Push, Nevada
Color Of Money

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Oh, they're shoveling it, all right

We cut to the blazing sun shot again, Jim wandering beneath it and not looking his best. Suddenly, he's inside of One-Eyed Sloman's, the red couches and upright-bass soundtrack begging for at least one line of the "that chewing gum you like is going to come back in style" variety that says, unironically and in no uncertain terms, "David Lynch, I'm stealing from you." It's a small request, and I think it would make all of us feel so much better. Jim walks to the bar and orders a glass of water from the bartender, who's all, "Is this the Gus Van Sant shot-by-shot remake of The Shining? 'Cause if so, I'm already dressed." Jim then asks to speak with Mr. Sloman himself, and is told, "Afraid he ain't here." Jim knocks back his devil's poison, and the bartender informs him, "You don't look so good. Maybe you should go home." Yeah. Maybe you should. But then again, the reason he's been having so much car trouble is because every time someone tells him to go home, he drives his car to the outskirts of town and makes that U-turn all over again. The wear-and-tear is terrible. Jim asks if Mary is there, and the bartender gives a pithy little speech I'm frankly not sure is that good for business: "All you heartbroken suckers come in here, thinking you made some kind of friendship, some kind of special relationship. Blind to the fact that it's her job." Jim's all, "Do you think he's talking about me?" asking instead if Mary had a boyfriend. When the bartender responds by making a strange "zzzzzz" sound, I assume he's just gone and fallen asleep like the rest of us, but he's merely pluralizing the word "boyfriend," outlining for Jim, "Start with Silas, work your way down." Eh? "Silas. Job. Some wimpy government fella from out of town. Or so I heard." Do you think he's talking about Jim? The bartender has an opinion on whores like Taudrey, though, passed down from his own pappy and without the fey matching handkerchiefs: "Son, don't trust nothing that bleeds for seven days and don't die." Yup. I heard that joke in college for the twelve millionth time from a guy who reminded me quite a bit of Affleck, actually. It wasn't at my college, though. It was a weekend away. At Dartmouth. It's an inexcusable line no matter what I'm supposed to think of the character who delivered it. I mean, I defend his Constitutional right to say it and all, but it's still the moment at which I'm allowed to truly say that I now think I might kind of hate this show a little. Is that wrong?

Right. It's hot. Jim's infection seems to be worsening and his skin slightly more reflective, but he stops near the outside of the Versailles when he sees Hick dropping off a number of parcels at the casino. Cut to Martha's Quick 'n' Go, where Jim enters his room to find Martha sitting on his bed with a bowl of vinegar and water (oh, my God, she came there to douche him, didn't she?), informing him, "I'm gonna take care of that back." Cut to The Least Erotic Sponge Bath Since Misery, Martha sterilizing the wound a bit as Jim winces in pain. She explains that she was never much a fan of tattoos, and she and Jim have a quick bonding laugh over it all. Jim notes, "My father would roll over in his grave," and Martha asked when he died. "1986," we learn, when Jim was twelve. And the Mets won the World Series in seven harrowing games against the devastated Boston Red Sox. Sigh. Good times, good times. Oh, and also something about Jim's dead daddy. When he informs Martha that it happened when he was twelve, we follow Jim to another flashback of the red-soaked shot of the tire. Martha asks if they were close, and Jim waxes like he's on the clock and on the couch: "Yes and no. He was somewhere else a lot of the time, and even when he was home, he was still somewhere else." Martha indicates with The Excess Conviction Of Awkward Foreshadowing that Jim's dad did indeed love his son. Just then, Martha insists that Jim "lay down now," leaning over him and insisting he try and get some sleep. She grabs his one remaining "JAP" handkerchief out from his clenched hand and holds it up next to one she produces with the initials of "AMP." She tears up slightly and whispers, "Never know when one of them will come back to you." Dude. It's been nine seconds. He's not even kind of asleep.

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Push, Nevada

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