02x02 - Crevasses

Okay, what nationality was "Chop-in"?

(quietly): Chopin.

What the hell is that?

Piano guy.

Ew. Just guess a country.



Delaware's a state.

(groans) State, country.

(gasps) Ooh!



What's "pol-ish"?


It's where Poles are from.

You'd love it there, Lindsers.


Sport and leisure.

What's the first letter on the typewriter?

(scoffs) A.

Wrong. Q.


Q? Q?

Why Q?

It just says "Q."

Why would Q be first?

Barely any words use Q's.

Q's are like the elbows of letters.

What does that mean?

(laughs) You're so funny.

It should totally be A.


I should get a pie.

(gasps) I want a pie!



You thought we meant real pie, didn't you?

Want a pie? I can make you a pie.

Oh, Edgar. (laughs)

You don't have to make me a coconut cream pie.

Then you'd have to go to the store for me and also buy me ice cream and tampons why you're there.

I am learning so much from this game.

That the National Air and Space Museum isn't named after some guy named Aaron Space?


That Edgar will do things for me.

Ever since I owned the mic at Becca's stupid surprise baby party, he's been riding my jock hard.

You did what now?

I sang Kate Bush.

It was crazy.

Just preheating the oven.

You're sweet!

My turn.

Oh, my God! Are you not done?

Science and nature.

Who was the first man in space?



Let me see.

I know Louis Armstrong.

Buzz Lightyear?

The name Kurt Loder is coming to mind.

That does sound familiar.

Yuri Gagarin!

It's Yuri Gagarin.

Louis Armstrong was a jazz trumpeter.

Buzz Lightyear is a cartoon.

And Kurt Loder was a VJ for MTV, about whom the only connection to space travel was that the network's logo was a man in a space suit.

Edgar: Yeah.

I don't know, Jimmy.

That doesn't sound right.

Charles Dickens wrote what 1837 novel about the plight of street urchins?




Edgar: Pie for you.

(door closes)

♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ Gonna leave you anyway ♪

Salinger, Bronte, Ralph Ellison, Sylvia Plath.

The expectation of a second novel can paralyze some.

But what is there to be afraid of?

I received an only positive adjacent review in The Times.

If you look past Michiko Kakutani's thinly veiled ethnocentrism and scorching ephebiphobia.

But am I afraid?


Writing is fear.

To say that I allowed fear to cripple me would be to say that I am not, in fact, a writer, which would be akin to saying, "Lo, condemn me thus back to the earth, for I am no more."

Wait, so do you or do you not have something for me to read?

You're my agent, right?

It's your job to find me work while things percolate on the follow-up.

Jimmy, I can't get you any more magazine work after Megan Thomas sued you for writing about having s*x with her.

Chuck Klosterman sent me a bottle of scotch for that one.

I do get calls for people needing translation work, research assistant, novelization of movies... there's a popcorn catalog that needs a copywriter.

(groans) Forget it!

Just hearing those horrific choices has fueled my fire.

I can tell that the big idea is right around the corner.

In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I start flying through those pages any day now.

Nope, would not be surprised at all.

He'll have another.

I'll get the tab.

But this is really stretching the definition of the word "meeting," Jimmy.



Jimmy: What?!

Where's the Bloody Mary bar?

What the hell? Edgar!


It is Sunday, right?



Oh, my God.

I don't think he's home.

It's all right.

We're adults.

We can do this ourselves.


Well, I know it involves vodka and tomato juice.

Well, we have a tomato.

I'm sure that's fine.


We have carrots.

Same thing, basically.



Don't you think it's time you got your own stuff?

I mean, you're wearing my clothes, using my toothbrush...


Listen, I'm perfectly fine having you as a girlfriend.


But not as a dependent.

I'll get stuff.

But where in your mind's eye do you see me putting said stuff once I get it?

You know, where you keep things.

You mean, the three trash bags on the floor in the corner?

Uh-huh, Gretchen's corner.

Fine. Look.

If there's space that I'm not using that can't be, you know, seen, it's yours.


There's no room for me in my own house!

Sorry, your house?

Fine-- our house.


When I was a kid, I'd say come over and watch Skin-amax and drink Zima in "my house" or "our house," not "the house my parents bought."

Well, they should've corrected you on that.

(clears his throat)


(laughter nearby)

Hey, guys!

You have one job on Sundays; one!

What were you thinking not being here?

My fault-- I made him take me to get football costumes.

Edgar: Yeah, everything's in the Bloody Mary drawer.

I'll show you.

It's super easy...

What's going on?

You've never watched a sport in your life.

Gretch, I need to get over Paul.

And apparently, on Sundays, they have these sports bars full of horny macho dumb-dumbs whose girlfriends are all at home.

Plus wings.

You do love wings.

I need a bo-hunk.

Paul was such a gump.

Get this-- he told me the definition of love is putting someone else's needs above yours.


I know.

Meanwhile, Edgar's being so nice.

He knows I'm hurting so he keeps doing stuff for me.

Just be careful with him, okay?

Edgar, let's hit the wing place before the game starts.

Jimmy: Yeah.

We'll ride with you.

There's a Towels & Stuff in that mall where Gretchen can buy a toothbrush and other things adults own.

You're gonna help me shop?

Hell, no.

I'm going for literary inspiration.

I'm not finding it here, so maybe I'll find it amongst the diabetic masses of the American shopper.

I'm like Thoreau, only the mall shall be my Walden.


(all laughing)

I would've found that eventually.


Mmm! (sniffs)

This way!


Hang out with me first.

What do you want to do?

♪ Hey, I do what I want, I do, I do what I want ♪
♪ I do what I want, I do, I do what I want ♪
♪ Hey ♪
♪ You ain't my daddy ♪
♪ Hoppin' in the Caddy ♪
♪ Pullin' into Cali, ow... ♪
♪ I do what I want, I do, I do what I want ♪
♪ Get off my phone ♪
♪ I do what I want, I do, I do what I want ♪
♪ Hear a dial tone ♪
♪ If you ain't hear it on the first hang up ♪
♪ I do what I want, I do, I do what I want ♪
♪ I do what I want ♪
♪ Hey ♪
♪ VIP line ♪
♪ You got out the line ♪
♪ Boys got a wrist band, trying to be my boyfriend ♪
♪ I do what I want ♪
♪ Break them like a piggy bank ♪
♪ I do what I want ♪
♪ Rollin' on E like a gas tank ♪

That's your boyfriend.

(Gretchen chuckles)

That's your girlfriend.


That's your boyfriend.


Yes, he is.


I love my boyfriend.

Do you really?

♪ I do what I want, oh ♪
♪ I'm in the end zone ♪
♪ Try and tackle me I'm so gone ♪
♪ Pull up to the bank in the armored truck ♪
♪ They call me lady luck... ♪

This is sh1t! Derivative trifle!

The composition is wretched.

Tonal harmony nonexistent.

Don't even get me started on the perspective.

Blue ribbon?

This contest is a sham.


♪ I do what I want, oh ♪

Oh, what next? What next?

Go buy your crap. I have to work now.


No whining, woman!

Let the observation... begin.

And they have four chances to get said ten yards.

Now, before I get into some of your various offensive packages, I'm reminded of when my older brother Salazar took me to see a Raider game.

We were so far away, but to me, it was like being on the field.

And then he sold crank to a Chargers fan in the men's room and we used the money to go to Applebee's.

You know what I think?

I think... that's my guy.

At the bar.

Over there, with the shoulders.

All right, go to it.

Go to what?

Go wing man for me.

Oh, okay.

How many wings should this man go get you?


Go talk to that cute guy for me.

Oh, but now that you mention it, I could use some more wings, too.

Okay, here I go.




Can I help you find something?


Do you have any puppies?

(laughs): Oh, wait... this isn't a dog store.

(laughs, then cries)

Jimmy: Daisy and Mort met in Buenos Aires in 1968.

Daisy worked at a hat factory.

Mort lived as an Ashkenazi Jew, but really he was a Nazi war criminal.

No, that's dumb.

Who cares?

Megan was just like any other 15-year-old girl.

She loved social media, hated her parents, and lived and died by the fluctuating attention from boys.

But what most people didn't know was that Megan was actually... a Nazi war criminal.

Aah! What's wrong with me?

Excuse me?


Uh, your job must be tedious and bleak.

Tell me about it.

Ah, sure. Well, so far it's a sweet-ass gig.

I get walk around macking on hoes all day.

And nobody in the food court busses their trays, so I eat like a king.

And if I don't want to chase a shoplifter, I don't.

I go smoke a bowl out on the delivery bay and wait for him to bail with the merch.

Plus, I get to work for my best friend Eric, who's a sweetheart.

Ah, he's got sickle cell, but he's real positive about it.

So, yeah, I guess, all in all, this job really fits my lifestyle.

Why do you ask?

Oh, um...

I'm a writer.

I was looking for a subject.

So, let me ask you something.

If you were offered the job, would you write, say, a novelization of a movie?

Are you serious?

Bec-because I would love that!

Oh, my God. Wait right here.

I'm gonna be right back!

(quietly): Come on, come on.

Oh, my God.

(rapid buzzing nearby)

What is that? That is delightful!


Hey, uh... wha-what's your name?

Thanks, but I'm just not interested.

Wh... what? No.

I'm not gay, no.

My friend, over there, with the sauce on her face, she wanted me to come, uh, talk to, talk to you for her.

Well, tell her thanks, but I'm actually gay.




Wait, you said you weren't interested in me.


But you're gay.


I don't understand.

I can't do it.

I can't buy stuff.


It's like, my old stuff was just stuff I accrued over time.

Crap I stole during my shoplifting days.

sh1t I inherited from that old lady who thought I was her granddaughter.

And now I have to completely furnish, from scratch, the life of an adult woman and I have no clue how to do that.

Anyway, Jimmy doesn't even want to make space for me in his house.

That's why you need stuff, Gretch.

To stake your claim.

Get your sh1t up in those crevasses.

Besides, stuff is the best.

You can never get lonely with stuff.

And there are so many examples of stuff-- ice cube trays shaped like high heels.


Smaller towels for your butt.

Chairs, which I guess are also for your butt.

Okay, got it.

Man: Wait, so you... like her, but you're trolling for dudes for her?

What a bitch.

She is so using you.

Instead of talking to dudes for her, you should be lining up some sweet ass for yourself.

Or if you prefer it-- "hot puss."

You're right.

You see that cocktail waitress with the brown hair?

(scoffs) Yeah.

She's our friend of ours. and she needs to stop dating (louder): married baseball players.

I'll introduce you.

Okay, thanks.

And then once you get her number...


...bring your friend a wet wipe.

You've been standing here for 20 minutes.

Can I help you find something?

No, I'm fine.

I'm waiting for someone.

My son... actually.


Cart paralysis.

It's very common.

What do you need to get?

Everything! (laughs)

I just moved in with my boyfriend and I don't have any stuff except for a food processor and, like, 19 thongs, because even though at first we were like, "I am not wearing that," the patriarchy somehow convinced us that visible panty lines were unacceptable, so now I've just grown accustomed to the feeling of a fabric rope against my actual asshole all day.

And anyway, even if I did buy the stuff of a life, there's nowhere for me to put it because I'm not sure this dude really wanted me to move in because I'm an irresponsible monster who burned down her apartment with her vibrator!

I'm just gonna leave you with this checklist for college freshmen.

"Hair dryer. Hair dryer..."

"Shower shoes."

More wings.


I said I'll tell you when I've had enough.

I really like your shirt-- it shows off your shoulder.

Did you find everything you need?

Why, yes, I did. Thank you.

And, like, 20 things I didn't know existed.

Little dryer balls that beat the sh1t out of your clothes?

A banana holder?

Get off the counter, banana, you fancy now.

And I'm gonna make my own soda.

Can I make champagne?

Don't know. Gonna try.



Starting a whole new life.

It's scary but... I'm doing it.

This is a lot of stuff.

Did you need help with any storage solutions today?

Please don't.

I'm so sorry.

Where's your stuff?

Why do I have to go buy everything?

Uh, because you have nothing.

I know!

But why do I have to be the one making all the adjustments?

How has your life changed since I moved in, other than you get all of this next to you every night?

Not one bit.

Any change for you is purely theoretical.

"Oh, I live with someone now."

Big stinking deal. I have nothing.

I told you, we would find room for your things.

I don't want to live around you, Jimmy.

I don't want to live in the crevasses.

I'm not moss!


See you later.

Man: There you are.

So... what movie are we adapting?


Oh, no, it was a hypothetical.

And for me, not for you.

But I just quit my job.

Damn it! This keeps happening to me.

Oh, my God!

I told Eric to suck my dick!

Why would I do that?

I love that guy.

I-I, I got your text.

What's the crisis?

And h-h-how do you still have buffalo sauce on your face?

I went to the mall today looking to take my mind off how lonely I am and maybe hook up with a nice guy.

Turns out, I was looking in the wrong place.

The answer was right in front of me the whole time.

My phone!

I don't need to be looking in the real world.

I need to be looking online.

So, what am I doing here?

I need sexy photos for my profile.

I can help.

So, are you going to, uh, call that cute waitress you were talking to?

Nah. We have nothing in common.


How did you get wing sauce down there?

Russell, it's Jimmy.

Um, those jobs you mentioned-- you can find me something.

Probably not the popcorn thing.

Also, this counts as a meeting, so you owe me a drink.

(phone beeps)

(door opens, footsteps approach)

Hey. Um... listen.

I understand that my actions could lead you to feel a bit unwelcome, and I'll work on not being such a control freak.

I mean, this is your house, too.

So, I made you... a nightstand.

It's called a KlĂźf.

Cool, thanks.

What, what is that? What are you doing?

Why-why are you doing that?

Well, you just said it's my house, too, so I'm just putting some art on our walls.


But you see, ev-everything here is meticulously curated so...

I don't know, Jimmy.

I really like this poster.

Look at that cat.

He's so cool.

All right.

If you really want me to feel comfortable here maybe there's another way.

What about the-the KlĂźf?

You can use it. I'll just take yours.

Thank you for making room for me.

You're welcome.

I like our place.

Me, too.

Guess what Paul's definition of love is.


Putting someone else's needs above yours.


I know.

He's such a gump.

Come on, let's tackle the closet.