Al and Dolly are at it again. And...again, it ain't happening. "It's not the fucking hour," Al insists. "It's not the fucking vantage of the chair. It's you -- that's changed the level of your suction somehow. That's the fucking sum and substance of it." Dolly wonders if it will help if she gets up on her knees. "You're the cocksucker," Al says, for once using that word in its proper context. "Change the fucking angle." She moves around and tries again. This time Al complains of too much suction. It's like the three bears of blow jobs in here. Dolly tries yet again as Al continues to complain. "Advice from third fucking parties," he grumbles. "Place a table on the boardwalk, people can jot their suggestions, roll in the muck of the thoroughfare in gales of fucking laughter." Without acknowledging it, he makes the connection between his Hearst drama and his limp dick. "I did not shame myself," he says, grabbing Dolly's hair and looking her in the eyes. "I keep an open mind in that area. Kid yourself about your behavior, you'll never learn a fuckin' thing." He lets her go, saying he knew the whole finger-chopping thing was coming, anyway. "Fucking Captain, holding me down," he says. "I knew what the fuck was next." Dolly, like a dumbass, need clarification, wondering if he's talking about the Captain chopping off his finger. "He didn't chop off my finger," Al angrily corrects."Hearst chopped my fucking finger off. The other fuck held me down. They hold you down, you...you can't get at them to help yourself." Perhaps sensing his own vulnerability, Al hugs himself, saying it's cold. Dolly innocently asks if he wants a blanket. "If I do I'll put it round me," he snaps. "You ain't boss of the fucking bedclothes." He sighs again. "They hold you down from behind, then you wonder why you're helpless," he goes on. "How the fuck could you not be?!" Very quietly, Dolly shows she understands all too well: "I don't like it, either."
But Al's off down memory lane, letting his new beating get mixed up with the old. "Another one that held me down, that fuckin' proctor when I tried to get to that ship," he says, talking again about his mother leaving him. "He fuckin' held me, fuckin' wouldn't let me go." He says in his mind, his mother was being restrained and couldn't get off the boat to "go suck prick in Georgia." He wanted to go to her -- in his head, she had changed her mind and wanted to stay with him, "and I was being restrained by that fat bastard orphanage proctor." God, the sadness. "Anyway, that's it. That's the end of it," he says, throwing up his hands. "That's the fucking conclusion." His emotion overcomes him and he pounds his fist on the desk, shouting. "Christ, I'd have wished to...!!" He remembers that he's not alone and turns back to Dolly. "Though probably she'd have thrown me overboard anyway," he says, "but I'd have wished to get to that fucking ship." But, he says, he was being restrained. "I couldn't get from where she'd left me," he says. "He held me to that bed, her calling from the ship that had changed her mind." Dolly feels his pain. "I don't like it, either," she says, again. "No, huh?" Al says, half-listening through his drunken sadness. Then, of course, he realizes he doesn't know what she means. "When they hold you down," Dolly explains, her lip quivering. Al has a moment of clarity. "I guess I do that, huh," he says, "with your fucking hair?" Dolly, protecting herself now, says no. "No?" he asks, and smile, toasting her with a shot. "Well, bless you for a fucking fibber."