Marjorie Prime Page #4

I'm not drunk, you know.

I'm just taking the

edge off, I'm tipsy.

There are degrees...

Tipsy, tipped, smashed.

Nobody is who he was,

nor will be who he is now.

Hey there, partner.

She's sleeping.

Yesterday, she didn't

know who I was.

Today, we're old friends.

She tells me, never get old.

She says, no one

prepares you for this.

She doesn't know

about my last job.

And old man, very tall and

dignified, but very sick.

He was always vomiting.

That was a big part of my

job, cleaning up vomit.

The man's son

became my boyfriend.

He was always fighting with his

father and his father's doctor.

At one point, he started

to beat up the doctor.

This job is much better.

Don't cry.

It'll be all right.

I'm not crying.

I have allergies.

Six months,

maybe, or three or four.

You going to tell me that

Walter thought this one up?

What, all of a sudden I'm

supposed to drop out of school?

Forget my family,

forget my career.

Forget about all the things

I had planned for my life.

Well, forgive me for

screwing up your plans.

I'm just sure glad I'm

hearing about this now

before it's too late.

What is that supposed to mean?

What am I supposed to

do with my life, huh?

I work in that low

paying, zero respect job.

Which unfortunately,

I happen to love.

Why don't you start by being

honest one second, Kim.

I am being honest.

You're still too old for me.

Hmm, how can you say that?

Marry me, Marjorie?

We'll grow old together.

I'll just do it a

little sooner than you.

After a while, it

won't really matter.

But how can you be so sure?

Sure about?

Yourself, me, anything?

That sweater is good on you.

Thank you.

You picked it out

for me, remember?

Three christmases ago.

Three years isn't a

long time, not for me.

Remember when we took

Toni to the beach?

Yes, of course.

She was so happy.

But we were finding sand

in her fur for weeks.

She was a good dog.

Jon wants to get a dog.

Oh?

He wants a fetch the

stick kind of a dog.

But I was thinking a shiba in...

What's a shiba inu?

It's like the

national dog of Japan.

It's like a friendly

little fox, very

clean, very quiet, very shy.

Well, what do you expect?

You... you mean...

t's Japan.

Mom, that's very...

t's not racist,

it's a compliment.

For years, Sandy park

was my best friend.

We played in the

orchestra together.

Korean, but... I'm not racist.

Your poor old mother was

born in the 20th century.

You'll have to give

her time to catch up.

The problem... the

problem with a dog

is Jon and I want to travel,

and who would take care of it?

I would.

Ha, wish that were possible.

Jon wants me to

consider a catahoula.

You can look it

up, I know you can.

Is it against the rules?

It's also known as a

catahoula leopard hound.

A hound dog.

It's not really a true

hound dog though, but a cur.

Named state dog of

Louisiana in 1979.

I'm not really good at this.

Good at?

At pretending that you're...

Sometimes you are so

good, you are so her.

That bit with the subtle racism.

But other times it's

uh, all too apparent.

Try to be patient with me.

If I could give you a

spoonful of peanut butter,

that would help.

You could smile less.

That would be more her.

- Me?

- You.

- Yeah.

- Yeah.

Thank you for

observing that rule.

Pronouns are powerful things.

Why don't you tell

me more about myself.

I don't smile much, you said.

Toward the end, you

were self-conscious

about your teeth.

I'm vain?

A little.

That's helpful.

You had a temper.

I sound wonderful.

Do I have other

children besides you?

No, just me.

What a lot of

pressure for you.

Did I say something wrong?

No, you didn't.

You were saying just you.

You also have a

granddaughter named Raina.

She's 23.

She's in a band.

She's musical, like me.

Raina doesn't talk to me.

Her therapist said it

would be better for now.

Someone I've never

met has advised

my daughter not to talk to me.

So she calls Jon

and he fills me in.

It's humiliating.

She's 23, giver her room.

She'll work through it.

Now you sound like Jon.

Yes.

You haven't finished

telling me what I'm like.

Well, you certainly wouldn't

stand for your daughter giving

you the silent treatment.

You were a violinist.

You were better than good.

You were better at the

violin than I am at anything.

But when you couldn't play

any more from arthritis,

you just seemed to

leave it behind.

We were all surprised

that you could just...

You were good with men.

I don't think you had

many female friends.

And I think you wanted me

to be good with men too.

It bothered you that I

was always in my own head.

And Jon was not

glamorous enough for you.

Glamorous?

He didn't impress you.

You and dad fought, but

you loved each other.

I don't think either one

of you was more in love

than the other one,

which is always lucky.

But the age difference

really started

to matter the last few years.

Maybe he loved

you a little more,

or needed you a little more.

Later, when you

were living with us,

you would sometimes forget

that Walter was dead.

Sometimes every

day, where's Walter?

And we would have to

kill him all over again.

But once we reminded you,

you would say, how nice

that I could love somebody.

And I always

wondered if that was

how you really felt, at peace.

But it was a nice way to put it.

How nice that I

could love someone.

It's not really

that different.

What?

This, from what we used to

do for the last year or two.

We would sit there and tell you

what you what you were like.

You were almost guilty

for still being around.

You felt so useless.

Let me see, what else?

You were very good with animals.

Toni liked you the

best, second best.

Second best?

Who did she like better?

Um, we'll save

that for another day.

That's a long story.

I have all the

time in the world.

Why do you think this

is the Marjorie for me?

Why this is the way I

want to remember her?

Me.

Yes, god.

Sorry.

I mean, you'd think

that I would want

to remember you the way you were

when I was a little girl, but...

I wish I could

tell you, sweetheart.

You wouldn't

say "sweetheart."

You haven't said

much about you and me.

Are we close?

You weren't a bad mom.

But I think some people have a

point where their parents stop

being their parents to them,

and you speak to one another

as adults.

I don't think we ever had that.

Maybe that's why

I'm your Marjorie.

Maybe I'm the Marjorie you

still have things to say to.

The last year or so you had

a prime of your own of dad.

Or he was like dad, but so

much younger, in his 40s.

A good age.

I always thought it was

funny, kind of, that you

would see him like that.

It was a little

grotesque, to be honest.

But I figured you wanted

to see him handsome.

And also that you wanted to go

back before anything happened.

Before your family...

Before I came along.

I'm sure I wasn't trying

to forget you, dear.

Hmm.

You talked to Jon?

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