Why am I here, and more importantly, why the hell are you here?

"Why am I here, and more importantly, why the hell are you here?"

by: J. Montgomery Spencer

For Joe:

"S&G Packaging. A one act play with three scenes, all in the same place."

Dramatis Persona
John = Security guard
A Visitor = Imaginary friend of John

Act I, Scene I.

Interior of a security guard shack. John sits at his chair, half sleeping. The phone rings, John answers.
John: -Good morning, S&G Packaging Security.(pause)
-Accounts payable, sure I’ll connect you.
=CLICK=
The phone rings, John answers.
John : -Good morning, S&G Packaging Security.(pause)
-Oh my, you must have been disconnected. Let me try again.
=CLICK=
The phone rings, John answers.
John: -Good morning, S&G Packaging Security.(pause)
-What a mystery.(pause)
-Well let me see if I can get someone from the demolition crew on the radio.(pause)
-Yes, demolition.(pause)
-Oh, well the place burnt to the ground over half a year ago.(pause)
-Now there’s no need for language like that.(pause)
-Could you possibly quit being such a little bitch?(pause)
-Officer Joe Kalicki.(pause)
-Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. 311 Dillman St. in Plainfield.(pause)
-Have a good one.
=CLICK=

I showed up late for work, again. Sure I supposed to arrive there 15 minutes before my shift starts at 7AM, but I don’t. In fact I show up 15 minutes after my shift starts. It really doesn’t matter one way or the other because Rodney Robertson is going to stick around until 8AM.
I walk in the door and Rodney wastes no time including me in the conversation already in progress with himself.
"I got to go to the drug store and pick up some vitamin D. My skin is getting sick. I don’t get enough vitamin D. In the summer I go around without a shirt or pants to absorb the sun; stay healthy. I fell two weeks ago, pulled one of these(gestures by raising his hands in the air and leaning over). Landed on a soft surface (opens his coat to show his large belly), busted up my leg (pulls up his pant leg to expose the slowly healing damage), and my glasses (takes off his dark sunglasses), put a screw in them though. Didn’t see the pole in the freight yard, fell right down, and it hasn’t healed in two weeks."
He goes on to describe what he was doing in a freight yard at night. It has something to do with his mission to clean up his shitty neighborhood. He explains why he'll only work nights and why he lets the local biker gang hang out at his house when he’s at work. Seems his daughter is safer with them than she is alone in the house. There are dark forces that we can only dream of that are out to get her, and he doesn’t want her getting hurt before she finally graduates high school this year. The bikers are a safe bet because, well, she isn’t getting anymore pregnant.
Now I like Rodney. He’s one of my buddies from the National Guard. He’s always full of stories of his exploits as a sniper in the Marines. He’ll go on about how he would kill relatives of warlords in South America, using various weapons(including his favorite weapon, himself) and the ways of disposing of the bodies.
"The first thing a man does when you strangle him is loose control of his bowels. He shits himself. So I’ll be strangling them and dragin’ them back into the brush (he puts his arm tightly around my neck and pulls me across the guard shack in the office chair I’m sitting in), back to the pit I have already dug. That’s where I cut them up so I can burn the body. You have to have the pit to drain the blood. Blood is always what puts out the fire. Doesn’t work that way with girls. Girls just don’t bleed well enough for a quick, clean cremation. Then you smash the skull and pelvis and throw that in the pit and so the only thing left after you’re done is a trail of piss and shit leading to the pit."
Wow, and people think Russell is a character.
Although I cannot openly question Rodney’s logic, I must myself ponder why he skulks around freight yards at night wearing sunglasses under the auspices of the renegade vigil anti fighting the street crime where he lives. While at the same time he buys marijuana from local drug dealers, for a friend, who from what I can gather, doesn’t get out much.
Did I miss something?
I think Rodney was put on this earth to make me feel less crazy. And I do feel less crazy. In fact I feel a whole lot better about my plot to shoot the 6ft rat in front of the guard shack.
"When in Plainfield see the Giant Rat! Oh yeah, and honk at it too. Be sure to honk at it a couple times, because I’m not trying to sleep in here!"
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Now back to our play already in progress.

Act I Scene II

John: There’s a strike at the old burnt out S&G plant
Visitor: Okay... but ummmma, what? *(1) But the plant doesn’t operate anymore.
John: Right, well it’s not the employees who are striking.
Visitor: Okay, that makes sense cause if the... What? *(2)
You’re probably wondering who’s picketing and why.(Nod)*(3) You see the nine guys outside the fence believe that there should be five more members of the demolition crew working here to clean up the burnt out mess here at 2801 S. US Rt. 30. Even though the four guys who are working here right now, seem to be doing a fine job as is. So now there are nine Mexicans outside the fence who disagree. And that’s why they are protesting.
To put this into prospective, let’s say that Russell and I go to the Village Hall and demand that the town needs another mayor, and that we should be that other mayor.

Act I Scene III

Visitor: I get it now, because...the two... and the WHAT!? *(4)
So where does the rat fit in?
The rat you ask. So if striking at a defunct plant that they never worked at in the first place isn’t ridiculous enough; they have on the picket line a 6ft inflatable rat. Like any other unfathomable act of stupidity, bullshit symbolism is in full force here. Maybe one of the guys was sick, and the rat is just a stand-in. But the taco bell Chihuahua would be more fitting if you ask me.
So, why a rat? Why not Boss Hogg, or the Cool Aid guy? Why I ask you!? It’s driven me beyond the point of madness; to where I just want to jump that rat, find it’s air nozzle, and make hate to it on the side of Route 30. That’ll give’em something to honk at!

*(1) This is the first "Double Take" in the history of essay writing.
*(2) This is the second or third "Double Take" in the history of essay writing.
*(3) Oh, by the way. This essay is audience participation.
*(4) Ah the classic "Double Take in Essay Form." Once considered clever and cute, now just another literary cliche’. Its purpose is to detract the reader from a point that is not clearly made. Similar to the "Foot Note."

No, no, I shouldn’t let this get to me. I should vent my frustrations creatively. Maybe I could get a 20ft inflatable cat, and put it on my side of the fence. Or maybe one of those huge pink gorillas with the coconut bra and poke-a-dot skirt. Or maybe I could put my boombox outside and play "Don Gondoto" over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, cha cha cha.
So why am I here?
I’m here because I needed some cash and foolishly went back to working security. There was an opening here because Joe quit and took off to Dallas, Oregon. Wait a minute. Joe should be here! Joe should be sitting in this stupid chair, in this stupid guard shack, with its stupid space heater, and stupid keys to a stupid packaging plant that burnt down, looking at that stupid rat, wondering if I should have made a move on Sara Wilson when I had the chance, and why is the coffee machine on? I fucking turned it off an hour ago! How could it be on?
But more importantly, why are they here?
What are those little Mexicans hoping to accomplish? They can’t very well interrupt the flow of commerce. People aren’t going to stop buying S&G products, because they’re not made anymore. In fact all they accomplish by standing on the sidewalk, is standing on the sidewalk. I’m half expecting the Truth dot Com people to show up.
They can have spin off called "Rat dot Com". I’ll be the token security guard. Some malnourished college type can throw rubber rats at me and criticize my working for this anti-union deconstruction company, and supporting "big tobacco". Then I can kick him in the store and say, "I’m subcontracted through my security company for this site, and I roll my own cigarettes." That’ll show them! Goddamn Rat dot Com sons of bitches.
Ah, what’s the point?
It’s late and I have a very long, very cold night of riding through the city. I’m unshaven, unwashed, my hair is a mess, and I smell a little funky because I craped my pants a bit when Rodney strangled me this morning.
Oh, and here he is now.

The Germans

"The Germans"

by: J. Montgomery Spencer

"Heir General, something has been brought to my attention."
"What is it?"
"It is a cake, taken from one of the American prisoners."
"Ah, the spoils of war."
"It is a birthday cake from his family in Boston."
"Ja?"
"Ja."
"Are you going to eat the cake?"
"Nein Heir General. I was trying to make a point that the Americans have expended great amounts of manpower, time, and petrol to bring this cake over the Atlantic."
"So are you not going to eat the cake?"
"Nein Heir General. You see, the Americans have absolutely no concept of losing the war."
"Were there any more prisoners with cake?"
"Nein Heir General."
"Ah. I think I see where you are going with this. You plan to take only a small piece and give the cake back to the American prisoner."
"The prisoners were all shot this morning."
"Even the prisoner with the cake?"
"Ja."
"Now I understand shooting a cake-less man, but not one with a cake or some way to compensate us for the damage he has caused our campaign. War or no war. That is what I say."
"Getting back to the point I was making. By exploiting the cavalier use of resources of the enemy, we can chip away at their defenses until it becomes feasible for a grand counterattack. What do you think?"
"I think we should have the family of this American send over some more cake, enough for the whole Reich."
"You know, that is a much better idea than mine. Would you like some cake Heir General?"
"I thought you would never ask."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Western Union

Dear Sir or Madam STOP
Tank Commander General Von Stube kindly requests that you continue sending cake to your son in France STOP
Who we shot not too long ago STOP
Your's truly The Germans STOP
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wisdom, or Proof of the Contrary"

J. Montgomery Spencer makes his glib mark on society

Whenever I'm watching PBS and they show some bushman with no pants on, I have to laugh. Then when I realize that I'm not wearing any pants, I break into a raucous laughter. And I think that's what really bothers the rest of the people in Circuit City.

If dinosaurs ever came back, I don't think they could get used to our complex tax system.

Sometimes I wonder about Heaven and Hell. I imagine that Heaven is like church for eternity. And then I think how much better Hell sounds.

If I ever got the chance to kill the president, I'd do it. Because hey, that's a story to tell the grand-kids.

The best advice my father ever gave me was when he said, "Get the hell out of here before I break your legs!"

I am against animal cruelty of any kind, for all animals. With only the exception of my neighbor's dogs. Cause the next time they're in my yard, I'm gona kill'em.

There is always a reaction of morbid disgust when someone is found dead, and their cat has begun to eat them. I don't understand this. When I die, I expect that my cat will eat me. It's only fair, seeing how many cats I've eaten.

I don't think my boss should have fired me for dressing like Adolf Hitler on Halloween. I mean she was only half Jewish.

Do you know what the best thing about having a twin brother is? Taking each other's paternity tests. Bro, you're a lifesaver.

It seems to be harder and harder these days for a guy to just kick back and relax, without waking up in jail.

Because my family was often called a bunch of inbred red necks, I don't think it's right to judge other people. Especially that faggot neighbor of mine. "Go suck a cock fancy lad!"

I think "Colour My World" should be called "Rock My World", cause it does.

To the frontiersmen who founded this area, it's greatest aspect was the ability to pee anywhere.

I think there is a point in every relationship when you suspect that your partner is a space alien.

"Parlez vous Hambone?"

by: J. Montgomery Spencer

"... And now, commentary from Andy Rooney."

I was born in America. Or at least that’s what I’m told. Lately I can’t be sure of that. It seems every time I open a newspaper, turn on the radio, or read a telegraph, I have to question where I am. Mind you, this is not the usual confusion associated with my dementia. This particular pell-mell has to do with the fact that everywhere you look, you're bombarded by a force that, unbeknownst to you or your family members, is destroying the American way of life at it’s very roots.
I’m of course talking about French words. They’re everywhere! On the sides of busses, on perfume bottles, in the grocery store, and even in so called American literature. Whatever happened to good old fashioned English? Have we become a society that no longer needs English words?
Now I know English isn’t legally the official language of America, but for all intents and purposes it is. Yet people still go around strewing French words across the country, like they do their ninety-nine cent double cheeseburgers or their diet soda pop in aluminum canisters. Look, if you want to use French words, here’s bus fare to Quebec. Go talk French with someone who doesn’t mind living in a second class country.
Now some point out that there are certain French words that have no English equivalent. That’s just fine, and it's a simple problem to solve. Let’s make some English words translate to the French ones that yet have no counterpart. Heck, we could even use English words that no longer dominate the modern dialect.
One word that comes to mind is "hambone." Let's face it, people don't throw around hambone like they used to. I remember back in my youth, I would go out to the beach, and people would say "hambone" all the time. They would come up to me and say, "Hey hambone." Or "Nice tattoo there hambone." Or ask, "Andrew, what possesses a man to tattoo hambone across his chest?"
I like Hambone. Hambone is a great word to use because it’s something a warrior man, like myself, would be proud to have permanently affixed to his body. I think Hambone would be the final solution to the French words confusion that is plaguing our nation. Then the rest of us concerned citizens can go back to worrying about other problems in the world of equal consequence.
So this Christmas, maybe for the wife, I’ll pick up a bottle of Channel Number Five eau du Hambone.
I’m Andy Rooney, good-day.

I Remember Christy

“I Remember Christy”
(or “An Affair to Forget”)

By: J. Montgomery Spencer

Everything began innocently enough. I was an unattached man who was passively looking for love. The thought of love was but a fleeting memory that would usually precede a fit of anger and resentment. Still, in the face of all odds, I opened up my heart to a woman and, for just a few moments, I thought that I could again play the fool.
It was a pleasant evening in June when Christy met me at volleyball in Bolingbrook. I was even a bit surprised that she actually showed up. Sure, she told me she would, and I gave her precise directions to the event. But it wasn’t more than a couple days ago that she broke our plans to meet to accompany her live-in boyfriend, whom she spoke of often in what I could gather was a symbiotic relationship.
The phone call that began it all still sticks in by brain. She called me up after dropping off Phil at the airport. As she spoke about this and that, I said I’d step outside for a smoke too. Christy was a loud smoker, and I could tell that she was smoking on the other end of the conversation. Phil didn’t know that she smoked anymore, and she could only smoke when he was out of town, which was often.
I have known Christy neigh on five years now. She was first introduced to me by my longtime friend (close friend of a friend really) Nick. Nick(or Nick Peachtree, as he was known many years ago for taking down a handle of peach schnapps in one fluid movement) was Christy’s ex-husband. Her life as I know it has been wrought with disappointment and strife. Before, during, and after her marriage to Nick, Christy and I were close. Though I always felt a certain something for Christy, I never acted upon it out of respect for Nick and my own shattered love life.
Christy pulled me off the volleyball court that night gave me a big friendly kiss like back in the “good days”. After the game she, my friend Amber, and her boyfriend Pizza John came back to my place in P-Ville for gin and tonics. The drinks flowed freely as did the pleasant conversation that evening. Christy became increasingly affectionate towards me with loving embraces and the mechanical stroking of extremities.
Sometime around one in the morning when Amber and P.J. left Christy turned her full attention to me, and like she was spring loaded, she jumped my bones right on the couch. I went into sex-mode and did what I could with the situation. When it was done, I asked her the question I was about to ask right before she shoved her tongue down my throat. “What about your boyfriend?” She gave me a few words to satisfy my query as we messed around the rest of the evening.
I of course called her the next day. She said she would visit that night, and asked me not to call her on her boyfriend’s home line. Fair enough, he had a big enough surprise awaiting him upon his return. From what Christy told me, Phil was a man who could not take care of his personal affairs. He worked out of town during the week, and would be moving to New York in the fall. Christy was that she was not invited to join him, and that was going to be the end of their romantic relationship.
Christy arrived that night, as I was finishing up a motorcycle project in the driveway. I of course could hear her Mini from the moment it entered my neighborhood. We went down to my room in the basement to watch the season finally of “The Sopranos” season five. I put the DVD in my system and we settled down in my couch/bed. I had every intention of watching that episode because it was due back to the video store by midnight. But not long after the F.B.I warning, the air became heavy with petting and I had to break away to put some music on. There was no way I was going to spend the next half hour or so doing my thing with the same 20-second track playing over and over on the DVD index.
Afterward we went outside for a smoke and to talk about this and that. I made sure to steer clear of something she had said to me over the phone the other day. Christy got Nick’s old Saturn out of the divorce. She was looking to get rid of it and said that I could have it, all I had to do was pick it up. Score! I was looking for a delivery vehicle to use when I got back to school, and a little four-cylinder Saturn with a five-speed would be optimal. I thought that if I harbored on the car issue I might queer the deal, either deal. I still was a bit unsure of what was going on here.
We watched the episode with a near re-occurrence of the previous attempt. After that we went back upstairs for a smoke. But in route we encountered the small dark mud-room to the garage, and we threw down for what must have been three quarters of an hour. All the while I thought how I was really getting myself into trouble. What if this woman is in love with me, and I am unable to fully reciprocate. The room became quite hot, and I had to change positions often when the sweat would start to burn my eyes.
We finally made it outside for that smoke. My DVD was now overdue and I would have to pay a fine, ah the price of love. On the porch Christy and I smoked a number of squares. Since I last saw her the previous winter, she switched from American Spirit to Kool. We talked about the past and how she always wanted to be with me. I of course did not feel the same way back then. During the hard times I was Christy’s shoulder to cry on, and all I wanted was what was best for her and Nick. But then as I stroked her short hair in the moonlight, I remembered our meeting last winter.
I was in Chicago that winter visiting Lydia and Kris at their new apartment. Lydia mentioned that Christy called her a few weeks previous and had her number stored in her cell phone. With my moving to Minnesota in the coming days, I took it upon myself to try and contact all my old friends before I left. Christy and I talked one the phone for a while, and we made plans to meet that night after Lydia went to sleep (Lydia was sick that week and I was watching over her). Later that night I picked Christy up at her parent’s place and we went to one Denny’s, and then to another when service became nonexistent. She wore her hair longer then I believe I had ever seen. It was a beautiful shade of deep red and she was wearing this snowsuit that was begging me to take it off. We talked for an hour or so that night, mostly about Nick and the pending divorce. I drove her home and promised to write, which I did.
Now here I was with her in my arms, the smell of sex still lingering heavy in a couple rooms of my house, and I was very unsure of what was going on. I came clean though. I brought up the reality that I was a college student and would be one for the next couple years. I said that I was not in love with her, but she stirred up feelings inside me that felt like something of that caliber was possible. She was very receptive of my words but seemed more preoccupied with how she was going to explain this development to her boyfriend.
A light rain began to fall when we parted that night. As she drove away I threw up my arms and said, “Hell, what’s the worst that could happen?”
The weekend came and Phil came back to Claridon Hills. Christy and I communicated only through e-mail, as Phil would not have me calling upon her. I was anxious to know what would happen next, but Christy’s e-mails seemed evasive as if she would only give me enough to keep me at bay. The anticipation was driving me around the bend.
The next week I fell into my old habits and went on a daylong drinking binge. Throughout the day, I must have drunk a fifth and a half of gin and mixed drinks. By midnight I was well oiled and on a mission to see my love. After a few attempts and late night calls to my mother for Christy’s number, I arrived at Phil’s place. Christy was waiting for me under a tree outside the apartment complex. I don’t think she saw the vomit on the side of the car, but my speech was only a slight giveaway to the gin that must have been streaming out my pours on that muggy night.
I left satisfied that night and we made plans to meet again just as soon as circumstances allowed. That was the last time I saw Christy. We exchanged a number of e-mails, full of plans for her to come down that night, the next night, and the one after that. Yet for all those words I spent the next week staying up till four in the morning in my patio, reading my books with one ear tuned to the passing traffic for the sound of that little British motor to turn into my neighborhood.
Christy of course didn’t blow me off. Every morning I would find an e-mail with some reason or another why she could not make it the previous night. During the day I would keep the phone by my side and jump in anticipation every time it rang, all the while knowing that it would not be her call. Last I heard from Christy she was going to New York for the week (I can only presume this was to go house hunting with Phil), and then would be in Wisconsin another week for some job thing. I went on a little vacation myself, and have heard nothing since.
I suppose that things couldn’t have turned out better. Although I’m not the kind of guy who tries to hook-up as a matter of principal, however the spring air does something to me. I get all frisky, and I have the urge to make a woman scream in the throws of lovemaking. So once again I have fulfilled my yearly quote as it were. I think Christy sold her car, which won’t keep me up at night. I’ve lost cars before; some of them were actually mine in reality, not just in theory.
Yet at the same time, I feel a profound loss. I did open my heart to a woman, a friend in good standing at that, and had all my doubts and fears realized. I’ve gone though all the scenarios in my head. Maybe she was doing this for kicks. Maybe it was to get that Phil to wake up and realize how much he needed her. Maybe it just wasn’t in the cards. Maybe God wanted me to know what it feels like to be the other woman (man in this case, but six and one-half dozen the other), not that I prepared any rabbit dishes this month (however I wish I could say that I left a spider plant boiling on her stove, and maybe I will in the re-write) Maybe Nick knew a thing or two when he tried to have her committed when he left her. That last bit was a bit hurtful, but I am a very empathic man, especially towards myself.
So now I have not but to turn to my music, and end with an epitaph. It’s a few bars from an old Warren Zevon song, which I doubt anyone knows.

Heart-jinxed condition, never sure how I feel.
Try to separate the real thing, from the wishful thinking.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll make it without you
I’m determined to, or make my stand.
And if after all is said and done.
You’ll only find one special one.
Leave the fire behind you, and start.
I’ll be playing it by ear,
left here, with an empty handed heart.

Booze, Guns, and eventually The Cops

A one-act, one-scene play

by J. Montgomery Spencer

Dramatis Persona: Russell, Amber, John, Alex, The Cops, and Jimi as the Marquis de Frey.

SETTING: The House of Frey.

(in the garden pavilion Russell, Amber, John, and Jimi sit drinking with a cache of firearms and fireworks)

JIMI: Dear friends, it appears that my cup run’th empty. Fair wench, fetch me another ale.
AMBER: Most assuredly Master Jimi. Let me first expend the contents of this 357 magnum into yonder lawn tractor.
JOHN: Allow me good shrew, as I am making my way to the refreshment table to drink of the distilled sprit, but not before lighting it aflame.
RUSSELL: Tis a most grand of summer days. I would propose that before we send another battery of roman candles to neighboring fields, that I should be hoisted by my ankles over the keg for a display of drinking seen not before on these grounds.
JIMI: I second the motion.
JOHN: I too second it.
AMBER: Three cheers for Russell!
ALL: Hooray!(gunfire)
(John and Jimi lift Russell over the keg to drink)
RUSSELL: My good man Jimi, you surely do know how to throw a party for all seasons.
AMBER: Three cheers for the Marquis de Frey!
ALL: Hooray!(gunfire)
JIMI: My friends, you are too kind. For it is you that make my parties so gay.
AMBER: Three cheers for ourselves!
ALL: Hooray!(gunfire)
(enter Alex on horseback)
RUSSELL: It appears that my messenger has arrived. What news have you brought Alexander of the Lost Temper?
ALEX: While foraging in the woods for snappy puns, I came upon a bridge. And from its iron grating I have procured this stack of porno mags.
JIMI: Then let us feast this day upon good man Alexander’s bounty of pornography. Have a drink Alex, for you are the man of the hour.
ALEX: I should make hast, as the keg has become buoyant since I last drank from it.
AMBER: Will’st anyone join me for a couple of shots?
JOHN: I shall, as I am fully loaded.(gunfire)
(enter The Cops)
FIRST COP: What the hell are you kids doing?
JIMI: Well, Killers of Buzz. I am the Marquis de Frey and these are my good friends. We have taken occasion to drink in mass and fill this lovely day with lead and the sound of furious explosions.
ALL: Hooray!(gunfire)
SECOND COP: Yeah, you’re all going to jail now.
THE END.