Gimmie Jesus on the Line

Gimmie Jesus on the Line
by p.l.carrico

Setting
Table and phone.

Tom... Depressed, yet jovial

Operator...Cunt

Tom Enters the room with a bag, humming Christmas Carols. He dances as he puts his coat on an imaginary coat rack. He kisses an imaginary wife on the fore head, humms as he sniffs the contents of an imaginary oven.

Tom
Right. Good day at work honey? Hmm? I brought you home a special gift. Yes I did! An anniversary gift... the boss, Mr. Spacely gave us a big bonus, this being Christmas eve and all. So I rushed out to the store, and just before the shops closed I bought this. Yes. A ring.

(Produces gun)

And you thought I forgot. Yes you did. I know you did. You thought poor old Tom forgot. Nope. And look here! A bottle of egg nog!

(Produces Whiskey)

Oh I love you too. I was thinking, after the holidays we could... well. Go away for a while. Maybe see the country. Does that sound like fun? Oh I love you too. Yes I do. Yes I do. No I love you more. I do too. No I love youuuuuu more. Ok. Maybe we love each other the same. See how real and pretty the stones are?

(Stares down barel of gun)

Six stones. Yes. Yes. Yes. Why dont you try it on?

(Points gun at imaginary wife)

You want to wait for Christmass morning? Do you? Yes? Well, maybe. It’s just so pretty. Hey? Ever heard a ‘diamond ring?’

(Puts gun to side of head)

I heard it.

(Pause)

Want a drink? Well I know I shouldn’t. But it is a holiday. It’s a holiday. Yes... Yes... But... But... wait.... listen. Here. Have a drink with me.

(Pours drink down imaginary wife’s throat)

Oh. You got a little nogg on you. You’re such a dirty bitch.

(Collapses behind table. Drinks and spins gun. Produces yellow pages and begins to shift through the pages while singing)

Joy to the world... Sewing machines... the lord has... Success... Come... Sui... Sushi... They daaa. da daaa... Sushi? Is that close enough?

(Dails)

And what bout the body...

(Ri ngs)

They flushed it down the potty

Sushi Restaurant
Hello. We are currently closed for the holidays. Please enjoy our Sushi prepared live by one of our arisian chefs, live in front of you starting Jan 2nd. If you have any other business, please leave your message after the beep.

Tom
Suicide hotline? I know it’s Christmas and all and I know you probably are all at home opening little timmys fire truck or eating a veagan supper and smoking pot and I know that this is strange call but...

Sushi Restaurant
Beep.

Tom
Hello. Ummm. I was hoping you could tell me who to call if I needed some suicide... suicide counseling. Ummm

Sushi Restaurant
Beep.

Tom
(Singing) And what about the body... flushed it down the potty...

(Thumbing through yellow pages. Dials number and operator appears at computer on headset)

Operator
How may I connect your call?

Tom
Hey operator?

Operator
How may I connect your call?

Tom
Information

Operator
How...

Tom
Get me Jesus... on the line. Operator... yada yada.... good friend of mine.

(Operator goes dark)

Tom
(Dialing) Joy to the world...

Operator
How may I connect your call?

Tom
I’m looking for a sushi restaurant.

Operator
City and state Please.

Tom
Yes. I agree.

Operator
What city and state are looking for this in.

Tom
Oh, any state will do. Say. What are you plans tonight?

Operator
City and State please.

Tom
I’m serious.

Operator
I’m going home.

Tom
Hey! I’m already there! When Can I expect you?

Operator
I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate this call...

Tom
Seriously. I’m thinking of killing myself and I don’t have the foggiest Idea who to call.

Operator
911 sir. Would you like me to connect you?

Tom
Naw. I’m pretty sure I’d shoot myself if a police man came and took me to an emergency room to watch ‘it’s a wonderful life,’ at low volume while people bleed to death around me. What’s with it with suicide and the holidays anyway?

Operator
I am connecting you to your local emergency professionals.

Tom
Sweet!

(Tom hangs up. Drinks and stands)

Tom
Sohpia, baby. I have to tell you something. Mr Slate at the quarry didn’t give us that Christmas bonus. In fact there is no quarry. I telemarket. I’m broke. I spent my last dime on this ring. I sold my favorite watch to afford it. What? You cut off your fingers to afford a watch chain? How will you masturbate? OH I wish I’d bought that diesel powered vibrator like my mother suggested. Sophia? I have some more bad news. You don’t exist. I guess that’s good news, really. Your a real bitch. Joy to the world... (dails)

Operator
How may I direct...

Tom
We’ll meet again. Don’t know where.... don’t know when...

Operator
How may I connect your call?

Tom
I want to talk to a priest.

Operator
I can connect you to a local church if you give me your city and state.

Tom
Isn’t priced kinda high?

Operator
How may I direct your call...

Tom
So I called this number I saw on a bridge. It directed me to this call center full of sanctimonious basterds in call center... which was hilarious because I called from my own work at a call center. I wanted some kind of referral to a professional who could medicate me and slap me on the ass and get me back to my miserable life. The sanctimonious bitch on the other side implied I didn’t have the balls to do it, and my suicide talk was ‘an ask for help.’ See, I was calling her to ask her for help and after a twenty minute phone conversation she concludes I was asking for help. I did manage one number out of her. It was a doctor about 50 miles away. I dialed, got a machine. ‘Please leave your name, number and nature of your illness. If you don’t have insurance, dail this number.’ ‘That,’ number was the suicide hotline. Connect me with a senator.

Operator
How may I direct your call?

Tom
I want to speak to senator Gordon Smith.

Operator
City and State?

Tom
Portland Oregon.

Operator
I am connecting you sir. Please hang on.

Tom
(Singing) Well it’s a long long time...

Operator
Thank you for dialing 911. All our operators are busy...

Tom
Bitch!

(Hangs up)

Tom
Fido! Bring me my slippers. Bad Fido. Not the head of my infant son!

(Dails phone)

Tom
When somebody loves you... it’s no good in less they love you...

Operator
How may I direct your call?

Tom
There are emergency rooms, I know. But are there... what am I looking for here?

Operator
I don’t know sir.

Tom
(Sighs and drinks heavily)

Operator
Would you like to be connected to 911?

Tom
Yeah, you better.
(puts down phone)

Fade

Dear Listeners...

An actual e-mail I received just minutes after the sender's boyfriend called and asked me to write a play about christmass. The resulting mass suicide in Kentucky was to be expected.

emily vernon to me
More options 9:04 am (4 hours ago)


looks good.
how did meeting with sammy go?
i had the strangest dream about you. or more
specifically, your writing.
i dreampt you had talked your way into writing for a
semi-famous magazine on a regular basis and i was
reading this awesome article that you pretended to
write about yourself. you claimed an alias to do so
and wrote a sort of expose on yourself as a sham and a
liar and the whole article cast this sense of doubt
about who you really were while also implying that you
were exposing yourself as being this sham. the result
was this beautiful exposition on a persons self-doubt
and asking "who am i?". it was wonderful. you should
write it. it was great because it was sort of
strangely academic, like you were saying (under an
alias) that "patrick carrico" was like this guy
hemingway met in a bar who after befriending hemingway
began to pose as a writer and got paid to write weird
crap, but the reality he was just some guy in a bar
who ripped off hemingways schtick. it was a cool
article too because you sort of called into question
what a writer is. like was hemingways drinking buddy
less of a writer than hemingway? doesn't that sound
like a great article? it also started out something
like "patrick Carrico who has recently authored
several pieces for this publication, is under review
for the circumstances under which he was accepted as a
conributor." type of thing but then it talks about
hemingways friend and how it's becoming clear to the
publication that your a fraud and all this stuff. what
a weird good dream. you really should write that
article. i think in the dream i was reading it
thinking "PATRICK wrote this!! HA!" because it was so
obvious the publicationw ouldn't have printed it if
you hadn't. so it was really just you calling yourself
out.

Cira La

Staying

what the hell are we looking for
on grayhounds, in economy cars
couches and drugged doorways?
when I dreamed the devil and I
got a tattoo in A small rural oregon town
I felt no sence of grand adventure
I did feel alienation when I rolled off your body
and couldn’t remember my suicidal mantra.
I know you, now. who the hell am I?



Titans

he stopped an earthquake
I began.
“Drink.”




the point I tried to make last night

see I slept alone for a long time
and woke up stupid and brave.
now I wake up tired
because I would sleep forever
next to you.
As bad as I am
and could be
as bad as you’ve been
and are entitled to be
to be is to be.

A balad for tomorow

Rage against
rage agaianst
the maachine
second hand baby boom
college dorm room schroom
political balad
and tosed salad
it aint political to stink
it aint political to stink

Rage against
rage agaisnt
the machine
seattle rampage
starbucks window stage
political theme
lets get ice cream
it aint political to stink
it aint political to stink

Rage against
rage against
the machine
no drive volvo
volkwagon no go
political pamflet
never read hamlet
it aint political to scream
it aint political to scream

rage against
rage against
the machine
suburb hypocrite
you is one; you called it
making money
anti money
it aint political to fucking suck
it aint political to fucking suck

rage against
rage against
the machine
anarchy
for sale
never read alex hale
spare change
facial rearange
it aint political to drink (but its fun)
it aint political to drink



“La, love it or leave it.
I hate it so much I can’t believe it.”


Much of america is the same
simple comerce and intersections
cars and loans
muffled
muffler
moans
owned by boomers
or anti boomers.
I am an empty handed child,
obease
surrounded by bread
crying.
Much of america is the same;
insaine.


so...

so im in an la mood
nonsense is fuel
and clint eastwood’s career
is a reality tv show
and nonsense is fuel.
crossword clues
seem like statements
and a country fried steak
is hell.
Hell.
meanwhile the crooks got away
as la disapeared from our
truck window.
im in an la mood
and im spouting jokes
that I thought I forgot
god, we deserve to be happy
God you too.


she gets me

She gets me.
She was mad at somthing
and the world.
And she said I was a sanctamonious writer
and she said:
‘write this down’
and puked.


she gets me pt. II

so I was franticly chewing
and writing a leter
and I coughed
and lost the white bread puree’ on my keyboard
and she said, ‘what’s wrong?’

sorry ladies

I'm off the market. After she proposed over a wendies meal while blacked out drunk, I was pretty sure she'd say yes if I asked her later under more favorable circumstances. And she did. I'm happy.

I don’t write anthems of recovery as I think there is no such thing as an anthem. But sobriety amazes me with it’s linear sence of time.
I knew a woman, recently divorced who hadn’t slept in years. It showed in her posture and iritation. She senced that alcohol fueled wit in me and gravitated towards me when she was blacked out. She’d either lecture me in bars, or weep and listen to me in doorways where she stumbled and fell.
I remember spending a night with her nude on a couch. I also remember her screaming at me infront of my friends on the night of a theatrical premier (my fucking premier). I am told that was the same night.
I wish these people and I could watch the highlights of our ridiculousness from the comfort of a couch as retold in a Sports Center-esque recap with slow motion replays and objectivity. Then maybe we could all be friends again. But as is, we hate eachother as much as we used to love eachother. I hope our paths cross again in a relapse in a doorway and our minds and pain shine the strongly.

It could have been raining. Or maybe it should have been. I was spending my way down to the bare minimun for a train ticket East, living where I could. I had known this girl before. She had a first name as a last and we had giggled uncontrolably together in painting class. I recal standing and working listening to another woman bable. She complained of having to leave her husband ans how it tore her up inside. My friend asked her why she had to leave, to which the talkative woman replied, “he farts too much,” or at least that’s what we both heard. She had intended on saying, ‘he parties too much,’ but sensitivity be damned, we laughed for atleast an hour. But that was some years back.
Since then my friends mother had died and I had been a foodbank cowboy. We were shocked to see each other that night in an art gallery no less. I was there for the free booze, but she had no excuse. Art and galleries are for people who can aford that lack of self respect. We didn’t look at paintings together as we waded through plesentries trying to recall where we’d left it. I remember the galleries over lit and the clusters of grown people cliquing off like highschoolers. I cuffed two beers and put one in my breast pocket and we decided to crawl together.
It was an easy night to walk with a psydo stranger. It was fall and ones body wasn’t ready for that kind of chill and it helped to be intoxicated with a friend. I think too, although I may be over romanticising the memory, I had nowhere to sleep that night. I do remember clearly my cotton hoodie with holes in the sleves for my thumbs, and I remember her denim jacket. We reached a warehouse art school and I lingered and picked quip spars with the assholes who worked out of the place. I stole a bottle of wine from the mobbed bar and we snuck out back, her to smoke, me to drink. We shared contempt in the people and in life. At some point it was decided I would go home with her.
We walked through the city to her apartment, which was a net old building with eclectic smells and sounds comming from the cracks benieth doors. She opened her door and peered in as expecting to be mugged. The room was in perfect order, very sparce. The lighting ws soft and yellow. I stod for a moment in threshold sipping my wine until she began to speak rapidly and walked into her kitchen and put on a pot.
Alone in the room, I looked aoround and I saw one picture on the wall. I had painted it, years before.
I had flirted with suicide that year, luckily she she didn’t want me, but I had remembered we had spoken of it years before. I noticed antidepresant packages on a shelf. Theey werent in a bottle, but in a cardboard sleve with pictures of people in cardigans writing letters on the front. Oh what price freedom.
She brought be tea and we spoke nervously sitting on the edge of her bed. She volunteered information that she knew I would take without flinching. Her medication made her numb, and comlpetetly without apatite. She didn’t make art anymore because it made her feel paniced. She briefly appologized for the unsolicated confessions, but she looked up at me, and I’m sure see saw a man with bloodshot eyes, who smelled of campfire and who had taken a great deal of talent and puked it all away with cheap red wine.
We didn’t know what we wanted. I volunteered to sleep on the floor, but she had me sleep in her bed. We kissed, rolled around and talked for hours and hours. We did the stupid things that hurt, like listened to eachothers heart’s beat in the lulls. Around dawn, she rose, bathed, medicated and left.
I lay there, the bed getting cold and the rooms alienation setting in. I showered in the dim bathroom where she stood naked everyday. I drank the last of my wine in her kitchen where she spent countless wordless mornings, I left my empty wine bottle on her bare window sill, dressed and left.

The People Have Spoken

The people have spoken

The good people at MSN.com have elected me the craziest white man ever. Try web searching my title and it will directly lead you to my page. I would like to thank all of you that made this possible. I would also like to thank Glasko-Smith-Kliene and Pfizer for their fascinating researching into seratonin and the brain.

LA and Bust

Check out the coat room site. We got a LA premier.