Original subtitles

(door unlocking)

(keys jingling)

(moaning)

(moaning)

(police siren wailing)

(moaning)

You want one?

No, thanks.

Bartender that neither drinks nor smokes.

If I were in Vegas, I'd have lost money.

Are you a betting kind of girl?

Depends.

I guess I'm not your average bear.

Sensed that about you.

How's that?

The way I poured your Jack and coke?

No, when you referenced Baudelaire.

Not only did you pick one of my favorite poets,

but one of my favorite poems as well.

That's when I knew I was gonna fuck you.

Guess I'm not your average bear either.

(door opening)

(sounds of traffic passing)

(toilet flushing)

(door opening)

You from here?

Born and raised in beautiful Van Nuys.

You from L.A.?

No, Chicago.

What brings you out here?

Mm, let me guess.

Chicago, big theater town,

you work at a bar in Los Angeles...

Actor.

No.

No?

No.

Hmm.

I'd have bet the farm on that one.

So you are a betting kind of girl.

Depends.

What do you do?

I work in the corporate world.

Sales.

What company?

Starbucks.

What, are you in corporate headquarters or something?

No, I work at the Starbucks on Beverly and Detroit.

Prefer to do my selling one person at a time.

Come in sometime, I'll buy you a latte.

Is that what you do?

What do you mean?

Well, is that it, or are you trying to do something else?

Everyone out here seems to be trying to do something

other than what they're actually doing.

No.

I'm just a girl who works at Starbucks.

I didn't mean for it to come off like that.

Not at all.

What about you?

Is it your life's passion to sling drinks

at some shithole in Venice?

Oh, God, yes.

Oh, I honed that dream down with my high school counselor.

We spent hours upon hours

talking about how to achieve my impossible dream,

and...now I've done it.

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and I'm gonna guess

that besides being an awesome seller of coffee,

you like to read.

How did you know that?

You just have some...

psychic, creepy superpower.

When'd you start?

My mom used to say that...

when I was born, I asked the doctor

for just one more day to read "The Stranger."

She still live out here?

No.

She passed away a few years ago.

I'm sorry.

Life.

It's bound to kill you sooner or later.

The apartment's great.

I love old buildings.

Hardwood.

Old, yes.

Great, no.

Where do you live?

Hollywood.

One of those monstrosities with 40 units.

Keep telling myself I'm gonna move,

but I never get around to it.

They say it's one of the top three

most stressful things in life.

-What, moving? -Yeah.

You know what the number one fear is of most people?

Clowns.

Public speaking.

Which is psychotic when you think about it.

We're more afraid of looking stupid in front of each other

than we are of dying?

I guess we all feel like we're frauds

and we'll be found out.

Frauds?

Yeah.

What I mean is, I guess...

we're all afraid, and we're walking around

trying to convince ourselves and each other that we're not.

On some fundamental level, we know this.

"How are you today?"

"Good, you?"

"Oh, great."

When what's really happening is my company's cutting back

and I'm terrified I might lose my job.

We can't tell each other that, right?

We can't be honest, God forbid.

I guess we all believe that we're the only ones

that feel that way, so we spend our lives

pretending that everything's okay.

Now you want me to speak in front of a bunch of people,

and the terror that somehow I'll be found out,

be exposed, suddenly just slams me in the face,

you know, it overwhelms me.

People can be cruel.

I can understand not wanting to put ourselves

at the mercy of a bunch of retards.

To expose ourselves just so others

can criticize us and tear us down?

I do, too.

But at some point, you have to ask yourself,

"Then what's the fuckin' point?"

I'm afraid to be who I am,

and I can't walk around hiding like everyone else.

Where does that leave me?

You want a drink?

I don't drink.

Right.

A bartender who neither drinks nor smokes.

Water?

Sure.

(cabinet door opening)

(glass rattling)

(faucet pouring)

You're very free with your body.

Am I?

Yeah.

Most women are so self-conscious.

What you see is what you get.

I like it.

(truck beeping)

Do you do this a lot?

What?

This.

Fuck random girls from the bar.

No, not really.

No, huh?

No.

What about you?

You typically walk into a bar, seduce a bartender,

then bring 'em back here and fuck them?

Yes.

-What is this? -What's what?

Where is this coming from?

I thought we were having a good time here.

We are.

I just want to be clear.

Clear about what?

About what this is.

-I'm clear. -Are you?

Yes.

Good.

'Cause I don't want any complications.

Neither do I.

So we're on the same page.

Yes.

Good.

(dog barking)

(panting)

(heavy breathing)

(panting)

(sounds of traffic passing)

(cigarette case closing)

(lighter clicking)

Sure do like to smoke, huh?

I adore it.

Well, if it makes you happy.

It can't be that bad.

You like Sheryl Crow?

She rocks.

"Tuesday Night Music Club" is one of my favorite albums.

Second only to "August and Everything After."

Counting Crows are quite possibly my favorite.

True poets.

That they are.

Two Crows.

Interesting.

In mythology,

the crow is meant to be a guide.

It's God's messenger leading people to good.

I don't believe in God.

Me neither.

Well, not in a religious one, at least.

So you believe in a god?

I think there's a universal intelligence.

I mean, there's so much precise and immutable law

in the universe, it's hard for me to believe

that something hasn't had a hand in its creation.

Sixty-five million years ago,

a rock from outer space

smashed into the rock we currently live on

and annihilated most of its species.

What is so precise about that?

It's all just random.

There's no method or conscious choice.

People's lives mostly happen to them.

There's no guiding force other than the decisions we make

and there are certainly no assurances in that.

It's a crapshoot at best.

People have horrible shit happen to them all the time

in spite of living right.

You do everything right, do all the right things,

work really hard,

and still never get what you want.

Where the fuck is God in that?

What about just being born?

Abuse, poverty, birth defects.

Out of the gate, you're screwed.

Where's the divine planning in that?

Are you saying God does this on purpose?

Any way you slice that pie, I don't want a piece,

fuck you very much.

I'll stick with the Jell-O.

It's not as tasty, but it goes down

a lot fucking smoother.

Jell-O?

Look, I'm not saying I don't question those things.

I do.

Pisses me off, too.

I had a friend once who got really sick outta nowhere.

Couldn't figure out what it was.

Was in the hospital, in and out of consciousness,

for over a week.

I was visiting her.

She was sleeping,

and I'm sitting there looking at her,

and I'm telling God to go fuck Himself in my head.

I mean, I'm literally cursing God out,

calling Him every name in the book.

You know, cocksucker, cunt, whore.

I mean, I was furious that this was happening to her.

And all that resentment, all that rage,

it finally bottlenecked on me and I started crying.

I mean, sobbing.

And I'm trying to be quiet so I won't wake her...

and my...chest burns,

my throat aches, my eyes are slits,

and this whole time,

I'm calling God a motherfucker.

I'm muttering it just under my breath over and over.

Just, "Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker."

I mean, it's almost like a Buddhist chant at this point.

Just, "Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker."

And I suddenly feel something.

You know that feeling you have when someone's staring at you?

Only it was times ten.

I looked down, and she's staring up at me.

And she's looking at me in a way...

I don't think I could articulate, it's...

her, but it's not her.

It's like...

the purest her.

Like if her soul suddenly grew eyes.

She says,

"Energy can be neither created nor destroyed,

just transferred.

This is law.

It is infinite intelligence's way of proving we are eternal."

And in that moment,

I believed it.

She was so clear.

It was so true in her that it made it undeniable.

In that moment, I knew something bigger than me existed,

was real.

That's a beautiful idea,

but I bet most of the time, you don't believe that.

I lose touch with it all the time, but...

isn't that the nature of faith or belief?

It doesn't mean that I'm not gonna get afraid

or lost or confused, it just means at the end of the day,

you have that faith to go back to.

That knowing that no matter what,

no matter how fucked up everything seems to be,

things are really okay.

Can you honestly tell me that most of the time,

you know everything is okay?

Me neither.

What happened to her?

She died.

So you believe in nothing?

I believe that if I want something to change,

I better get off my ass and do something.

At least try.

All by yourself?

All by my lonesome.

It's a delusion to think that we're not alone

and on our own.

There's a limit to what people are willing to do for you.

They've got their own lives to untangle.

They can't neglect their own life to help you better yours.

It's insane to think that.

Do you have any friends?

I have friends, yes.

If you don't believe people can help each other, why bother?

Or for that matter, are you even really friends?

Friends rely on each other.

Doesn't sound like you're capable of having friends,

not really.

Fuck you.

Oh, I'm sorry, I guess I should just sit here

and keep my mouth shut and agree with everything

you have to say.

Fuck you!

You're a brat, you know that?

-Am I? -Yeah.

You have a real meanness in you.

It's fine if we don't agree on some things,

but you don't have to be a bitch about it.

Get the fuck out of my house!

It's fine if we don't agree.

I just don't want you to be mean to me.

I don't think that's too much for one fucking person

to ask from another.

Life's hard enough as it is

without people needlessly making it fuckin' harder.

I mean, is it impossible for two grown adults

to have a meaningful conversation

without someone fucking getting hurt?

What's so difficult about that?

Two people, just expressing

a little bit of truth with each other

without blood ending up on the fuckin' walls.

Is that too much to fucking ask?

(sighs)

I didn't mean to raise my voice. I'm sorry.

It's okay.

I understand.

I actually had a really good time with you.

I think you're really interesting, different.

I like that.

Thank you for having me over.

I'm sorry.

It's okay.

See you at the bar, I guess.

Yeah, sure.

Stay.

Please.

(footsteps approaching)

Do you cook?

Mmm.

Yummy.

Yeah. Scrambled eggs, dry toast, and tap water.

Breakfast of champions.

Still, I love breakfast.

There's something hopeful about it.

You know, start of a new day,

nothing horrible has occurred yet.

A man sits over his eggs

and there's a sense of possibility in the air.

Maybe today will be "the day," you know?

-"The day"? -Yeah.

Maybe today will be the day that x happens.

For example...

maybe today's the day I win the lottery.

Maybe today's the day I get that big promotion

I've been pining for.

Maybe today's the day I use that ab cruncher

I bought three months ago.

Maybe today's the day

I don't want to claw my eyes out of my head

every time someone asks for a vanilla latte.

Well, yes.

Not quite as filled with hope,

but that's the general idea.

Here's to hopin'.

Actually,

breakfast kinda reminds me of my mother.

Every morning I would...

wake up and go into the kitchen,

and there would be nothing.

My mom usually wouldn't be home.

Not because she was an early riser

and had to get off to work, but because she was sleeping

at her boyfriend-of-the-week's place.

My mom loved the boys, all right.

So I would...scavenge around

and...eat whatever we had.

One week I ate a can of peas every day.

Breakfast of champions.

What about you?

I bet you...woke up

to your mom singing in the kitchen

while she cooked you pancakes and bacon

and squeezed the orange juice herself.

Not quite.

But close, though,

only it was my dad,

and he did cook, thank you very much.

It was my favorite part of the day.

My dad cookin', crackin' jokes,

bein' silly.

He always seemed so happy in the morning.

Where was your mom?

She died when I was six.

I'm sorry.

How?

I'm sorry.

I'm just curious.

You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.

My mom was a drunk.

Apparently she'd go on these benders

for two or three days at a time, just disappear.

On one of 'em, she met a man at a bar,

and they decided to go back to his place.

On the way there, my mother...

she opened the passenger-side door and just stepped out.

When I was 18,

my father sat me down and told me all about it.

Said I had a right to know who she was.

The longer he talked about her, the more obvious it became

that he still loved her.

In spite of everything that happened,

he still loved her.

Crazy.

Love isn't logical.

No.

No, I guess it isn't.

Where's your dad?

Is he still in Chicago?

No.

He died about 14 years ago.

Lung cancer.

Jesus Christ.

Life.

Bound to kill you sooner or later.

(cigarette case closing)

(lighter clicking)

I lied to you before.

My mom's still alive.

She's still in Van Nuys,

but I haven't spoken to her in years.

She calls from time to time,

tells me how much she loves me and misses me.

Anyway...

I just thought you should know.

Thank you.

(fork clanks on plate)

(plate thunks on floor)

(heavy breathing)

(heavy breathing)

(moaning)

(groaning)

Come in me.

(panting)

(moaning)

(groaning)

(moaning)

(whimpering)

(panting)

(tearful sniffle)

(door opens, closes forcefully)

(lighter clicks)

Sorry about that.

You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about.

I haven't cried in...

Jesus, I don't know how long.

All that talk about the past, I guess.

We barely know each other,

and here I am, sobbing in your arms.

You probably think I'm some psycho girl

who's completely unstable.

Well, I thought that long before you cried.

(Sid chuckles sardonically)

Crying is good.

Oh yeah, Dr. Phil?

When's the last time you cried?

I don't know.

Sure you do, come on.

I don't know, really.

Really?

I just cried like a fucking six-year-old

and you can't at least tell me the last time you cried?

Fine.

It was after my wife left me.

You're married?

No.

I was married, now I'm divorced.

How long?

How long was I married or how long have I been divorced?

Both.

We've been divorced for over two years.

Kids?

No.

No kids, she didn't want them.

At least not with me.

Well, what happened?

Why am I always fuckin' talkin' about myself?

Why am I always telling you my dirty little secrets?

How 'bout you tell me something?

Tell me something you never told someone else before,

how's that?

Something you swore you'd take to the grave.

I don't have anything like that.

Bullshit.

-Bullshit? -Yeah.

I'm sure you have at least two of 'em--

fuck, probably more.

What makes you think that?

'Cause at the end of the day, Sid,

I get the sneaking suspicion that you and me

aren't all that different.

I tell you one, you tell me about your wife.

Ex-wife.

Fine.

Ex-wife. Deal?

Deal.

And you better not try and bullshit me.

I'll know if you're lying.

I'm not a fucking liar.

Fine, go ahead.

Fine, don't rush me.

-Fine. -Fine!

(Sid groans)

My dad used to walk me to school every morning.

And one day, instead of being woken by the sound of his voice,

I woke to an empty house.

I cried all the way to school,

and I sat there terrified all day

something had happened to him.

Heh.

I was too afraid to tell anyone,

'cause for some fucked-up reason,

I got it in my head that they would blame me,

that it was somehow my fault.

And I ran,

I ran home after school-- I mean, I fucking sprinted.

I sat on the couch

and I stared at the front door,

hoping he would walk through it,

praying he would walk through the door

and say, "I'm so sorry, Beautiful.

I'm so sorry I didn't get to walk you to school today.

I got called away."

I sat there until 12:30 at night

when my mom finally stumbled in.

She was usually home by six,

but apparently, she'd gone out drowning her sorrows

with the girls from work

and looking for my dad's replacement.

Obviously, I knew none of this at the time.

I started crying.

Saying, "Daddy's missing!"

And, uh, she looked at me and simply said,

"Daddy's gone.

He left."

When I finally asked her

if he was ever coming back,

she just looked at me and shrugged.

So I took that as a maybe.

And every day for the next two years,

I sat at the window with a pair of old binoculars

my father had left behind

and I scoured every face that walked by,

and I looked into every car that passed,

and I looked as far as my eyes could see,

searching for him.

Looking to see if I could find my daddy.

Of course, as you can imagine, I never did.

There it is.

There's my big, dirty secret I never told anyone.

Happy?

No.

-Did you ever see him again? -Nope.

I'm sorry.

Your turn.

Tell me about the missus.

We met three years ago.

Where?

Jesus, what difference does it make?

Deal's a deal, motherfucker.

I stuck to my end, now pony up.

We met during rehearsal for a play.

I lied to you too, I am an actor.

I knew it.

Why lie?

Because it opens up the same line of questioning.

"Oh, you're an actor-- have you done anything

I would have seen you in?"

Which is the stupidest fuckin' question in the world,

because how the fuck do I know what you've seen?

Then I have to face the truth that I've been out here

for ten years, I haven't really done anything.

No TV, no big films, just...

theater, some non-union films,

and lots and lots of shitty student films.

-So what's wrong with that? -Because it disgusts me.

I'm disgusted by that, okay?

I'm embarrassed and ashamed by it, all right?

All right!

So to get back to your question,

we met three years ago and got married.

For how long?

Eleven months.

Whoa.

-You really stuck it out. -Hey.

Hey, just 'cause your dad left you,

don't go fuckin' assumin' I ran away, okay,

because I didn't!

-She left me, all right? -All right!

-She left me. -All right!

She left me!

Okay!

I can't do this, I'm sorry.

What's "this"?

We're just talking.

Yeah, sure.

Oh, I see.

You mean that somewhere deep down inside,

little old Sid is just some needy bitch

who wants you to be her boyfriend.

Look.

I like you.

I really do.

But I just can't be in something right now.

I just don't want to.

Well, who the fuck asked you to,

you presumptuous fuck?

I don't want anything more from you

than a couple of orgasms.

What makes you think I wanna be with some

40-year-old fucking bartender anyway?

Don't. Don't be fucking mean.

You know what I think?

I think I was right before.

I think you should go.

Yeah, sure.

That was shitty of me, I'm sorry.

No biggie.

Yeah, well, I'm sorry.

I think you're great, really.

Most people, 20 minutes in, I wanna set myself on fire.

You're different.

Glad to hear it. Get out.

No.

I'm sorry?

No, I think I'm gonna stay.

It's really not your fucking decision to make, now is it?

Get. Out.

Nope.

(clunking shoes off)

Wow.

You are precious.

One minute you're telling me you don't want

anything to do with me, and the next,

you're refusing to leave my house?

That's a very glass-is-half empty kinda way

of looking at it, don't you think?

You wanna know what I think?

I'm sure in the next 20 seconds, I'll have an idea.

I think you have exactly ten seconds

to put those shoes back on and get the fuck outta my house

before something bad happens to you.

Can we just go back to the part where

all you want from me are some orgasms?

Because I'm really starting (inaudible).

Okay, sport, out!

Whoa!

I'm sorry about earlier, I am.

I'm sure you are, but I'm through with you,

-so out you go. -Fine.

But look, I didn't mean what I said, I was upset.

I'm serious, I'm done with you.

What the fuck, Sid? Come on.

I'm done--me, not you, me!

Fuck!

What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?

(screams)

Fuck.

(Max cries)

(sounds of passing traffic)

(chair scrapes floor)

You don't have to go if you don't want to.

(Max laughs ruefully)

I lied to you before

when I told you I just worked at Starbucks.

I write.

I wanna be a writer.

I don't know why I'm telling you now.

I guess I thought you should know.

Why'd you lie?

Same as you.

In all these years, I've never published

a single thing.

Not one word.

I'm sorry.

I know what that's like.

I'm sorry I freaked out on you.

I didn't mean to hit you.

It's okay.

Stay?

On one condition.

(insects chirring)

(sounds of traffic passing)

It's great.

You don't have to say that.

I'm serious, it's great.

You're a great writer.

Have you submitted it anywhere?

No.

Are you crazy? Why not?

I just can't take another no.

I can't.

-What are you doing? -Shh!

What's your last name?

-Why? -Because.

What are you doing?

What's your last name?

-Lemme see. -No.

Last name, please.

-Do I have to get my bat again? -If you want,

but it's not gonna stop me.

I'm submitting this to The New Yorker.

No. Come on!

No, Sid, I'm submitting this.

All right, this needs to be seen,

other people have the right to see this.

And when they say no?

Or worse, I hear absolutely nothing,

what then?

Then we try somewhere else.

"We"?

Yes, we.

I've officially made myself your agent.

Hey, pal.

Based on what you told me about your career,

that's like winning a bag of shit.

That's nice, that's very nice language.

Thank you.

You know the difference between you and me?

A vagina?

Yeah...and I haven't given up.

Whilemson.

Spell, please.

W-H-I-L-E-M-S-O-N.

Is Sid short for Sidney?

Siddhartha.

My dad loved books too.

It's a beautiful name.

Thank you.

Email?

sidw@me.com.

Congratulations.

You've just submitted your short story

to The New Yorker.

Thank you.

You know what's so funny?

When I first started writing,

I was ecstatic about all of it.

The research, the rewriting,

the long hours, the confusion.

The times when the characters started saying things

you never anticipated.

I loved it all.

I even loved the submitting.

The rejection didn't matter,

because I was doing what I loved to do.

I was doing what I knew in my heart was right.

I just knew I would win out.

I knew I would publish.

The idea of not making my living as a writer,

of not getting to share my stories with the world?

It was ludicrous.

Now...

...four novels,

sixty-two short stories,

two screenplays,

and notebook upon notebook of poetry later...

the idea of writing...

just the idea of it,

hurts.

Have you ever been to a psychic?

A psychic?

Yeah.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I went to one once, she totally helped.

-Did she, now? -Yeah.

It was kinda crazy, creepy,

you know, the way she was starin' at me,

you know, the intensity of her eyes, it was unsettling.

Yeah?

Did she tell you you were gonna be rich and famous

and then rape you for a hundred bucks?

No, not even close.

She's staring at me and she finally says,

"You were a dog in a past life."

Seriously, and I say, "Okay," and she goes,

"You were hit by a car and you broke your collarbone."

-Dogs have collarbones? -Apparently.

And then she says, "You still have scar tissue

and calcium deposits on it, to this day."

And you know what?

She was right, I do.

Get the fuck outta here.

Seriously--here.

Look.

(Max snarls like a dog)

(Sid groans)

Cocksucker!

Cocker Spaniel, actually.

(laughing)

(birdsong)

The sun's coming up.

I wanna see you again.

Do you?

Yes.

Why?

Because I like you.

I like you a lot, Siddhartha.

And so we see each other again, then what?

I don't know.

What?

We start dating?

Are we gonna date?

Maybe, yeah.

What's wrong with that?

I thought you said you didn't wanna be

in anything right now.

Isn't that what you said?

I changed my mind.

Oh, and how do I know a few weeks from now

you won't change your mind again?

How do I know that?

I guess you don't.

Exactly.

Exactly.

I've never felt this way before.

What way?

I've never felt the way I feel about you before.

I've never just met someone and felt so drawn, so connected.

If you don't feel the same way, I understand.

I mean, it's okay, maybe I'm off base or something.

No.

I feel the same way.

Then this is rare, right?

This is something we shouldn't just shut the door on,

should we?

What if we're wrong?

What if our feelings are wrong,

or worse, temporary?

Huh? What then?

I don't know, Sid.

I wanna try.

Sid.

I thought you were a betting kind of girl.

Depends.

Okay.

*