The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them Page #3

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F***in' A, Stu.

I got nothing for you.

Come on, come on. Look,

I'm just asking you a simple question.

You don't have to candy-coat it

like you're gonna hurt my feelings,

but... did you see this coming?

Look, with the exception of my dog,

I haven't slept next to the same person

for more than two or three days in a

row, so I don't know what I'm gonna say

that's gonna be relevant

to your situation.

I opened a restaurant for you, a**hole.

No, you opened a restaurant

for you, a**hole.

And according to the Village Voice,

it's "a bar with uninspired food."

Whatever. Look, I'm simply asking

for my best friend's opinion,

even it is an uninformed piece of crap.

OK. "We are young.

Heartache to heartache, we stand.

No promises, no demands.

Love is a battlefield."

Pat Benatar.

You're a f***ing idiot.

Look, I feel like I walk on eggshells

around you.

You know, uh, I tried to talk to you

about this for months...

- I'm not talking about that.

- This is what I'm talking about, man.

I don't know how to be

your friend anymore.

You know, you're no f***ing picnic.

Look, I saw her the other day.

- You what?

- I saw her.

- Where?

- Astor Place.

- Did you talk to her?

- No.

- You didn't talk to her?

- No. No. She was, uh, far away.

She was walking away.

She was going to class or something.

Class?

Yeah. She had her book bags

with her or something.

- She was going to class.

- What school?

- Like NYU or Cooper Union or...

- I don't know!

- The New School?

- I don't know.

- It's not hard to find out.

- Why didn't you tell me?

I just did.

What are you guys talking about?

- You.

- Oh.

Hey.

- OK?

- Um...

I'm not here to approve or disapprove,

just so you know.

Hmm?

Your mother always gave me crap

for never stepping up to the plate.

Uh...

OK. What?

She said I never stepped up.

Uh, I'm sorry, what does that

have to do with anything?

Well... you're a bit like me.

No, I'm f***in' not.

I stepped up.

OK.

So what else?

Nothing.

Nothing. We don't have to keep talking.

Yeah, but you're the one

who came into the room.

- Yeah, to turn down your stupid music.

- Oh.

Every day I do one thing

that makes me happy.

All right, one thing.

And that is I listen to my stupid music

while reading the stupid paper.

And that's the best way

I've found to deal with myself.

So just go back to the guest room

and count the f***in' raindrops.

"Count the f***in' raindrops"?

I was never very good

at this kind of thing.

OK.

It isn't your job to investigate

the expansive memory

that's called "the past"

and judge what is right and what isn't.

Seriously, what the f***

are you talking about?

You shouldn't be interested

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