Joan says she'll find the poems. Brian continues being an officious little bastard: "Mrs. Girardi, if improprieties such as these arise, I don't know how we can continue to work together!" Helen tells him that won't be a problem: "For your own safety, I'm going to be suggesting to Mr. Turnbull that he take over my position." "For your own safety"? I can't wait till Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont tell their lawyer about that. Is there really a school left in this litigious continent that wouldn't have a hell of a lawsuit on its hands if one of its teachers said that, especially in front of a roomful of witnesses? For good measure, on her way out, she adds, "Oh, and, could you let me know which colleges you're going to be applying to? Because I might want to write them a little note." Those screeching tires are the sound of the Beaumonts' lawyer hauling ass to the Lexus dealership. Brian starts picking nervously at the orange sweater vest. Helen: "Come on, Joan." Joan stands there like a fawn with a rifle trained on her, and finally says she can't leave. Helen, exasperated, turns and huffs out.
Joan's standing in front of a disposal bin outside, contemplating the task before her with distaste. A guy on some kind of little dumpstermobile drives up behind her and asks, "Hey, Joan, where you off to?" Joan gives him some lip: "Where do you think I'm off to? Back to get humiliated by a dork with a sweater vest." Dumpster God: "What? You're not even going to look?" Joan doesn't think she's really going to find the poems in the trash. He tells her the search is the whole point. Joan: "Digging through the garbage is the point. Are you running a fever?" He walks toward her, asking, "You know the Twelve Labours of Hercules? A bunch of seemingly pointless tasks, that won back his honour? And how about Psyche? When she needed to find her way back to her love, Aphrodite put her to work sorting beans until they were reunited." Joan: "Well, I saw Hercules, but my parents wouldn't let me see Psycho." Oy. I -- aw, I just can't go into it again. He starts to climb into the dumpster, saying, "Come on, Joan." Joan makes a face I'm pretty sure only a teenage girl can make, and complains, "It's disgusting in there!" He smiles and holds out his hand: "Searching for something of value is never easy." Joan: "You mean one of those poems is actually worth something?" Joan climbs in and starts pawing through things with the expected sound effects of revulsion as Dumpster God wanders off. She calls out, "Hey! You're not even gonna help?" His answer is a Godwave. She turns back to her task and looks down, whimpering, "I'm standing in creamed chicken!" It could be a lot worse, Joan. Think Aegean stables.