Montgomery Pylon prided himself on his sober demeanor. Serious sort that he was, he hated when anyone called him "Montie." So, of course, everyone called him Montie. It pissed him off, and the more evident his displeasure with this nickname, the more all the rabble insisted on using it. Montie. Montie Pylon. He didn't dare tell anyone his middle name was Hall. Jesus, if anyone found that out, he would never hear the end of being called Montie Hall, of strangers offering to tell him what they thought was behind door number three. Cretins.
(He pronounced "cretins" with a short e sound. KREHtins. He felt it enhanced his inherent sense of sober, serious superiority.)
Montgomery was a collector. He liked things--cool things, of course--far more than he liked people. Which wasn't saying much, since he detested people. But his collections? Ah, those were irresistible, simply fascinating as far as he was concerned. Let the cretins--KREHtins--baste in the juice of their own ignorance. Montgomery had all he needed, all that mattered. He had his bubblegum cards, all non-sports issues. He had his rare stamps, his rare coins. He had his comic books, his pulp magazines, his first editions, and complete runs of Playboy and Penthouse. All of his massive stash was in mint condition, except for a few of the Playboys and Penthouses, which had become sullied over time. Don't judge. Montgomery was a loner, by circumstance and eventually by choice. Well...by habit, at least.
And Montgomery owned a fabulous collection of vintage records. Jazz, blues, and country 78s, rock and soul LPs and 45s, eight-tracks, cassettes, CDs, and flexi-discs. He had every collectible he ever wanted, except for one single missing item.
Montgomery did not own a copy of The Limey Fruits' "Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah," a 1965 British Invasion rock pastiche recorded by anonymous American studio musicians. The record was only issued once, as a 45rpm playable record available on the backs of specially-marked boxes of Super Sugar Chocolate Frazzle Bombs cereal.
Montgomery had the damned thing when he was a kid. His mother threw it out. He never forgave her. And he had never seen another copy of it, after more than five decades of unsuccessful searching. But he never stopped looking for it. That Limey Fruits cereal box record was Montgomery's Holy Grail.
Its continued absence from his collection bothered him every waking moment of every single day.
And Montgomery could not believe his eyes when he spotted it--his Holy Grail!--in the display window of a freakin' thrift shop. He'd given up thrift shops years ago; how many beat-up copies of Whipped Cream & Other Delights by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass could one sift through before going mad? Montgomery was just waiting outside the IHOP for his Uber ride when this Holy Grail appeared before him. A price tag said it was only $2. He couldn't move fast enough into the thrift store. His long struggle and search were, at long last, about to end!
But when Montgomery saw the sign on the door, he cursed in Klingon: SORRY! We do not take credit cards. Montgomery never carried cash, fearing a ruffian or rapscallion might roll him for it. He spied an ATM across the street, waddled over, and secured funds for the transaction. He waddled back to the thrift store.
But the record was no longer in the display window.
Gripped with panic, just this side of hysterical, Montgomery stumbled into the thrift store, and saw a short, stocky young woman at the counter, receiving change from the cashier, and putting the cardboard Limey Fruits record--Montgomery Pylon's Holy Grail--into a plastic shopping bag. Montgomery thought he would fall to the ground and start sobbing.
But no! This was no time for surrender! Loathe as he was to talk to strangers--or, really, to anyone--Montgomery summoned his courage and approached the woman.
"Excuse me, Miss...?"
"You're not a masher, are you?"
Although Montgomery was surprised to hear anyone who wasn't, y'know, him use the word "masher" in 21st century conversation, he pressed on.
"Oh no, Miss, not at all. I was just wondering if you'd be willing to sell me that record you just purchased. It's something I owned as a child, and it would mean a great deal to me if I could own it again."
"Sounds like a scam. Buzz off, sucker."
"No, no, please!" Sweat appeared on Montgomery's...well, everywhere. "I've been looking for that record for my entire adult life. Longer, even! Have pity...."
The woman smirked. "Awright, Masher Guy. Don't mean to give you a hard time. What's your name?"
"Montgomery. Montgomery Pylon."
"I'm Louise, Montie. Can I call ya Montie?"
"No."
"Gonna call ya Montie anyway."
"Fine. Will you please, please, pretty please with caramel and hazelnuts on top, please sell me that record? Please...?!"
"No."
Montgomery tried to shriek, but all that came out of his mouth was a raspy gurgle.
"C'mon, man." Louise lowered her glasses and appraised Montgomery. "You're a stereotype of collector nerds, and you'd be offensive if the type weren't pervasive enough to make it plausible. Loosen up, ferchrissakes."
"Can't you just please sell me my record please?"
"No. I told you, Montie. Loosen up already."
Montgomery gulped. "How do I do that?"
"Take me out on a date, you idiot. Dinner. Dancing. No sex, maybe a peck on the cheek if you behave. No cult movie marathons, no record stores, no comics conventions or collector shop pilgrimages. Taking me out means out, in public, where people meet 'n' greet and bop to the beat. Play nice, be a freakin' gentleman, and I'll sell you this Limey Fruitcakes thing..."
"Limey Fruits. It's The Limey Fruits."
"Don't push your luck, pal. I'll sell you your Limey Fruitcakes thing for $30."
"$30? It was priced for $5...!"
"Carrying charge. You in, or what?"
Amidst his growing annoyance, the gravity of what was occurring finally dawned on Montgomery. "You...you're asking me on a date? Whu...why?"
The woman smiled, a smile that suddenly seemed more genuine than the smirk it replaced. "You...look lonely. I'm, you know, um...."
And all at once, Montgomery understood. "You're lonely, too."
"No, no," she chuckled, mildly embarrassed. "I'm just taking pity on you. Here, you can have the record. It must mean a lot to you."
"It does," Montgomery said, before adding, "maybe we could listen to it together some time?"
She paused, then laughed. "Hey, we just met cute! Just like in the movies."
Montgomery felt giddy. "Just like in Casablanca, the last line in Casablanca," he joked, positively euphoric. "Louise, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship...."
Louise scowled. "Wait, that's the best you can do? Forget it. Date's off. And I'm keepin' the razzafrazzin' record. Dork."
"But Louise...!"
"Get lost!"
"Louise...?"
"I swear I'll call a cop, you masher."
"I'll let you see my collections! I'll let you touch my collections!"
"Eww...!"
Montgomery watched Louise walk away. He should have felt sad. But he felt hope. She had slipped him a card with her address on it, and a warning: 7:00. Don't be a masher, Montie. He would go home and shave, bathe, and put on clothes nicer than his standard Star Wars t-shirt. He couldn't be as witty as he thought he was. But maybe he could be nice enough to merit her interest in dinner, dancing, and a peck on the cheek if he behaved. The Limey Fruits record was forgotten. Montie Pylon had a new Holy Grail.
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