and the asshole had more than one camera. How hard would it have been to simply say Sure, stupid – just don't break it.

  "You've got a digital 8, right?" I asked.

  He drew a deep breath, leaning back in his opulent leather throne. I'd apparently overstepped my bounds. He stared at me sitting there on his office couch – where, I can guarantee you, he never forced himself on any of those firm-titted counter girls; that would be too human – and frowned, like I'd just lifted a cheek and let fly with a resounding fart in his pristine environment.

  "I don't think that's such a good idea," he said.

  It was a lost cause, but I pressed on regardless. "Well, what about the other one? What kind of camera is it?"

  "I mean it's not a good idea for me to loan you the camera – either one," he said. "I think you need to learn what it means to have to work for these things, instead of just borrowing stuff all the time."

  I couldn't help it; the words just exploded from my lips. "You smug prick."

  He shook his head disdainfully. "You're just proving my point, Alvin. Getting pissed off because I won't let you take advantage of me."

  "Take advantage of you? I'm asking to borrow a video camera for a few days, not snaking money from your bank account so I can buy crack."

  "I see what you do to Mom, letting her pay all your bills. You're not gonna do it to me."

  Twist that tired old knife, jerk-off. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to accomplish what I'm trying to do with my life?"

  "Yeah – being a bum is a real difficult line of work."

  I just sat there, eyes wide, jaw working, nothing coming out. He'd finally said it out loud: a bum.

  I stood up. "Suck my cock," I said, starting towards the door.

  "Don't say that shit to me, Alvin – I don't care if you are my brother."

  "I can't do anything because I'm your brother," I snapped. "I don't know what you think my life is like, but I'm pretty fucking far from being some kind of party monkey. My friends think I'm a recluse because I spend all my time writing my ass off instead of going out with them."

  "Why don't you try doing something that comes with a paycheck?"

  I fought down the urge to fling myself over the desk at him. "When has that made any difference? I've had plenty of day jobs and you still treated me like shit. I've spent my entire life trying to succeed at this one thing, and you've never offered me the tiniest bit of encouragement – even when I've made money at it."

  Daniel actually had the nerve to laugh at that.

  My throat had gone like cracked concrete, but now that this stuff was finally seeing daylight, I was determined to get it all out. "I've got a dozen screenplays collecting dust in my apartment, and every one of those has inspired somebody in Hollywood to say It's one of the best scripts I've read all year and You're gonna be a star with this one, man and then nothing happens, for a million different reasons. And you have no idea what it's like lying in bed at night agonizing over what the hell it is you're doing wrong, why your stuff isn't selling, why you can't catch that break. But every day of my life I get up and I keep on writing, because maybe the new script will finally click. And if that one doesn't, maybe the next one will. I've had some hard jobs in my life, but none of those were anywhere near as tough as facing a blank page every day, riding on nothing but faith and the need to put words on paper and one big fucking dream. If it was as easy as selling spark plugs, I'd have big-titted girls working for me, too."

  Silence, for a long moment. Then Daniel spoke: "Are you through?"

  "No." I smiled. "As I said: cock" — I pointed at my crotch, then at Daniel – "Suck it."

  And I walked out of there, giving a pleasant wave to the busty gal at the register as I passed. I don't even think she realized my hand was trembling.

  34

  It was worth making The Blue Man just to have a chance to tell Daniel to blow me; I felt better than I had since before Alison sent me packing. And on the subjec
t of Alison: I didn't weep in the shower that morning. Actually, that could've been because I was simply so consumed by the dreadful anticipation of asking Daniel for a favor that nothing else could squeeze through the membranes of my consciousness. But still – progress, perhaps.

  Daniel's refusal to loan me his video camera left me far from whipped: a back-up plan took shape even as I walked through those automatic doors.

  Arriving at Daniel's house, I considered leaving the engine of Mom's car running in case I needed to make a fast getaway. For once, confidence won out, however.

  I shut off the ignition and stepped out of the car, looking up at the house. When Daniel bought it, it was a nice place. Since then, he had transformed the once-green front yard into a soulless concrete pad, which radiated the summer heat like a runway at a desert airfield. April's shiny SUV was parked there, even the tires polished to perfection. As I walked to the door, I thought about Kelli's dead yard and imagined the unwanted greenery from Daniel's lawn going crispy brown in a dumpster somewhere while Lydia played in the dirt.

  I rang the doorbell, which was apparently wired to a small dog. A cacophony of yipping erupted within the house, growing louder as the tiny beast raced to the door.

  "Stop it," I heard April say.

  The dog ignored the command. April unlocked the door and opened it, a look of surprise – and maybe a little unease – crossing her face when she saw me.

  "Al-vinnn – what are you doing here?" she said, game-show hostess to the end.

  She made no move to open the screen door and let me in. A quivering Chihuahua stood at her ankle, yipping ferociously at me.

  "Stop it," April repeated, with the same success.

  I suddenly began to worry. If Daniel had called to tell her about our little dust-up, my plan was already foiled.