Henry Fool Page #6

didn't like it.

-Did you tell him what you think?

-What I think doesn't matter.

Yes, it does.

You've got to use your influence.

I gave it to him to read and he

hated it. What more can I do?

You can refuse to let him

publish your poem.

I can't do that.

You said you would.

That was before

I read your book.

I signed the contract.

Look, Henry.

What would you expect?

I...

I don't know.

If I told you when I read it, it was

no good, what would've you done?

-I would've respected your opinion.

-There's no accounting for taste.

Well, is there?

I don't know.

I didn't bring it to Angus...

because it was good,

but because you're my friend.

Oh, how perfectly

enormous of you, Simon.

Look, Henry.

I did it. I wrote!

I wrote poetry

because you told me to.

I worked. I worked

while you just sat around...

and comfortably dismissed the

outside world as too shallow.

Is that such a priority? Is that

a measure of a man's worth?

To drag what's best in him out into

the street so that every average...

slob with some pretense to taste

can poke it with a stick?

Maybe.

Maybe it is.

You must be pretty impressed

with yourself, huh?

The all too obviously

talented new man.

The important new voice.

You'd be nowhere without

me and you know it.

I'm leaving.

I saw you for what you were

in the beginning, Simon.

I hold no grudge and I'm sure you'll

leave a small dent in the world.

The world is full of sh*t.

The world is full of sh*t.

It's true.

And you have to walk through it.

That's your part.

I'm sorry, but you're good at it.

Perhaps I'm not.

Perhaps I wasn't made

to walk through sh*t.

Go on, now.

Leave.

Do what you're good at. Go.

-What are you doing?

-Thinking.

About what?

Nothing.

Play.

Henry, what did I tell you about

not bringing the kid out here?

-Say hello to Patty, Ned.

-Hi.

-How are you doing, sweetie?

-What did you learn in school today?

-Nothing.

-Here. I'll teach you something.

-How's that?

-It burns.

Of course. See, that'll teach you.

Here. Sip this.

Pearl!

I'm warning you.

That's it.

Perfect!

-Hey, Fool, it's about your friend.

-What about him?

The controversial and reclusive

American poet, Simon Grim...

has been awarded

the Nobel Prize in Literature.

The Swedish academy, which will

confer the award next week...

praised Mr. Grim for works of great

and difficult striving for the...

rendering of the desperate,

the ugly and the mundane...

in a language packet in our

share of human frailties.

They must be hard out for geniuses

to pin medals on, because, listen...

when I first met him, he didn't even

know what iambic pentameter was.

-He's a fraud.

-Shut up. You're out of your league.

Stir things up so as to get in

the newspapers, that's his racket.

He's a great American

poet, you dumb f***!

Poet my ass!

I could puke all over a leaf and

be more profound than he is.

Come over here, and I'll cripple

you in three different ways!

Henry!

Listen, you degenerate. I've had it.

I've got enough of this.

Ned, have you been drinking?

His throat hurt from smoking.

Henry, don't come home tonight.

Don't come home at all. Ever!

Who's winning?

Nobody.

What's going on in there?

We got out rock and

roll shows these days, Henry.

Poetry readings just don't

pay the bills no more.

What did I tell you?

That was just a fad.

I told you that.

I told everybody.

You hear about Simon?

He's on the news today.

Yeah. So what?

Nobel Prize.

Anybody can get

one of them these days.

That's the problem

with this world, Mr. Deng.

Nobody's got

any standards anymore.

'Ve you seen Fay?

You better sleep in

my office tonight, Henry.

She's very angry.

You gotta let it cool off.

I can't sleep in there

with all that racket.

Suit yourself.

What are you

doing here, Pearl?

You want some?

Some what?

Oh, sh*t.

That's what my

stepfather always says.

What?

"You want some?"

People say you were once in jail for

having sex with a girl of my age.

You want some?

You oughta get

out of here, Pearl.

-I was here first.

-Go home.

I can't go home.

Why not?

He beat her up again.

Is she alright?

Do you think I'm pretty?

Does your mom need help?

I'll suck your cock

if you kill him for me!

Vicky?

What do you think

you're doing, you idiot?

What are you doing

in my house?

It's about Pearl.

Mind your

own business, Henry.

Yeah. Who the hell do

you think you are, anyway?

Is it true your husband served seven

years at a state prison for rape?

Yes. He has.

And when was that?

It was...

...I don't know, 15, 16 years ago.

-And when were you married?

We were married

seven years ago.

Were you aware of the victim's

relationship with the stepdaughter?

Pardon me?

The girl.

The daughter, Pearl.

She has been having sexual

relations with her stepfather.

I didn't know that. No.

I'm just repeating

what she said, Fay.

I know this isn't easy,

but we need your help here.

She asked your husband to kill

her stepfather in exchange for...

well, I guess...

the promise of sexual

relations with her.

Mom?

Where's dad?

I don't know, honey. Leave me

alone a minute. I gotta think.

Mom?

What?

Is dad in trouble?

Yes, Ned. He is.

He's in big trouble.

Now, can you just

be quiet for two minutes?

What do you want?

My uncle.

What's his name?

Simon Grim.

There ain't nobody

here by that name.

Room 423.

This is postmarked

What's he look like?

I'm sorry, kid.

I can't help you.

Promise me you'll be

on that plane at 4:OO, Simon.

I'll see you in Stockholm.

Look, Simon...

the world's a scary

place, I admit it.

But it's not

my fault, I swear.

Come on, let's go!

You got a light?

I love you, Fay.

Yeah, well...

tough.

Passport and ticket, please.

It's an honor

to meet you, Mr. Grim.

-Congratulations on the Nobel Prize!

-Thanks, but...

I know all your work by heart.

It changed my life.

Yeah, well.

Look, thanks, but, uhm...

Yes, of course.

Please hurry, sir. They're holding

the plane for you in the runway.

This way, Mr. Grim!

Please, we have to hurry!

Hurry, Mr. Grim!

Run!

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