Girlfriend's Day Page #4

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I'm working on it.

[minister] Our God,

we are grateful that Orwell...

What happened to Taft?

Guess his novel wasn't working out,

so he gave up.

Bullshit.

[minister] And we know

that he is wrapped tight...

Somebody killed him.

Let's pray together.

Our God...

I think he was writing a card

for this new holiday.

What are you...?

No one's getting killed over this, Ray.

We're talking about a card here.

A card.

[minister] ...grateful

that he now sings with angels...

Really?

Wrapped tight in the arms

and the bosom of Abraham...

I don't know, I just work here.

Condolences.

[Ray sighs]

[Mrs. Taft chuckles]

- I'm sorry.

- Uh-huh.

It's professional curiosity.

Taft and I worked together.

Your husband and I.

I'm Ray.

Can I...?

Yeah, sure.

Your husband was the writer

I always measured myself against.

And I always came up short.

Well...

won me over with a card.

I'm afraid I wasn't the greatest prize.

[sighs]

Well, he talked about you.

A lot.

I pushed him around.

I didn't kill him, though.

I don't recognize you.

Did you attend the company picnics, huh?

Christmas party?

No, I hate holidays.

Right. Now, wait, you're

in the greetings industry.

[soft laughter]

Romance, purely.

I don't have time for that other sh*t.

Yeah.

You tell me, was he writing

a card for this new holiday?

Yeah, sure.

Couldn't help himself.

Sentiments just poured out.

- Who was he working for?

- Gundy, of course.

Yeah, I know him.

Owns AAAAA Greetings.

No, come on. Not Robert Gundy.

Dillon, his brother,

the owner of Paper Hearts.

Anyway.

Wait. Gundy has a brother?

I guess.

I've just been feeling so lonely,

without Orwell's voice

buzzing in the air, you know?

- Clomping around.

- Listen, can I use your back door?

[chuckles]

Seriously?

Yeah, of your house.

Can I use it?

Oh. Uh, yeah.

What are you doing with the lady, huh?

You getting bi-curious, huh?

[horn honks in time with punches]

God!

Where's the goddamn card?

This just keeps getting weirder.

Who are you working for?

Gundy pays me. Who else?

Gundy? Which Gundy?

I don't have to tell you anything.

Now, where's the card?

I'm trying.

Get to it, or I might have to find

my favorite bloody shirt.

Hmm?

[taps horn]

[brakes squeal]

[engine coughs]

[child laughs]

Take a picture.

It'll last longer.

[distant grandfather clock chimes]

I'm not Jewish.

We wouldn't care if you was, mister.

We's former racists.

Good for you.

I'm Betcher.

This here's Adolph Haggert.

Call him Sonnyboy.

He don't like Adolph no more.

Sonnyboy is good enough.

- We're reformed.

- Yeah.

I spent two years

in a maximum security prison

for a hate crime I did not commit.

It was planned as a hate crime.

I couldn't get that f***ing cross

into the ground.

[Betcher sighs]

It's a lot tougher than it looks.

Besides...

hating a whole race of folks,

now that's an awful lot of work.

Yeah.

So you don't hate anyone now?

So, who do you hate now?

Elitists!

[Betcher chuckles]

Yeah.

You know what them are, fancy man?

Them's people think they're

better than other people.

I got news for you:

They ain't!

Nobody's better than nobody,

that's our motto these days.

And if you think you is,

we'll f*** you up till you isn't.

Mr. Ray.

Please come this way.

[Ray]

All right, man.

This way.

Just down here.

Through this vestibule.

And through this door.

Ah!

Good to finally meet you,

Mr. Wentworth.

Robert Gundy.

[Ray groans]

My wrist is still a little broken.

Oh, I'm sorry.

My goodness.

Your lip... looks like fresh blood.

Yeah. Tastes like it, too.

Hmm.

I hope you don't mind watching me eat.

I'm famished.

Oh, liver and beets!

Exquisite.

Can I offer you a beer?

I'm on medication, so... yeah.

Ah. Rupert.

A beer for Mr. Wentworth, please.

[Gundy eats]

- Is this actually...?

- The first card. Yes.

Napoleon gave it to his mother

after she had a tumor

removed from her ankle.

It's French, and it translates into,

"Feel better."

She died two days after receiving it.

Sit down, Mr. Wentworth, let's talk.

You own AAAAA Greetings.

Mmm.

And Paper Hearts.

No, no, no. No, that

belongs to my brother, Dilly.

Well, Mr. Wentworth, they tell me

that you were Card Writer of the Year

in 2005, '06 and '07.

Congratulations.

Also that you're divorced,

you live alone,

and you like to watch Bumfights.

[laughs]

What can you see in them, I wonder!

They make me feel better somehow.

- Yeah.

- Moving on.

What happened to Taft?

Our nation's fattest president?

No, former associate of mine.

He was writing a card

for your brother's company.

They found him

floating facedown in the river.

Oh, yes, yes. It was tragic.

Styvesan told me that he was

a very skilled writer,

that he made hearts quiver.

Said there was only one ever better.

Yeah, well, his wife is distraught.

Mmm.

Someone ought to send her a card.

F*** cards!

Did you have him killed?

That is a hefty accusation,

Mr. Wentworth.

Perhaps you should take that up

with the police.

[horse whinnies outside]

Hello, darling!

The word is, you have a sweetheart,

Mr. Wentworth.

How do you know?

Detective Miller.

He works for me on the side.

I thought Styvesan worked for you.

Among many others.

But this girlfriend of yours,

congratulations.

That's good, that's very good.

I mean, after all,

you need to feel the feelings

before you can write about them.

So I write the card for her and I give

it to you. That doesn't seem fair.

Well, my father used to say,

"Fair is where you end up."

[soft chuckle]

Write the card, Raymond.

[sighs]

Why me?

I have a sixth sense about

these things, Mr. Wentworth.

You've been a fool for love before.

You've got the gene for it.

No. I'm a cynic.

No, I'm a cynic. You're cynical.

There's a difference.

I never believed in the first place,

but you,

you wake up every morning disappointed

to find the world the way it is

because you're a dreamer.

Write the card, Raymond.

Rupert, show Mr. Wentworth out.

[brakes squeal]

[engine coughs]

- Hi.

- Hey.

Welcome to my house.

- Nice place.

- Nice sarcasm.

[both laugh]

- Oh.

- Oh.

[female vocalist

sings in French on stereo]

- They're fake.

- Yeah.

I mean, they're made

out of real... plastic.

But, uh, if you have

a magic act, they can...

Get out.

I'm kidding. Totally kidding.

I can water them with soda pop.

They're beautiful.

They... they smell funny.

[female vocalist

sings in French on stereo]

Here you go. Look at this.

Oh, that's my, uh,

collection of ugly purses.

- They're really ugly.

- Yeah, thank you.

Baby shoes.

Um... who do those belong to?

Yeah, those...

Those are actually mine.

Um, they're... they're my sho...

Beat you to it.

Doing okay there?

Yeah.

[chuckles]

I think I'm doing great.

[Jill laughs]

I think I'm...

unstuck.

You unstuck me.

- Yay!

- Hooray.

I'm feeling...

feelings.

Last couple of years, I've been...

looking for those feelings, and, uh...

feelings have been like...

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