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Some time ago, I had kind of
an insight into myself.

Actually, it was kind of
a two-part insight.

The first part
was a realization

that the central challenge
of my adult life

was for me to try to figure out
how I could love a woman

with the same depth
and complexity

with which
I had loved my father.

That was the first part.

And the second part
came right after that.

It was a hunch,
but with a force of revelation,

a hunch that the solution
to that first problem

was to be found
in tax law.

I don't think I ever would
have made that connection

between love and taxes

if it hadn't have been for
this woman named Mo Glass.

And I certainly would never
have met Mo Glass

if I hadn't have worked
for Bob Shelby.

Now this goes
back to a time

when I had just
completed the run

of my first
autobiographical monologue.

It was about
growing up in New York

with my communist parents,
and the run had gone so well

that I was now able
to continue working full-time

as a secretary for Bob.

And if you had seen
my boss in those days,

if you had seen Bob Shelby
ambling down the hallway,

I don't think you would've
made much of him.

A tall guy,

kind of non-descript.

White. Extremely white.

Reflecting perhaps
30% more light

than actually hits him.
I mean, white.

And a bit hunched over,

you know,
from partner money.

And if you were to watch him
go inside his office,

you might stand outside
and think,

"Oh, he's just a guy,
a golfer, maybe."

But if you had followed Bob
inside his office,

and had seen him
surrounded by

his beloved tax documents,

I think you would've
understood something.

You would've understood
that this Bob Shelby
was no milquetoast. No.

This Bob Shelby was a virile,
passionate practitioner

of the taxation arts.

And the thing
that got him going,

the thing that
activated Bob,

was this.

The U.S. Tax Code.

Now, if you're like me,

and you were to try
to read the U.S. Tax Code,

you might find it, I would
venture to say, somewhat dry.

But to Bob, it's anything but
dry, because what Bob would do

is he'd find
two code sections

that are supposed to be right
next to each other,

just welded tight,
and Bob would find

just the tiniest
little hairline crack

between those
two code sections.

He'd take
his little wedge,

and he'd wiggle his wedge
into that crack,

wiggle and worry his wedge
into that crack,

pushing those code sections
further and further apart,

until finally,
they'd be so far apart,

you could push through billions
of dollars in tax breaks!

That's why Bob
got the big bucks.

Thanks for staying late, Josh.
I'm going to need you.

Here they are.

Jerry, good to see you.

Ailene, come on in.

Josh, I'm gonna
need your help.

In 1903...

1903.

There was a ruling

before a rural Wisconsin
tax court.

Grab that case
for me, would you, Josh?

Absolutely.

My mom's a librarian.

You give me the number
of a book,

doesn't matter
what kind of library it is,

I will go and retrieve it.

Okay, wow, Josh, thank you.

Here's the cutest thing
that I can tell you about Bob,

is that each time,
Bob treats it

as if it was my idea.

Very good.

Very good, Josh.

I think I know where
you're going on this.

Based on this
cheese mold ruling,

I think we may very well be able
to trigger a shotgun provision.

Shotgun provision? That sounds
incredibly exciting.

You done knocked up
my daughter.

Josh.

We couldn't
trigger the shotgun.

You need to go back
to the tax library for me.

In 1913,

that was right after
the codification of
our U.S. income tax,

there were some loose ends
that were memorialized

in a revenue ruling.

Could you grab
that for me, Josh?

Here's your
rev rule, Bob.

All right.

Well, Josh,

you have outdone
yourself this time.

I think we may very well
be able to trigger

a collapsible
corporation ruling.

I go back to my desk.

This was sounding
better and better.

Collapsible corporation.

That sounds like what my parents
always wanted.

I'm easily deluded
about myself.

I start to think,
"Maybe it was my idea."

I'd want my idea to work.

I'd forget things,
little things,

like that anomaly
against capitalism.

I want my bad guys
to beat the other bad guys.

We couldn't collapse
the corporation.

Damn it to hell.

I still think we have
just enough time

to pull this iron
out of the fire.

Listen very closely.

In 1924...

1924.

That's the year
my dad was born.

That's interesting
information, Josh.

I don't think
we need it right
now, but thanks.

In 1924, a private
letter ruling was issued.

Could be just what
we're looking for.

Josh, this time you're
thinking way outside the box.

With this 1924 PLR,

I think we may be able to wheel
out our heaviest artillery yet.

I think
we may be able to use

a reverse
double dummy maneuver.

All right,
stay with me.

Reverse
double dummy maneuver!

I would've imagined
even a single dummy
would've been enough,

but a double dummy's
probably twice as good.

I bet they're expecting us
to go forward with the dummy,

so to reverse it's very sneaky.
I'm digging it!

Josh.

It worked!

It worked!
Your idea, Josh.

A 1924 PLR,

the reverse
double dummy maneuver,

it worked, Josh!
We won!

Josh!

That's why I love
tax law.

So don't try telling me
that tax law's boring.

Okay, 'cause I was there.

I saw what tax law
did for Bob.

In fact, I learned
you didn't have to be

a tax attorney to get
the excitement from it.

Just from my own
second-hand exposure to tax law

as Bob's secretary,
I was getting jazzed.

Jazzed enough that I was
coming up with

what I was gonna make
my second monologue about.

I decided it was gonna be
a piece about me

being this really bad
legal secretary,

working for this
really great tax attorney,

and I started
performing this piece

at a funky little theater
around the corner

from where I lived in
the Mission, called the Marsh,

and I called this new show
"Haiku Tunnel."

I gave it that obscure title
mostly so I could

put up flyers
all around my work station,

and still, Bob would have
no idea

that it was basically
about him.

And the run at the Marsh
was going okay,

but then, a couple of weeks
into the run,

the thing I'd been
fearing the most happened.

Bob showed up
at the Marsh.

So I went into work
the next day

with some trepidation,
but Bob called me right
into his office. Josh.

Josh.

I have to tell you
a little secret.

I was at
your show last night.

Oh, really?

I really liked it.

I did.

But I have to tell you.

The funniest joke
in your whole piece,

the cleverest
little bit,

was that joke
where you say

how ironic it is
that here you are,

working for
a big tax attorney,

and you yourself

haven't done your taxes
in seven years.

Bob...

that's...
that's no joke.

I actually haven't
done my taxes

in seven years.

And everything changes.

Like imagine,
I don't know...

Imagine he's
Rush Limbaugh, okay,

and he comes into
his office one day,

he goes, "Who's that
new guy in the corner?

He's been here
the last few days.

Is he a clerk or something?
He's got the baseball cap.

He seems very intense;
is he the new temp?"

"Actually, sir,
that's Michael Moore."

Wah-wah-wah,
the perimeter's been violated.

Wah-wah-wah-wah.

Sit down over here, Josh.

This has got to end now, Josh.

Take care of this tax thing
and pronto.

Actually, Bob,
since you bring it up,

I've been thinking,
I mean,

you're a big tax guy.

Maybe you could
handle this for me.

I would've thought by now

you'd know enough about
my practice, Josh.

I don't handle persons
such as yourself.

Persons.

In tax terms,
you as an individual,

you're a natural person.

I handle fictional,

artificial persons,
corporations, Josh.

You're just
too natural for me.

There is someone,

a gal I've been seeing around
the tax club lately.

Tax club?

Very sharp.

very unusual approach
to tax law.

You'd really dig her.

I'm gonna make
a call, Josh,

and tomorrow, I want you
to go to Mo.

As I approached
Mo's office,

I figured I knew
pretty much what to expect.

I mean, I have temped for
enough of these tax attorneys

by this point.

Their offices all tended
to be quite similar.

All cluttered with a lot
of, well, tax documents,

contracts, what have you.

So I was quite surprised
when I walked into Mo's office,

and all I saw was shiny,
gleaming, reflective surfaces.

There wasn't
a stitch of paper to be seen.

It was as if
the office was saying,

"Hey, relax.
We filed."

In fact,
everything about her

initially struck me
as short.

Short of stature,
short hair.

She even greeted me
with short sentences.

Hi, Josh.
Mo Glass.

Bob called.
Come in, sit down.

So, tell me
your tax problem, kiddo.

Well, Mo, I guess
my tax problem

is that I haven't
filed in seven years.

I guess Bob
didn't explain to you

that I have a rather
unusual tax practice.

I have what I like
to think of as

a holistic tax practice.

- Holistic.
- Now in light of
that new information,

I want you to think about
what you were just
starting to tell me.

That isn't
your tax problem,

now is it, Josh?

No?

That's your tax symptom.

In order to get at
your tax problem,

I want you to think back...

back... back...
back!

Back to
your early childhood.

I want you
to recall for me,

if you can,

your very first memory
of tax.

Tax?

I can.

My very first tax memory

is of my dad not filing.

Oh, it was grand.

You see, me and my dad,
we only had each other

on the weekends,
and here we were,

losing this beautiful
Saturday afternoon,

'cause Dad had just
been nudged up into
the income bracket

where he actually
had to file a return.

My son,
what was I thinking?

We don't give
our information to the Man.

We don't let our humanity
be reduced to tiny boxes.

We don't give our money
to the system for its wars

and corporations.
No, my son.

We Kornbluths go outside!

You see, my father
created his own world,

and everything
inside that world

felt so protected.

Even as we moved
through Manhattan,

it was almost as if
me and Dad

had our own country.

Almost as if
we were our own, like,

like, floating socialist
republic of Kornbluthia.

♪ Hail, Kornbluthia

And everything
inside that world

was so graceful.

Even the way
my dad moved,

it was practically balletic.

That's how it went, Mo.

All the way until
I left home and...

went off to college.

Wait, back up.
College?

I assume you went
to college on a scholarship.

Of course.
I had to.

Eureka!
We found it.

If you went to college
on a scholarship,

then on at least
one occasion,

your parents did file.

She was right.

In fact,
a year in advance,

while I was still
in high school,

the word filtered down to me
that I was going to be

accepted the following year
to Princeton University,

and not because my grades
were that good or anything.

It was because,
okay, look,

it was because they
happened to need

an oboist for
their student orchestra.

The only catch being,
they weren't offering me

an "oboe scholarship,"
per se.

So in order for us to be
able to afford Princeton,

we had to apply for
financial aid based on need,

and this was one of
those rare occasions

where my parents, divorced
virtually my entire life,

where they decided
this was important enough

for them to put
their heads together,

and scheme on how best
to game the situation.

My mom took the lead.

A year in advance, my mother
quit her high-paying job

as a public librarian.

And she replaced it
with a part-time position.

As a result,
at the end of that year,

Mom could enclose a form
showing she had earned

only $8,500.

But then, right before
Mom enclosed the form,
she got cold feet.

Maybe they'll still consider
8,500 to be upper middle class.

Mom...

I don't know
the technicalities,

but that's gotta
be violating

some major
federal law.

Ah, let them
call me pisher.

Pisher?

It's a term my mom
never bothered to translate

for me from the Yiddish,

but just based on
the context,

I got a sense
it wasn't necessarily

such a bad thing
to be called, pisher.

In fact, maybe it was
even kind of an honorific,

like maybe being called pisher
entitled you to

like, ten percent off
at Zabar's or something.

So now my mom
had done her part,

and all that was left to do
was for my dad to do his.

He had to fill in
a section of the form

swearing he did not
support me in any way.

He's filling out
the financial aid forms.

At the same time, I'm
practically bouncing
off the walls.

I'm going,
"Dad, this is so cool!"

My whole life,
you've been telling me

how we're always
being forced to play by

the Man's rules,
and to work within the system.

Now for once, Dad, we get to
go around the Man's rules!

Thanks to this lie you're
putting down on that form,

Dad, this incredible lie,

where you say
you don't support me,

when, of course,
you do support me.

You work, like,
four jobs.

We hardly ever
get to see you.

And yet,
thanks to this lie...

I'm gonna get to go
to Princeton University.

I'm gonna learn everything

the bourgeoisie
likes to teach its young.

Then I'll enter
the ruling class,

and overthrow
the system from within.

Thanks to this lie you're
putting on that form, Dad,

I'm even gonna
get a free ride!

Dad?

I wish I could
just give you the money.

I wish I could
just pay for you

to go wherever
you wanted to go.

Wow.

Even from my dad,

the communist,
the hippie,

even for him,

his dream was
to become a provider.

Josh, we're gonna
have to stop here today.

But I think we've done
some excellent work.

I'm gonna level
with you, kiddo.

I like you.

You bring a new kind
of spice into my day.

You're different
from my other clients.

My other clients are,
well, they're successful, Josh,

and yet,
I sense in you, kiddo,

the potential to reach
that elusive goal

your father never attained.

Josh, I think you have
it within you

to become a provider,
and I'd like to help you
get there.

Will you allow me
to help you become a citizen?

- What would that entail?
- Only this.

You must file.

Oh, ho, back up.

I don't think
you understand.

You're talking about
seven years of me putting
stuff in garbage bags--

No, just last year.

We just need to get you
back into the system.

Tonight,
when you go back home

to whatever kind of thing
you live in,

I need you to just
look around,

and gather
all those receipts

- that have last year on them.
- Last year.

Then simply
take those receipts and...

Josh, I'm sensing
you're not able to sort.

So put those receipts
in a box,

and bring that box
in here tomorrow,

and put it out there
on that counter

for my assistant Lydia.
Can you do that for me, Josh?

Well, yeah, Mo,
I think I can.

But Mo,
I should level with you.

I mean, I'm looking around
your swanky office here,

and I don't think
I can afford you.

And this is what
she said to me.

These are
the exact words she said.

She said, "Josh..."

You don't have to pay me
until you're rich and famous.

And the way
I process words...

To me,
in a sentence like that,

the "until" essentially
becomes the period.

So what I actually
heard her say was...

Josh, you don't
have to pay me.

No, no, no, no, no.

I'll send someone
over there immed... iately.

Um... yeah, absolutely.

Oh, not a problem.

No big deal.

I'll have to
call you back.

"Franchisé Tax Board"?

Welcome, Josh.

Come on. Welcome to
the Franchisé home.

I am Mario Franchisé.

Josh, meet my wife,
Francesca Franchisé.

Josh, put those
tax forms down right now.

That's an order.

You look peaked.

Sit. Eat.

Talk with our beautiful
daughter, Maria Franchisé.

- Maria Franchis-ay.
- Actually, it's franchise.

The Franchise Tax Board
is the state tax agency.

Oh.
Um, where do I sign?

They had put down
arrow stickums.

And to me,
an arrow stickum,

that is the finger
of God pointing.

I see one of those,
I needn't think anymore.

I simply sign;
it's Pavlovian.

Um, can I have
a couple of envelopes?

They pre-address
the envelopes.

They pre-metered postage
to the envelopes.

All I had to do was
sign the returns

at the arrow stickums,
put them in their envelopes,

take them down the street
and mail them,

and just like that,
I was in the system.

And instantly,
I could feel it.

Everything had changed.

I could do things.

Exciting new things like...

like I could get
a checking account,

and not just at
any little dinky bank either,

but at Wells Fargo,

where, you know, they put
horses on their checks.

It's very swanky.

And now thatI was
in the system,

people started being
drawn to me.

Not just people...
dogs.

Stray dogs
started following me

through the Mission District.
I finally understood why, too.

It's those dogs,
they could sense

with their little
doggie intuition,

if they ever got hungry,
I could write a check.

And my run of "Haiku Tunnel"
at the Marsh

was going
better and better,

not that I had changed
a single word,

but you see,
I had changed.

When I had opened the show
at the Marsh,

it was a confessional
autobiographical piece

about how I hadn't filed
in seven years and so on.

Now that I was
in the system,

I felt like an actor
delivering these lines

about some fictional fuck-up
who hadn't filed.

This gave me a distance from
my character as a performer,

and the audiences could
sense it, I could tell.

They started filling up
the seats at the Marsh.

I even started seeing
return customers.

Yeah, I had fans.

"Josh, I... pfft... don't mean
to interrupt

your... pfft... post-show
decompression,

but... pfft... in my terms,

pfft...
I'm a grad student

at Stanford in computers."

What you do,
Josh, it's...

in our terms,
it's kind of

an input-output
problem, okay?

Input-output.

Yeah, yeah, you see,
you take the, uh,

the input, which is
the chaos of your life,

and you turned it into
this more streamlined output,

which is your show.

"Josh, I'd love to go
into these computer
analogies at length."

So I had fans with skills!

Oh, and not just
computer skills.

Prompting skills.

This woman started
showing up in the front row.

And now, for
the first time ever,

occasionally, I was
dropping a line or two,

'cause the piece
had become fictional to me.

It opens a crack,
and his head pops out.

And then...

And then Bob said,
"Come into my office, Josh."

And then Bob said,
"Come into my office, Josh."

Hi.

I'm so sorry
to interrupt, but...

do you accept groupies?

Yes.

Okay then.

Get in.

Input.

So, uh,
where we going?

I don't know.
You tell me.

I don't live
around here.

Well, I go to
that cafe,

uh, just across
the street.

Just make a left.

That's where...

I said left.

I know.

Well, what's going on?

Um, well, Josh,

there is something
that you should know
about me,

and that is, uh,

I don't...
I don't turn left.

Ever?

Nope. Never.

Why?

Um...

I can't.

Okay, that's fine,
it's fine.

We'll get there,
I promise.

No, I'm sure,
you know, I mean,

the Earth is round.

So you see, um,
eventually,

you know, it's just
a matter of the amount
of time.

And then, she kept
turning right

all the way around
the Mission District.

I was thinking,
I like this woman.

I mean, clearly,
she's neurotic.

But her neuroses

seemed to be different
from my neuroses.

Perhaps we even have
complimentary neuroses.

Oh, here we are,
right here.

- Oh, here.
- Just pull in right there.

That's good.

Just come to
a full stop.

Oh, my God.

Is there a problem?

The sign.

It's the bagel thing.

You care,
you care?

You know, what do they mean,
bagel "with" cream cheese?

This has been killing me,
and nobody cares.

- Those quotes around "with."
- And nobody cares.

Do they mean the bagel's
near the cream cheese?

Do they mean the bagel
is actually sold separately

- from the cream cheese?
- Right, or maybe

they're trying to make
some kind of ironic comment

about the unsuitability
of bagel and cream cheese.

Yeah.

Why bagel "with"
cream cheese?

Oh, my God,
you're beautiful,
you're neurotic,

and you care about
punctuation.

Oh, my.

Oh.

Wow!

What's your name?

Sara.

And so it began...

between me and Sara.

Sara, by the way,
without an "h."

I mention that only
'cause in my experience,

if you start going out
with someone,

and you're not aware of
a silent letter in their name,

it can come back
and haunt you.

So now I started
getting feelers.

Not just feelers from things
inside my apartment,

but feelers from, like,
out-of-town producers.

Yeah.

- Josh Kornbluth?
- Speaking.

This is Carol Rothman
from Second Stage Theater.

- In New York?
- Yes, New York, Josh.
We had this big production

that just fell through,

and the back-up production
also fell through,

and the back-up
to the back-up

also fell through,
and now, well,

we would be...
honored

if you'd accept
this slot.

Well, of course I would.

But I cannot but wonder
why is all this great stuff

happening to me now?

All I can think of is
it's because I filed.

And to top it all off,
I even got a refund!

It's like, "Welcome back,
prodigal son.

We've been expecting you.

Make yourself at home."

So here I am,
the prodigal son,

back in my hometown
of New York.

I'm at the Second Stage
performing my piece,

"Red Diaper Baby,"
trying to recreate

that snow globe world
of my communist childhood

with my dad.

♪ Arise, ye prisoner
of starvation ♪

♪ Arise, ye wretched
of the earth ♪

Of course,
he wasn't there,

which, in fact,
was getting to me.

In fact,
to the point that,

a couple of weeks
into the run,

I became so preoccupied
that, in the middle of the show,

I just stopped talking.

I just stood there
silently on stage.

Um...

Wake up, little fucker.

He'd go,
"Wake up, little fucker."

That was his nickname
for me, Little Fucker.

Nothing at all pejorative
about it.

For my dad, calling me
Little Fucker

was like calling me
"Junior."

It was Sara!

She surprised me by flying
all the way in

from California
to New York.

Are these "nishes"
really heavy?

"Nishes."
No, knishes.

Knish.

Knish. The "k"
is not silent.

I'll never digest this.

Oh, no, really,
they look sort of big,

but it's feathery light.
It's like an amuse bouche.

- Believe me.
- Thank you.

What was that?

I used to do it
with my dad all the time.

Just saved us
a few bucks.

What's the big...
what's the big deal?

A few bucks...

What if you'd
gotten caught?

Let them call me pisher.

Ow.

What if everyone
did that?

If everyone...

Well, I guess, you know,
if everyone...

If everyone did that...

And as we endured

the first extended tense
silence of our relationship,

I had ample opportunity
to reflect on

one major difference
between us.

That difference being
that Sara always
tried to focus on,

she obsessed about,

all the ramifications
of her actions.

Sara lived in "until."

Whereas,
here she was with me,

living all the way
across the border.

Hello?

- Uh, yeah?
- Yeah, John?

- Oh, Josh.
- Josh, Josh.

Hey. Sean Boykin.
Nice to meet you.

This is my assistant
Patty.

- Hey.
- Oh, hi.

Or should I call you
Little Fucker?

You...
can I say something?

You're a big fucker.
You're a big fucking
deal now, man.

You are a genius.

Excuse me, I'm
gonna rewrite that.

You're a fuckin' genius.
I don't say this to anybody.

I don't say this to
my own fuckin' mother.

This was brilliant.
Do you know that?

- Josh, is it?
- Josh, yeah.

Josh. I'll make
a note of that.

Um, I would love
to option this

for a major
motion picture.

- Option?
- Option.

Take it to a place
called Option World,

where it's massaged
and developed,

and the next thing you know,
boom!

Boom. You're
on the red carpet

in a red diaper.

That's a good one.

I'm gonna keep her.

He's gonna keep me!

So wait.

You wanna take "Red Diaper Baby"
and make it into a movie?

I will see you
in Option World, my friend.

- Option... okay.
- Hey, forget that.

Okay. Cool.

- We're late.
- I bow to thee.

Let's go, baby.
We're late.

We're heading to
the restaurant.
Wanna come?

Later. I'll meet ya.
Thanks.

Option World.

So how was New York?

Actually, Mo, it went
surprisingly well.

People dug the show.

And I've been
meaning to tell you, Mo.

These two guys
kept coming backstage

after my show
and bugging me.

They said they were
from Hollywood Studios,

and they wanted to
"option" my pieces.

Option?

Yeah, turn 'em
into movies.

Josh, please tell me
you didn't sign anything.

Oh, no, Mo.
Of course not.

There were no arrows.

Then it's gonna be
smooth sailing from here, kiddo.

'Cause, look.
I got you into the system,

and now, so quickly, options.

Options.
- And, Josh,

I'm going to recommend
what I suggest

to all my most
successful clients.

I'm going to recommend
that you have me

put all your money
into an FBO.

FBO?

It's a trust account
here at my law firm, Josh.

FBO... for the benefit
of Josh Kornbluth.

That way, all your money
is centralized.

Much easier for us
to do your returns
every year.

If you ever need
any of that money,

you just let me know
and I'll have Lydia
cut you a check.

Now I do have to say,

on this one point,
I was a bit iffy.

I guess only 'cause
I'd always sorta...

I guess fantasized that,
on the off chance

that I ever made money,

I guess I'd always
kinda hoped

that I would, well,
get it.

Well, kiddo?

Okay.

Then get ready for
the year of your life.

And the whole next year,

I lived in
Option World.

During the weekdays,
the studios fly me down

to my air-conditioned
bungalow in Hollywood

so I can work on
my screenplays,

unmolested by the weird vibes
of Northern Californians.

On the weekends,
the studios fly me

back up to San Francisco,

so I can re-converge
with Sara,

who is turning
my dreary studio

into an actual
garden apartment.

She's been chunking up
the cement with a pick ax,

and then filling the holes
with soil, seeds and fertilizer

that she bought.

I'm looking out through
my little window

at this beautiful
girlfriend

planting this little patch
of Eden for us

in a place she only comes
to visit on the weekends,

and I'm thinking,
how did I get

all this beauty in my life?

I don't understand.

I don't.

'Cause, really,
all I've ever done

is fuck up.

No, for real.
This is my adult life.

I fucked up.

Then I fucked up.

Then I fucked up,
then I fucked up.

Then I napped.

Then I fucked up.

Now, suddenly,
girlfriend, garden, options.

Why? All I can think of
is it's because I filed!

And then, my little brother
even shows up.

- Hey, bro.
- Jake.

So I just graduated
from college.

I was valedictorian;
I can't get a job.

I don't want a job-job,
but I do want a job.

I mean, why do they
only pay you for things
you don't wanna do?

The whole system
is bullshit.

Anyway, I just decided
on the spur of the moment

to drive across country
without stopping,

drinking only
Mountain Dew,

and I thought I would
stop by and see...

So this is...
I thought you had a futon.

Remember how Sandy
used to call it the typhoon?

I wonder what Sammy...

Bro?

It was weird to see my little
brother Jake like that,

because literally,
since he was born,

my brother Jake,
he's had this Jake energy.

I mean, literally,
when he was born,

I was 13 1/2.

Okay, you looked in
at the nursery

at Columbia Presbyterian
Hospital.

All these other newborns
just kind of drooling.

in their cribs,
but one of 'em,

my little brother, he's going,
"I'm gonna make a list.

I'm not gonna crawl;
crawling's for suckers.

I'm gonna go
right to walking.

Then I'm gonna run,
then run a non-profit.

Stop war and pollution and...

I'm gonna put off weaning
till the last possible minute.

But everything else
I'm gonna get done right away!"

Each week, before I headed
down to Hollywood,

I'd leave a tray of food
next to the futon.

When I came back,
the food would be gone,

so presumably,
he was feeding himself.

And I'd head down to
my Hollywood bungalow,

and try turning my fuck-ups
into blockbusters.

Which wasn't easy.

It wasn't easy trying to
come up with a middle path

between what the studios
seemed to want,

and what I imagined
my father would have wanted.

The only progress that
got made in that whole year

was reflected in a series
of remarkable phone calls

that I got from
my little brother.

Yeah?

Hey, bro, I think I've just
recovered from graduation.

What are you doing
down there, bro?

I'm just working on
a couple of movies.

Movies?

I think I'd like to
work on a movie, too.

In fact, Josh,

we should make movies together.
We're brothers.

Brothers are making movies
all over the place these days.

There's hardly
any brothers left

who aren't
a movie-making team.

Josh...

I'm gonna learn
everything we need to know

to make movies together,
independently from
the ground up.

I'm gonna read some books,

I'm gonna do some work.

And then we're gonna
blow some shit up, okay?

Hey, bro, guess what.

I just got
my first production gig.

It's a volunteer thing,
but still.

I'm a P.A.!

Hey, bro, guess what.

I'm being paid to P.A.!

I've been promoted.
Now I'm the second second A.D.

Now I'm the first
second A.D.

Now I'm the second
first A.D.

Now I'm the first
first A.D.,

and I'm dating
the A.C.

My goodness, bro, that's
a lot of impressive acronyms.

But don't forget
who has the FBO here, okay?

Yeah, bro, that FBO,

look, I don't wanna
rain on your parade,

but you got your fancy lawyer
up here,

and you're in your
Hollywood bungalow down there,

and you're trying to take
the story of, like,

our communist dad and make it
into something palatable to

a multinational corporation,
which will then

turn it into a movie
that will run in multiplexes.

That doesn't make sense, bro.

That's just doing it
the system's way.

It's playing by
the Man's rules.

We should do it together.

You and me, independently.

With the people!

Yeah!

Quiet, please.
Quiet on the set!

Meanwhile, I'm down here
in my Hollywood bungalow.

I'm not getting
anything done,

and I'm wracked
with nightmares.

I mean, actual nightmares,
for real.

This was the worst one
that I had, by far.

I kept
having this nightmare

that the studio was hiring
Schwarzenegger

to play my father
in Red Diaper Baby.

Wake up, little fucker.

Time to get out of bed
and start the revolution.

Hasta la vista,
Trotsky.

Now during this whole
second option year,

the studios are treating
me very differently
from the first.

During this whole
second option year,

it's almost as if the studios
now feel like

I owe them something.

Come here.
Come here, come here.

Nothing to be afraid.
All right, so,
you're in an elevator.

You notice that the guy
standing next to you

is the fuckin' head of
this fuckin' studio.

You got four floors
to tell him

what the story
of your movie is.

It's called
an elevator pitch.

Doors are closing,
let's hear your elevator pitch.

Three, two, one, boom.
Bing, bang.

Big bang,
the big bang.

I know I had
that one draft

where it's, like, the big bang.
This is...

No, we start
here on Earth,

'cause we're being efficient,
and then, the primordial ooze,

and then, by the end
of the first act,

you have society,
society,

and this society,
they're all interacting,

but what's going on?

- Second floor.
- Right, and then,

learning about the different
nuances of what's a vanguard.

Is it a vanguard,
or is it a cadre?

Vanguard, cadre, and then
that becomes like a dance.

- Hold that.
- Yeah.

Sherry, get my car ready.
Thanks. Go, third floor.

I'm reading this guy,
Pudon.

Is property really thievery?

- Fourth floor.
- Uh...

resolution, which is,

world not communism
but socialism.

So there's still money,
and then I believe

the term is
"fade to black."

That is indeed
the term, Josh.

It has been a thrill
and an honor to work with

somebody of your integrity,
uh, up to now,

and I just hope
we can do this again.

- Oh, great.
- A fuckin' genius, Josh.

- Thank you. I don't know.
- No, you're a fuckin' genius.

You're amazing.
You're really amazing.

- Get outta here.
- I read that in the key book.

Oh, you sure did.

Josh, it's Lydia from
up in Mo's office.

Bad news, Josh. Neither studio's
picking up the option.

You know, Lydia, I was already
kind of getting that vibe.

Great, Josh.

So Mo's about to head off
on her ski vacation,

but she's dealing with
all the tax ramifications.

Come over
as soon as you can.

Okay, Lydia,
lay 'em on me.

Show me those returns.

This has become one of
my favorite times of year,

when I found out
from you guys

what my refunds
are gonna be.

And the Franchisés?

I didn't expect
this enormous a tax hit.

I guess we're gonna
have to do what
I didn't wanna do.

We're gonna have to
draw down on that FBO thing.

Oh, no,
You can't do that.

Your FBO is empty.

Empty?

But how can that be, Lydia?

I mean, I haven't spent
that much money, have I?

Josh, haven't you been
opening the stuff we've
been sending you?

Mo's been paying herself
out of your FBO.

Paying herself?
But when did Mo decide
I was "rich and famous"?

Did she start the meter running
when that money began

coming in from
all those options deals?

Actually, Josh, the meter's
always been running.

Mo's been keeping
detailed billable hour records

since the moment
you walked in the door.

And Mo considers you
to be particularly late

on your payments for
some of the early meetings,

so there's a lot
of extra interest.

But so much that it's
wiped out my entire FBO?

Actually, it's worse than that.

You still owe Mo
a lot of money.

You still owe her...
$15,000.

Lydia...

what am I gonna do?

What you've always done.

Sign the returns,
and send them in.

But aren't you forgetting
one tiny little thing?

$27,000!

If you don't have the money,
you don't need to enclose it.

Just send in the returns
without the money.

Oh!

I guess
that's what they mean

when they refer to
our tax system as "voluntary."

So I signed the returns
at the arrow stickums,

I put them in
their envelopes,

I brought them
down to the street,

but I wasn't quite ready
to mail them just yet.

I wasn't quite ready
to admit to the Man

that I owed his system
over $27,000.

So clutching
those two envelopes to myself,

I went home.

I must've been sitting there
in the gathering darkness

for some time when Sara
finally came in.

Josh.
Josh honey.

Honey.

Honey, what's wrong?

Sara, if I mail in
these two returns,

I'm gonna owe
the tax people...

over $27,000.

What?!

Yeah.

- Wait.
- What?

No, what do you mean, if?

You said if you
mail in those returns,

you owe the tax people
$27,000.

Right, yeah.

Won't you owe the money
whether you send them in or not?

Would you mind just
going back to your place?

Just for today,
just for today.

Really, look,
I'll walk you to your car.

So I'll call you
tomorrow.

Yeah, you call me
tomorrow.

What are you doing?

If you won't, I will.

Those are my returns.

Sara.

Put down the envelopes.

Don't come any closer.
I mean it.

Don't come any closer.

I'm sorry, I just...

I'm sorry,
it's just that...

I really, really,
really, really

want you
to mail these returns.

And then, we'll
make a plan, okay?

Together. We have to
do this together.

Sara, with all due respect,
this is my problem,

and I'm gonna
handle it, okay,

so you can go home.

It's not your problem.

It's our...
Josh!

And she mailed them!
I went...

We're pregnant!

What?

We're pregnant.

We're pregnant, baby.

I just found out.

What?!

I peed on a stick.

And then I peed
on another stick.

There were
three sticks.

I peed on them and...

that means we're
gonna have a...

a baby.

We're gonna have
a little tiny baby.

Sara.

- What?
- I'm so...

What?

I'm so...
I'm so happy.

So...
So happy.

- You're happy?
- I'm happy.

You're happy?

- I'm happy.
- Aww.

I've been thinking,

and I don't want you to think

I'm old-fashioned
or anything, baby,

but, well,
I've decided that

we really need to be married by
the time the baby is born.

Married.

Yeah, married.
But here's the thing.

Now you have
this ginormous tax problem,

and I really
need you to solve it,

so that, you know,
once we're married,

the IRS doesn't
swoop in and take my stuff.

You don't have
any stuff.

That's not the point.
The point is,

that we are now
a family,

and your problems
are my problems,

and the baby's problems.

So I just need for you
to promise me...

I mean, do you love me?

Oh, yeah,
I love you.

- You love me?
- I do. Yeah.

You don't...
you don't hate me?

No, I loveyou.

Because you should know

that I can raise
this baby by myself.

Honey, I love you.

I...
I super love you.

I want to call
the baby Cochise.

Yeah, and I think
the name Cochise

is the name of
a great Indian warrior,

so, you know,
I can imagine Cochise

being a boy's name
or a girl's name.

Cochise.
Cochise.

I just want you
to think about little
Cochise right now.

Cochise.
Oh, no, Cochise.

I am going to eat
so many leafy greens.

We can't fuck up
our kid, Josh.
Do you get that?

- Mm-hmm.
- Because the thing is,

look at us.

We can't replicate that.

Oh, God, no.

So I need you
to promise me

and the baby...

I need you to swear

that you will solve
your tax problems completely,

so we can get married
before the baby's born.

I swear to you,
and to Cochise...

Hey, bro.
Oh, Sara.

I'm not interrupting
anything.

I just realized something.
I've reached the tipping point.

I now know everything
we need to know

to make the Haiku Tunnel
movie together,

independently,
from the ground up.

And... what?

Oh, shit!
Oh, shit!

Come on in.

I'll tell you
how I did it.

Bro, if you owe
$27,000 to the tax people,

we can't go around
soliciting money from investors.

You gotta take care of
your tax problem right away.

As it happens, bro,
I was just having

a very similar conversation
with Sara just now,

and you know what,
you're both right,

okay, and I'm
gonna deal with it.

In fact, I'm gonna
take care of it tomorrow.

I'm gonna go to Mo.

- No!
- Don't go to Mo!

Oh, gosh, honey.

No, no, no.
You owe that woman
so much money.

Bro, she's
absolutely right.

I mean, think about it.
What's a Kornbluth doing

going to a lawyer who has
an office with a view?

It doesn't compute.

Look, there's this really cool
grassroots couple

- who've been doing my returns.
- I don't know.

Before you go see
Mo again,

will you at least go visit
my tax people?

Will you at least
go visit...

the tax goddesses?

The tax goddesses
were a couple.

Kristin and Betty.

And appropriately enough
for goddesses,

they lived at the top
of a mighty hill

in a beautiful house...

fronted by a lovely garden.

As I was making
my way through the garden,

I thought, I can't believe
I'm about to talk

about tax stuff
in this beautiful place.

They sat me down
behind this big table.

I'm on one side, Kristin
and Betty are on the other.

Kristin's there, Betty's there,
between them, their cat.

Who, I have to say,

this is the most
intense cat

I have ever seen.

I mean, even...
I mean, truly,

sometimes it even
seemed to me

like the cat was following
the tax stuff.

You know,
with its little eyes.

I mean,
it was spooky!

So... Josh,

tell us
your tax problem.

I guess to tell you
my tax problem,

I'm gonna have to
think back to my infancy,

and call up memories
of my early childhood.

No, Josh, just, um...

What's your tax problem
right now?

Oh, all right.
I can do that.

Well, you see, I...

I was just
minding my own business...

It all began...

I owe 27...

I owe 27 th...

I owe $27,000.

Josh, that is the worst
tax nightmare

we have ever heard
in here.

This Mo person
is killing you.

She's ruining
your life,

and charging you
a pretty penny to do so.

So...

the obvious
thing to do would be...

You should file
for bankruptcy.

Bankruptcy?

But wouldn't that be...

like an admission
of failure?

Okay, bankruptcy.

What do I have to do?

I hope you know what
you're doing, kiddo.

You just got me out of
a major deposition.

I'm sorry, Mo,

but this is
a really big deal.

In fact,
it's so big,

I don't even know
where to begin.

Okay, I'll start here.

Mo...

Sara and I
are having a baby.

That's fantastic,
kiddo!

Oh, Josh,
I'm touched.

Huh, I can't
help it.

I'm thinking back
to when you first

walked through
my door.

And I'm thinking about
how far you've come since then.

Congratulations
to both of us.

Well, Mo, there's
one other thing.

I, uh...

We wanna be married
by the time the baby is born,

and Sara won't marry me
until I solve

my incredibly horrible
tax problem,

and frankly, Mo,
I mean,

okay, true, when I first
walked in your door here,

yeah, I had nothing.

But Mo, I have to say
that now,

I have, like,

way less than nothing,

and I don't know
what I did wrong.

I mean, I've worked
super hard.

I did everything
you told me.

Okay, kiddo, I see
where this is going.

So let me just share
one more lesson with you, Josh.

I call it the lesson
of returning the toaster.

Toaster?

It's an analogy, Josh.

Let's say you just
bought a toaster,

and for some reason,
you want to bring it back.

You don't have to do
a whole song and dance

to the lady at
the return counter.

It's your right to simply
return the toaster.

Okay, Mo.

You're fired.

Okay, kiddo,
come back tomorrow,

and Lydia will have
all your stuff ready for you.

Oh, and Josh.

There may come a time
when you wish

you'd hung onto the toaster.

A time when you may
miss the toast.

Well, that seemed
to go well.

I mean, it went a lot better
than I thought it would go.

I like this new me.

This new action-taking me.

This new, well,
bankrupt me.

When you think about it, too,
me and bankruptcy,

that's like a marriage
made in heaven.

I'm surprised no one
came up with it before.

Promissory note.

Mo says you need to
sign it before you
can take your stuff.

The first sign I had

that something was going
terribly wrong

came from the cat.
The cat was going... rowr!

I said what's wrong?

You have any idea
what you signed here?

No. There was an arrow.

What you signed
on this page says

that if you declare
bankruptcy,

or in any other way fail to
pay Mo what you owe her,

then Mo will own
the movie of Haiku Tunnel.

Mo.

Back in my apartment,

what am I gonna do?

You have reached
the Internal Revenue Service.

I was instantly
placed on hold.

But as it happens,

the music that they were
playing on hold

was from the early
Baroque period,

and those were
the halcyon days for the oboe.

Please enter
your social security number,

then hit pound.

And instantly, I was seized
with a visceral sensation

that I had just done
the wrong thing.

I had just taken
the one unsteppable step.

I had done the single thing
my dad had told me

when I was a little kid
never to do.

I had just given
my essential information

to the Man.

Never.

Not the tax man,
not the census man,

and especially
not the gas man.

They're all
government agents.

The gas man?

Josh, I can't always
be here with you.

If the gas man should come
and I'm not around,

don't let him in.
Hear me?

And if he should try
to force his way in,

shoot him.

Hello.
Internal Revenue Service.

Mrs. Williams
speaking.

ID number 4567297.

Mrs. Williams,
you're not the Man.

You're a woman.

I said,
Hello, Mrs. Williams.

And then I thought,
but I didn't say,

if that is,
in fact, your real name.

I owe you guys
a lot of money.

It's a little over
$20,000.

No, no, dear.

That's what you
owed us last month.

As of today, you owe
$22,118.

Wait, how did it
jump so high?

Interest and penalties.

Interest andpenalties?

Mrs. Williams, isn't that
kind of overkill?

I mean, hey, I get it.

How can I help you,
Mr. Kornbluth?

I don't have the money,

and I don't know
what to do.

O.I.C.

Oh, you see what?

No, dear, O.I.C.

Offer In Compromise.

Would you like me
to send you the forms?

Yes, I would love
to file

an O.I.C.

Mrs. Williams, you don't even
have to send me any forms.

I'm gonna be
totally honest.

We're just
two people talking.

So I'm just...
I'm gonna tell you,

I'm just gonna lay it out.

All the money that
I have in the world.

I have, in total, $22.

And...

Since I wanna get
this thing done, Mrs. Williams,

I'm gonna offer you
all 22.

But since you yourself
brought up compromise,

if you could even
leave me eight,

that way I can go out
and get a nice dinner,

maybe dess... actually, I don't
need dessert, Mrs. Williams.

I need to tighten the belt.
How about just six?

In fact, a dollar.
I'll live on Ramen for a while.

Leave me a buck.
Mrs. Williams,

what's going on here?
I'm doing all the compromising.

Aren't you going to do
something at your end?

I'll tell you what I'm
going to do, Mr. Kornbluth.

I'm going to send you
some forms.

What happened?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Look, Sara, I gotta
go meet my brother

for a fundraiser,
so, um,

I'll catch you
later on.

Josh. Josh.

What?

I just...

I want you to
look me in the eye,

and tell me that you
have everything under control.

I have everything
under control.

Good.

It was worth
a shot, bro.

All those
pizza parties.

How much did
we raise, total?

Not enough to make
a feature film.

Maybe enough to make
a really slick flip book.

I think I feel
okay about failure though.

I prefer it
to apathy.

Um, Josh.

Is this the, uh,
the fundraiser?

Yeah, yeah, this is
the fundraiser.

But wait,
don't I remember you?

Didn't you used to come
see my shows here at the Marsh?

Oh, yeah, Josh.

You remember me;
that's cool.

Of course
I remember you.

You're the input-output guy.

You're the computer
grad student.

Well, actually,
I graduated from grad school,

and, you know,
I've done...

pretty well.

Okay, now this guy,
his name's David,

he was being
typically modest.

In the early days
of the internet,

and this isn't my field,
so I don't know the specifics,

but something like in the early
days of the internet,

they were using,
like, all zeroes.

And he's the guy who went,
"Pfft.

Why don't you try
putting in a couple of ones?"

Huge!

So, uh...

you guys got a pitch?

The gross is the amount,
it's sort of like the net.

Money.

It's true, our producer
and director have no experience,

but in a way,
that's fresh.

If it's not in Vancouver, L.A.,
New York, or other,

almost certainly
it's from San Francisco.

In short,
that is why you, sir,

should invest in
our film, Haiku Tunnel.

That was the worst pitch
I've ever heard.

But you know
something, Josh?

Back when you used
to develop your new shows here,

I used to sit
in the audience,

and I felt like
I was a part of that process.

And, I guess,
I'd like to be part of

the movie-making
process as well.

So... pfft...

I'm in.

In fact, you know what.

On my way here, I was
thinking of investing

ten, maybe 15K,

but I tell you what.

I'll match every investment
dollar you guys raise

up to... pfft...

500,000.

And this infusion
of passion

was all
my little brother needed.

A couple of weeks later,
we're in production.

We're filmingHaiku Tunnel
with a local cast and crew.

Be me. All right.

Eighteen days later,
we're done filming.

Now our editor's madly
constructing a rough cut

so we can submit our movie
to the Sundance Film Festival.

And Sara, she's also
swung into action.

Sara has found an apartment
for us to move into together.

Now for the first time
in my life,

I'm gonna be living
all week with the person I love.

I thought, my God,
maybe despite myself,

I do have
everything under control.

'Cause how can you explain
all this great stuff

that's been
happening to me?

I was getting gigs
like never before,

all over the state
of California, mostly
in universities.

all from my new
calculus piece.

It turns out college students
all over the state

were dying to see a guy

reenact his flunking
of calculus.

It was cathartic for them.

And I thought, wow, maybe
if I get enough of these, to me,

quite lucrative gigs,
then I can make enough money

so I can call back
Mrs. Williams

and arrange a reasonable
offer in compromise.

Oh, and I can call Mo
and set up

a payment plan.

Hey, look at me.

I'm planning
into the future.

I'm Mr. "Until."

So now, here I am,

backstage before the very first
of these lucrative gigs.

Right before the gig,
the presenter comes in,

and hands me an envelope,
I open the envelope right away.

I like looking at the check
before I go out onstage.

I find it motivates me.

Thanks a lot.
Thank you.

The check.

But what I pulled out of
the envelope was not a check.

It was a form
from the Franchisés.

MARIO'S VOICE:
"Dear Josh:

It is I, Mario Franchisé.

Maria, Francesca, and I want to
thank you in advance

for donating all the money from
this, what you call, gig,

towards paying down your
enormous debt to the state.

I have to admit,
I was of two minds.

I mean,
on the negative side,

I had just lost
my sole means of income.

Though I do have to say,
on the positive side,

it did warm my heart to think
that someone at the Franchisés

thought enough of my work
to follow it this closely.

Oh, and follow it they did.

It got to the point that
at the end of each gig,

I'd be madly
working the phones,

trying to find at least
one high-paying gig

out of state, away from
the long arm of the Franchisés.

Yeah, hi, is this
Theater J in Washington, D.C.?

What does the J
stand for anyhow?

Jew.

You know what,
I'm a Jew,

and you're a theater.

Let's make something happen.

I have to say,
the opening night party

was quite impressive.

I'm not used to
rubbing shoulders

with Beltway insiders.

Really wonderful.

Hello, Mr. Under Secretary.

Hello, Ms. Over Secretary.

Hello, Inner and Outer
Secretary.

- Well done, boychick.
- Thank you, sir.

Hello, Mr. Former Commissioner
of the IRS.

I suppose I didn't need to
actually grab the guy's tie,

but I was excited.

I said, "Sir, I cannot believe
that Fate has brought me to you.

You need to help me solve
this incredibly horrible
tax problem I have.

Otherwise, I won't be able
to marry my girlfriend

before our baby is born!"

"Mr. Kornbluth, it sounds
like an urgent matter indeed.

Perhaps we should talk about
this in my office sometime.

Here's my card."

Which, in retrospect, may have
been intended as a brush-off,

but in my manic state,
I thought, ooh, he invited
me to his office.

And overnight,
I had a chance

to look this guy
up on the internet.

Turns out
he's the real deal.

Sheldon S. Cohen.

Commissioner of Internal Revenue
under President Johnson.

And the law firm
he's working at now

clearly is not on
the fringes

of Washington's
power structure.

I mean, just based on
the location.

1605 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Mr. Cohen.

Okay, as it happens,
I used to work for

a really terrific tax attorney,
so I know about

all the magical kinds of things
that you guys can do

in and around
the tax code.

Sir, I was just wondering
if you could do for me

what my old boss
used to do for his clients.

Sir, could you trigger
a shotgun provision

or maybe do
a reverse double dummy?

Even a single dummy
would probably be enough.

Let me get this straight.

You want me

to try to find a law
that will enable you

to avoid tax liabilities
that you admit you owe.

Yes.

You know,
Mr. Kornbluth,

there's a word
for people like you.

You know what
that word is?

You're a pisher.

He just called me pisher!

And it didn't feel good.

In fact, you know who you
remind me of, Mr. Kornbluth?

You remind me of
our neighbors
across the street.

Yeah, they'd be happy

if the tax was zero,

as long as
it didn't hurt them

and their cronies.

Is that what we want,
Mr. Kornbluth?

Mr. Cohen,
you have me all wrong.

They're the bad guys.

They don't wanna pay
their fair share.

I'm a good guy,

and I'm being asked to pay
more than my fair share.

But of course,
it makes sense, doesn't it, sir?

I mean, after all,
they are the "rulers,"

right, so they get
to write the rules.

Actually, Mr. Kornbluth,
I've gotta correct you there.

They did not write
these rules.

I wrote these rules.

I, along with my fellow
civil servants,

based upon legislation

enacted by people
who you elected.

Mr. Kornbluth,
without those taxes,

there would be no money.

Okay, sir,
I get that.

But with
all due respect,

I think you're still
kind of dodging the issue.

I mean, look, here we are
in your beautiful office,

right across the street
from the White House.

From what I can tell, sir,

you have made quite
a pretty penny

from helping those pishers
get out of paying

their fair share.

You don't know me,
Mr. Kornbluth.

But sir,
I do know you.

You're the Man.

Your actions help
this whole corrupt system

fund its wars
and bail out its corporations,

while at the same time,

the public schools,
the libraries,

health insurance,
everything I care about,

is falling apart.

Mr. Kornbluth,
anyone can criticize the system.

You don't like how
the tax burden is allocated.

You don't like
public spending

and where it goes.

Then elect
different representatives.

It's on you,
Mr. Kornbluth.

I am not the Man.

You are the Man.

Hey, bro, guess what.

We got into Sundance.
Whoo hoo!

Mo will own the movie
ofHaiku Tunnel.

As I gathered stuff up
from around the apartment

for my trip to Utah
for the festival,

I couldn't help
but reflect on

how deep a hole I'd managed
to dig for myself,

and how,
thanks to what I had done,

some of the people
I loved the most

were gonna suffer.

Really, the only
thread of hope

I had to cling to
at this point

was that maybe,
when we got to Sundance,

and we showed our movie,

maybe everyone
would just hate it.

'Cause if everyone
hated our film,

then probably,
no one would pick it up.

And if no one
picked it up for distribution,

then it wouldn't matter
who owned it.

But as it turns out,
people liked our movie.

Evil!
Ich bin ein evil secretary.

I'm a bad seed.

Josh, I don't mean
to pry,

but I can't help
but notice...

I mean, we're all
so proud and happy,

and yet, you seem
to be so... down.

I must ask.

Is it your tax thing?

What do you know
about my tax thing?

Pfft.

Only, pfft...

what your brother
has told me.

That you owe
a lot of money,

and until
you pay it,

you and Sara
can't get married,

and until
you and Sara get married,

you can't get on
her health insurance,

and Josh, anyone who
looks at you

knows you could use
health insurance.

Josh, may I ask,

how much?

Adding it all up,

the IRS,
the Franchisés, Mo,

about $50,000.

You know, Josh,

ever since those days
at the Marsh,

you've done what you loved.

And I've done
what I've loved,

and randomly, Josh,
totally randomly,

what I've done
has been lucrative

in these years.

But it's just
random, Josh.

Of course there's
no intrinsic value

to my work over yours,

or yours over
anyone else's.

And I would
consider it a gift

to me, Josh,

if you would allow me to
at least stop the meter
running here,

and loan you
the $50,000

at zero interest.

Until?

Until... infinity.

Oh, how'd the screening
go, baby?

It was fine, fine.

And how are you feeling?

I'm okay.
I have to pee.

Uh-huh.

I decided I prefer not
peeing and having to pee,

and being on this couch
and being cozy

than getting up
from the couch.

I haven't been
utterly,

holistically...
honest with you.

Have you been
having an affair?

No.

- Have you been having
multiple affairs?
- No.

Well... what?

I haven't been
totally on top of the tax thing.

Oh, God!

I thought you were...

I thought you were
paying it off.

You said...
you said you had it...

No, I remember this
very clearly.

You said you had it
under control.

Yeah, yeah, I did,

but I...
I thought I did.

You didn't have it
under control.

It got bigger.

When did it stop
being...

You lied to me.

The good thing is--

Oh, no, no, no.
There is no good thing.

- I have a plan.
- Oh, you have a plan.

Oh, I have
a plan, too.

I'm gonna move
back in with my parents.

No, I was talking
with David--

You clearly wanna
get out of this.

I was just talking
with David,

and David offered
to loan me

all $50,000.

Zero interest.

Till infinity.

It's my fault.

It is, it's my fault.

Because I was so stupid.

I actually...

I believed you would
follow through.

I...

It's okay, it's all right.
I don't blame you.

You can't help yourself.

You're a child.

Oh, I want to kill you!

God, I want to kill you!

Oh!

I feel like
I should kill you.

I should,
I should kill you.

No, but...

What, so you're gonna...

you're gonna set up
a payment plan,

and you're gonna pay
David back all his money?

Yeah.

And, and you're
going to pay your taxes,

on time from now on.

Yes.

And when these scary
envelopes come,

you're going
to open them,

like, right away.

Yes, I promise.

So do you still love me?

I'm sorry.

Mr. Kornbluth,

this is too big
for me to deposit.

50,000.

Here.
That's too big?

I'll have to get
my supervisor.

Excuse me.

I can certainly
deposit this check,
Mr. Kornbluth.

You should have access
to these funds

in seven to ten
business days.

I need
all that money tomorrow.

You can't put any kind
of hold on that check.

Well, I'll have to get
the vice-president.

Of the United States?

Nice to see you,
Mr. Kornbluth.

Wanna go hunting with
me and Scalia tomorrow?

Shoot some
drugged-up ducks?

No, the vice-president
of the bank.

Oh. Okay.

That makes more sense.

Mr. Kornbluth, I can
deposit this check for you

with no hold,
but first,

I have to check to see
if this David fellow

has enough money
in his account to cover it.

Okay.

Okay. Here's
David's account.

And his balance...

Mr. Kornbluth, I can make
this deposit with no hold
whatsoever.

Before I do that...

why don't you
take a load off,
have a free cup of joe,

and have a chat with one of our
friendly investment counselors.

Mr. Kornbluth, I'm looking
at your checking account,

and with today's deposit,

the total amount
in your checking

is $50,022.

Exactly.

Mr. Kornbluth, are you aware
that there's no interest at all

on this checking account?

You should at least consider
moving it into

an interest-bearing account,
or even better,

we have this new policy.

I don't need to
go into the details,

but basically, you put
your money in one account,

we instantly transfer it
into another account.

Then you earn more interest,
we earn more interest,

and the beauty part is,

neither of us
has to pay any taxes.

Do you know what that is?

That is pishertalk.

What would happen
if everyone did that?

What would happen
if no one paid their taxes?

How would we even
fix a little pothole?

What, someone puts a tin can
next to the pothole,

and then people toss in coins
as they go driving by,

and someone else goes, "Hmm,
that seems to be enough money.

I'm going to learn
how to fix a pothole now."

No, our taxes
are us collecting

our own money from
ourselves for ourselves.

Our tax laws are what allow us
to provide for our children,

and for their children.

That's why I love tax law!

Oh.

And the next day,
back in our kitchen,

I made out three checks.

Made them out to the IRS,

to the Franchisés,
and to Mo.

I filled out the cover letters,
I put them in their envelopes,

and then,
on each envelope,

I put not one,
but two stamps.

I knew each envelope just had
a cover letter and check.

I just thought,
if a check was worth that much,

somehow, maybe mystically,
it'll weigh down the scale.

Then Sara and I had a brief
but totally serious discussion

on what we felt would be
the most secure mailbox to use

in our new neighborhood
in Berkeley.

We decided on the mailbox

at the corner of
University and Shattuck.

I kissed Sara good-bye,

and clutching those
three envelopes to myself,

I began the walk
up the hill to the mailbox.

On this walk, I passed
Washington Elementary School.

I passed,
on the other side of the street,

Berkeley High School.

I passed the downtown branch
of the Berkeley public library.

Retrofit for
earthquake protection,

but also really beautiful.

I passed a bus stop.

I passed a BART station.

Everything I saw
on this walk

had been paid for
with tax dollars.

I got up to the mailbox,

I opened it,

I put in
the three envelopes,

I shut it,
and then,

as I had been
trained to do

by both sets
of grandparents,

I opened it again.

You wanna make sure
nothing stuck.

Nothing had stuck.

I closed the mailbox,
and as I turned,

and began heading
back down the hill,

back towards
my new family,

I could feel my father...

flying away from me.

I will say this, bro.

My portrayal of you,
in the monologue

and in the movie,
is 100% accurate.

It's exactly realistic.

In fact, come here,
I want people...

Don't take my word for it,
but just check this out.

This is my actual brother,
the director of this film.

Okay, now you can see him,

and then you see
the actor who plays him.

The actor, because he's
an actor, he's handsome,

so that's different, but
otherwise it's exactly the same.

You can go back to
your side of the camera now.

Let's go.

I do remember
crashing.

Yeah, I'm amazed you
even remember it at all.

And this is before
we recycled Mountain Dew

as a typical thing.

It's before we really knew
about the Earth.

So Josh,
what were you thinking

when David
made you that offer?

I was...

I was speechless,
I was blown away.

It was magical.

He's my David
ex machina.

Do you wanna...
David, why don't
you come here?

This is the actual
David, so...

Uh... uh...
Why'd you do it?

'Cause I cared about you,
and I could do something
about it.

That's unbelievably
simple and beautiful.

And happens
to be true.

There you have it.

The actual David
is way sweeter

than I actually portrayed,
and doesn't go "pfft."

I don't think
they had a cat.

You don't think
they ever had a cat.

So you're, like,
completely questioning

- my veracity,
or my memory.
- Well, this is--

I live in some sort
of illusionary world

or something, illusional.

The tax goddesses
are part of your story

that I introduced
you to,

'cause they were
the people who did
my taxes,

and I don't
remember a cat.

It's freaking me out.
I'm starting to think,

was there a cat,
or do I now remember a cat

because I've been
doing the show
over and over again,

in which they
have a cat?

Did I at some point
make believe that...

Okay.

Shit.