Before the ER season premiere kicks off, NBC wants to advise you that viewer discretion is advised, because that sort of warning really works for NYPD Blue. Except on that show, the warnings mostly forewarned the sight of a large man’s naked ass, and so help me God, if they actually show Abby slapping Frank’s ass raw, I’m going to explode my television set.
Previously on ER, a little girl died of a mysterious smallpox-like disease probably contracted while in Central Africa with her parents. Her brother Adam is in critical condition. Drs. Chen and Pratt were quarantined, and Weaver was stuck outside the locked-down ER; when Carter and Abby treated the sick children, the CDC confined them to the trauma rooms. And in the face of death and body odor, they kissed.
We act up in a forest. Carter is perched on a rock, fondling himself as usual. Luka, clad in a blue hunter’s cap, aims a dart straight at Carter and shoots; Carter passes out. Luka loads him into a truck, where a caged Abby already waits, and drives them off into oblivion. The triangle terror is forever over.
Yeah, as if we’d be that lucky. Really, we’re in Central Africa, and the creature on the business end of the dart is an ape. And if it’s technically not an ape, I apologize; I tend to classify all enormous, hairy apey things as “apes,” including but not limited to the gargantuan fanged spider in my shower right now and Alec Baldwin. , we cut to an SUV navigating terrain in the Congo Republic. The hunter hops out, opens the back hatch, and removes a metal briefcase for carrying biohazards and, in some instances, blood money. The camera pushes in on the caged ape and a lemur that, given the show’s constant reminders that we’re dealing with Central Africa, is a wee production error – lemurs, according to a few readers who’ve e-mailed me, are only found wild in Madagascar.
Virus Hunter runs the metal case through a hospital where a lot of locals are laid up. He speaks to a nurse in French and follows her to the bedside of a young African boy covered in tiny flakes of those brown paper towels that we had in our college dining hall. Looks like Brawny pulled its sponsorship (“That’s a Brawny kind of pustule!”) of the ER makeup department, because those are most definitely discount pustules. The kid lies there absolutely rigid because if he stirs so much as a centimeter, they’ll all slide off his skin. The nurse gets all tense and stressed, using a long swab to “carefully” “remove” one of the “pustules,” which comes off clean and flat. Why waste the cotton? If she sneezed, they’d come off even easier. Nursie bags up the pustule and they load it into the biohazard case. Suddenly, we’re on a pier, where native kid cavalierly drops the case off to a passing motorboat. Hope it was the right boat, or else Paula Abdul’s Botox injection will contain a nasty surprise.
Now we’re in Hamburg, Germany, where a lot of biohazardous materials are apparently stored. A scientist Germans something about the sample he’s examining. “Wilkommen sauerkraut,” he says. “Bitte bratwurst volkswagen,” replies his colleague. “Ich bin ein wienerschnitzel!” they agree. And so, as the dialogue is very clearly set up for us, off we go to Atlanta. A woman at Infectious Disease Control looks at a bunch of brightly colored bars labeled “CONGO” on her computer screen, gasps at the daring and glory displayed by designers of the new fall line of monkeypox graphs, and prints out the page. She runs it to two stressed men discussing vaccination and evacuation plans. “Look at this,” the woman says. They ignore her. “LOOK AT THIS,” she finally screams. “We picked this up from a missionary hospital thirty miles east of Mbandaka.” It’s a pox virus infecting apes and children; the Bongos of Thank God Science’s Timing Is So Convenient bang us straight to an image of the Chicago virus’s structure overlapping with that of the new Congo strain. They’re virtually identical. “Jody,” intones a stressed man. “Get. Me. Chicago.”
In Chicago, Abby “I Choose to Booze” Lockhart and John “You Booze, You Lose” Carter are shut into a room that peeks into the front desk area. Both of their tongues are in the proper places. She idly opens and closes the blinds, watching her colleagues confer. Carter is trying to make shadow puppets behind a screen, and what he’s got looks like a jellyfish. Or, you know, an upside-down hand. “There,” he says in triumph. “That’s a wolf.” Abby turns lethargically to look at his jellyfish. “A wolf with leprosy, maybe,” she cracks. Carter emerges from behind the screen. “I don’t think you’re appreciating the degree of difficulty, even without this rash,” he says blithely. This grabs her attention. He smirks that he was teasing about the rash. Oh, Carter. You and your poxy sense of humor. “This doesn’t look good,” Abby says, gesturing toward the front desk area but uttering the metastatement of the century. At reception, Dr. Luka “Old Man Pants” Kovac sighs morosely, his thick black belt chafing his armpits painfully. Dr. Susan “David Caruso got CSI: Miami And All I Got Was This Lousy Lab Coat” Lewis bites her lip in dread, stares right at Abby, then slowly sashays over to the intercom. As Abby and Carter brace themselves, Susan admits they’re being forced to evacuate the entire hospital. “Everyone but you,” she adds. Abby and Carter gape, and we go to commercial wondering why, if this episode picked up ten minutes after “Lockdown” ended, Carter and Abby are acting like they weren’t just sucking face.
Mekhi Phifer vaulted to third in the credits. Accordingly, rumor has it that Mekhi Phifer’s agent gives fabulous blowjobs. The credit order is: Noah Wyle doing a grating rolling-chair tribute to Anthony Edwards, Laura Innes, Mekhi Phifer, Goran Visnjic, Maura Tierney, Sherry Stringfield, Ming-Na, Sharif Atkins, “and Paul McCrane.” I’ll bet Mekhi got so high up because he compromised some salary for visibility. And because of his agent’s deep throat.
Dr. Elizabeth “Frizz-Ease” Corday sits silently on the Tube. We’re in London. We know this because when she gets out of the Tube car, she passes Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, and Ben is chiming and holding up a big sign that says, “You are not in London, Ontario.” Cut to the interior of a British hospital, where a resident is presenting his case to his supervisor while his peers listen. He’s giving all kinds of details, such as what the man ate for dinner and how he spent his time before disease struck him down in the prime of his pints-and-pork-eating life. Elizabeth rolls her eyes at all this seemingly superfluous info and whispers something snarky to the man beside her, which rankles her supervisor – Jim Piddock, the man who played announcer Trevor Beckwith in Best in Show. Love that actor, love that character, so we’ll call him “Trevor.” Trevor is annoyed that she’s not paying attention and decides to skip ahead to Elizabeth’s presentation as punishment. Elizabeth considers threatening Trevor with the Angel of Death’s wrath, but then remembers that with a record of suspiciously dead patients like hers, she’s bloody lucky to have a job, so instead she bites back the urge and nods stiffly.
“Mr. McKay came into the ER…” she begins as they move into her patient’s room. Trevor interrupts to remind her that they don’t have an “ER” in England. “Excuse me,” she says. “Into Casualty…” Trevor decides to interrupt her again, because the double-decker bus that drove up his rectum is illegally parked and got its tire clamped. He picks on her for not giving enough specifics, such as his race. “He’s a 63-year old Caucasian male…” Elizabeth continues tersely. “Man,” Trevor sneers. “I believe the noun for which you are searching is ‘man.’ ‘Male’ is an adjective. I have a male springer spaniel. His name is Barclay. And though I love him dearly, I would never think of bringing him to a hospital.” The residents to Elizabeth contain their glee, but barely. “Please continue,” Trevor says, both genially and condescendingly. “Most of us speak a smattering of American.” Outright laughter ensues, with a buck-toothed baldie flashing his choppers behind Elizabeth’s right shoulder. If he’d been an inch closer, those things would’ve lopped off her earlobe. Lizzie shoots Trevor a look deadlier than Mark’s tumor.
Outside County General, it’s mayhem. Dr. Kerry “Chesty La Rue” Weaver is still wearing her tight blue shirt and is directing patients to other hospitals. The girl whose fiancé was stuck inside without her trots up to Kerry in a panic and asks where Colin is. “I don’t think they brought him out yet,” Weaver answers. She squints up at the bright lights coming from news copters and crabs that no one’s gotten rid of them yet. Suddenly, Susan trucks over with one last patient in a wheelchair. It’s Chem Glass from Popular, in what has to rank as the most pointless guest spot on the planet. It consists of one line. Don’t blink or you’ll read right over it. Weaver tells a paramedic named Zadro that he’s got one more patient to take to Lakeview. “Where am I supposed to put her, on my lap?” he whines. “Sounds good to me, Lucky Pants,” purrs Chem. And that’s a wrap. Hope they paid her well.
Susan and Kerry sigh and exposit that the third and fourth floors have been emptied, with the ICU and OR due to be cleared in ten minutes or less. “We did a good job,” Susan insists, on the defensive even though Weaver hasn’t said anything. It’s like she’s anticipating an insult. Weaver stops, levels her with a stony gaze, and then says gently, “You kicked ass.” Susan pats her on the arm almost amiably, and trots back inside. But why are they letting Susan march in and out of the hospital if she’d previously been quarantined like everyone else? In the last show they shut down the elevators so that no one in the ER could get upstairs, and now suddenly it’s fine for Susan to be spewing her germs all over the ambulance bay. They must’ve vaccinated her first so she could help with the evacuation. Or not. They’ve kept it so fuzzy as to who needs to be locked up and who doesn’t.
Inside, Dr. Michael “Last in the Credits, First in our Hearts (Except for Romano)” Gallant is poking someone. Poking hard and fast and with the kind of stamina that could last all night. Sadly, it’s just a vaccine needle he’s using on a whiny patient. A fat non-vaccinated lout shoves past in search of a wristband so security will let him leave, but Gallant grabs him and reminds him that the whole point of the wristband system is to make sure no one leaves who hasn’t been vaccinated. The man whines that he doesn’t want to get poked tonight. “I ain’t gettin’ stabbed a hundred times by some smallpox needle if it isn’t even smallpox,” he snarls at a passing Susan. “It’s 15 little pricks,” she spits, as if she’s talking about the mob of fat louts who always complain at times like these. She basically tells him to shut up, get the shot, and get the hell out, because it’s either Gallant’s way or the big burly army sergeant’s way.
Abby vaccinates Carter as he watches -- through closed trauma-room doors -- Adam and his parents, Robin and Craig, being moved elsewhere. Susan picks up the phone and intercoms that Adam’s going upstairs for “respiratory isolation,” or something, which basically means they needed to clear the trauma area so that Carter and Abby can tryst at half-past Naughty Time. “Why do we have to stay in this petri dish?” grumbles Abby. Susan shrugs. “‘Prolonged exposure,’ whatever that means,” she sighs. Um, I’m no doctor, but I’ll take a whack at it: They were exposed. For prolonged periods. Did I pass? Woo! What’s more, they’re stuck there for two weeks, because the virus isn’t pure monkeypox, but rather a mutation, so they have to be completely out of the woods before they can breathe the sweet air of freedom. Abby’s reaction to this is nine-fold: no, no, no, no, no, and no, with a side helping of no, no, and no. Faced with being cooped up with Abby, Carter’s expression is a lot more like, “Yes, yes, yes,” because Carter’s been eager to continue filling the void, but this time, he’s going to use his penis. Susan swears nothing else is up that they’re not admitting, and that they’re just being extra cautious, since it’s a deadly disease and all. Carter turns and slowly walks to the doors between him and Adam. He faces Craig through the glass. “I’m sorry,” Craig says, hanging his head in genuine sorrow – but oddly, not abject “my daughter just died” grief. Carter files that in his “fat lot of good that does now” folder and snorts, “Me too.”
Stan coughs. It’s not pleasant. Dr. Jing-Mei “Deb” Chen complains about it, because she’s annoying. She and Dr. Greg “Absolute” Pratt bitch that he should knock off that coughing – which is obviously so very voluntary – lest he hork up a lung. “Too late,” Stan says, showing off his bloodied palm and then slapping Chen with it. She promptly drops through the floor, and…oh, forget it. She and Pratt actually rush to his aid once they realize he’s potentially very sick; Chen asks if Stan’s been tested for TB. “DUI, PCP and HIV, but never TB,” he croaks merrily. Chen passes him a tissue and seems rather put-out that the sick homeless man had the nerve to go and get even sicker. She acts like he did it on purpose, like it’s a spare spite lung he carries with him and can voluntarily cough up just to wad Chen’s panties. Stan confirms some recent weight loss, so a panicked Chen runs to the phone to call for a TB test. In an empty hospital. Pratt makes her hang it up because he’s Mr. Easy Way Out, and if there’s a slim chance Stan might not have TB, he’s going to seize it and run so that he’s not double-quarantined. Rather, Pratt wants to get a sample of the spite lung and take it to the lab to test it himself on the down-low. “We’re not supposed to leave,” Chen headmistresses. “We’re not contagious unless we get a rash!” Pratt yells. “ACKTHWQPP,” Stan horks. “NO!” Chen shouts.
Luka is tending to Colin, who had crashed into a bus and broken his steering wheel with his chest, which didn’t react too well to this little flirtation with hard objects. Susan rushes up, wondering what they’re still doing inside; Luka explains that, for some reason, Colin can’t be in the ambulance. “I got you a chopper,” Susan says. They team up to wheel him into the elevator, but Colin slowly starts to freak out at the idea of flying. “It’s a short trip,” Susan says curtly, a rudeness which I suppose fits the scenario but doesn’t match her character’s own apparent fear of air travel. Nice use of history there, guys. “No, you don’t understand, I really don’t like to fly!” shouts Colin. Luka doesn’t care. “It’s not a plane, it’s an air-rescue helicopter,” Susan offers, but this provides no balm to his soul – Colin’s up in arms because “a copter can’t glide! Take me back! I have a bad feeling!”
The hospital lights go off. Because in an emergency, it’s best to keep things as ominously dark as possible to facilitate tripping.
Upstairs, Dr. Robert “Rocket” Romano is wheeling a patient of his own toward the elevator. It’s a nebbishy old man named Monty. Shirley shouts out that Saint Rafe’s will only take one critical patient, even though Romano’s trying to send four. “I’ve never been in a Catholic hospital,” sighs Monty. “Well, you’ll like the nuns. Nice calves,” Romano says. And that’s why I love him. Romano then gets on the phone with a poor shlub at Saint Rafe’s and, always one to strong-arm his way toward getting the upper hand, yells, “Tell [your chief of staff] that Robert Romano is sending out four criticals, all of whom I expect to be treated like his own mother, without the inappropriate touching!” Um. More lights go off. Shirley shouts for him to hurry up, so Romano slams down the phone with his very authoritative left hand -- such a good hand, a useful hand -- and runs into the elevator.
Outside, a chopper lands on the helipad. Susan is worried about Colin, and while she frets, the elevator door opens and Romano wheels Monty onto the roof. “That’s my chopper!” he says angrily, as The Music Of He Has No Idea How Right He Is swells in the background. Susan gapes that the chopper was supposed to have room for two, but clearly it doesn’t, so somebody’s getting handed off to an ambulance. “I don’t want to go on a chopper anyway!” screams Colin. Be quiet, Colin, you’re getting in the way of the story. Luka and Susan make arguments that their patient is more in need of rapid evacuation; Romano counters this with, “My boy Marty is a 70-year old diabetic with gram negative sepsis blah blah blah medicine,” to which Marty replies indignantly, “I’m 68!” Romano reaches his left hand sky-high, proudly, mightily, and waves away a news chopper. My roommate screams, “Watch where you put that thing!”
As Romano continues to strong-arm them into giving him the copter, Luka frantically shouts that Colin’s losing his airway. “Intubate him and take him in your Viper,” spits Romano. “He’s not safe to transfer!” Luka retorts, irate. Susan peacefully points out that the argument isn’t really doing much to save anyone’s life. Romano glibly agrees, offers them the chopper when he’s done with it, and turns to push his gurney toward the helicopter. But his clipboard slips onto the ground; because a clipboard’s a handy thing, Romano bends over to pick it up. He’s distracted, though, so when he stands -- in slow-motion -- he ends up right in the path of the chopper’s tail rotor. He is facing the camera when the chopper lives up to its nickname, slicing his left arm clean off above the elbow; it flies off above the camera and into arm heaven, and Romano falls to the ground in a heap, now officially an Army of One.
Blood splatters both the nurse and Monty. Luka and Susan look up, and their eyes widen as they run toward the scene of contrived plot point revolving around a man whose name, if you remove the “arm,” spells simply, “Noo!” We go to commercial wondering if week Luka’s going to lose a leg in a tragic can-can accident involving an axe-swinging lumberjack.
I watched Romano take leave of his arm in slow-motion on my TiVo over and over again, and it really is quite hilarious when you do it that way. The arm takes flight with an awesome whooshing noise, and the blood splatter on his coat begins a second or two before the arm comes off. Paul McCrane winces a half-second too soon, as well, but that’s okay because he’s probably upset that his character is so stupid as to stand near a helicopter and not pay attention to the spinning lethal blades. Seriously, hasn’t he seen Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom? I think chopping off Romano’s arm was a bad idea, mostly because it required him to get uncharacteristically stupid -- yes, accidents happen, fine, but he was really being stupidly careless here. It feels like a cop-out.
Romano opens his eyes through a pained haze and sees distorted versions of Susan and Luka hovering over his body. “Where’s the arm? Do we have the arm?” Luka shouts. They’re scrambling to find anything that will stop the bleeding or at least stem the tide. Romano’s stump looks robotic -- there’s all these long green wiry things hanging out and I’m sure they’re supposed to be tendons, but they look like circuitry. I keep expecting him to sit up and go, “Number Five is ALIVE.” But just then, Romano’s green, woozy head lolls to the side, and he vomits -- first in a slow pool, then a sea of chunky Campbell’s split-pea soup, which streaks down his cheeks and into his ears. They roll him over and again try to clamp any of the major RoboStump arteries that are gushing blood. On three, Luka tightens the makeshift clamp and a spray of Romano juice hits the shoulder of her lab coat. “Tighter,” Susan winces. “Don’t clamp it,” mutters Romano weakly. I’m wondering if this will be an issue later, but no one ever really explain why they shouldn’t clamp it, so who knows. Romano whimpers that he’s cold and Luka screams for blood, any blood at all. We pull out of the scene on an echo of Luka shouting, “Dr. Romano, what’s your blood type?” We come to rest several feet away on the Arm of Darkness lying like a loaf of meat on the helipad, begging for a veggie garnish and a side of mashed potatoes.
The shot of Filleted Romano dissolves into one of Stan’s lung shard being examined under a microscope. “No red snappers,” Pratt announces smugly, announcing that all Stan has is run-of-the-mill pneumonia. Chen barks at him to put his mask on, since he’s quarantined. And in a hospital lab, where things should in theory be sterile whenever possible. I hate Pratt. Chen should stuff a mask down his throat. He attempts what he probably thinks is a winsome smile and suggests they raid the cafeteria for munchies. Chen, who’s becoming ever more the prig in the face of Pratt’s reckless abandon, snootily refuses. “Starve a cold, feed a fever,” Pratt sing-songs, running away.
On the helipad, the One-Armed Bandit is twitching. If Luka pulled the good arm down and then released it, there might be a jackpot in it for him. Luka and Susan fervently try to stop RoboStump from leaking while debating how to transport their three critical patients. They need a hand. Luka shouts for the copter pilot to radio someone, anyone, to get orthopedic and trauma surgeons on-site immediately.
Abby and Carter lie side-by-side on gurneys, staring at the ceiling. “You awake?” he asks. “Yeah,” she says boredly. “Monkey pox. Sounds like a video game,” Carter snorts. “Or voodoo,” Abby offers. “Or VD,” Carter giggles. Abby rolls her eyes and tries to surreptitiously scratch her back. Carter notices and she blows it off, but he catches her going to town on it again quite vigorously. “It’s just psychosomatic,” she insists, but Carter wonders if it might be a rash. Abby sits up slightly and morosely whispers, “Think someone did this on purpose?” Carter shrugs. “Does it matter? Viruses mutate. That’s what they do,” he observes. “We’re more likely to control bioterrorism than Mother Nature.” She rolls onto her side, back facing Carter, and he lifts her shirt to stare at her “rash.” He looks hungry. “No rash,” he decides. “Nice tattoo, though.” Abby bites back a smile and blithely admits she got it on a drunk night in college. Somehow, this “drunk” reference doesn’t set off Carter’s alarm bells – or maybe it does, but his wildly pinging crotch radar is drowning it out. He leans over and kisses her neck gently. “Is that what I think it is?” he asks. Abby tries not to grin. “I was going through a religious phase,” she says, looking as if she’s about to blush. Yeah, right – she was just hammered and didn’t know what she was getting until she woke up with it the morning. Indeed, so many weekends start that way. The camera pans away as Carter leans over her for some lip action. Good thing it does, too – these two have fine chemistry as flirty friends, but when it comes time to probe each others’ dental work, they’re colder than two wet rags on Elizabeth’s ass.
A bloody hand presses the “down” button. For a split-second, I fantasize that it’s Susan using Arm of Darkness as a pointer. Colin whines that he can’t breathe, and Susan’s like, “Whatever, at least you have arms.” They load Colin into the elevator first, then Romano. The pilot – on the radio with Weaver – orders them to take everyone down to the ambulance bay because the health department has refused to let them re-enter the hospital. “Tell them Romano authorized it,” Luka shouts as the elevator doors begin to close. “Who’s Romano?” screams the pilot, dashing into the lift a split-second before the doors try to pull a Romano on his arm.
An eerie silence descends upon the helipad, where Susan and Monty are alone. She looks a bit lost. “Are they coming back?” he whispers pathetically. Susan reassures him that she’s staying, even as she looks a bit put-out that the pilot dashed off. Monty gives the choked, stilted “I have a son, so cry for me” speech. “His mother wanted him to become a doctor,” Monty trembles. “I’m beginning to wish he had.” Monty’s machine interrupts this with a loud, sonorous bleep, because it’s an attention whore. Susan panics and frantically tries to find Monty’s pulse.
Pratt and Chen wander back to their quarantined room. Pratt wonders aloud how often crises like this plague County General. “Only during sweeps and premiere week,” she says. And also, “Only since you came along.” Pratt chuckles. “Oh, right – ying [sic] and yang,” he says. “Excuse me?” Chen blinks. And right here I was expecting her to scream, “It’s yin! YIN, you ying-yang!” But no. The fact-checkers are too busy yinging their yangs to correct this wee flub. Pratt interprets Chen’s remark to mean that she’s unclear what he means, so he explains the ancient Chinese concept of cosmic balance as meaning that for every good occurrence, something lousy comes with it. “You are Chinese, right?” he deadpans. “Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out what the good part is,” Chen fires back. “Just say the word and I’ll show it to you,” Pratt winks, wadding up his scrubs – I think -- and throwing them into a garbage bin. “Pick that up,” she mothers. “It’s bad enough that you’re not wearing the mask.” Pratt stops and sighs, pointing around at the dark, empty halls. “The hospital is abandoned!” he shouts. Just then, the hospital shouts back. In the form of a thud.
Pratt dons his mask on the fly and follows the noises into the OR, where Luka and Susan have arrived with Romano. Chen rounds the corner into the room and stops short with a gasp when she sees her boss, blood coating his face in crusting crimson streaks. Luka demands two liters of O-negative blood, but Pratt sputters that the blood bank is closed. Luka levels him with a firm look. “Open it,” he says. “Chen, I need ice. Lots of it.” He hands her Arm of Darkness and she gapes at it, unsure if she should freeze it, scratch her back with it, or bend down all but the middle finger and flip Pratt a disembodied bird.
Upstairs, Susan calls out to Marty, but he’s unconscious and can’t respond. “Levophen, levophen,” Susan repeats to herself, trying to remain calm as she roots through all their bags to find something resembling the drug she needs. Once she stumbles on some, she realizes she’s missing a bag for the IV and groans heavily. Grabbing a duffel, Susan shouts, “I’ll be right back,” runs to the stairwell, and tosses the bag on the ground so that it’ll prop the door open. It almost doesn’t work. She powers downstairs, throws supplies all over the floor until she locates the bag, and takes off upstairs at a speedy clip. Marty’s still out cold and his machine is bleeping a dangerous tune. “Son of a bitch,” she curses, panting. It’s too late for levophen, so she throws off his blanket and tries to shock his heart with the cardioverter. “Come on!” she shouts, frustrated. The elevator opens, and she stares into it as if she’s just seen something in there.
Pratt, grunting loudly, picks up a wheelie thing and bashes it through the glass of the blood bank. Once inside, he realizes the cooler door is locked, but a quick rifle through the drawers indicates that the very intelligent people who run the place safeguard the blood by keeping a key someplace obvious. It might as well have been in a sock under the mattress.
Outside, the health department official, Lutz, screams at Kerry that she absolutely cannot let anyone back into the operating room. “They’re already in there,” Weaver snaps. Gallant trots up and interrupts to say that all the local hospitals claim they’re maxed out and can’t take any more of County’s patients. Lutz butts in to remind Kerry that she’s cheesed about the OR reopening. “He’s the chief of staff,” Weaver replies coolly. “You’ll need to stop the replantation team by force.”
Colin’s gurney arrives downstairs, and his fiancée notices. “Colin, can you hear me?” she shrieks, sprinting to his side. “Can I ride with him?” Colin shoots her a “What the fuck, Chuck?” look and sputters, “Get her the hell away from me. She’s not my fiancée, she’s freaking psycho!” Gallant restrains her as she wails, “We’re soulmates!” I knew it. I knew the day would come when Dawson’s Creek drove the youth of America irretrievably insane. People besides Sars and Jessica, that is. Colin screams that she ran him off the road and into a bus. “I was upset, but I’m not now,” she says by way of apology. “I’ll take care of you!” Gallant just stares at her.
Weaver tracks down the chopper pilot and asks how bad Romano really is. He gulps. “Bad,” he breathes. She stops walking and briefly lets sadness seep into her eyes.
Pratt returns, armed with four units of O-negative. The doctors agree that the chopper did a gorgeous job – really lovely and clean – of disarming the Rocket. Suddenly, Chen freaks. “I think I lost a pulse,” she says. Luka stares at her. “Either you did or you didn’t,” he says flatly. Hee. “I can’t feel it,” she panics. Can somebody give her a hand? Luka calls for immediate CPR as Pratt administers the first two units of blood.
The elevator doors open again. Susan is inside with a crashing Monty, whose machines have been beeping his demise for so long that they’ve actually started to the tune of “Sunrise, Sunset.” Susan is sweating. “I need help in here!” she screams into the empty hall. Frustrated, she jams the door open, hits the alarm bell, and bolts into the hall to find a crash cart. Successful, she wheels it back into the elevator and hooks him up to it. A sudden flash of inspiration guides her to the emergency phone, which she grabs, fervently willing somebody to answer her pleas for help.
Dr. Anspaugh (All hail the man!) greets Weaver outside. “He walked into the tail rotor?” Anspaugh asks, dumbfounded. See? He thinks this was a cheap chop, too. Anspaugh brought along an arm specialist, Joe Gunn, who sounds like he should be an NFL quarterback and a dangerous ladies’ man packing a gun of another kind. The men charge into the hospital importantly, while Gallant scampers up – as he’s apparently wont to do; he’s been scampering all over the place this whole time – and frantically babbles that Susan’s in the elevator with a crashing patient and no help. He takes off to help her before Weaver can even shout, “Take off and help her.” Or, “Get stuffed and stay here.” Who can say, really.
Chen, after years of medical training and several seasons on ER, has finally located Romano’s pulse. Someone give that girl a cookie. A fortune cookie, and the fortune within will read, “You have been handed a great opportunity… for career change.” Anspaugh walks in and grays slightly at the sight of RoboStump. The learn the arm is on ice. Joe Gunn -- I can’t not use both his names; they’re too generically dramatic -- picks it up for a quick squizz. The green wires poking out of Arm of Darkness look like antennae. The thing looks alive. I think one of them just perked up and caressed Joe Gunn’s cheek. A quick cut to Pratt shows us that he’s affected by what he sees, and not, as we’ve come to think, an unfeeling basket of rat guts. “He’s coming around,” Pratt notes. Anspaugh urgently asks Gunn what he thinks of the situation. “I don’t know,” Gunn muses. “Above the elbow’s tough.” Anspaugh shouts, “Yes or no?!?” Gunn replies, “Maybe.” The arm is thriving during this time. I’m pretty sure it’s about to walk off on its own and start a cabaret act. Called simply, “Jazz Hand.” Romano’s eyes flicker open and he registers what’s happening with a mixture of disbelief and, I suspect, dread. “Awwww,” he moans weakly. “I’m at County.”
Gallant is running. Run, Mikey, run! He scurries through the halls and eventually runs smack into Monty’s gurney. Monty’s machinery, which in its boredom and overuse has beeped its way heroically through the entire score of Fiddler on the Roof, has just kicked into the Six Feet Under theme. Susan is slumped against the wall, trying to recover both her wits and her breath. She stares vacantly at Gallant, whose face crumbles, crushed that he got there too late. Susan fights tears. Monty is dead. We go to commercial wondering why they chose this as the act-out, because it doesn’t make me want to come back, and Monty was old, and we didn’t know him, and Gallant isn’t naked. Wait, did I say that out loud?
Day 7. Yes! They’re fast-forwarding. Abby is washing her hair over a basin, with Chen’s assistance. They gripe about how isolated they feel, and how one more week of seclusion sounds like torture. “It feels like we’re the last people on the planet,” Abby sighs. “If we were, I’d move into the best suite at the Ritz,” Chen decides. Abby ponders and opts for a shopping spree. Hello? Both, people. Dream big. Abby shakes out her wet hair, in which blond streaks are now visible. “Ooh, hot,” Chen says. Abby’s streaks are salon-perfect, of course, because that’s totally what happens when you’re bored in a hospital and you use peroxide.
Carter and Pratt have acquired a soccer ball from the ER Sports and Recreation Closet. Hopefully this is not a soccer ball that had to be removed from inside somebody’s horribly disfigured bowels. “Toe, or finger?” Pratt asks. “Toe,” Carter answers. It would seem they’ve heard about Romano’s accident, and are coping with it as sensitively as two young men playing soccer in a quarantined ER can. up is arm vs. leg, and leg wins for both of them. “Deaf or blind?” Pratt asks, thwacking the ball at Carter, who pauses. “Deaf,” he says decisively, and whips the ball past Pratt for a score. There’s probably a comment here about their respective ball-handing skills, but I don’t want to look for it. “Both arms, or your penis?” Pratt asks mischievously. Carter giggles and can’t choose, so Pratt helpfully points out that he could at least still have sex if he left his package intact. “Tough to get chicks without arms,” Carter counters. Pratt chews on this and decides he couldn’t date a girl without all her bits. “What if she had a great personality?” Carter says lightly. “What, and really big tits?” Pratt snorts. Can we say “tits” on network TV? Pratt isn’t sure, so to distract the censors, he belts the ball through a window and shatters it noisily. Then he and Carter run away like two little boys off to peek up the girls’ skirts before recess ends.
Abby moseys out to the scene of the crime and encounters Stan, who makes a big show of commenting on her hair. Yeah, okay, she’s no Aniston, people. Let’s not have Abby’s hair be a plot point. Ever. I do not want it in a bar, I do not want it in the OR. “It frames your face better,” Stan observes of her perfectly sleek, blown-out, shiny, highlighted hair, courtesy of the County General Crisis Makeover Team: Turning Evacuations into Beautifications.
Weaver enters Romano’s hospital room, where Joe Gunn: Needle For Hire is tending to the broken Rocket’s reattached arm. The One-Armed Bandit is no more. I’m so annoyed that they went to the trouble of making Romano do something stupid to get his arm lopped off, and then totally ignored what might’ve been some really interesting -- technically and story-wise -- scenes involving the reattachment surgery. It’s like, why bother? Why have half the episode play out so excruciatingly slowly and use the second half to gloss over everything it set up? Lordy. Anyway, Joe Gunn frets about Romano’s fingers looking “dusky,” and sure enough, they seem a little purple. Weaver medicine-for-dummies that this means he’s not getting enough blood flow to the hand and his antibiotics aren’t fully penetrating. Apparently, one way to fix this is to return him to surgery, but Joe Gunn says such an act could end up impeding proper recovery. “And if not, he’ll lose the whole hand,” Weaver says ominously. Romano wakes up and groggily announces that he’s thirsty. Taking a page from The Book Of Rosie Perez, Weaver slurs, “I too know what it is like to feel thirst,” and then they have hot one-armed sex. Or, she feeds him water from a straw while fretting over his condition. Whichever you like. Joe Gunn gently asks Weaver if Romano has any family, and she looks genuinely troubled for a split-second. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Has anyone else visited?” Nope. “You know him,” Joe Gunn presses. “What would he want?” Weaver stares at her greenish-blue colleague with the once-severed hand, a limb that, as TV and movies have proven, most likely will become autonomous and develop a murderous personality. “He’s aggressive,” she says. “I’m going to say, the arm at all costs.” Joe Gunn: Itchin’ For Stitchin’ wants to use this as clearance to operate, but Kerry insists that he wait until Romano wakes up and can decide for himself. “Could be tomorrow morning,” Joe Gunn says. “By then, it could be too late.” Weaver stands firm. “It’s his decision, not mine,” she says, gazing at Romano.
Day 9. Carter is shaving in the bathroom with a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his shaving hand. The triumphant grin on his face can only mean one thing: Booty. “Think they know?” he muses. Abby, who looks like she’s washing some clothes in a sink, considers this. “Pratt’s clueless,” she says. “Chen knows.” Carter doubts it, razing a patch of stubble with zeal. “Oh, no, she knows,” grins Abby mischievously. Carter can’t believe Abby blabbed. “Where do you think I got the condoms?” Abby asks. Safe sex, kids: Don’t let a lockdown lock you down…with a baby. As Carter chuckles, Abby ribs him, “And, you know, you were a little…loud.” He blushes a little. Dear God: Please spare me explosive orgasm jokes. Love, Heathen. Flirting, in the form of light banter, continues as Abby lifts her sleeve to check out the rash developing on her back. Carter’s all, “Hey baby, niiiice pustule.” She complains that she’s going to get a big scar there, so Carter suggests a second tattoo. “True,” she says. “I could get ‘Carter...’” He’s all, “Mommy, she likes me!” Then Abby continues, “…Sucks.” He hits her with a towel in flirtatious glee and then runs off to iron his big-boy pants, which Abby ripped off with her teeth last night.
Elizabeth strolls with her father through London. We know it’s London because TPTB chose Tower Bridge (at least, I’m fairly certain it’s Tower – that’s the only one I know of that’s got pale blue and red and gold on it) as a backdrop so that the scene screams, “We Are In London.” They might as well have dressed one of the extras up as the Queen and had her strolling the street in ermine robes and a big-ass crown. Elizabeth laments that she spent all that time in Chicago missing London, and now that she’s back home, she’s homesick for Chicago. And it shows – her hair has wilted into the worst schoolmarm style. Too bad she didn’t have access to the County General Crisis Makeover Team: Sure, Your Husband Died, But Your Hair Shouldn’t. Pa Corday gently reveals he’s heard about her run-ins with various doctors. “Ooooh, someone graffed [sic] on me,” Elizabeth grins. “Small hospital,” he shrugs. “Small-minded, more like,” she says under her breath. Her father primly reminds her that she’s not in America – “No shit, Sherlock,” shouts Tower Bridge, bored – and that being a doctor in England requires an adjusted approach. Elizabeth sasses that her approach is to do what’s best for her patient with a minimum of ass-licking. By now, they’ve reached a small café, where Elizabeth’s mother waits. Her father stops in his tracks. “That’s my cue,” he says. Elizabeth chides him for not even saying hello, so he turns and gives a completely insincere flippy little wave, then kisses Elizabeth goodbye. “You’re late,” Lizzie’s mother says. “Sorry, I had a bowel resection,” Elizabeth says casually. “Yeah, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that…” Tower Bridge grunts. “Before lunch? Lovely,” sighs her mother. “I washed my hands,” she insists.
Day 12. Abby is lounging on a gurney painting her toenails with some polish acquired from County General’s crack team of manicurists for all your emergency nail needs. “Can you die of boredom?” Abby asks lethargically. Word, sister. She read my mind. It’s a giant script bonfire, the ashes of which are gathered up and buried under a tombstone that reads simply, “Here lies: Word.” Chen figures a person can’t perish from boredom, but Abby disagrees. “What if your mind wandered off on a daydream and you forgot to eat or drink for days?” she asks. Chen replies, “Then you’d die of starvation and dehydration.” Abby blinks. “Caused by boredom,” she presses. Suddenly, their antennae twitch – they’ve smelled something, and no, it isn’t the flaming waste of the monkeypox storyline.
Pratt has acquired pizza and soda, shoved through the not-so-locked-down window by one of his friends. He has friends? Since when? I received no memo. “I take back everything I ever said about you, Pratt,” Chen sighs, digging into her slice. Pratt gets excited, but Chen’s totally all, “Psych! You still suck.” Carter busts out with the news that young Adam – remember him? Neither do we – is out of the woods because his fever broke. They all toast him, and each other, for surviving the plague. “Pestis Puerorum,” Stan says suddenly. They shoot him surprised looks that say, “Give the man a green bathrobe and he suddenly speaks Latin?” Stan explains that he’s referring to Black Death, a plague that started in China and infected Italian sailors, who brought it to Sicily in 1347 and ultimately killed 25 million people with it. They gape at him, because they neither asked for nor invited intelligent conversation. “Renaissance philosophy,” Stan shrugs, flushing. Does he mean history? If not, I so want to take that class: “Philosophy of Plagues Through The Ages.” Pratt can’t believe Stan studied philosophy. “Taught it,” amends Stan. Pratt snorts, because he’s about as charming as a shoe dipped in moldy orange juice and painted in Christina Aguilera’s image. Curious, they ask Stan what happened. “Things,” he says sadly. “Things happened. Things always happen.” Carter stares at the floor. “You’re sober now,” he offers, darting a quick glance at Abby. “Not by choice,” Stan says. Abby meets Carter’s eyes and silently dares him to keep thinking what he’s thinking. A coconut drops off a palm tree in Miami, a bird flies into a building in Sydney, and suddenly an anvil lands on the front desk. Chen offers to hook Stan up with some counseling and perhaps an alcoholism program. “I killed my daughter in a DUI,” Stan blurts out. “There’s no counseling for that. Thanks for the pizza.” He shuffles off down the hallway, lost and alone. Chen yanks her foot out of her mouth, grabs her pizza, and announces that she’s going to eat dinner in bed. “Sounds good to me,” Pratt leers. “Alone,” Chen says pointedly. Abby and Carter reject Pratt’s offer to hang out in front of the TV, so he toddles off and leaves the star-crossed whatevers alone at the front desk.
“Kind of sad, huh?” Carter begins. Abby can feel his heavy hand, but opts to play dumb. “What’s that?” she says, eyes wide. “The guy was a teacher,” Carter points out. “He killed his daughter,” Abby counters. “Because of alcohol,” Carter nods seriously. He might as well sit Abby down and force her to apologize for killing the child they haven’t conceived yet in a drinking-related accident she hasn’t had, and then remove her liver in advance to save time. Abby just blinks at him. “It happens,” she says carelessly, and stupidly. “It doesn’t have to,” Carter says. Stupid. Conversation. Abby even agrees with me. “What are you trying to say?” she demands. Carter’s basically vaguely saying, “Woe is the drunk driver,” or something. “Why can’t you tell me what you’re trying to say? You can talk to me,” Abby insists. Carter gulps and faces her. “I want to help you,” he says. And, freeze. What? The last we heard of the Abby drinking storyline, she was supposedly going to AA just for Carter. And sure, we all thought she might’ve been lying. But was she? Did he find out? If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s there to hear it, is Abby still on the bottle? Someone please deliver me from vague crapulocity. Carter continues that he doesn’t want to help her just to be nice, or because he’s worried. It’s because he wants to be with her. “Fix me,” Abby corrects him. “Help you,” Carter insists. “Fix me. So I’m good enough,” Abby deadpans, but not without bristling slightly. “I want it to work!” argues Carter. “I’m not broken,” Abby says firmly. They stare at each other for a while until Abby sighs in frustration and walks away. Carter bites his lip and wonders if she’ll feel better if she mouthifies Little John again.
Elizabeth is in a hospital office, but I’m not sure where, because I can’t see any telltale bridge scenery to relieve me of the confusion. Trevor shows up and makes small talk with her about a case. “Carrying on all right, then, are you?” he asks. “I suppose you can still grieve on the inside.” Elizabeth, stunned at his audacity because she forgot that all British people are automatically imperious twits, snarls, “I’m certain that was meant as some kind of criticism that I haven’t got time to decipher.” Trevor shrugs. “I noticed you’re not in a black dress, you’re not even in a dress at all,” he sneers, adding that it seems America has more or less tainted her. “Interesting,” Elizabeth nods crossly. “I thought I might suggest that you reconsider that tie, because it makes you look like a boorish, virulent ponce,” she spits. “But now I realize that’s your general disposition, so it would be out of place for me to comment.” God bless them for giving Elizabeth some non-shrieky snark. Her line delivery was really nice – clearly angry, yet almost painfully cool. And also, she’s right. His tie is dark blue, with what looks like a collection of bright yellow Tonka Truck wheels on it. Is Trevor twelve? Or blind? Maybe it’s a sentimental tie made from the hairs of his dead childhood cat. Whatever the reason for the tie, Trevor doesn’t appreciate the comment. “Out of place, indeed,” he nods. “Tragic, really – a woman out of place on two continents.” Elizabeth glares at him, masking genuine hurt, as he leaves.
A bubbly receptionist interrupts Elizabeth’s fervent hatred. “Congratulations!” she chirps. “They sold your house. For ten thousand more than the asking price.” Elizabeth stares at the proffered fax document as if it’s on fire, then gingerly takes it and tries to digest what it says. The receptionist hovers over her shoulder, reading along with a pleasant smile. “I would like to read it myself, thank you,” Elizabeth says through tight lips, exiting the room for some fresh air. She stands motionless outside, reading the fax in a daze, and finally reaching up to wipe one eye. One tear: The Sum of a Marriage.
Day 13. A nurse enters Romano’s office, which is bedecked with flowers despite the tragic reveal that no one’s been to see him and he has no apparent family. I think the flowers might be from the forums. And from John Wells: “Dear Paul: Sorry to hear about your arm. Hopefully it’ll recover quickly and be able to resume its stellar acting career. Come on, high five! HA! Just kidding, chump. Love, Wellsie.” Also, did he wake up and decide to go in for more surgery? What’s the deal with the arm crisis – are his fingers less blue now? Why hasn’t Anspaugh been there? What the hell? The nurse chides Romano for not touching his food. “Your body needs nourishment to heal itself,” she recites. “That’s brilliant,” Romano grunts. “They teach you that in nursing school?” The nurse chirpily threatens to tell Joe Gunn: The Iron Needle on him, and then he’ll really get a detention. “Go ahead, tell Gunn. I’ve seen his work,” Romano retorts. “Might as well have prosthetics come fit me for a hook.” Oh, my God. That’s the one way they could redeem this plot: a surgeon and his hook bravely overcoming the obstacles – and becoming unlikely friends. It would be exactly like Fastlane, only with several enormous differences.
Weaver knocks on the door and receives a plate of piping hot veiled hostility, served Romano-style: “Kerry! I was wondering when you were going to come visit me.” She smiles that she was indeed there the two days, but he was whacked out on painkillers. “Re-carpeting my office?” he banters stiffly, staring straight ahead into thin air. “How are you feeling?” she asks. “Better,” he replies. “Surgery went well,” Kerry offers. “So they say,” he monotones. “You know how surgeons lie.” This whole time, he can’t look at her for longer than a second, spending most of his time gazing bitterly at the bed or off in the other direction. Kerry remarks that he’s pretty lucky, which Romano greets with a hollow laugh. “Your people rallied around to save you in a deserted hospital,” she says. “If it wasn’t for Kovac, you’d…” “…Still have my arm,” Romano glowers. Oh? It wasn’t Luka who knocked his clipboard off the gurney. It was the small tribal child in Surinam doing a rain dance. “You do still have your arm,” Kerry sighs. “Do I?” spits Romano, making a sarcastic celebratory gesture with his right arm. Kerry stares sadly at him, wondering why she bothered to look so freakin’ fabulous just for this. The makeup and hair people are giving Laura Innes a lot more love this season. She’s got a slightly softer look to her, but not so soft that it dulls her character’s interesting (read: frequently bitchy) edges. She tries to talk to him, but he won’t have it. “I signed the third-quarter income projections,” Romano babbles. “We should evacuate the hospital once a year for the money we’re saving.” Kerry opens her mouth. “Going to sleep now,” Romano bleats. “Apparently I need my rest.” Kerry stares at the ground for a second, then slowly exits.
Elizabeth is in mid-operation when a smarmy older surgeon enters and supervises what she does, correcting her American colloquial terminology with the British equivalent. Then he sneers at her. “A solo hemicolectomy?” he asks. “Not by design,” she replies in clipped tones. “Professor Whitehead decided to be tardy.” Dr. Smarmy points out that the missing professor is saving a motorist in an accident on the M1, and so he’s there as a stand-in. He critiques her approach, then makes it known he wants to poke around at what she’s done so far. Setting her jaw, Elizabeth hisses, “Be my guest.” He blathers about her technique. She wants to take back the instruments and continue. “The more I see, the better he’ll do,” Dr. Smarmy says, poking around some more. “Why not crack open his skull while you’re at it?” she seethes. He cocks an eyebrow, then gives her an order to assist him; Elizabeth snaps, storming out of the room and ripping off her gloves in a right royal snit. She has had enough of other people.
Day 14. Weaver arrives at the empty ER and greets Frank, who’s armed for the day’s rigors with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, the weapon of champions. “They waxed the floors,” Weaver observes. “Nice, huh?” crabs Frank. “It takes smallpox for them to finally sanitize the place.” Weaver tries to ignore his tone. “It wasn’t smallpox,” she corrects him. “Mutated monkey scabs, whatever,” Frank grumbles. But the hospital is finally almost completely online. The poxy reign of terror is at last over. Which would be a great relief had the pox problem not been solved and settled two minutes into the show, leaving absolutely no pox-related suspense whatsoever. A pox on these writers.
Pratt strolls out past the front desk, on his way home at long last. Disease control has cleared him. Susan strolls through the sliding doors, overtanned and flaunting it, and complains about having to return to work so early after a two-week break. “Catch you quacks later,” Pratt calls out, sauntering away. “Pratt, Gallant called in sick, I need you to cover for him until three.” Pratt’s jaw hits the floor so hard that it bounces back up, shoots over his head, and swallows him whole. “What?” he chokes. “You just said you felt good,” Weaver says. Pratt is still and silent. Perhaps he thinks that if he doesn’t move, she won’t be able to see him. “I’m kidding, Pratt,” Weaver sing-songs. What? She has a sense of humor! She’s happy! Maybe she is re-carpeting Romano’s office. Maybe doing the nasty with a good woman has taken all the other nasty right out of her.
Abby throws her timecard in front of Weaver. “What is this?” Weaver asks, perplexed. Abby announces she’s billing the hospital for two straight weeks of overtime. Weaver shoots her the most withering of all withering stares. “What, you think I’m kidding?” Abby deadpans. I don’t know. It’s kind of a silly scene unless you buy that Abby was ribbing her back on Pratt’s behalf. And even then, it’s not stellar.
Carter gets his clearance from the health department, and Chen enters to take her final tests. Before he leaves, Carter grabs Lutz, the department representative, and quietly asks whether the disease was natural or engineered. “The system worked,” Lutz replies. Carter snorts. “So you’re not going to tell us,” he realizes. Lutz smiles and sends him packing. He offers a friendly goodbye to “Deb” before he leaves. On his way out, Carter passes Susan at the desk and comments on her orange tan. “I went to Barbados,” she confesses. “I had two weeks, what else was I supposed to do?” Carter rolls his eyes and leaves just as things are beginning to tick. Frank announces that it’s 5:59 a.m. Weaver stands to him, staring absently into thin air. “Then we’re open,” she breathes, expressionless. Frank grabs a donut, and the sound of the phone ringing smack at 6 a.m. snaps Weaver out of her reverie.
When he exits, Carter spies Adam and his family leaving. Abby is with them, smiling and waving goodbye. Carter stares at her, and she smiles. “[The parents] look better,” Carter observes. “Maybe they stopped blaming each other,” Abby wonders. She’s wearing a black shirt and fashion flip-flops (hate them), and I can’t figure out where and when she got them. Carter exhales and admits that even though he’s been there two weeks, he doesn’t actually want to go home. “Want breakfast?” he asks. He walks out of the frame and Abby stares after him. “No,” she says, a glint in her eye.
Elizabeth stands on the roof of the hospital. Tower Bridge looms over her shoulder, totally improbably close to her. “Not thinking of jumping?” her father asks, teasingly, gingerly stepping out onto the patio. Elizabeth smiles ruefully and explains that the doctors in Chicago often take refuge on the roof when things go awry, and it’s a habit she can’t break. “Glad everything there isn’t perfect,” he sniffs. “I was beginning to develop an inferiority complex.” Elizabeth bows her head a tad. Her father asks if she’s homesick; she shrugs helplessly, lost. “Yes, you do,” he says. “What?” she asks. “Have a home,” he reassures her. “You can’t bring yourself to sell it, I understand.” Elizabeth tries to change the subject, but her father winds it back to a really long-winded story about how Elizabeth always had a rebellious streak, and he realized that was true when she got in trouble at school for climbing trees. I don’t know, I didn’t write it. Tower Bridge actually just got up and left. “You were an unbridled spirit from the womb,” he grins lovingly. Elizabeth shakes her head, confused. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. Her father reaches for her, and they hug as Ode to Go Back Where You Came From swells in the background.
Cut to Elizabeth speed-walking down a train platform with Ella in a stroller. A cute gent, whom forum-dwellers have identified as Crispin Bonham-Carter (Mr. Bingley in PBS’s Pride and Prejudice; cousin of Helena), flashes her a blinding smile and helps her into the train car. He’s the only friendly Brit they’ve shown this entire hour. “Off for holiday?” he asks pleasantly. “No,” Elizabeth replies slowly. “We’re going home.” He grins at her adorably again and leaves her to tend to Ella, who’s perched in a window seat staring at the world around her. Ella, unfortunately, has uglified significantly since last we saw her. She’s got a mop of white-blond hair and chubby cheeks, which would be fine if her face didn’t look so… well, constipated. I see she’s inherited the Greene Family Angst.
Abby and Carter are strolling along Lake Michigan. “Chaos theory?” she asks, scrunching up her nose. “A virus mutates in the Congo, we evacuate an ER in Chicago, Romano gets his arm cut off…” Carter says, listing off events that he thinks reflect the chaos theory principle of “seemingly random events that are [mysteriously] all part of a larger equation,” except he’s wrong, because you can’t consider those particular things as three separate, random events. Nice try, though. Abby doesn’t even care. “I’m hot,” she complains. Carter keeps on trucking with the boring. “A butterfly flaps its wings in China and creates a tornado halfway around the world…” he continues. “Are you hot?” Abby asks. Carter decides to answer her by babbling about the inherent unpredictability of life, love, and relationships. “What am I, the butterfly or the tornado?” Abby asks, to prove that she was at least partly listening. “You’re chaos in general,” Carter laughs. “Chaos to me. The unknown. I’m chaos to you.” Abby cracks up, as does everyone else, because Carter is to predictable what Michael Jackson is to stark-raving freak. Carter explains that he just wants to beat the odds. “I’m drawn to you,” he says simply. “It’s kinda that simple.” He turns away to skip a stone on Lake Michigan, and Abby decides this is the best time to tear off her clothes. “I’ve been drawn to you for two years, but chaos always seems to rule and I don’t want it to rule,” Carter continues, still not facing her. “I want to know where it’s taking me.” He finally turns in time to see Abby rip off her shirt and run into the water. The Sears Tower, erect and long, stands behind Carter’s shoulder, symbolizing what’s going on in his pants right now. “The tornado,” he laughs. “Definitely the tornado.” He shakes his head in wonder, amusement, and a tinge of lust. Abby frolics in the water and invites him in with a giggle and a flash of her bare calf. We fade into the credits wondering why the middle and end act-outs sucked harder than a hooker on speed.