Jim exits the front door of Martha's to find his Vintagemobile, a note on the windshield reading "Mr. Prufrock: Just a loose hose. No charge. Job." We're instructed via the letterhead to see their ad at www.pushtimes.com, and there's something in tiny tiny tiny print at the bottom about North America and Europe, but it's blocked on my TV by ABC's shameful promise of a "Special Two-Hour Event Thursday" for Push, Nevada, even though it's just a rerun of this episode and then a new one in its regular timeslot. It's not like Push is hosting the Olympics. Relax, ABC. And uncancel Sports Night. And then maybe we'll have something to talk about again. Oh yeah, and make that chick from Drew Carey get the hell out from underneath my bed. The nightmares are getting worse and I haven't slept in three years. Okay. That's it.
Doing what any self-respecting agent of the law does when his car is in fine working order (that being "taking a walk,") Jim goes back out on the town for a walk down Anystreet, USA. Alias isn't on today, so the nine people who watch it are instead shown in silhouette through their windows, getting it on. Two silhouettes on the shade. Oh, what a lovely. Couple they made. Jim comments, "It must be the water." Oooh. Affleck was clearly allowed to pen one line, and there it is right there. Did you catch it? A dog growls. It's 9 PM.
Back at One-Eyed Sloman's, Dress-Down Friday Jim Prufrock enters and asks a bartender for Mary. He finds her alone at a table in the back, and sits down across from her. He flirtily offers to "do her taxes," and I think we now know from his professional countenance that what he means by THAT is that he would "take her earnings from the last year and calculate a percentage of it to give to the federal government, considering the nature of her work and statutes of governing law." Youch! Is it hot in here, or is it just taxes? She considers him warily: "You're an accountant?" Does she overenunciate everything as part of her character, or is "bad actress" part of her personality? She tells him she hasn't "reported a cash transaction since 1996," but he rationalizes her way out of it for her by explaining -- in no short order -- that "if you want to underreport, you can do so comfortably up to thirty-five percent. I just told you how to cheat on your taxes." Jesus. Dance with this guy already and shut him the hell up. They get up. They dance. She tells him, "Go home, Jimmy. You seem like a nice guy. I don't think you're cut out for Push." She adds that he shouldn't look for things he can't find and stare at mountains he can't climb and she states and restates that one sentiment in so many ways and for so many hours it's a wonder that a karaoke track of "No One Is To Blame" doesn't bust out behind her as she tells Jim Prufrock that he can feel the cushions but he can't have a seat. "Life's a long walk uphill. Drop the rocks." Sisyphus? She's doing Sisyphus now?