One Percent More Humid

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1

Hey!

I'm like the anti-Gandhi.

Yeah.

So, what are we gonna do with

ourselves this summer, Madam Iris?

Write a musical. Take it on the road.

- Run for mayor. My platform is "child labor."

- Oh.

- Why not?

- You're so refreshingly candid.

We have an entire summer.

We can do whatever.

Quality time.

My goal is to heal.

Mmm, wait, wait. I want

to light my cigarette.

Mmm.

To our health.

To our health.

Uh... Swiss.

Okay.

So, you work here?

I'm an unpaid intern.

Uh, you were in my Af-Am Poets, right?

Yeah.

What are you doing on campus?

- I live here.

- Ansbury?

- No way.

- Yeah.

I'm a townie.

I'm at Admissions. We should hang out.

Iris, right?

Sweet.

Jason?

Cody?

Wyatt?

Alex.

- Alex.

- Alex.

- Here you go.

- Thanks.

Mmm.

- Hi.

- Hi.

Uh...

Do you have any pimento loaf?

No.

Is it icy?

It looks nippily.

I don't know, Catherine,

I haven't been in yet.

Iris, there comes a time

in every young woman's life

where she retires her disposable

razor, and starts to wax.

I'll give you my lady, her number.

I'm on a budget.

It's amazing!

Caramel-flavored liquor.

I feel like this changes a person, forever.

Yeah.

Mmm. I feel like Brixner is

absolutely a great school,

but I could never stay here for college.

Well, Iris is still functioning at a

high level and she lives here year-round.

Yeah, but Iris is of hearty stock, though.

I'm more neurotic.

I need New York.

Suburbs do rot your brain.

That's kind of what my thesis is about.

Cultural values in the suburbs.

Basically, I contend that with the

absence of community institutions,

like Little League and church,

children are allowed to

develop their own morality.

Like, for instance, let's

say, grow up in a family...

- Ready?

- Mmm?

- Okay, hello.

- Oh.

All right, hey, you there?

- All right, let's go.

- Oh, sh*t.

Hold... Guys?

Wait. Uh, I'll drive?

- Let's walk.

- Okay.

You know what would be truly amazing,

is if it would just be 1% more humid,

and then we would all drown!

This is exactly like high school.

It's f***ing, creepy, time-warp sh*t.

Only you would be wearing a fleece.

And Mae would be talking

about how she hates everyone.

Oh, and she'd be asking, "Where's the keg?"

What would Catherine be doing?

This. This is Catherine right here.

Different hair.

I know.

- Man, this is devil sh*t. It's crazy.

- Mmm.

I steeped the vodka in weed.

- Keg ahoy!

- Oh, sh*t.

F*** you.

Yeah, it's good.

So... Oh, sh*t.

Okay, let's do it. Do it.

Sorry. I'm sorry.

Hey.

Thanks.

I wanna go home.

- What?

- Really?

But why? You're completely,

inappropriately sober.

Have a beer at least. It'll be fun.

I can't get Billy out of my head. I...

He hates us.

He will, he truly will,

for the rest of his life,

so either you obsess over

something you can't change

or you just accept it and move on.

It's only been four months, Catherine.

I still wake up thinking she's here.

Then you have a serious problem.

- Hey, Jack.

- Yo.

Can you drive Catherine home later?

Yeah, with aplomb, sure.

Thanks.

Later.

Okay.

Yeah, no sh*t.

You're the worst.

Teaching American literature is not f***ed.

When are you coming up?

You want to teach poetry,

not a requirement class.

You've been there for

three years. It's your time.

I just don't know why you're not furious.

When are you coming up?

I found a place in Woodstock that

does wood-fired pizzas in an orchard.

We have Jerry's

opening this weekend.

Oh, no, I can't.

I'm on a new health kick where I'm

cutting back on suicidal feelings.

All right, I'll tell him you're

upstate on a writing retreat.

Which I am.

Oh. My drinks are here.

Get up here, lady.

Okay, bye.

Bye.

Yeah?

- Hi.

- Hi.

Here, contraband. Don't tell.

It was thusly their relationship began

with a seemingly harmless secret.

So, you're ahead of the game.

- What game is that?

- Thesis.

Most of my students

don't start till the fall.

Well, I'm here and I'm working at Neon,

so it'd be nice to be thinking

about something whilst I'm...

Robotically pushing a child on a swing?

Using the meat slicer.

Oh, those things are scary.

So, what are you thinking?

Right now?

Yeah, with regard to your thesis.

I want to write a series

of poems about grief.

That's great.

Um, I should tell you that

the creative thesis is a beast.

Have you considered researching

the history of grief poetry?

I think that you should do that,

not only for your own

edification, but also because

the review committee really eats

it up with a fork and a spoon.

"Who is the third who

walks always beside you?

"When I count, there are

always you and I together

"But when I look ahead up the white road

"There is always another

one walking beside you

"Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

"I do not know whether a man or a woman

"But who is that on the other side of you?

"What is that sound high in the air?"

T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.

He loses his goddamn mind in that poem.

Yeah, I should go forth

and learn about all of that.

Yeah, I think if you do that,

that this could be a

really important project,

and I sure as hell would

like to help you out.

- Okay.

- Cool.

So... Yeah, so whenever you want to start.

I'll email you.

- Thank you, Professor McCann.

- Yeah, no problem, anytime.

So, Iris, drinking alone?

You could've called a brother.

Oh, this is stupid.

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