The Girardis are all getting their breakfasts as Helen asks how many will be around for dinner. She's got lamb chops. Will's all excited; he's going to grill them. Luke's in. Kevin says he's got a date: "Unless I can bring her…?" Helen chirps, "Lily? Of course!" Kevin: "Maybe I'll wait until you stop saying her name in a voice only dogs can hear." In the same hollow, chirpy way, she replies, "Up to you." She asks about Joan's plans. Joan says she's passing on "Bambi" tonight. Her know-it-all brother (er, the younger one) says, "Bambi was venison." Joan: "Thumper, then." Kevin: "Uh, rabbit." As she puts Pop-Tarts in the toaster, she says, "Whatever! I'm skipping dinner." Helen hustles over to Joan to tell her not to isolate herself "at a time like this" and that she has to eat. Will: "Time like what?" Helen: "She and Adam…" Luke: "She dumped Rove." Joan says she had a very good reason. Helen wouldn't have already told Will this? Come on. Not credible. Joan adds, "A very good reason I can't disclose." Wow, that shouldn't provoke the curiosity of a nosy family at all. Kevin asks, "Did it involve a wardrobe malfunction?" Well, technically…sort of. But not Joan's. I believe Adam and Bonnie found themselves the victims of a syndrome known as "All Our Clothes Were Chafing Us And We Just Couldn't Stand It One More Minute." Joan snipes, "Well, it didn't involve a member of the clergy." Will, slightly baffled as always regarding what is going on in his family: "What does that mean?" Luke, helpful as always: "Kevin's cavorting with a nun." Kevin: "Ex-nun!" Will: "I don't like the dating years." Perhaps you could look into arranging marriages for your children upon puberty. That ought to work out well in this cultural setting. The doorbell rings, and Joan volunteers to answer it: "Why not? Maybe I'll get kidnapped." Well, keep a good thought. As she heads for the door, Will assails her with platitudes: "He's not the only fish in the sea." Joan waves her hand dismissively. Will: "Someday you'll look back at this and laugh." Chah, whatever, Will. I got a long list of moments like that in my life that I'm still waiting to laugh about. Newsflash: some shit never gets funny. Lots does, but not all of it. She makes a sort of "right, Dad" gesture with her fingers. He yells out, "He doesn't deserve you!" Helen asks him to just stop. Can't wait to find out what kind of mincemeat Adam will be when her father and brothers find out exactly what he did. I do think that's a large part of the reason she's keeping it herself; it's not just the humiliation factor. If anyone's used to humiliation, it's Joan. And it does seem to be part and parcel of the whole close relationship with God thing. Look at many of the saints and prophets throughout history, and the holy humility heaped upon their heads (by either God or themselves). Or…maybe don't, because you're gonna see stuff like St. Catherine of Siena drinking bowls of pus, and that's just gonna put you off your lunch.
Joan answers the door to a salesman wearing a big "OxyGem" button. Professor Frink thinks he looks like a chunky Les Nessman. He gives her a lot of blather about being the lady of the house and the fine weather and then launches into a sales pitch about some floor cleaner, concluding by using her name. She raises her eyebrow and then closes the door behind her, beckoning him to one side on the porch. He continues with his cleanliness pitch, and Joan asks him to just get to it. He tells her he knows she's hurting and that she needs to clean. Joan: "I already dumped my cheating boyfriend; that's not clean enough for you?" Salesman God says, "Cleaning is a process of discovery. It changes your perception. And: it makes things smell good." Joan looks pained: "I wouldn't even know where to start." Salesman God: "Start anywhere. Just clean. It's therapeutic." Thanks a bunch for the tip, God. As he wheels his suitcases of products down the front walk, Joan calls, "Can I just go to therapy?" Yeah, because that was so helpful. Salesman God just gives her an indifferent Godwave.
Luke and Grace are walking down the street as he says, "According to study results put out by Harvard, Joan and Adam had five of the eight positive predictors of a successful relationship." I'll bet one of the ones they were missing was "Not Being Made To Do Totally Out-of-Character Crap By Writers." Grace, noticing a window display of women's clothing: "Looks like a nautical theme for spring! Can't get enough of that look." What she said. Unless you are an actual sailor, do not wear that fugliness, people. She stops to grimace at the mannequin in the navy jacket with white piping. Luke sighs and continues ticking off predictors: "Shared common interests, proud of their connection…" Grace notices another window display: "Velour? Why are we giving that another chance?" Beats me. Luke: "…confided in each other…I mean, easily resolved conflicts…probably held a similar, you know, sociopolitical belief system." Grace gets tired, I guess, of trying to change the subject -- although I think if she wanted to distract Luke, talking about geodynamos or something would work better than commenting on the vagaries of women's fashion -- and blurts, "Dude, Rove was putting it around." Luke cringes: "I don't want to know that! Ugh! God, do I have to beat him up now?" That I'd like to see. I actually think that normally Adam could take Luke, but I think he'd feel too weak and guilty, so he'd probably let Luke kick his ass. I'm kind of surprised Luke isn't more surprised. Grace: "Sure, why not throw pugilism into the pot?" Luke says he's freaked out: "Why are you not freaked out?" Grace: "Why would I be? It's how dating works." Luke: "We're dating; we're not like that." Grace: "Yet." Well, keep a good thought. Luke: "Grace…" She argues that they're not really dating: "We're making out." Luke says they have a relationship. Grace calls it "an arrangement." Luke: "Whatever. The point is, they had way more going for them in terms of compatibility, and they're over, which just makes you think." Grace: "Not me." She stops in front of another window featuring a male mannequin in a black leather jacket: "Oh…now that is a good use of a cow!" Luke: "Grace!" She replies, "We're not discussing this anymore, dude. We're looking at a jacket. Tell me that's not the coolest jacket in the world." It's okay, I guess. It's hard to totally make it out with the glare on the glass. This is much more my kind of thing. Luke says it's nice. She walks over to him and puts her hands on his face: "They're not us, okay?" She smiles at him slightly before they walk off together.
Joan rounds a corner at school and runs into Adam. They both jerk to a stop before actually crashing into each other. They greet each other uncomfortably, and then Adam tells her he's dropping out of physics study group, because he thought it might make things easier on Joan. She says, "Easier on me? Please. Don't do me any favours. Really. You've done enough." Adam: "Great. Glad to see you've moved on." Hey, buddy. What's it been, a few days? You are so not in a position to be giving her any lip about this yet. Joan shouts down the hall after him, "Moved on? Moved on? I am so far moved on, I'm invisible, that's how moved on I am!" Ms. Lischak and Tuchman (Poor Man's James Spader) are walking slowly down the hall toward her and as she turns, probably to stomp down the hall in the opposite direction, Ms. Lischak says, "Physics, I presume?" Joan kind of nods but says, "Not really." Lischak warns her, "Just don't bring it to class. Keep it in your own magnetic field." She breezes past Joan. PMJS walks alongside Joan, commiserating: "Breakups are the worst. I have some scars myself." Please keep them to yourself. Nope: "Stacy Ann Beeson, sophomore year. I sometimes imagine her getting caught in a ceiling fan." Dude, given that you're now twenty-nine…perhaps it's time to let go of that. Also? Maybe look into some therapy. Joan's with me: "Guidance counsellor who's still hung up on his high school girlfriend…not encouraging." PMJS assures her: "I've been trounced on way more recently…it's just too raw to discuss." Joan: "I guess I just need to adjust, but thanks for listening." Listening? When was there any listening? PMJS: "Listen, high school boys are just hormones with car keys. They can't help themselves. I know -- I was one!" Joan grimaces, and I can't tell if it's more about the metaphor, the thought of PMJS being a "hormone with car keys," or the fact that everyone seems to know her business. Probably all of that. ["Or the fact that 'high school boys' are getting let off the hook because of their hormones, but a high school girl who pulled the same shit as Adam would get labeled a slut. Shut up, society." -- Sars] Joan: "I wish I could find that comforting." PMJS reminds her he's always around and she can call him day or night. Joan rolls her eyes. He hands her a card he's fished out of his pocket. Day or night, really? Man, talk about needing some instruction about boundaries. Joan takes the card: "I know, hit you on your cell." PMJS seems slightly dismayed: "Wow. Now I'm a routine." Joan backpedals a little, saying it's nice: "Thank you." PMJS insists he means it: "Anytime. It's what I do." Sit around waiting for high school girls to call, apparently.
Joan wanders listlessly down the hall by herself and crosses paths with another Janitor God. Joan: "If I were God, I would give myself better jobs." Heh. He asks, "How do you know this job isn't fun? You haven't tried it." She tells him she picked up (her room, I guess). He waves a toilet brush around as he says, "I told you: I'm not talking about being tidy. I'm talking about really getting in there, where the real dirt lives…just lifting up the rock and looking underneath it." Joan asks him to please stop waving the toilet brush around: "I feel diphtheria coming on." I'm with her. Admittedly, it looks brand-new and never used, but there's just nothing pleasant about having a toilet brush up in your grill. Janitor God: "Joan: "You can't get clean until you get your hands dirty. That's all I'm saying." Joan: "Okay, that is never all you're saying!" He trundles past her, as she warns, "And don't do the wave! I am so over the wave!" He just raises the toilet brush once her back's turned.
Kevin and Lily are at her apartment, watching Gilda -- which is an incredible film featuring Rita Hayworth at her most incandescent, and if you haven't seen it, go rent it right now -- as a grey and white cat leaps off the bookshelf to the TV. It runs past Kevin and Lily, who are curled up on the couch with a bag of chips the size of the TV I'm recapping this on and another cat -- that one's orange and white. The grey and white cat runs into the kitchen or somewhere and we hear yowling and the metallic sounds of feline havoc being wreaked. (Wreaked? I wrote that and then second-guessed myself, thinking perhaps it should be "wrought." Apparently not.) Lily, like most experienced cat owners, is more or less oblivious to the minor kitty kafuffle, but Kevin looks around, vaguely concerned about noise and damage. Lily comments, "I want to live when it was okay to have hips and smoke." Kevin reaches for the chips and she passes the bag, apologizing for the presence of "Tippi hair" on it. I'm guessing the orange and white cat's named after Tippi Hedren. I wonder what the other one's named? Lily pets Tippi lovingly, and Tippi seems very content on Lily's lap. Kevin's not too fazed by the cat hair, and he digs in.
Suddenly there's an incoherent muttering sound from off to one side. We see a woman in her bathrobe sitting at a desk. I can't tell if she's using a computer, because she's in this little alcove of sorts, but it kind of looks like she's staring at a monitor. Lily responds to this unintelligible comment: "No, you're not bothering us." The woman replies, "Hgfnh." Lily assures her, "Ginger, I keep forgetting you're even here, okay? Don't worry about it." Ginger, who still hasn't actually looked in their direction, makes some little sound of what I'll call assent. Kevin asks Lily quietly how she can understand what Ginger's saying. Lily: "What do you mean?" Kevin: "Well, nothing I guess. But does she ever leave?" Lily: "The apartment? No. She's agoraphobic. You know, afraid of the world." Interesting…an agoraphobic and a cloisterphobic. Kevin asks how she deals with that. Lily smiles: "Are you kidding? I used to live in a convent, okay? What's one phobic roommate who mumbles?" Nuns everywhere are taking umbrage. Well…probably not. I don't think they allow TVs in convents. Speaking of mumbly roommates, Ginger is standing up now, mumbling and gesturing: "Mvmgmlsm…tea?" Lily says she'd love some tea. Kevin doesn't want any. Ginger drifts off to the kitchen, which isn't where the cat went before, so I guess it was destroying one of the bedrooms. Kevin takes advantage of their momentary solitude to kiss Lily, but quickly breaks it off: "Wait, so…she, like, never leaves?" Lily: "She left once last year. Fire drill." Ginger's got pretty short hair for someone who never goes out. Either she cuts it or Lily does. Kevin muses, "So I'm going to have to set a fire for us to be alone?" Lily asks if he's ever thought about getting his own place. He just keeps smiling blankly and doesn't say anything. Lily's surprised: "God, that was…rhetorical, but you really haven't…" Kevin: "Yeah, someday, sure, but there are practical things to consider." Lily just stares at him questioningly. He adds, "There are considerations…that are practical." Clearly, she's already forgotten his endearing conversation on their first date. Lily smirks: "Like?" Kevin: "Money." Lily sputters, "You -- you make more money than I do." Kevin: "And…other stuff." Lily shakes her head slightly, mystified. Kevin: "You're going to make me say it. Okay…I have to have help." She says there are all kinds of county programs for in-home care. Really? Does she know for a fact that they're available to anyone other than the neediest of the needy? (And maybe not even that.) Because that's not what I hear. And I'm guessing private in-home care ain't cheap. Lily's still incredulous: "You seriously haven't thought about it?" Trying to be suave, Kevin puts his arm around her and cuddles her a bit, saying, "Well, I haven't had to before now." Because all the women I've been sleeping with live by themselves, is the part he doesn't add. Lily laughs a bit nervously and says he can't live with his parents forever: "I mean, it is very sexy and all, but I don't know…" Kevin: "You are a very obnoxious nun!" Lily: "I know." They're smooching when Ginger comes back in, bearing a tea tray and looking a bit anxious when she sees what she's interrupted. She starts to turn around, but Lily notices her and mentions it to Kevin. Ginger puts the tea down: "Mnrgrmlrv…"
Joan's in her room. She starts unpinning pictures of her and Adam and ripping them up. She's putting one of his small sculptures in a box as Helen comes along, finding her room in disarray: "What are you doing?" Joan says she's spring cleaning. Helen: "No, really." Joan complains that her mother's acting like she never cleans. Helen wonders if she should be worried. Joan claims she's fine: "It's therapeutic." As Helen comes further into the room, Joan warns her not to step on the return pile: "That all goes back to Tuchman." Helen's puzzled: "You have Tuchman's stuff?" Joan says he lends her books and CDs: "He's trying to be part of the youth culture." Helen: "Is that appropriate?" Joan: "He's just trying to be cool, Mom. He's a goof." She hands her mother something, asking, "Hey, is this yours?" Helen looks annoyed: "That's my mother's cameo!" Joan: "Well, I almost threw it out." This, from the girl who seemed so envious when Grace's mother bestowed her grandmother's pendant upon her. Helen tells Joan that she's here if Joan wants to talk: "This is your first big breakup…" Well, it's pretty much the only one, unless we're counting that loser Clay, which, in case anyone's forgotten, I'm not. Joan doesn't want to talk. She says cleaning up is helping. Helen gets the message and leaves. Joan fishes a box out of her closet and sits down to look through it as a song about giving up on love (no, I couldn't find the title or artist) plays. She pulls out a sketch of herself drawn by Adam. It looks familiar and I think I remember seeing it before, but I don't remember the scene or episode and I no longer care. She then opens up a tri-fold card on heavy paper. In the first third there's a sketch of a heavy door with huge hinges and an even bigger lock on the door. In the middle third, the door is the same, except now it has a small window in it, with bars on it, like you'd find in an asylum or high-security prison. In the final third the door is slightly ajar and there's sun shining out into the hallway through the window and door. Aw. Joan's eyes drop to the message written below the images: "Jane, What's happening to me? Adam" and she squeezes her face up, about to cry. Frink: "Be strong, Joan." She manages not to totally break down, though. She glances at a couple more cards and then wipes away some tears. By all rights, I should be all broken up over this, and I'm totally not, thanks to the way they decided to end this relationship. Don't get me wrong: I basically agree that they had to end their relationship because I think it was choking the show (though it's far from the only problem), but I hate the way they decided to do it. Maybe now, though, there's hope for the third season.
Joan carries a box full of Adam's gifts and gewgaws toward his locker, bracing herself for the confrontation. She walks up to him and says, "Here." He glances down: "What's that?" She says it's his stuff, and she thought he'd want it back. She tries to look at him but keeps looking away. Adam asks, "Why?" Joan tries to sound bright: "Spring cleaning. It's therapeutic." He says softly, "But I made all that for you." Joan clears her throat: "Yeah, right, but it's yours, you know, it's your art. I thought you'd want to give it to someone else." Adam looks away, mildly hurt. Joan: "Not like another girl…but, you know…maybe for a gallery in the future…or something." He finally takes it with slight reluctance, and Joan says, "See you around," before walking away slowly. Adam finally turns around and stares down the hall after her. What the heck is he supposed to do with all that all day? It's not going to fit in his locker. Me, I would have brought it over to his shed, dumped gasoline on it, turned on his welding torch, and thrown it in the box. Or something equally hostile but less likely to involve fire departments and insurance companies. I mean, I admire her for trying to be calm and mature and all that, but I am so not buying it from Miss Drama Queen. There isn't nearly enough bitterness and vituperation here, if you ask me.
Commercials. The first one is a network blurb for Grey's Anatomy but I'm half- falling asleep here, since I've been awake since 3:30 AM, and what I hear is "Grace n' Adamy." And I'm all…what? Then I gather just enough consciousness to sort it out. Frink and I marvel about the latest herpes commercial, and then I get to wondering why I seem to see so many herpes commercials during Joan of Arcadia. I don't see that many during other shows I watch regularly (24, American Idol, Desperate Housewives, Lost) so what gives? Do they know something about the demographic for this show that I don't?
Helen comes into the police station unexpectedly -- wait! Come back! There's no police plot! It's just a Will and Helen thing. Will's nervous when he sees her anxious face and asks, "Oh my God, what is it?" She says it's Kevin. He steers her into his office and asks, "Is he okay? What happened?" She says that, inspired by Joan, she decided to clean Kevin's room as a little surprise to him. I know children of all ages, especially the ones old enough to drink, love it when Mommy cleans their rooms. She says, "I found this." She hands Will a classified ad section with some ads circled in red. Will: "I…don't get it." She spells it out: "Those are ads for single bedroom apartments circled…in red." Will, still perplexed: "Help me, I'm a man." Frink finds that very amusing. Helen spells it out even more: "Kevin's looking for an apartment." Will: "Right…" Helen: "He's thinking about moving out." Will thinks that's good. Helen, unable to keep the hysterical edge out of her voice: "Good?" Will thinks it means Kevin's feeling more independent. Helen finally cuts to the heart of her anxiety: "It's about sex." Will, puzzled as ever: "He's twenty-one." Helen: "With Lily. The ex-nun." Will: "Well, I've seen Lily, and while I didn't quite care for her attitude, I can't blame the guy. She's pretty hot." No, I kid. He just kind of squints at Helen -- or this harpy who's occupying her body -- as she explains that Kevin's getting an apartment so he can be with her in the apartment. She all but adds, "So he can know her…in the Biblical sense." Will doesn't know what to say. Helen: "Well, he can't be on his own, Will!" He stands up: "Honey, did you really think he was going to be with us forever? And is that…really what you want?" She barks, "Forget it!" and rushes out. He makes a half-hearted attempt to call after her. Let her go, Will.
Joan barges into PMJS's office without knocking, finding him deep in discussion with another female student. She seems to be sitting on a chair in front of his desk, and PMJS is perched on his desk, very, very close to her. Like, a lot closer than I'd think was really appropriate for any counselling situation. Joan says she thought he was at lunch, and just keeps barging in, saying she's just going to leave his CDs and books, over his objections that he's with a student. Oblivious -- and rude -- she blathers on about the stuff she's returning, providing commentary on each item. Joan thinks Leonard Cohen needs a therapist. I'll bet Leonard Cohen thinks the same thing about you. The other girl, who's crying quietly, dabs her eyes. Joan pulls a book out of her bag, saying, "Now this…this…the love poems of e.e. cummings…" At that, the other girl looks up, disturbed. Joan: "I thought he was all about typos. This stuff is amazing." The other girl says, "e.e. cummings?" Joan finally notices that this other girl is a little distraught and apologizes, saying to PMJS, "You just said, 'anytime,' so…" Well, actually he said to call anytime, not barge into his office whenever. The other girl shakes her head, and gets up and flounces out, sobbing. Well. That sure doesn't look good. PMJS calls after her, "Chelsea…" He turns back to Joan, who asks, "What was that?" He says that was a troubled student. Should he really be saying anything at all about another student? Joan cracks wise: "I didn't know you actually counselled people. She gonna be okay?" PMJS thinks so: "It's really up to her, isn't it? Us being the architect of our own reality and all? What about you? You okay?" Joan claims she is. She thanks him for the stuff and pats him on the shoulder on her way out.
Luke and Friedman emerge from a classroom. Friedman's sporting a shorter, sassier, curlier haircut. I think it's an improvement. Luke: "Look, okay, dude, I know that Superman eventually learned to control his powers, but I'm just saying that the first few times that he took a leak, I mean, he must have just blown apart the porcelain." Hee. Grace comes chugging down the hall calling, "Hey Astroboy! Wait up!" He turns and she tosses a leather jacket at him: "That's for you. Wear it." She walks away leaving Luke to look at it, puzzled. It's not the one they were looking at before, I don't think; it looks sort of broken-in. Friedman: "Dude, put it on." Luke: "I can't just decide to wear leather and do it." Friedman: "Right. You have to own it first. You gonna let it intimidate you? No, you tell it who's boss." Luke: "She gave me a gift." Friedman: "Right." Luke: "She's never done that before." Friedman: "Exactly. So you have no choice. It's all about attitude, anyway. That's the whole thing." I guess that's how you get up the nerve to wear a dickie. To high school. In the twenty-first century. Luke struggles into the jacket. Friedman: "Nice." Do I perhaps detect a slight note of something more than comradely admiration? I could be imagining that. Friedman adds, "Attitude and a little tailoring, maybe." Luke kind of yanks the coat around himself. His face is screwed up with skepticism: "I may need a little time." Friedman: "And time. Time will help."
Physics. Ms. Lischak is literally tap-dancing around the room. How much longer before she's actually lap-dancing in here? She proclaims, "The laws of physics are immutable, are they not, noble warriors?" as she does a soft-shoe around the room. "The answer?" She whacks her pointer thingy to the head of some poor sod who's fallen asleep in class. She continues, "They are until they aren't! Copernicus said that the earth was not the centre of the universe. They nearly killed him!" She draws her pointer across her throat for dramatic emphasis. "Likewise, Newton said that white light contains all the colours of the spectrum. People jumped off buildings to avoid engaging in such a reality. Kierkegaard said that in order to build an [sic] hypothesis worth trusting, we must first tear down all existing thought, which can get pretty messy…" I notice Joan's still sitting in between Grace and Adam. I thought she and Grace would have switched places. Joan's playing with a slinky. Grace is watching Luke in front of her. He's wearing the leather jacket and…kind of grinding his ass around on his chair. Sorry, I can't really see a more delicate way to put it. What the hell is that about? Grace asks Joan, "Is he rocking? I think he's rocking." Rocking as in, "I want to rock and roll all night / And party every day," that kind of rocking? Or just moving around? ["I think the Rain Man kind of rocking is what she meant." -- Sars] Joan laughs about this and reflexively turns toward Adam to share the joke, but Adam just turns away and Joan sobers up.
Having gotten little rise out of Will, Helen's now managed to buttonhole Father Ken over coffee to rant about Kevin and Lily. She says it's not just about Kevin moving out and she's not just being an overprotective mother: "There are issues. Kevin has special needs." She adds a swipe at Lily: "And not just the special needs she's thinking about." Completely apart from being so shrewish in general, I wonder if it's ever crossed her mind that it might not be very comfortable for Father Ken to be put in the position of having to discuss the sex life of a former nun and current colleague (of sorts)? Probably not. That would really interfere with her program of self-absorption. Father Ken suggests she should be discussing this with Will. Helen: "I tried, I really did, but he's a man." Father Ken looks like he rues the day he decided to take his kettle to that DMV parking lot. She quickly adds, "And you're a man, too, but a different kind of man." The kind with no feelings whatsoever? Yeah, I hear you up there in the peanut gallery, yelling, "What other kind is there?" Settle down. Father Ken tries to let this all roll off his back the way they taught him in the seminary. Helen whines some more: "She's a nun!" Oh my God, Helen, get over it! Man. I don't know if I've ever wanted to smack her more. I don't know if I've even ever wanted to smack her. Father Ken patiently corrects her: "Ex-nun." Note to writers: You have officially squeezed all that you can out of the nun/ex-nun thing. Let. It. Go. I beg you. Helen continues whining: "And she's older than he is!" Uh, wake up and smell the handicappuccino, lady: the boy likes older women. It's not a crime. And Luke's dating a girl who's older than he is, but I don't see you getting your panties in a Gordian knot over that. You remember Luke, your other son? The youngest one? Yeah.
Helen rambles on: "I feel like she's influencing him." God forbid anyone but you should. Cut the cord, already, Helen. Father Ken supplies this platitude: "That must be difficult for you." She wants Father Ken to talk to Lily. Father Ken: "About her love life?" He will not: "I feel intensely uncomfortable talking to you about it." Helen, in that dogs-only voice: "Why? You're a priest!" Frink: "That was almost a When Harry Met Sally moment." I'll have to take his word for it, since I haven't seen it, being unable, as I am, to stand either Billy Crystal or Meg Ryan. Helen suddenly remembers there are other people in the world beside her, and lowers her voice: "I'm sorry. You hear everything." Father Ken tactfully replies, "I really don't hear this particular dilemma very much." Father Ken wonders when she and Will last had a chance to sit and discuss these sorts of things as a couple. Helen: "What things?" Father Ken: "I'm talking about Empty Nest Syndrome." Helen's horrified: "This is not Empty Nest Syndrome!" Father Ken assures her it's a real thing: "People go through it. Maybe some counselling would be good. That's all I'm saying." Helen gets even bitchier and says, "You know what? This isn't helpful." He apologizes. She sighs, and grabs her stuff, saying, "Do me a favour and don't introduce me to any more nuns." She flounces out. Frink: "Hey! Don't stiff the priest! What's he supposed to do, pass around a collection plate?" Father Ken mutters to himself, "Not a problem." You know that other show I'm always talking about, with Grace and Lily? Father Ken can be on it, too. Helen, not so much.
Joan gets called into Price's office, where her mother's already sitting and looking unhappy. It's funny, because the closed captioning says, "Principal Chadwick sighs." I guess at some point they decided to replace him with Price. He invites her to have a seat. Joan: "I didn't do anything…I swear." Price starts questioning her about how much time she's been spending with Tuchman. Joan says she's been spending more time with him, related to getting advice about college plans and applications. Price then asks if Tuchman gave her a book of love poems and other personal items. Joan: "Love poems?" Helen: "Those things I saw in your room." Joan relaxes a wee bit, saying, "That was just stuff. Some CDs and books, but I gave it [sic] back." Helen explains that they worried about whether Tuchman has been "inappropriate" with her. Joan stares at her mother, incredulous, and finally says, "Ew. Gross. Mom, are you kidding me?" Price clears his throat, though the closed captioning insists it's Principal Chadwick. ["I was actually a little surprised that Price wasn't being as assy as usual in this scene; the fact that it was written for Chadwick would explain it." -- Sars] He asks if she knows Chelsea Burnett. Joan does. Price says she claims Tuchman lured her into an intimate relationship and that she's not the only one: "She says that he's also involved with you." Joan's eyebrows are halfway up her forehead: "That's nuts. She's…crazy. I…went to Tuchman's office to return that stuff, and Chelsea was in there. She was crying, and…" Price and Helen are listening intently. Joan: "Oh, no…she totally got the wrong idea…because I cleaned out my closet…" Price says he'll have to take her word for it at this point, but warns her that there'll be an investigation and they'll have to talk to her again. Notice he has a megaphone in his office? Can't you just see him using that on a regular basis? In fact, I wonder why we haven't seen that yet. He dismisses her. As she leaves, she sees Tuchman coming out of either the staff room or possibly the principal's office. He looks a little beaten down -- but then, he always does -- and he walks out without saying anything to her. But then when he closes the door to the administration offices, he stops and looks through the glass, giving her what I think is a hopeful smile. Joan just smiles back as neutrally as she can. But when he walks away, she looks like she's got her doubts about his innocence.
Joan sits on the couch at home and flips around the TV. She comes across an infomercial for OxyGem hosted by Guess Who. "People get comfortable with mess. It starts to look normal to them. When you move it around, dust flies. It has to get worse before it gets better." Joan replies, "Great. And I'll bet it hurts you more than it hurts me." Salesman God continues, "The point is, Joan, don't stop cleaning. It's just a mess. All a mess needs is some attention, some effort…a little vision. Before you know it, you'll start to see daylight." Joan: "You know, technically speaking, it's not even my mess." Salesman God assures her, "We're all in this together. There's never been a stain that can't be removed." I rather doubt that. "All you have to do is roll up your sleeves…" She turns the TV off. Yeah, that'll work. She sighs to herself, "Oh, that feels good." The TV pops back on and Salesman God continues, "And start scrubbing…because the longer you ignore mess…the bigger it gets." Joan just stares, with her eyebrows bunched together in the middle of her forehead, and then the TV goes off again.
Some slackerish guy is showing Kevin and Lily a somewhat dingy, semi-squalid apartment. The walls are a sad yellowy colour, and in places…it looks like there are boils growing under the paint or something. The floor is covered in grey industrial carpeting. I think Kevin's wheels are going to be pretty hard on that. The apartment's not tiny, at least. It's depressing, but I've seen worse. However, if the place is truly wheelchair-accessible, and he can afford it, then it's probably a rare find, mold or no mold. The landlord guy is young and gangly and he tells them, "What I like is low-maintenance tenants, on account of I [sic] work on my poetry during the day." Lily wanders around: "Uh…has this place ever been cleaned? I mean, with real cleaning products?" Landlord Guy: "Whoa…I'm sensing hostility…" Lily wonders if there's any extra charge for the mold. Landlord Guy says, "Hey, look, if you're going to be high-maintenance…" In my book, expecting one's domicile not to contribute to infectious disease isn't exactly "high-maintenance." Lily reassures the guy: "I'm not living here." Kevin: "Yeah, but you're staying here; I want you to be comfortable." Lily looks stunned: "I'm…staying here?" Kevin: "What, you're not…staying here?" Lily: "You assumed…I'm going to be spending the night?" Landlord Guy: "Want to move on to the kitchen? Brand-new garbage disposal…" Kevin says hesitantly, "I thought that was kinda the point…" Lily makes a slightly strangled sound: "The…the point?" Boy, have you ever stepped in it. Landlord Guy wonders if they need some personal space. Actually, I think they need a communications coach, and possibly therapy, but since you're not qualified to provide either, Slackespeare, getting out of here is probably the most help you can give at this point. Lily's quite indignant now: "You assumed that this was about sex?" Landlord Guy decides to split. Kevin: "What was I supposed to think?" He seems genuinely confused. Lily: "Uh…try anything -- anything else…uh, a grown-up move, or a rite of passage…I mean, anything but a nookie palace!" Man. "Nookie"? I thought Lily entered the convent around 1994, not 1974. Maybe she's a lot older than she looks. Maybe celibacy keeps you youthful. I hope I never find out. Kevin: "Point of adulthood: people don't actually say 'nookie palace.'" Hee. Burn. Lily's pretty angry: "Point of respect…this is a huge and humiliating assumption on your part. It never occurred to you that this subject might be a little difficult for me…that we should have a serious talk about it because…it's something that I haven't confronted before?" She's on the verge of tears. Kevin is taken aback and doesn't know what to say. Lily runs out. He sits there for a moment, eventually kind of slapping his face over his gaffe.
Now, I've wondered before if Lily's a virgin, and I think she probably is, although some people have suggested that her concern here is the issue of premarital sex. It's possible, but I don't think so, because she's previously made reference to drinking enough on a date to ""help her through" it (though admittedly, she could have meant something else by that). Other people have suggested that given her wild youth, she probably wasn't a virgin before she entered the convent, but I don't think that necessarily follows. She might have been into substance (ab)use, tattoos, crime, surfing, whatever, but it doesn't mean she necessarily had sex. Another possibility is she did have sex before entering the convent, but hasn't since leaving, meaning it's been well over a decade since, and the "something" that she hasn't confronted before is simply the prospect of having sex again (giving up her born-again virginity). But I think I'm voting for lifelong virgin. In any event, it's looking less and less like Kevin will ever find out. I think they're both at fault here: I do think she sent kind of mixed signals at her apartment, suggesting he move out right after he asked about what he had to do to get her alone and away from her agoraphobic roommate, and telling him living with his parents isn't sexy. She does at least play like she's worldly enough to have grasped the implications. On the other hand, Kevin really could stand to be a little more sensitive to her situation, to say nothing of becoming more sensitive to women in general. He does tend toward the crude. On the third hand, she could have been a little more sensitive to the complexities of his situation as a paraplegic, although I think part of his attraction to her is that she doesn't have the same uptight reaction to it that so many other people (e.g. Beth) do -- recall how blithe she was about how he could potentially go surfing, and how intriguing he seemed to find that. Basically, they both need to assume less, talk more, and be more sensitive. They're so much alike it's not funny. If they could both get over themselves they'd be the perfect couple.
It's evening. Joan knocks on a door I find vaguely familiar. PMJS opens it -- in his bathrobe, naturally. Frink and I are all, "Whoa, this is nine kinds of bad idea." Which is pretty much what PMJS says as soon as he sees it's Joan. She says she only needs a minute. He asks if she was followed. Only by God, my man, only by God. Joan: "Let me in, I can help you!" He lets her in. Man, he's easily persuaded. He's one of those kids who would totally take candy from strangers. Saying, "Welcome to my nightmare," he leads her into the den, where he's surrounded by the detritus of a junk-food binge. "I've been engaged in some primo soul-searching. Shove aside the polyhydrogenated treat of your choice and have a seat." Where's Mommy? She's usually around. Joan tells him she believes him and defended him. Joan doesn't know why Chelsea dragged her into it, but she "feels responsible" and wants to help him clean up the mess. PMJS shrugs: "It was bound to happen eventually." Joan: "So you really are having a thing with her?" PMJS: "Of course not. She's a child. I'm a grown man, Joan." He tosses some tiny snack in the air and catches it in his mouth. Joan refrains from smirking openly, and asks what happened. He says Chelsea's disturbed, and that's why he was counselling her: "She was having debilitating anxiety attacks." Well…I'm not sure, but is that really the sort of thing that's in the purview of your average guidance counsellor? Isn't that the sort of thing they should really be referring to a mental health professional, such as a psychologist or psychiatrist? I thought the primary focus for guidance counsellors was to help students with educational and career plans. I'd say that's where this guy went wrong. He says that somewhere along the line Chelsea became convinced she was in love with him and he couldn't talk her out of it. You know, I want to believe he tried, but he just has this desperate, skeevy vibe I can't shake off. "I probably should have just walked away…but oh no! Dana Tuchman to the rescue!"
He offers Joan something to drink, but she declines. He wanders into the kitchen as Joan lectures him about what a huge misunderstanding this mess is, and cites God's ideas about what a mess needs: vision, attention, effort. Man, this house has nice wood panelling. Joan thinks they need to make a list of people who will vouch for him: kids, adults… "Do you happen to have a girlfriend?" Right now, the most helpful thing he could probably have is a boyfriend, if you ask me. He gives her a grim look from behind the refrigerator door. Joan: "Or an ex-girlfriend? Maybe someone who will give a reference on your behalf?" He trudges past her: "Just Elaine." Joan's excited about that. He says she won't do it: "She resents me." Joan asks, "Elaine who?" Are you sitting down? PMJS: "Lischak." Joan: "Lischak, as in Ms. Lischak?" Interesting they gave her the same first name as the woman who plays her. Joan can't believe he dated her. PMJS: "Dated her? I adored her. I revered her." Yeah, but…what'd she see in you? I mean, come on now. I can see her dating Price before I can see her dating you.
Joan asks what happened. He says she dumped him over the summer: "She said I didn't act my age. Can you go now? My mom's gonna be home soon." Joan thinks aloud: "So you guys had an actual relationship…" He continues: "My hair was too long. She didn't like the earring. She had a list. They always have a list." Well, if you actually revered this woman like you say…you couldn't cut two inches off your hair? I mean, I'm not saying he shouldn't be able to wear his hair how he wants, but if he was in her slavish thrall to the degree he implies…why wouldn't he just cut it? Joan thinks the point is that Ms. Lischak can vouch for the fact that he's not into hitting on students: "I mean, you're obviously into older women, right? What is she, like twenty years older than you?" PMJS: "Five. You really have no sense of chronology, do you?" Not to mention: most people's preferences aren't written in stone. Joan thinks maybe they can get her to testify on his behalf. Yeah. I'll bet she'd love to talk to Price about her relationship with another staff member. PMJS thinks they should leave it alone. He clearly he has no idea who he's talking to. Joan has never been able to leave anything alone. She argues that the mess will only get bigger. PMJS: "Okay, I'll do all the advising around here." And you've done a bang-up job of it so far. He adds, "I know what you all think about me. You think I'm a loser. You think I've abandoned all my promise and my dreams and I'm just slumming it, acting like a kid because I'm too afraid to fit into the adult world? Well, you know what? You're absolutely right. And what you're witnessing is the natural conclusion to a misspent life. It's over." Joan: "How can you say that? You're only 30." PMJS: "Twenty-nine." Joan insists, "Mr. Tuchman, there is no such thing as a stain that can't be removed!" Chah, whatever, Jane. I've got some paint-stained clothes you're free to work miracles on. Suddenly we hear his mother come in and start nagging him off-screen about bringing in the trash cans. He asks Joan to slip out the back. Joan argues with him quietly, asking him to please think about her plan. Now his mother's going on about the stove being left on. Joan escapes out the back door as his mother yatters about having left his cereal bowl in the sink again. He drops down in the chair in exasperation. Try moving out and living on your own, buddy. It works wonders for most people.
Helen's slicing the heck out of a banana in the kitchen. Will stands off to one side, drinking coffee and venturing, "Are you mad at me?" She claims she's not. He starts to say that it feels like she is, but she snaps at him and cuts him off to insist she's not. He says, "O-kay," and wanders toward her, and she goes back to slicing. He tries again: "But if you were, what would you be mad about?" Kevin wheels in at that point: "Good morning." He asks if he's interrupting; both his parents claim he's not. He announces jovially that he's kind of low on laundry. Helen, unimpressed: "Really?" Kevin shows her he's wearing pink socks. Which are…Joan's? Helen: "Well, pink is the new black." Kevin's growing less jovial and says, "Seriously, I've got a business meeting tomorrow." Helen: "What do you suppose other people do when they run out of clean clothes?" Kevin: "I suppose they do their laundry, which I've always volunteered to do, but --" He doesn't get to finish his sentence, so I will: "But you're a control freak that won't let any of her children do laundry." Not to mention: they've got a top-loading machine. He might be able to get the clothes and soap in there, but I don't know how the hell he'd get them out. She turns to him and says, "I don't mind doing it. I'm trying to illustrate a point. It's just something you're not accustomed to doing for yourself." Kevin gets it and says, "Look, I don't know how you found out, but you don't have to worry, because I'm not moving out. I thought about it, and I decided against it. So you'll have a gimp in your house for a long time to come." Helen's expression changes from indignant to…slightly less indignant. He adds, "I'll just buy some socks," as he turns and wheels out. Helen whirls back around to her cutting board looking slightly troubled, slightly relieved. Will has been sitting at the kitchen table the whole time, without saying a word.
Ms. Lischak's in her classroom, setting up…something. I have no idea what it is, but it involves a lot of different metal things hanging from a frame. Joan tells her she wants to discuss PMJS. Lischak tells her, "Out of bounds. Not for discussion." Joan says he's in trouble and needs her help. Lischak: "Mr. Tuchman knows how to grow up. He chooses not to, which is why he's in the mess he's in. It's up to him to crawl out of it." Joan replies that sometimes when a person's in a mess, they can't see the mess, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. Lischak: "Juxtaposed coherent aggregates vibrating in unison or harmonic ratio…are mutually attracted." Joan: "Okay…" Lischak: "Tuchman has attracted this mess, pulled it into his orbit. No one else can fix it but him." Joan musters the one physics-based argument she can think of: "But…according to…unified field theory, aren't we all, uh, in the same mess?" She gestures with her hand to indicate something akin to general planetary chaos. Lischak softens a little: "Yes." Joan looks hopeful. Lischak: "But it's just a theory." And Joan's face falls. Lischak: "Dismissed, grasshopper." Joan leaves.
Out in the hall, Adam catches up with her, and hands her a box of her stuff. He says he had to clear some stuff out in order to make room for the stuff she gave back to him. She picks up a soft doll on the top: "Frida Kahlo?" There are stuffed Frida Kahlo dolls? Apparently more than one kind. "Your airbrush pen? Sea Monkeys? I gave these to you. I wanted you to have them." Adam: "I did. I had them, and now I don't." He hands the box to her and takes off. Joan stands there looking hurt.
Luke, in his leather jacket, swaggers down the stairs at school, accompanied by Friedman. Of course, he's wearing it over one of his striped polo shirts, so the Fonzie effect is somewhat diminished. Luke: "I don't know, man, call me crazy, but I think I could do boots ." Friedman: "Whoa, slow down, Icarus. The wings are made of wax, remember?" Oh, Friedman. So cute with the classical references. Behind them, Grace bemoans her fate to Joan: "Look at that! Walking ahead…and with a swagger? What have I done?" Joan: "I don't know, but undo it." Grace says she's tried, but Luke won't return the jacket: "What is wrong with men? Are they…broken? Are they missing factory parts?" Frink: "Our parts need factory adjustment." That must explain the perennial attraction to tools. Joan: "I don't know." Grace brings up Tuchman: "How nuts is that? And with Chelsea Burnett? She's totally bipolar." Joan corrects her, insisting he didn't do it. Grace: "So why's he leaving?" Joan: "Leaving?" Grace says that's the scuttlebutt: "They sent he [sic] and his earring packing." Joan: "Oh, man!" She takes off. Grace asks where she's going. Joan walks down the hall, past where Friedman is obligingly holding up Luke's glasses so he can use the reflective surface to fluff his 'do and erect the collar of his leather jacket. Back to Grace, who rolls her eyes: "Unbelievable."
Suddenly we're in Father Ken's office with Helen and…Will? Yup. Will starts by saying, "I just have to get it off my chest that I don't want to be here. I'm not a big fan of therapists or priests. I'm doing this to make my wife happy." Father Ken says politely, "Your candour is appreciated." Will: "I have more where that came from." Ha! Best line in the show. Helen reproaches him. "But I'll keep it to myself." Aw…where's the fun in that? Helen launches into her various problems, which aren't just to do with Kevin leaving; she also cites the lawsuit and Lucyfer, and says she thinks she's still angry about all that. Will: "And then, the empty nest thing." She snaps, "It's not an empty nest thing! My nest is not empty, so stop saying that." Man. I've had about all I can take of Helen in this episode. I love Mary Steenburgen, but I have to assume the director is getting her to be this shrill, because she's not normally like this. ["Or it's more conveniently out-of-character writing. Wouldn't be the first time this season. Or even the fifth time." -- Sars] Helen looks at Father Ken: "It can't be that simple." Father Ken: "I think it is." Will: "Listen to the priest, honey." Hee. She glares at Will, who clams up. She blathers to Father Ken about how she didn't do Kevin's laundry and was mean to him and undermined him. Father Ken: "You tried to keep him home. Safe. Like a child." Helen: "But how horrible is that?" About as horrible as your expression is right now. Father Ken says it's just a thing that happens to a lot of people: "You'd be able to see that more clearly if Kevin's situation weren't complicated. You're going to go through some things with him that are unrelated to his condition. This is one of them." She turns to Will: "Is he saying I'm normal?" Will nods reluctantly. Helen gripes, "I hate that." Will nods: "I know." She looks back at the priest, and sighs: "I was gonna be so evolved. I was gonna be thrilled to see my children happy and independent, ready to take on the world, especially Kevin…and…to realize I don't want that…" Will: "You do want that; you just don't like it." She sighs again: "And then after he leaves…Joan is gonna leave, and then, then Luke is gonna leave…" She's all sniffly, and Will puts his arm around her, suggesting they take them one at a time. Father Ken smiles at them, secure in the knowledge that a life of celibacy was the right choice.
PMJS is packing up his office. He grabs a bunch of For Dummies books (Counselling for Dummies, Older Women for Dummies, Living with Your Mom for Dummies) and puts them in a box. Joan comes in to find out what's going on. She asks if he was fired. He says he resigned: "Chelsea recanted but I resigned anyway." Joan: "Why?" He replies: "I shouldn't be here. You showed me that." Joan says that's not what she meant to show him. PMJS: "Underachieving, acting like a child, my life going nowhere…and the thing is, I never would have had the courage to face that, if this horrible thing hadn't happened, so, you know what? Thank you, for helping make it horrible." She asks what he's going to do now. He doesn't know: "Hit the road, follow my bliss…all that Joseph Campbell stuff. The truth is, I was afraid to try to be great, so I settled for mediocre. But once you hit rock bottom, you lose your fear, and it's fantastic." And then, with any luck, you figure out what colour your parachute is, and you stop talking in clichés. Joan: "What about your mother?" He says he's moving out. Joan wonders how she's taking it. PMJS: "She'll get over it…when I tell her. I'm telling her tonight." Suddenly Lischak comes in the door, asking, "Is it true?" He stands up: "Elaine?" She says, "Just tell me if it's true." He asks, "Which part?" Lischak: "You're quitting? Going on the road? Throwing off the shackles?" He assures her, "Shackle-free." Something about these two makes me doubt the complete absence of shackles, if you know what I'm saying. Lischak: "Leaving your mom?" PMJS: "Telling her tonight." Joan keeps looking increasingly uncomfortable. Lischak: "Haircut?" PMJS: "Nope." She gives him a look. He relents: "A little." She stares at him seductively and tells Joan, "You're excused, Girardi." Joan vamooses as Lischak throws off her lab coat and, giggling, throws herself at PMJS, who flashes her a great big grin as he grabs her. Lose the wonky sitcom music and sound effects, please.
Kevin comes up to his room to find Helen…yes, doing his laundry. He tells her she doesn't have to do that. She claims not to mind. He says he's taking it to the Fluff 'n' Fold: "I can afford it and I have to stop depending on you." She sits on the bed and apologizes for how she's been acting. He shrugs and says it's okay. She adds softly, "And I think you should move out." Kevin looks worried: "Right now?" Helen: "No. But soon. When you're ready." She stands up, saying, "Now I have to leave before I cry." Kevin wants to ask a question: "What do women want?" Helen: "Shoes." Hey! I resemble that remark. I know some viewers really bristled at this, but I can't be among you, especially since she didn't leave it at that. Among the many, many things I want, I can't honestly say shoes aren't in…well, the top thirty. (Sars, I'm counting on you to back me up here. I'm pretty sure your closet's filled with Steve Maddens. ["It is, but the comment still bugged. I don't watch this show for that glib Tim Allen crap." -- Sars]) Kevin, to his minor credit, has the sense to ask, "What else?" Helen says it's complicated: "I think you might have to spend the rest of your life figuring that one out." He claims, "I knew what they wanted in high school." Yeah, I'll bet. "It's so different now. I mean, what do I have to offer her besides my wit and my…charm? And that's a given." Helen smiles and sighs, "She wants to be respected…listened to…understood…she wants flowers…she wants to laugh…she wants to trust you…she doesn't want to read your mind…she wants to be valued for who she is…and sometimes she wants you to just shut up and stop trying to fix things." Major word on the last one. Well, that's not a bad list; it does hit on a lot of points I would agree with (including the flowers: orchids, lilies, and tulips, please) but I wish Helen had told him that she couldn't answer for Lily, and that what women really want is for men to stop thinking there's one laundry list of what we want that applies equally to all women, because there isn't and there never was and there never will be. I wish she had told him that if he really wants to know what Lily wants, he has to work at finding that out from Lily. I wish she'd told him that no matter who he's with or for how long, the only thing he can do is work really hard at finding out what that specific woman wants and to be patient with that process, because sometimes we're still figuring it out ourselves. Anyway. Kevin comments that this is going to be very difficult.
Luke's sitting at his desk in his room, wearing his leather jacket, sprawled out over the chair like…Arthur Koestlerelli. Someone knocks, and he mutters, "Uh-huh?" He just about jumps out of his skin -- as do Frink and I -- when he sees it's Grace, who's apparently been kidnapped and brainwashed by a team of Lilly Pulitzer guerillas. She's wearing little gold ballet flats, kelly green capris with little sky blue…things…embroidered on them, a short-sleeved polo shirt in alternating stripes of sky blue and kelly green, with a sky blue cardie tied over her shoulders. Her hair is smoothed into a bouncy flip and pushed back with a black hairband. She seems to have inserted a man's striped tie through her waistband as a belt. She stands there posing like a catalogue ad from 1967, beaming idiotically. ["Sadly, I could identify almost everything she had on -- it's all from J. Crew and I own most of it myself. The 'little sky blue things'? Whales. …I know, I know." -- Sars] I don't know where the hell she got that outfit -- her mother? -- but I'd like to know if she walked through the streets like that, or if she got dressed somewhere in the Girardi house. Did Joan help her? Joan must have helped her. Luke, panicked: "What happened?" Grace replies, "Oh, this? It's my new look. I'm also wearing a ton of perfume, and I'll probably be saying things like [Valley Girl voice] 'no way!' a lot." Luke: "I don't think you're being logical. Have you looked in a mirror?" She beams, and strikes another cutesy pose, saying, "Oh, yeah. Kelly green. The preppy thing totally works for me." She struts over to his bed and sits down. Luke has his hands over his mouth, and he shakes his head, saying, "Grace, you can't look like that." She turns back into Grace and asks, "How does it feel, watching someone you thought you knew have a total personality transplant?" Luke: "You gave me the jacket. I was trying to make you happy!" Grace: "Well, stop. Because if you don't stop, I'm gonna kill you. Look, I panicked. It was like you were saying, the whole Adam-Joan thing, they're so much alike and they didn't make it, and…I over-thought it." Luke: "You were worried." Grace: "Leave it." Luke: "About losing me." Grace warns him, "Drop the jacket, dude. This conversation's over." Luke agrees to take it off, but says he won't give it back. He says he's just going to keep it around, "like art." Grace: "Fair enough." Whatever you do, dude, don't ever provoke her into dressing like that again. It's just too many kinds of wrong.
Joan's at the cash register, closing up the bookstore when someone comes in. She announces, "Turn around, we're closed…" Then she sees it's GodFella, so she adds, "For everyone but God." He assures her it won't take long. He's looking for a poem by T.S. Eliot: "It starts, 'April is the cruelest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Mem --' Ooh! Here it is." He basically finds it in the first place he looks. A question: Would God really require the actual book? I mean, it seems like if anyone could memorize poetry… He brings it over to her, saying, "'The Waste Land.'" Joan thinks that's perfect for her: "It's like my life." GodFella tells her, "It's all about spring cleaning. Dragging things out into the light. How hard it is to look at our own dirt. How comfortable is it to be in denial. The idea about April being the cruelest month? Cruel in its beauty. Cruel in its insistence upon resurrection." Joan says she's not even annoyed with him: "I'm glad I helped Tuchman. I can even admit that you were right. How's that for progress?" He says it's good, but she's not finished. Joan: "I know. I know. I am never finished. I get that you're not ever going away." He's talking about the cleaning: "There's still a big stain on your carpet." Joan instantly gets defensive about the state of her bedroom, and how you could eat off her floor or perform surgery on it. Frink: "Why does she need to be so literal all the time? That banter is so tiresome." GodFella tells her, "It's not in your room, Joan?" Joan: "Then where is it?" He smiles: "You know." Joan: "Yes, I do know. I just like the sound of my own confusion." GodFella: "You know where it is. It still feels unclean. It's like, uh…spiritual spinach in your teeth. Clean it up, Joan. You'll feel better." Don't you hate it when you've got spiritual spinach in your teeth and your deity doesn't tell you? He takes the Eliot and walks out. Joan traces her finger over the cash register and rubs the dust off her fingers thoughtfully. Man. I think she gets to be mad for more than, like, a week.
Adam's in his shed, welding. Joan comes in as he stops and turns his back. He hears the door close and turns, surprised to see her. She's carrying the file box of stuff he gave back to her. Noting the welding, she manages a small but sincere smile as she says, "That's what you were doing the first time I came here. Remember that? How much it freaked you out?" Something about Chris Marquette's face -- I think it's a combination of the lighting and his acting -- seems so Season One, that mixture of innocence and puzzlement and hurt that prevailed. He answers in a low, slightly rough voice, "You made me nervous." Joan: "Really." Adam: "'Cause I liked you so much. I didn't think you'd ever like me, so…" Joan says matter-of-factly, "Well, you were wrong." Adam: "Yeah." She clears her throat, and then puts the box of stuff down. She says she wants all the things he made for her: "Maybe I've earned them." Adam looks slightly confused by this and turns to get the box, when she adds, "You know, I thought I was, uh, cleaning you out of my life…so I could move on. But the real mess wasn't the stuff. It was being mad at you and letting it get so big that I couldn't appreciate what we had. I don't want to lose that, you know?" Adam nods: "Me neither." He gets her box of stuff and brings it to her. They stand there, floundering in pain, anger, longing and sorrow, as Joan thanks him and says, "Good night, then." She heads for the door and Adam hurries to open it for her. They stand there with the box between them, fighting the impulse, the reflex, to kiss, and suffering that horrendous feeling when you know you'll never kiss that person again. Even if it turns out not to be true, ultimately -- it feels all too true in that moment, and it feels like hell. There's not much Adam can say other than, "Good night," so he does, and Joan walks out slowly. He closes the door gently behind her, and she stands outside the door with a tear running from her eye, letting the pain sink down to a deeper level. Through the window, we see Adam return to his welding, retreating behind the mask.