[SOULFUL MUSIC]
Bye.
[SINGING IN SPANISH]
Can I have one more?
Thanks.
I'm cold.
[DOOR CREAKS]
[DOOR CREAKS]
[KNOCKING]
[FOOTSTEPS]
[SHUFFLING]
[WATER RUNNING]
[MOANING]
[SANDING]
[BLOW]
[SANDING]
f*ck!
[DRYER DOOR]
[DRYER DOOR]
[CLOTHES HANGER]
You want to walk around
outside for a while?
What if we run
into the neighbors?
I need a fix.
[SIGHS]
[BREATHING]
[SHUFFLING]
Ah, damn.
[KEYS JINGLING]
Where is she?
[ENGINE STARTS]
[TURN SIGNAL INDICATOR]
[MUFFLED SHOUTING]
sh*t.
[DOOR CREAKS]
[HEAVY BREATHING]
[ERRATIC BREATHING]
sh*t.
sh*t.
[DOOR CLOSES]
[ERRATIC BREATHING, SNIFFLING]
[FOOTSTEPS]
We're busted.
Maybe she's alone.
What should we do?
"It is vain for
the coward to flee.
Death follows close behind.
It is only by defying it that
the brave escape--" Voltaire.
[HEAVY BREATHING]
[DOORBELL RINGS]
[DOOR CREAKING]
Hello?
Anyone there?
[DOOR CREAKING]
[DOOR CLOSES]
Who are you?
Do I know you?
Is there anyone else in here?
No.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
Why are we whispering?
What's your name?
It's Ivy.
I live here.
No, you don't.
My grandmother lives here.
What do you mean you live here?
There's not even
furniture in here.
Are you going to hurt me?
Am I going to hurt you?
Are you going to hurt me?
You just walk in on us in the
middle of the night, vulnerable?
Am I going to hurt you?
Who's "us"?
Just tell me.
If you're going to hurt
me, I have to know now.
Sh, sh, sh.
Why are you shushing me?
You woke him.
Who?
Our neighbor.
Neighbor?
What neighbor?
You have no neighbors.
Let's go take a walk.
OK.
[DOOR CREAKING]
[DOOR CLOSING]
Why are you locking the door?
It's OK.
Just watch out for scorpions.
What?
Where?
Vegas.
Everywhere.
In the condo?
No.
[LAUGHS] Oh my God.
So when I first saw the two
of you, I felt relieved, and--
I saw you the first
time you came in.
Who's the guy on the floor?
My friend.
He's pretty.
Why wasn't he in bed with you?
Why was he on the floor?
Well, we don't
f*ck, and he hasn't
been able to sleep on a mattress
for the past six months.
Sorry we scared you.
I mean...
Sorry.
We scared you.
Well, I'm literally afraid
of living alone by myself.
Monophobia.
Yes, monophobia.
That's right.
No one I've ever met has --
where'd you learn that word?
Well, I've only been on an
airplane once in my life.
And there was a magazine-- and
there was a crossword in it--
in the seat flap in front of me.
"Monophobia" was one
of the solutions.
That was the first and
only time I ever flew.
That was the first and only time
I ever did a crossword puzzle.
You remember firsts.
Like, I remember
the first time I
smoked crack but
not like the second
or the third or the fourth.
You can forget I
said that last part.
So did you ever
experience any real trauma
when you lived alone?
Never lived alone.
I went straight from living
under my parent's roof
to my grandma's apartment to
dormmates, to my own apartment,
where my boyfriends would stay
the night or to their apartments
when they wouldn't.
So yeah, I guess I've
never lived alone.
You moved from your parents'
to your grandparents'?
Yeah, I didn't have
any other choice.
Sorry.
We're kind of nomads.
We're homeless just now.
Or no, that's not right, is it?
We found your door unlocked.
We get lucky like
that sometimes.
Open houses sometimes.
Why did you say your
grandma lives there?
Nobody lives there, not for
the past three days, anyway.
Don't call the police.
We were only going to
stay a little longer.
[DOG BARKING]
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
It's OK, sweetheart, come here.
Go.
Get out.
Go, go, go.
Hi--
I'm sorry.
Hey, let's go.
Go, go.
[DOG BARKING]
Are you OK?
You want to go back inside?
No.
Why did you move in
with your grandma?
Well, when I was
10 years old, I had
a big sister and
a little sister,
a mother who loved her
mother and a father
who hated his mother-in-law.
Every Sunday, Dad used to
drive us up to Grandma's house.
She lived up in Sheepshead
Bay in Brooklyn,
in the same old railroad-shaped
two-bedroom apartment
she'd lived in since 1950.
The place always
reeked of borscht.
I never cared for it.
I prefer split pea.
[CHUCKLES] Dad drove a station
wagon, classic, terrible gas
mileage, but, man, did me and
my sisters love that thing.
We'd be crawling back and
forth from the back seat
to the rear of the
wagon and back again,
foraging for secret treasures.
There were secret treasures?
Sometimes.
When we finally got
to Grandma's house,
Dad would just drop us
off, like an Uber driver,
and he'd head straight
off to the movies alone.
He'd see two movies, that's
how much he hated my grandma.
But first he'd drink, that's
how much he hated himself.
But still, well, sometimes he'd
hide little secret treasures
for his girls to find in
the folds of the blankets
in the back seat, that's
how much he loved us.
Then one Sunday morning,
we were all getting dressed
for grandma's.
My parents had been
fighting from daybreak.
Broke my mother's heart that my
dad hated her mother so much.
She was pregnant,
again, seven months.
She'd been praying for a boy.
The last words my father ever
said to me as he backed out
of the driveway were, "Ivy,
put your seat belt on."
I can't explain it,
but even though I
was the only one in that car
wearing a seat belt, the beeping
sound that goes off when the
driver and the front seat
passenger aren't
wearing theirs--
silent that day, muted.
It's like the belts
themselves were
part of this
otherworldly conspiracy.
And you know the guardrails
on the Southern State Parkway
on Long Island on the
route to Brooklyn?
They're made out of wood,
still are, even today.
Yeah, well, that
old station wagon
turned those guard
rails into splinters.
f*ck.
My mother screamed.
None of the rest of us screamed.
We didn't know enough to.
Well, the car
overturned into a gully.
I was the only survivor.
So that's when my grandma
took custody of me.
Grandma, she didn't want me
growing up fearful of driving,
so as soon as I was old enough
to get my learner's permit,
she decided she was going to get
hers too, her first one, at 60.
[CHUCKLES] We took our
road test the same day,
and Grandma fell in love with
driving after the accident.
And then when it came time
for me to go to college,
well, Grandma wanted
to go back too.
You know, the first thing I did
when I moved in with my grandma
was go to the movies,
my dad's old hideout.
I described him to all
the managers there.
They all still remembered him.
They thought he was cool.
Why did your dad hate
your grandma so much?
Well, see, Grandma was
always telling my mom
all that she was doing wrong
in raising us and telling
him all that he was doing
wrong in raising us.
And my dad, he didn't
like anybody telling him
how to raise his
children, and he
didn't like anybody
telling the woman he
loved how to raise hers either.
But my mother, she
loved her mother.
She even cut her hair
like grandma, [CHUCKLES]
all ugly, short, unflattering.
My dad hated it.
But it was her tribute.
Grandma used to always call
our pediatrician a shoemaker.
[CHUCKLES] I'm not exactly
sure how that's an insult,
but, boy, did she like to spit
out those words at her daughter
and her son-in-law.
Well, how did you
feel about all that?
Well, I liked my shoemaker.
I never blamed Grandma
for the accident.
She never blamed herself.
I'll talk to her
about it someday.
What did your father do...
before?
He was a mad man.
Excuse me?
I mean in every
sense of the word.
He worked on Madison
Avenue in market research,
advertising, statistics.
I don't know what he did.
Those guys are
supposed to be wild,
drinking, tax shelters to
hide their excessive bonuses,
infidelities.
Did he cheat?
No, he didn't cheat.
I could hear him and my mom
having sex all the time.
You never told
him to get a room?
It was his room.
"Ivy, you put your
seat belt on."
Do you remember the last words
your father ever said to you?
My parents are still alive.
So what are you
going to do here?
Well, after high school, I
enrolled in a two-year school,
community college,
mostly so I could
keep living with
my grandma, but I
guess I really wanted
to learn something too,
only I transferred
out as soon as I
discovered they offered a fully
accredited course in bowling.
[CHUCKLES]
So what are you both doing here?
Well, Grandma, she used to study
20th Century Western European
History as a major at a
four-year school when she was
young.
She was always wicked-smart.
[CHUCKLES] God, bowling!
Around the time
I dropped out was
when she started getting
spooked at her old apartment,
said she was seeing apparitions
of my mother, her daughter,
decided she couldn't
live there anymore.
So she sold the place,
wanted to move far away.
She firmly believes
California is
going to sink right into
the ocean in her lifetime,
so we both applied to
UNLV, we both got accepted,
me as a transfer student.
We wanted to live off
campus, so we came down here
a couple months ago,
bought this place.
Well, she bought it.
Movers packed us up
already, but Grandma
said she wanted to drive,
told me I should fly in,
get a head start at making
this place livable for us.
What?
What's funny?
Beat you to it.
[CHUCKLES] You know, my
flight was canceled last night
due to violent storms
forecast to pass through here.
Were there any violent
storms here last night?
I...
don't know.
I got rebooked on
another late flight
to Phoenix, rented a car there
at midnight, drove all night,
cried the entire
five hours until I
got to a supermarket
that was open 24 hours.
There where people,
slot machines.
Well, hey, maybe if you had done
the in-flight crossword puzzle,
it would have taken your
mind off the possibility
of the plane crashing.
First flight?
I'm not afraid of flying.
I like roller coasters, too.
And I survived the crash.
What's your name?
Ingrid.
Ingrid.
Ingrid, who's the
man on the floor?
I trust that man with my life.
Have you ever trusted
anyone with your life?
My dad.
I suppose my dad.
I trusted him with my life.
So you've never
had your own place?
I did once for about a
year, my sex apartment.
First guy, I met him
on a dating site.
He worked in radio
and had a great voice.
Our first date was the night
I moved into my apartment.
On our second date,
he undressed me.
He was good, took
direction well.
Sometimes he didn't
even need any.
We saw each other for six
months, spent every single night
together, except on nights
he went away for work.
I went and stayed
with my grandma.
And then one night after sex--
well, actually one
morning after sex--
he went to go take a shower, and
I started changing the sheets.
And that's when I found them.
What's the vernacular?
Skid marks, yeah, skid marks--
that's what I found,
on his side of the bed.
[LAUGHS] Well, maybe
he farted in his sleep.
Or you, maybe you
farted in your sleep.
Right?
I didn't know what to do,
panicked, ran for the hills,
took the bleakest view of
having to wash fecal matter out
of my sheets the moment
he walked out the door.
[CHUCKLES] I called him later
that night from my grandma's,
told him I had
unresolved feelings
about my last
boyfriend, a Black man.
Why the f*ck did I say
he was a Black man?
[CHUCKLES]
Well, did you have unresolved
feelings about a Black man?
Never.
In terms of people
with penises, he's
about as good as I ever got.
What makes you think your
grandma's really coming here?
I'm just saying.
[CLANGING DISHES]
[SOUND OF URINATING]
Hi.
[SOUND OF URINATING]
Hey, can I ask you a question?
You have a symmetrical name.
A vowel, a consonant, and
a letter that's a hybrid.
What's your grandma's name?
Ursula.
Close.
It starts and ends
with vowels, anyway.
Hey, let's go swimming.
OK.
Do you have a swimsuit?
Do I have a swimsuit?
No.
[SOUND OF SWIMMING]
Have you ever had
a great romance?
Almost, skid mark guy.
That was an almost.
How long were you together?
Seven months-- six months.
I haven't given up
on men altogether.
It's just so hard having
so many preconceptions.
Misconceptions.
I've never had any
misconceptions about girls.
My friend's name is Ian.
You're not from
New York, are you?
I don't have an accent.
I grew up in New York.
No way, me too.
What part?
Long Island, Massapequa.
f*ck me.
Massapequa High School?
Yeah.
Me too.
I don't believe you.
And how old are you?
Younger than I look.
I'm not vain about my age.
It's just that,
existentially, I'm a hot mess.
Both my parents
are gynecologists.
That's convenient.
[SCOFFS] My dad stopped having
sex with my mother as soon
as she became pregnant
with Abigail, my sister.
After Abigail was
born, they both sort of
lost interest in
it, in each other.
The problem was she decided
she wanted another kid.
She?
Yeah, at 43.
The way my mom tells
it, she r*ped my father.
She planned the whole
thing meticulously.
It started when she said she
wanted to check his prostate--
and she really did-- to
see if it was enlarged.
He'd never had a colonoscopy
before, pathological fear.
So that was the
ruse, anyway, and she
knew that her examination
would get him hard.
And after that, he was
putty in her hands.
The next day, he accused her of
violating her Hippocratic oath.
And her response
to this accusation?
Violate another oath.
She had an affair with a model.
And Dad left her,
a fait accompli.
No drama, at least
not for my mother.
Dad didn't know she
was already pregnant.
The model didn't know
she was pregnant either.
And my parents reconciled
two weeks before I was born.
You need a scorecard.
[CHUCKLES] Boy, was
I ever unplanned.
I'm an afterthought.
I have a niece I've never met.
Why did they name you Ingrid?
Ingrid Bergman, star of
the movie Casablanca.
My dad liked blondes.
My sister is 20
years older than me.
Twenty years?
What does she do?
Gynecologist.
Where is she now?
Scandinavia.
To live?
Early this century she'd just
graduated medical school,
and she went on a
two week holiday
to Norway to see the fjords,
the glaciers, tour Finland.
In Helsinki, she met a man
from Oslo, and two weeks
after that she was
learning Norwegian.
[CHUCKLES] Blondes.
Do you even remember her?
Abigail?
Well, the only vivid
memory I have of her
is the day she babysat me,
and we played Operation.
You ever hear of that?
Mhm.
She made me nervous.
My sister made me nervous.
I kept banging that metal stick
into every internal body part,
and she screamed that
I'd k*lled the patient
and that I didn't even
have any insurance.
The patient didn't
have insurance?
No, me.
I didn't know.
I was six.
I'd never heard the word
"insurance" in my life.
But sure as sh*t, I didn't have
any, so I was royally screwed.
Because of the
difference in our age,
I grew up on my
own, a scallywag.
And when I was nine, my parents
kept the basement door locked,
and that's where they kept
the washer and the dryer.
And scallywags
tend to get dirty.
And the basement was
bizarrely soundproofed.
I had to know what kind of
evil was going on down there.
And there was a kid at
school who was constantly
breaking into kid's lockers, so
I paid him to come over one day
and pick the lock.
I didn't think my
parents were home.
We crept down the stairs, and
he went to work on the door
to my father's study.
And I pulled the
door open 2 inches,
and my father was singing,
serenading my mother in Gaelic.
His grandfather was Irish.
Gynecologist?
Yeah.
Then they noticed I was there,
and they both looked at me.
None of us spoke.
I felt like I'd just
invaded something sacred.
And they stopped locking the
basement door after that.
And I was sneaking
around in his office.
I found his journal and pictures
taken at Church of the Rock,
which is in Helsinki.
My best friend growing up got
her tubes tied when she was 21,
not a thing wrong with her.
Now, that's what I call
making a statement.
Stop spying on us.
Just come in.
No.
I just wanted to ask Ian if
I could read one of the books
on the bookshelf.
No.
No?
Really?
No?
My grandfather wrote a book.
You can read that one.
It's not great literature, but
it's a love story for the ages.
Great.
Where is it?
Are you decent?
Are you decent?
[SIZZLING]
How am I doing?
That's perfect.
Do you drink wine?
I picked up both red and white.
Why don't you open that bottle?
I don't drink.
OK.
Look, I'm...I'm afraid of
sharp things, of bleeding.
Like, with the dog, I love dogs.
Just one scratch and--
yeah, so I'm HIV-positive,
so I don't even
touch people unless they
already know I'm sick first.
I know it's irrational, but--
give me the corkscrew.
[CORKSCREW RATTLING]
Ian likes to touch me.
That's all.
Just he touches me...
sometimes.
[POP]
That smells really good.
When I was first diagnosed,
I was given medication
at Planned Parenthood.
But they're not supposed
to anymore because I keep
missing...
skipping visits.
But they do.
[WINE BEING POURED]
[CLANG]
Did you see the closet in there?
Yeah, that's what sealed
the deal for Grandma
to buy this place.
Ah, sh*t!
I forgot to buy bedding.
Come see my dress.
[SHUFFLING]
Too much?
No.
You keep staring at it.
You never shave?
Razors are expensive.
Well, yes, too much
for my taste, but, hey.
Raise your right arm.
Higher.
Now let me see all of you.
You didn't bring any
bedding with you?
Boxes are being shipped.
It's going to take 10 more days.
Did you pack any treasures?
Marionette, a Russian ballerina.
Grandmother's mother used to--
she modeled for it.
You found it in the back of
the station wagon, didn't you?
Not on that day.
I don't remember any
treasures that day.
And you still sleep with it?
If I'm alone.
Is it pretty?
Yes.
You're pretty.
[DOORBELL RINGS]
UPS delivery!
I'm a makeup artist.
I'm unkempt, like a yeti.
I'm a paradox.
But really, how many people
get to be a paradox, huh?
In high school, I tried
out for Drama Club,
the school play, The Music Man.
For my audition, I sang
"Till There Was You."
It was a Saturday afternoon, and
the student director, a senior,
Nick--
I'd never spoken
to a senior before.
It was just he and I
and this other senior,
who played the piano,
in this vast auditorium.
And after I sang my
song, Nick thanked me
and told me to come
back Monday morning.
And I walked into the wings--
you can lose yourself
in the wings--
and backstage.
And there was a
makeup kit there left
by someone, a full makeup kit.
I stole it.
I have no idea why.
I watched movies
all weekend long,
and I worked on myself in
the mirror all weekend long,
experimenting with makeup.
And by Monday
morning, I discovered
I had an aptitude for it,
a natural aptitude for it.
After school on
Monday, Nick told me
that my singing was terrible,
and I was so relieved.
But I asked if I could do the
makeup for the show instead.
I don't know where
that courage came from.
And we stared at each other
for literally an eternity,
four minutes.
[CHUCKLES] He said
he had a gut feeling.
He wanted me on his team,
not on anyone else's team.
He said that.
So he drafted me
as the makeup girl.
I was a freshman.
Everyone except one other actor
or member of the technical staff
were seniors, one junior.
But on his team
age was irrelevant,
at a time in life when
age was always relevant.
For the first time in years,
I had a sense of belonging.
Each day after
rehearsals, they'd
take me with them to this
Italian restaurant, Cristianos.
No one was old enough to
drink, but there were pitchers
of beer, food too, but beer.
They were my family.
Then they graduated, and
I became a sophomore.
Most went to Europe or
Costa Rica for the summer
and then on to college.
No more friends.
No more team.
Not even the director?
Nick-- [CHUCKLES]
there was a party
after the second performance.
He pulled me aside.
He thanked me for my work.
Then he shook my
hand, [CHUCKLES]
and then he hugged me.
He said we'd work
together again.
I should wait for the call.
Pretty arrogant.
I sleepwalked through sophomore
and junior years of high school.
Four years later, I
get a call from Nick,
from the director of
that high school play
that I was too scrawny and
tone-deaf to act and sing in.
Amazing.
He'd made a film that was in
the Sundance Film Festival
the year before, and
he said he'd just
been signed to direct a movie
for Netflix, in Los Angeles,
and he wanted me to
be the makeup artist.
When does that happen?
He's 25 years old.
I'm 22 years old.
I said I'd do it.
Talk about a man of his word.
Wait.
How did you meet Ian?
Hitchhiking...
to Los Angeles for the gig.
I suppose I was hoping
for an adventure.
I'd never hitchhiked in my life.
I decided I was going to get
in the first car that stopped,
first car, first driver.
Five minutes-- I
waited five minutes...
bam!
Car stops for me.
Enter Ian, stage left.
He told me to jump in, that
he was headed to Vegas,
and his car had about 2,400
good miles left in it.
[CHUCKLES] And when
I was a little girl,
my favorite candy was
Whoppers, malted milk ba*ls.
I glanced down to the
passenger seat of the car,
and there was an
extra-large box of Whoppers.
It was fate.
You never made it
to Los Angeles.
When Ian was in middle school,
he signed up to learn German.
Your options were
Spanish, French, German,
and Chinese, Mandarin.
He took German, and he
had a proclivity for it.
So when he was 13, his parents--
one's a lawyer, one's a doctor--
they told him they'd pay for his
college education, full ride.
So he went to college.
He stayed on for his master's,
then his PhD, and two years
into researching and
writing his dissertation,
the school announced
a new policy
eliminating the requirement
for dissertations.
He did not care for
that new policy.
His parents cared.
They were fed up subsidizing
this endless education,
this non-career.
But he spent four
years working on it--
"Nietzsche and Social
Media in the 21st Century."
Have you read it?
Several times, on
the road, as it were.
So why Vegas?
Make money gambling?
[CHUCKLES] No.
Ian had been offered a position
as a philosophy professor
at UNLV.
Three days we drove.
He talked to me all day and
all night, and I listened.
And he could hear me listen,
and that made him happy.
He told me everything.
About all the books he'd
read and about the authors
who wrote the books.
I could tell he never
had a friend in his life.
He did all the driving.
It was heaven for me.
He got me high that first
night at the Best Western
in State College, Pennsylvania.
He'd finally made a friend.
He kept the light
on all night in case
he suddenly wanted to read.
I can sleep with the lights on.
Then the second
night, we shot up
in the bathroom of
a cr*cker Barrel,
and he drove 90, an intense 90.
We didn't see the America
your grandmother's seeing.
And by the time we
arrived in Vegas,
we'd maxed out our combined
credit and were broke junkies.
We had just enough money left
for a last supper and a midnight
fix, but first we drove to UNLV.
Ian wanted to pick up a printed
copy of the fall semester
catalog.
And there was this picture.
We got back into the car, and
kismet, it wouldn't start.
And Ian said, I told you it had
2,400 good miles left in it.
[CHUCKLES] And we
skipped dinner and dosed.
I was ready to die once,
and it didn't happen.
I don't know that I can...
build up to that again.
Why didn't you go
on to Los Angeles?
Because I was a f*cking junkie.
It happens fast.
When I was a kid, there
was this girl at school
who was a diabetic,
and in the girls' room,
in the gym locker
room, she was always
sticking these ports in her
hips and pins in her fingers,
needles in her arm.
And I thanked God that wasn't
me, and I'm an atheist.
So you had Ian sh**t you up?
Well, when something
is that good, God...
imbues you with courage.
We needed money for dope.
I love that word.
I know it's pass,
but it's sweet.
We started living in tent city,
and I started turning tricks.
After a week, I went to Planned
Parenthood for birth control,
and guess what--
I'm already HIV positive.
And I've never slept with
Ian, but he's stuck by me.
So birth control
became irrelevant.
I also stopped getting my
period around the same time,
and I have no clue why.
I met this one junkie.
She told me she used
to makeup prostit*tes.
But she stopped because makeup
was too expensive, and as nice
as her clients were, nobody
was paying for her stock.
But some of the girls
would still talk to her,
and she introduced me to a few
real high-priced call girls.
And I did one of them,
and that paid good, well,
good enough for...
dope.
But the girls didn't want me at
their houses, around their kids.
And boy oh boy, they see
everything at casinos.
I got banned from all of
them because of the drugs.
How long have you lived here?
[CHUCKLES] "Lived--" good one.
Almost three years.
I met this dealer on
Fremont who was from France,
he only spoke French, and
he would sell at a discount
to anyone who
could speak French.
So I walked into the local
Alliance Francaise one night,
and one month later, our
drugs were half-priced.
You learned a second language?
He got deported...
to France.
I've forgotten all the
French I ever knew.
How do you get used to it?
It's not hard.
I told you, sometimes we'd
find an open door for a day
or so, and this week, we found
your grandma's, Ursula's.
Hey, all four of us
started out in New York,
and we all wound up at UNLV.
Yeah, but you're leaving.
That's right.
We're leaving.
The country.
Where are you going to go?
Canada?
Mexico.
Mexicans are a lot more
compassionate than Canadians.
What are you going
to do in Mexico?
Learn Spanish, tout suite.
One day, not night, day.
One day, this guy
started beating on me.
He was definitely trying
to k*ll me, k*ll somebody,
k*ll something.
Jesus.
Was it a john?
No, just some random
guy high on crack.
I was lucky.
Ian had just been in
a convenience store.
And he came out.
He must have realized what was
happening in a split second.
He k*lled the guy,
shot him three times.
I didn't even know
Ian had a g*n.
Did he have it with
him in the car?
No, but there's a g*n shop
on every corner in town.
It's the Wild West.
The Department of Tourism wants
people to think it's Disneyland,
but it's still the Wild West.
Ian was never arrested?
No.
We just walked away.
He took his shirt
off and did the best
he could blotting up my blood.
And then we turned the corner,
literally, figuratively.
That was the day all my
dreams died for good.
The only thing that
mattered after that
was Ian and the books that
fill his tiny bookshelves
and his bedtime stories
about his grandfather.
Sometimes he would
touch my sex like that.
Ian.
Is that what you call your--
didn't Henry Miller call--
My sex.
I love the formality of it.
It deserves formality.
Immanuel Kant.
Who?
German philosopher,
Immanuel Kant.
He described it as "her sex."
That's one too many
Germans in bed with us.
Henry Miller called it a c**t.
[SNEEZE]
[GIGGLING]
Sh, sh, sh.
[IAN WARMING INGRID'S HANDS]
I'm so cold.
[SOUND OF COFFEE PERCOLATING]
There's a Target nearby.
Would you give me a lift?
Ingrid needs orange juice.
Just the two of us?
Please.
I had a history teacher
in 10th grade, Ms. Gosden,
first and only inspirational
teacher I ever had.
And she dressed provocatively.
Whenever she gave a homework
assignment, I did it,
and I never did homework.
By October, I was teacher's pet.
She said, take this or that
book out of the library
for extra credit.
I'd cut my next class to get
to the library post-haste
so no one could check
it out before me.
I didn't question her
ethics for a moment
when she said to
jump in her car,
she had something
at home to show me.
And she did have
something to show me.
On her night table there was
a book, Beyond Good and Evil
by Friedrich Nietzsche.
I opened the book to its first
page and read the first words.
"Supposing that truth
is a woman, what then?"
Eight words.
It's not that it's unanswerable.
It's that it begs an endless
stream of other questions,
each one more compelling
than the previous one.
Then she showed me how
fellatio is performed.
All right, she
showed me two things.
I read Nietzsche.
I studied Nietzsche
all the next day,
cutting all my
classes except hers.
I conferred with my
guidance counselor...
about the book.
It was one week after
the night of receiving
my first blowjob that I
decided to become a philosophy
professor.
Did you continue the affair?
No.
I had a choice to make,
Ms. Gosden or Nietzsche.
I chose the latter.
She had other students
to sleep with.
Did the experience
leave you scarred?
No.
She'll forever
remain a hero to me.
What's that noise?
The dryer.
I'm washing my underwear.
They were "gamey."
That's what my mom used
to call dirty underwear.
Was there something in
particular about this place that
made you guys stay here?
There was a bed.
There's never a bed.
And there was electricity.
There's almost
never electricity.
And there was toilet paper...
in both bathrooms.
And you were dilatory
in calling 911.
Well, I don't know what
"dilatory" means, but sure.
[CHUCKLES] Why didn't you
turn on the air conditioner?
We don't like air conditioning.
Plus, there was a
fan, three of them.
I'm getting my panties
out of the dryer.
My dad was a lawyer and an ADA.
Kept a g*n.
He had a carry license for it.
My first Halloween,
the first time
I ever went trick-or-treating, I
wanted to dress up as a cowboy.
But he wouldn't let me wear a
holster, carry a cap p*stol.
That was the first time
my dad ever pissed me off.
Before that and after
that, he spoiled me.
Mom was the disciplinarian.
My mother was an orthodontist.
One time, when I
was 12, she said
to meet her at her office,
which was actually in our house.
I forgot the appointment.
She came up to my
room after work
and said I'd no longer be
receiving free dental care.
Idle threat.
I never allowed her to treat
me as a patient after that.
I went to a friend
of hers, Mrs. Spicer,
a dentist who also
worked out of her house.
I never had a cavity, but
one of my upper wisdom teeth
came in but not the bottom one.
And she told me I should really
let her pull it to prevent it
from eventually growing
long enough to do damage
to my lower gums.
She said she'd
give me novocaine,
but before she injected
me, she gave me nitrous.
My first high.
But the real hero of my life was
my maternal grandfather, Lou.
The only one of my four
grandparents I ever got to know.
He said his parents
named him Lou
after they saw the movie Abbott
and Costello Meet Frankenstein.
When I was a kid, he
bought me a VHS copy of it.
It's here, now, with all of us.
Tonight.
To haunt us.
Where?
In my backpack.
Lou was a New York City
Sanitation worker, nothing
more, nothing less,
proud as hell.
He introduced me to balsa wood.
It had a delicacy
the likes of which--
it just felt like books to me.
I made nothing with it.
I just fetishized it.
He would also buy model kits,
monster model kits, dozens.
He would work with
me to assemble
them using rubber cement.
Dracula, Frankenstein, the
Creature from the Black Lagoon.
And then Lou would
create environments
for them made out of balsa wood.
Ian?
I like music for strings.
My babysitter would
always come over
with her violin and practice.
I have a picture of her.
I went to a postgrad
New Year's Eve party
at a dean's home back in
New York four years ago.
There I met the dean of the
Philosophy Department from UNLV.
By the time the
clock struck January,
she'd asked me to
join her department.
I could start that fall.
She brought her prized pupils
with her to the dean's party,
from Vegas.
One decided to brown-nose
the newly-anointed professor.
He gave me a kit, his
personal kit, and heroin.
I tried heroin that
night at the dean's party
in one of his kids' bedrooms.
I might be the first
addict to ever go straight
from nitrous to heroin.
What if, one spring morning,
you're driving down the street
and you've been trying
to get pregnant.
So your mind turns to
the beautiful child
who will soon be umbilically
nurturing inside you.
Then you're jolted back to
the real world by the sight
of a 60-year-old woman in the
crosswalk directly in front
of you.
She sees you coming.
It's too late to
slam on the brakes,
so you swerve up onto
the curb and bounce back
onto the paved street.
Then you get out of
your car, and you
see the woman's dead body.
She died of a heart attack.
Was it your fault?
Do you harbor any guilt?
How long before you
try again to procreate?
Is her death on you?
[ENGINE HUMMING]
It's just a delivery truck.
It's not her.
Okay.
He's calculating
how many heroin hits
he could have bought with the
cost of this rug, isn't he?
Supposing that truth
is a woman, what then?
You know, it actually kind
of sounds misogynistic to me.
That's right.
If we fear truth,
we must fear women.
Quite a syllogism.
Give me another one.
Give me another one?
Please.
You should buy your own copy.
You'll feel as if all the
synapses in your brain
have temporarily fused together.
Why only temporarily?
Because Nietzsche's musings
often contradict one another.
A philosopher who
can't make up his mind?
It's ironic.
Some people say that
peeling back the onion
is an expression often
used in psychotherapy
as a metaphor for
what takes place
during the process
of self-discovery,
but psychotherapy and
philosophy are polar opposites.
How are you going
to get to Mexico?
By the kindness of strangers.
We'll only accept a ride
from a family, though,
and as payment I'll introduce
the children to literature.
I'll teach.
Like busking?
I suppose, sure.
[UNZIPPING]
Whoa.
That book's on life support.
What is it?
It's time for you to meet Lou.
I loved electricity
and billboards.
Electricity was
bigger than life.
I'd go to the movies
in Times Square
when I was your age,
three a day sometimes.
Not to see the pictures, I
went to look at the signs.
Biggest neon signs in New York.
I didn't dream of
being in the movies,
I dreamed about
making those signs.
I tried, but I never did.
After graduating junior high,
I worked 16 hours a day,
every day, summers too.
I loved work.
I worked indoors and outdoors.
Daytime, I worked for
the sanitation department
and as a janitor and
freelance plumber by night.
And that's how I built up the
largest private collection
of tools you have ever seen.
You've seen them.
[GIGGLING]
I'd even repair the tools.
My sanitation truck
partner was Moe.
Like the Three Stooges?
Yeah, a lot like him.
[LAUGHS] He's a
good guy, though,
even though he's a Yankees fan.
[CHUCKLES]
One morning, it was
cloudy, low clouds,
lower than I'd ever seen them.
Martians, I figured.
We turned down 66th Street.
Something caught my eye.
So we jump out the truck, and
on top of this one trash can
was an oddly-shaped
piece of metal.
It was red, not painted red.
It's like red was
its natural color.
I'd never seen junk
like it before.
So I tossed it in the cab.
I figured I'd turn
it into my next tool.
I jump back on.
Moe steps on the gas.
Then I yell, Moe, stop!
I see this woman walking
out of the library.
She was wobbling.
I jumped out of the
truck, and I grabbed her.
And I put her in the cab.
I take her to the hospital.
She looked like an angel.
And her name was Marian.
And that's when the
sun came back out.
[HOSPITAL CAFETERIA CHATTER]
It's called Marfan syndrome.
It's genetic.
As long as it's not
bubonic plague, I'm in.
[CHUCKLES] I'm smitten.
[CHUCKLES] I've smittened you.
Is it bad?
It's really bad.
[CHUCKLES]
My life expectancy is 40,
which is 5 more years.
And sometimes I get
lightheaded, which
is one of the milder
symptoms, and that's
what happened to me this
morning when you saved me.
Do you have family?
Well, I have my mom and
my dad, but they just
look at me with dread and
guilt every time they see me.
No kids?
No husband either.
I want a baby so badly.
But I know that I
would probably be
dead by the time she was
old enough to start school.
That was really
selfish of me, right?
Let's make a baby, you and me.
[CHUCKLES]
I make good money,
two union salaries.
A pity baby?
No.
[CHUCKLES]
You don't want your kid's
pa to be a garbage man.
I wouldn't care if he was an...
if you were an undertaker.
But you're not that.
You're a hero.
Two pensions.
I could put a kid
into a good school.
[CHUCKLES]
Well, I have a life
insurance policy.
You do?
My dad, he used
to sell insurance,
and he bought a policy
for me the day I was born.
He bet against me
right from the start.
[CHUCKLES]
So?
You'll make a baby with me...
today?
Sure.
I have no scruples.
[CHUCKLES]
It's okay if you marry
someone after I die.
Someone else you mean.
What do you say?
Are you seriously
asking me to marry you?
Maybe you won't die.
I'll die.
Candidate for the Booker
Prize, no, but spectacular,
luminous characters.
Did he marry her?
Please.
Two weeks later, but the
conception was that day.
Really?
The honeymoon was in
Marian's apartment.
The wedding night was catered
by Ray's Pizza, the real,
original Ray's.
My mom was born
eight months later.
Every night they read to Violet.
Your mom's name was Violet?
Marian died when her
daughter was two years old.
Lou kept reading bedtime
stories to Violet
every night, the man
who could conjure up
wondrous things using balsa wood
and magical red-colored metals.
I was 10 years
old when Lou died.
Lung cancer.
My parents were in Europe
celebrating their 20th
anniversary.
I came home from
school and found him.
It was the second day of spring.
Who remembers anything about
the second day of spring?
A perilously expensive long
distance phone call to Europe
was out of the question.
Lou was lying on his bed.
Atop his chest
was a folded note.
Where were your parents?
What?
In Europe.
Where in Europe?
I don't remember.
What'd the note say?
"Dear Ian, remember,
always take the plunge."
I used tongs to pluck
the note off his chest.
He k*lled himself?
Jesus, what an as*h*le.
I took a wheelbarrow to the
7-Eleven and bought every bag
of ice in stock.
I put the ice on his body
so his body wouldn't smell,
Didn't even take the
ice out of the bags.
And I stuck a few of his
woodworking tools and a toilet
plunger into a backpack
and ran away from home.
Why the plunger?
That's what I thought
he meant in his note.
Toilets get clogged.
"Take the plunge."
Seemed logical to me.
I was 10.
I never forgave my parents.
For what?
They knew Lou only had
four months to live,
yet off they went to Crete.
What do you know?
I do remember where they were.
I don't think I want to
read any more of this story.
I'll read you another
chapter tomorrow.
You might not want his life
to haunt your dreams, though.
When you can read something
he wrote, out of context,
and have it be so
inspirational to make
manifest this abstract world.
No one I've met since has
made as much sense to me.
Ingrid.
Not even Ingrid.
Wasn't the character
Ingrid tried out
for in Music Man
also named Marian?
Ingrid was hitchhiking.
I picked her up.
You sure are purdy.
[EXHALES]
[SIZZLING]
What's that smell?
I'm staining the bookshelf.
Why'd you make it such
a small bookshelf?
It could fit into
a large dollhouse,
a large, beautiful dollhouse.
It didn't need to be any larger.
I can only accommodate
four books in my backpack
at any given time.
It's...
utilitarian.
I leave each shelf
and its contents
behind each time
we find shelter.
No Nietzsche?
I've memorized Nietzsche.
I hate this time of year.
What, summer?
Late August.
All the troubles
began the first time
I didn't have school to look
forward to, in September.
I can't imagine.
I developed an ulcer.
No sh*t.
Well, my friends, that's it.
Grandma told me it was the most
breathtaking perch in all of Las
Vegas, and I believe her.
I believe her.
Come on, we're going.
[GIGGLES]
Excuse me.
Are you going to the
top of that thing?
That's the plan.
Would you take my
daughter with you?
I suffer from acrophobia.
I don't even know why
I brought her here.
You don't?
"Those you cannot teach to
fly, teach to fall faster."
What?
Please, I'll gladly pay
for everyone's tickets.
What's her name?
Felicia.
Her name is Felicia.
All right, Felicia,
let's get high.
I saw a scorpion yesterday.
That's good luck.
It's like finding
a four-leaf clover.
Like a leprechaun?
Like a girl leprechaun.
I don't want you guys to go.
What's your name?
I'll give you three guesses.
Don't be a jerk.
Ian's name is a secret.
Is his name Ian?
How did you guess?
Funny people.
Three guesses?
Is that what you
told Ingrid when
you picked her up in
New Jersey and she
asked what your name was?
No.
What floated your boat
when you were a kid?
I mean a real
little kid, a tyke.
k*lling spiders.
I would also pour cottage
cheese in public mailboxes.
You know, I'm beginning
to think this whole drug
thing isn't a genetic
predisposition after all.
Maybe it was Grandpa's
rubber cement that
did a job on your frontal lobe.
Ivy, stop.
OK, OK, OK.
That wasn't cool.
I didn't have any friends
my own age either.
I was nine when my parents
decided I no longer needed
a babysitter.
They told me to think
of it as a promotion.
And the rest of the family was
going out for dinner, sashimi.
And I hated sushi, but both
my sisters, they loved sushi,
so off they went.
I couldn't believe my dad
was leaving me all alone.
I was so scared I threw up.
I tried watching TV.
There was this old movie, What
Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
And then I was so
scared, I threw up again.
Our neighbor, who lived across
the street, lived alone.
He was a lapidary, and
he had a daughter my age
who was kind of a friend.
We used to try on
jewelry together.
But his wife divorced him.
And she got custody
of my friend,
and he got custody of the house.
Where was I?
Oh, right, right, scared.
So I ran across the street,
and I rang his doorbell.
I was crying, and he let me in.
And he was the one who gave
me the marionette, not Ursula.
The lapidary.
I'm going to sleep
like a baby tonight.
[CHUCKLES] Grandma was right.
This place slays.
Ivy, right?
Hi.
I can't believe you remember.
Jesus, I'm so sorry.
I seem to have
forgotten your name.
Please forgive me.
Irina.
Irina, right.
This is Ingrid, Ian.
Ingrid?
Right.
You make friends fast.
No one makes friends fast here.
Yeah, well, they were
here when I got here.
What?
What?
Mom, I'll be right there.
I wish I could say he
was here when I moved in.
Here's my card.
Text me if you need me.
And don't get any splinters.
And, oh, watch
out for scorpions.
What are you doing in here?
Exercising.
You know, I've been
considering changing
my major from Early Childhood
Special Education to Philosophy.
Don't.
I don't think philosophy
can be taught.
Not really.
Nietzsche is the
most significant
German-born intellect, his
work the most influential
since Martin Luther nailed a
copy of his Ninety-five Theses
to the door of
Wittenberg Castle.
Every observation
Nietzsche made can
be parsed distinctly,
unlike the Gospels,
by as many different
people as are
willing to be
challenged by them.
How do you teach that?
Medicine and etiquette
can be taught.
That's about it.
All other so-called knowledge
is empirical, experienced.
I wish you'd let me in.
"How could anything originate
out of its opposite?
For example, truth out of
error, in this paltry world,
in this turmoil of
delusion and cupidity..."
Slower.
What are you doing?
I'm learning?
What are you going
to do with it?
What are you going
to do with it?
Again, please.
"How could anything originate
out of its opposite?
For example, truth out of
error, in this paltry world,
in this turmoil of
delusion and cupidity..."
[DOOR CREAKS]
Well, our little
Jackson Pollock is home.
Yeah, I did some shopping.
Do tell.
Well, on top of the fact
Ursula's birthday is next week,
her favorite color is turquoise.
Quite frankly, this green
color on the walls is sickly.
It's hospital green.
It's been hard for me to
sleep around this color.
Let's get to it.
You have painter's tape?
Lou?
Lou.
Yeah, I have a few more
bags right out here.
Busted.
So you smoke weed?
It's not legal yet in New York.
I kind of feel like a tourist
here, so novelty item?
I also got malted milk ba*ls.
Honey, there are three
rollers in this bag.
Presumptuous, huh?
OK, let's play.
Which wall first?
Did you used to go
trick-or-treating on Halloween?
Just once.
I was a cowgirl.
[CHUCKLES] I had the whole
fringed outfit, 10-gallon hat,
six-sh**ter and the holster.
I was inspired that year.
See my dad had taken my mom
to a local dinner theater
on their very first date.
The show was Annie Get Your g*n.
That's how he got her.
She fell in love with
everything about him that night.
She let him get all the way
to third base that night.
She told you that?
[CHUCKLES] The first time
she told me about sex.
Bold.
He took her to a lot of
Broadway musicals after that.
He preferred comedies, but,
well, her favorite show
was Annie Get Your g*n.
I was my mother's
daughter that Halloween.
What will your field
of study be at UNLV?
Bowling.
[CHUCKLES]
Ian?
Early Childhood
Special Education.
Good on you.
She's going to love this color.
So what are you going to
do when she gets here?
What are you talking about?
Well, you can sleep on the sofa.
Or I'll sleep on the
sofa, and you guys
can have the bed in
the second bedroom.
When the truck arrives with her
things, I want you guys to stay.
I don't want you
going to Mexico.
I think we make a good team.
[FOOTSTEPS]
[DOOR CREAKING]
Ingrid?
Ian?
And just like that,
they vanished.
[DOOR CREAKING]
Good morning.
We took a walk to the market.
I got my period.
Yay.
Crazy, right?
[COGNAC BOILING]
[SIZZLING]
Bon apptit.
It's good.
Thank you.
Let me ask you this.
Did you ever want--
think you might
want to have a baby?
I don't remember.
I don't.
I don't remember.
What an odd way to
answer that question.
I did.
Yeah?
A boy, so I could somehow
mold him into another Lou.
I always thought there
would be hope for the world
if someone like Lou
walked among us anew.
[GIGGLING] "Anew"?
Bless you.
It got really hot today.
Grandma's apartment was
so old the radiator played
a constant symphony whether heat
was coming up or not, if memory
serves.
Maybe the heat will
make noise here too.
You know, Ian, you're
not a misanthrope.
You only dislike yourself.
[CHUCKLES] Why did I say that?
Philosophy.
I think Ursula is scamming you.
I think the reason she
took so long to drive here,
off the grid, was in the
hopes that you'd overcome
your monophobia...
alone.
Hey, baby, does Ursula
wax her p*ssy too?
Really?
Have you ever seen
your grandmother naked?
Did you ever see your
grandfather naked?
You think she wants men
to fantasize that they're
f*cking an eight-year-old girl?
Ian, your grandfather
k*lled himself.
It's the most selfish
thing anyone can do.
He left you behind, Ian.
He had four more months,
four more months,
and he robbed you of it.
He gave a woman he loved the
chance to experience motherhood,
to fulfill herself,
when no one else would.
I think he was just
exploiting her illness.
Her free will was at a
premium when they met.
Maybe she might have
lived longer than she did
had she never become pregnant.
All right.
I got one.
I got one.
What do you call an
impotent business executive?
A board member.
[GIGGLES]
I got one.
The mouse was a ventriloquist.
Wait.
No, I-- what's the setup?
I forgot the setup.
No fair, baby.
He can't tell jokes.
Of course I can.
No, you "kant."
Get it?
"Kant" with a K?
Does he ever shut that door?
When he vomits.
That's so sad.
No.
I'm glad he keeps
the door shut then.
I should have created
crossword puzzles.
When you're a girl with
hairy legs and hairy pits,
you wind up with an
awful lot of me time.
Do you ever regret that Ian
picked you up hitchhiking?
Regret?
No.
Why?
Maybe he'd already decided not
to come to Las Vegas at all,
not to take the job at UNLV.
You do have quite
the imagination.
I don't know.
Maybe he was just driving
off to his favorite diner
in New Jersey, or
going off to Citi Field
to relive his glory
days with Lou.
He had a backpack full of
clothes and wood and tools
and books.
Maybe he had a junkie girlfriend
waiting on him in Pennsylvania.
Is your grandmother
actually on her way here?
Does she really own this condo?
Do you even have a grandmother?
What?
I think she was also in
that station wagon of death,
and you still can't
come to grips with that.
You see, we really
don't know you at all.
Yeah, that trip to Crete--
I think, deep
down, Violet really
hated her father, so selfish.
He was ready to die,
without an audience.
Yeah, but Ian, you weren't
ready for him to die.
[TEXT TONE]
sh*t.
You guys have to go.
What are you talking about?
I don't know what
I was thinking.
She's coming.
When?
Tomorrow.
Too much drama?
Ivy.
Ingrid, it's time to go.
Ian, may I keep the bookshelf?
Absolutely.
But you can't keep the books.
I'll pack it up for you.
I feel really
terrible about this.
You're so stupid.
You realize I'm just going
to buy heroin with this.
Maybe you'll buy a phone.
You're going to
be alone tonight.
She's all I have.
I'll figure it out.
I'll have to someday.
I'm sorry, Ingrid.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
[g*nsh*t]
Where'd you get the money?
She gave it to me.
Hoped I'd buy a phone with it.
She was stupid.
[g*nshots]
[KNOCKING]
Ivy?
[KNOCKING]
Ivy?
[POUNDING]
Ingrid.
Ingrid, hi.
It's me.
It's Nick.
Wow.
Hell of a reunion.
Did you ever get
to see my movie?
I don't get Netflix.
I don't even own a radio.
Do they still make radios?
Why are you here?
You kind of made the news.
I'm making another
movie in two months.
Be an artist.
Be my friend.
You're an idiot.
You still want me
to work for you?
You know, that first time you
came with us to Cristiano's,
I'll bet you remember what the
weather was like that afternoon.
I'll bet you remember what you
ate for breakfast, what time you
woke up that day, what
time you went to bed,
what shade of lipstick you wore.
I don't wear lipstick.
See?
You remember.
I'll bet you can't get
that day out of your head
and that you never want
to, because something
happened to you that
day, something wonderful.
So I'm offering you
more of those days.
You owe me more of those days.
I'm just asking you to
put your faith in me...
again.
It's not about faith anymore.
You literally make everyone
else's work look better.
You know, after
graduation, I kept in touch
with the cast and crew of Music
Man, and one after another,
whenever we talked
about the play,
the one constant was how
moved they were by you,
how impressed they were by you.
They had never met
anyone like you.
No freshman, anyway.
Why?
Does it f*cking matter why?
I lost touch with most
of them after the summer.
A ton of them went
off to college,
and then I went
off to Los Angeles
and became a wunderkind,
wunderkind-in-training.
When this happened, I sent a
group text, and two of them
sent letters to me, for
you, handwritten letters.
You read them?
I read them.
Ingrid, I work with a
lot of talented people,
and very few of
them are singular.
I could get sick.
There's this thing--
Your sister is absolutely
sure you're not
going to get sick ever again.
She's here?
Nick.
How long have I been here?
About a week.
I don't feel much.
You're on a whole
bunch of sick drugs.
Medication.
Where are you making the movie?
LA.
What happened to me?
Well, you got shot in the head.
That grazed your scalp, and
then you got shot in the chest.
That one went in and out, so
one b*llet to your head and one
to the chest--
Are my breasts--
were they damaged?
Uh, phew.
You're blushing.
[CHUCKLES]
Get some sleep.
Take slow, deep breaths.
If it's too painful,
don't breathe at all.
Joke.
Do I have any STDs?
I mean besides--
I mean, I figured you'd
check my blood, or...
No, you don't.
Wow.
Sounds good.
Okay.
Take good care of your
sister, Dr. Sorensen.
Thank Dr. Slattery for me.
I will.
I'll send him up later.
Dr. Sorensen, what
are you doing here?
Dumb luck.
Your attending
doctor, Dr. Wagner,
and some other
physicians who work here
were in Norway last year
giving a series of lectures
at Oslo University Hospital,
where I work, exchange program.
We hit it off, kept
in touch, pen pals.
You stayed in touch with him.
He was here when
you were admitted.
He performed the
surgeries, the first two.
He saved your life.
Your niece is so looking
forward to meeting her aunt.
She's in Las Vegas?
Am I in Las Vegas?
She's nine years old.
I can't believe I
haven't seen you
since you were seven years old.
Ian?
I'm sorry, Ingrid.
I'm also sorry about Ivy.
I only asked about Ian!
OK.
How long have I been here?
Nine days.
I'm going to keep you
here for another week.
Then what?
Then we go to Los Angeles
for two months, I'd imagine.
After that,
I'd like you to spend
some time with us in Oslo.
Where's your husband?
Oscar...
really wanted to be here.
Ingrid, I need to--
Nick, would you--
Oh, yeah.
He knows.
I told him.
Be with your sister, Ingrid.
Nick?
Yeah.
Don't you ever tell
me to get over Ian.
I would never do that.
You're back on antiretrovirals.
Ingrid, I want to get you
started on a clinical trial
in Norway after Los Angeles.
This trial-- before humans,
who was it tested on?
Mice.
Excellent.
And what was the success rate?
30%.
Awesome.
How come they didn't tell me
there was a cure at the women's
health clinic?
It's not a cure, honey.
Truth is, it could do
more damage than good.
We just don't know yet.
Its basis is a gene-editing
technique called CRISPR.
How many people has it cured?
One.
I'm asking you to trust me,
even though I'm practically
a stranger to you.
Cured one person, huh?
It's a start.
When will the trial end?
Yeah.
Will you do it?
How come you want to send
me to Los Angeles first?
Truth?
For the rush, a healthy one.
For the memories,
for the experience.
And he has me convinced that he
actually needs you, this Nick.
Many years ago, he
watched you glow.
And it's a career, babe.
And because the
treatment might k*ll me.
Ingrid, yes, it's a trial,
but either way, you're
going to live for
a long, long time.
With your family.
Maybe in Norway, maybe Los
Angeles, but with family.
Did mom and dad ever show you
what was locked in the basement?
In the basement?
I don't know.
No.
It must have been cadavers,
pilfered surgical tools.
Nothing too interesting,
I'd imagine.
Welcome back.
You beat the odds, in Vegas.
Will you please
remove this catheter?
Sorry, ladies, just
need to get my script.
Yeah, remove it.
You're still...
so small.
[SOBBING] You're still so small.
I'm sorry.
So sorry.
[BACKGROUND CONVERSATION]
[CRINKLING PAGES]
The Music Man has
never looked so good.
I've arranged to get
you into the union.
I've also bumped
up your fee a ton
so you don't have to
take a financial hit,
and I also got you and Abigail
a two-bedroom apartment.
It's on the corner
of Sunset and Doheny.
It's way up at the
top of the hill,
so I'm just hoping
that bump on your head
doesn't result in any vertigo.
[BACKGROUND CONVERSATION]
The cast, the crew--
Ingrid, they're
really good people.
Nick, this extra salary
for me, the bump--
where's the money
really coming from?
You wouldn't believe
me either way, so.
[BACKGROUND CONVERSATION]
I'll do it.
Deal.
You know, there's no
good doctors in Vegas.
Specialists?
Yes.
PCPs?
Not a one.
Whose makeup kit is that?
It's a friend's kit.
She worked on Suicide Squad.
Really?
Yes, ma'am.
[CHUCKLES]
OK, OK.
I got to go pee
again, be right back.
So is the script any good?
I don't know.
I haven't read it.
Does your head hurt?
I don't know.
I haven't read it.
I'm fine.
Close your eyes.
Perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.
At the ballpark, I used to smoke
Arturo Fuente Chateau Rothschild
cigars.
I even smoked them
in the toilet.
Why not?
They smelled better than sh*t.
I shat the most evil-smelling--
well, anyone who ever
followed me into the bathroom
would be the first
one to agree with me.
Once I married Marian, I made
sure we moved into an apartment
with two bathrooms.
I couldn't afford
it, but I figured
that for as long as Marian
was breathing oxygen,
my bowel movements were not
going to contaminate her air.
I always wondered what her
bowel movements smelled like.
Is that something all men
wonder about their women?
I doubt it.
I figured that whenever Marian
walked out of her bathroom,
she left it smelling
like fresh-cut roses.
Why would God ever cause
pain to a woman who
smelled like fresh-cut roses?
One time, though, after
I made love to her,
I had to go real bad, and
I ran into her bathroom.
It smelled just like mine
did, even 30 minutes after she
did her business.
I never loved her more.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah, cigars.
I picked them up for $6 a
pop from a newspaper vendor
across the street from
the train station.
His cigars popped?
No, honey, when someone says
they buy something, like,
candied apples, say,
for five bucks a pop,
they mean that each candied
apple costs $5, $5 a pop.
Get it?
Do candy apples smell like sh*t?
You silly girl.
They rot your teeth, though.
So I let my grandson, Ian...
play hooky one day,
on his 10th birthday,
and take him to Shea Stadium
to see the Mets play the Expos.
And that's where I let
him smoke his first cigar
and sip his first beer.
Can I try a little beer?
No.
[CHUCKLES] But let me see
if I can find you a cigar.
Aunt Ingrid!
Expecting company?
Oh, no, no, no.
But you never know.
Listen, I was born in
Carlisle, Pennsylvania in 1947.
There were 27 members
of my family then.
I counted this morning, and when
I die, I'll be the last to go.
How often does that happen?
[MELLOW MUSIC]
[SINGING IN SPANISH]
A dnde vas?
Tijuana?
No.
Te llevar a Bernal.
Es ms....
pacfico
Yo
vivo all.
Bernal.
Bueno?
S.
[SINGING IN SPANISH]
Est bien el aire acondicionado?
What?
Yes, s.
Te gusta
esta cancin?
Es de Espana
pero me gusta.
Dormir.
Sueno.
Las qe no suenan, mueren.
[BEEPING]
What?
Que?
Est frio.
[BEEPING]
Todava tenemos un
largo viaje por delante.
(SINGING) Now of all
the joints in town,
You waltz into this one.
Well, aren't you a sight.
And as fate has it I
got a few miles left
On my 'ol 55.
Oh, Mary, Mary, quite contrary
Could ya spare me a light?
Cause you look like
the first colored TV
In a world of black and white
Take care streetlights!
Take care for me!
Oh we'll meet on the
corner of disaster avenue.
Bring your dress
and a pair of shoes.
Now all the
bluebirds left Nevada
You can hear the cars all sing
We're so high and so free
and I believe
That if God had a
voice it'd sing.
So so long, pretty bluebird!
Don't cha forget me!
When you're high, oh
no, above Acapulco
Our city by the sea
Take care, my friends!
Take care for me!
Well, I'm just passing through
So here's a lookin' at you, kid
Will ya take care for me...
Take care, please...
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