All language subtitles for YOU.S01E03.Maybe.PSA

Previously, on "You"...

Everyone just calls me Beck.
And you're...

- Joe?
- Goldberg.

A guy needs to protect himself,

and your name was
a glorious place to start.

The next thing our little
friend the internet gave me

was your address.

Uhh!

Maybe we could get
a drink sometime?

Sure.

Hey, let me up.

Oh, you make me insane.

Oh, Beck, who is this?

Benjamin J. Ashby.
Greenwich born,

boarding school bred.

- After you.
- All right.

Man, I'm thinkin' maybe--

Do not tell me
that you're doing this

because of Beck!

I'm very scared
of what you would do to her.

She show you her ladle?
She's got this red kitchen ladle.

It's a whole "call you Daddy,
spank me" thing.

Benji, I'd love your help.

Unfortunately, I know
you're a pathological liar.

I just knew Benji
was the worst kind of poison,

so I did what I had to do
to help you.

It's been three days...

Since our first kiss,

and I have to say...
things are looking

pretty good for us post-Benji.

If you could only watch
one movie

for the rest of your life,
what would it be?

"Beverly Hills Cop."

- Really?
- Oh, yeah. Dead serious.

Okay... I'll bite. Enlighten me.

Well, it's funny,
but the danger...

feels very real.

It checks all the boxes.

What's yours?
What's your forever movie?

Mm. I'd have to go with...

"Pretty in Pink."

Invisible townie girl
swept off her feet

by the one guy
who really sees her.

A little on the nose, Beck.

I love that movie.

I'll be that guy,
the one who sees you.

You deserve that, after Benji.

So...

your... old girlfriend,

the girl at Peach's party
was talking about...

- Candace, is it?
- It's customary...

the inventory
of past heartbreak.

- Do I wanna know?
- But Candace--

I'm not sure
how to tell you about her yet.

It's too soon, Beck.

I mean, I'm an open book,
but it's--it's the old story.

Just... thinking you're right
for someone...

and you're not.

Hmm. I got about
a dozen of those.

- Hmm.
- Maybe sometime over a drink.

Or ten.

- Yep.
- Ten?

Ten. Ten...

Give or take.

I want to come in, I do.

But I'm gonna make us wait.

You're worth waiting for.
Besides...

Bye.

Right now, I have something

rather pressing to deal with.

Nothing sweeter than townie pie.

#MuffinGrabNGo.

Grab N Go? Really?

Townie Pie? What the--

You're dead to me, Benji. Dead.

You're finally moving on.

And now that you've
dealt with Benji,

it's time for me to do the same.

How exactly does one
get rid of a body?

I can't just Google
this kind of thing

without creating a pretty
damning evidence trail.

So I turn to those
I trust most for tips--

King, Carr, Franzen, Flynn.

Fun fact:
spatchcocking a chicken

and dismembering a human

involve the same six
essential steps.

Not sure I'm down for that.

Little intense. But...

I think I finally have
a plan for Benji.

Oh, hey, Joe, I didn't know
you were up there.

Do you mind if I play
some, uh, Enrique Iglesias?

I'm trying to
bone up on my Spanish.

These are officially
the darkest days...

Sounds great.
In the history of the world.

I mean, I can pick
something else.

I got a ton of playlists
on here.

I got rock music,
club music, jazz music.

I wonder if he's a virgin.
Stick with the Iglesias.

I'm just gonna be in the
basement working on some books.

I don't wanna be disturbed.

- All right?
- No problem.

Thanks, Joe!

Here's what I know.

There can be no dead Benji
for you to mourn.

He needs to disappear.

Already handled the optics
on social media--

portrait of a dude hard
partying his way off the grid.

As for the body--

cremation seems expedient.

This will require chemicals,

a steady blaze, and absolutely
no dental records.

Bluuh...

It looks like

I'm gonna need to slow
the biological roll on Benji.

It's about temperature,
and it's about humidity.

And dropping the temp this low
puts the books at risk--

dry, brittle, lost forever.

My humidifiers
won't let that happen.

Gertrude Stein is dead.

She's not coming back
to sign books.

Hopefully, this holds him
until I can man up

and do the deed.

- Come in.
- Hi... there.

I'm, uh... Guinevere Beck.

I'm your new MFA transfer.

Professor Leahy and I agreed,
uh, that it would be bet--

Oh, sorry.

Um, I'm looking for
Professor Mott?

Beck, is it?

- Yes, hi.
- Blythe.

I heard you were joining us.

- Yeah.
- We meet here for workshop

on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Mott's no Leahy, though,
so bring your A game.

I intend to.

You know, I actually--
I read one of your essays

in the "Review" last month,

and it was so illuminating.
I tweeted it.

Social Media. It's like
the next great genocide.

- Jersey, right?
- Sorry?

It's where you're from?

No, I'm, uh, I'm from Nantucket.

Oh, interesting.

- Where are you from?
- Such a tough question.

Um... I was born
in Papua New Guinea,

but my dad worked
for the State Department,

so we moved around a lot.

Actually separated from
my parents at one point.

Did some modeling in Tokyo.

My hair is super-unique there.

I'm sorry, it's my grandparents.

I'll see you in class, okay?

- Okay.
- Okay.

Hey...

Yeah.

And then she walked away,

and I melted into the earth.

Sounds like a pretentious
bitch, if you ask me.

No. Blythe's amazing.

She wrote this piece
about how she and her mother

got bulimia together
while in Italy, and she was 12!

- Chic.
- What the--

- Is that a nose?
- It's a dick pic, Annika.

So what? It's just zoomed in.

- No!
- Why's it against shag carpet?

- I don't know.
- Perspective?

I don't get it.

I mean, why do men think
disembodied members

equal foreplay?
You know, they're not

- aesthetically pleasing.
- Ooh! I disagree.

I have over 200
saved on my phone

organized by category.
It's my Guggenheim.

Fat bats.

Boomerangs.

Banana boats.

Late bloomers.

And Jewish guys.

More power to 'em,
but your friends

kinda treat sex
like it means nothing.

Till she sees his junk in zoom!

But you're different,
aren't you?

Honestly, I see her point.

I hooked up with
some guy last night.

Knee deep in before I realized
he's uncircumcised.

- Ooh!
- It kind of looked like...

- I don't know, a... hoodie?
- Whoa!

Bookstore clerk
has a turtleneck?

Bookstore manager,
but, no, not Joe.

Some guy from Tinder.
Just a little down and dirty.

- You know?
- Wow!

Joe is still a maybe.

A maybe? I'm a maybe?

And you're still screwing
other guys?

Beck! How did I miss this?

How did I read this
so completely wrong?

Look, if you wanna bone
Benji outta your system,

more power to you.

I just wanna make sure that
you're respecting yourself.

Look, I'm just saying...

are you being your most
amazing self right now?

I mean, this is...
this is my process.

It's like a Benji exorcism.

I'm just exploring
my options in a city of...

8 million people.

- It's only reasonable, right?
- Yeah.

I'm gonna get a drink.

I like your tattoo.

I don't have a tattoo.

Love is patient and kind.

And so am I, Beck.

For you, I can be patient.

Maybe this is your process.

Nobody buys the first pair
of jeans they try on,

no matter how perfect.

But as much as I'm hoping
this is just a stage,

a quick password search
on your iCloud

has revealed a swipe-fest
of millennial man-boys.

Guy with tiger.

Junior William Morris agent.

Viking Wannabe.
You've been a busy girl, Beck.

It's more competition
than I realized.

This thing between us--

it's new, tenuous.

And the cost was a corpse.

But I can't get rid of
every guy in New York.

If I wanna win your heart,
I'm gonna have to show you--

Aah!

I'm not a "maybe".

I'm The One.

It's time.
Time to get rid of Benji

so I can focus
my undivided attention

on you, Beck, on us.

So I'm gonna need
a few supplies.

Hey, Joe.

You said you needed to talk?

I do, yeah. So here's the thing.

I have a secret project
I'm working on,

but I gotta open up the shop,

so I thought you could
run some errands for me.

I'll give you a little
money for books.

Just between us.

Yeah. No problem.

Between us. What do you need?

Well, you might have to
run to a few different places.

You can count on me, Joe.

Thanks, Pac.

The swine and I.

Eye to eye.

My heart is his.

And that...

was sunset.

I'm not sure it had
the vigilance or depth

that you're capable of.
I just wasn't fully invested.

Interesting, Blythe.

How do we maintain
the reader's attention?

We infuse the universal

with painful specificity,

or they simply turn the page.

Exactly.

My worst fear--and I'm not
commenting on Yuri's poem,

per se, is not to be bad
but unremarkable.

Unremarkable. That is the fear.

I hope this was helpful, Yuri.

I think that does it for today.

Next up is... Blythe.

And Beck.

Send a piece of your choosing
to myself

and your fellow classmates,
and we'll review on Thursday.

Here's what I've gleaned

from this little exercise
in futility, Beck.

You're in no mood to write.

And you need a new bed.

So, hey, maybe your enthusiastic

but ultimately empty encounter

with that Warby Parker-wearing
mixologist

could work to our advantage.

Any chance you're down
for shopping trip?

I've got time to kill

while Paco's out shopping.

You read my mind.

Pick you up in an hour.

But I have to play this
perfectly,

and in order to do that,

I gotta break out the big gun.

Mr. Mooney's Buick Skylark.

You bound down the stairs
in those tight,

not-too-tight jeans.

You're in flip-flops

and your toenails sparkle

and your hair's in a bun,

and, hey, at least you
don't have any hickeys.

So there's that.

Oh, my God, I can't
believe this is your car.

You're a lifesaver.

No idea how much

I needed a new bed.

New Challenge.

How do I segue this from

browsing glassware to...

"Holy shit! Joe's the one"?

Weird.

I have one just like this.

Yeah, I-I know all about it.

- Benji told me.
- It was my dad's.

The infamous red ladle.

How you like to be spanked
with it.

Is that what
you really want, Beck?

Is that the guy
you're looking for?

Just pick one.

It's all cut from the same
hunk of overpriced wood.

I can't decide.

People trying to buy some
sort of meaning in their lives

with $60 candles
and sustainable lamps.

They all look pretty good to me.

No, I just mean
should I get the queen

or the king-size bed?

Your bedroom isn't big
enough to fit a king.

You're right, it's too...

How do you know that?

It's New York.

No one's bedroom is
big enough to fit a king.

Ugh...

What's wrong?

This girl, Blythe, in workshop,

she just submitted
her short story.

- And?
- And I haven't even

started mine yet,
and it's due tomorrow.

Hers...

it's brilliant.

It's about a crow that flies
into a woman's house,

runs into the walls,
and leaves blood everywhere.

That sounds terrible.

Read it.

Well?

- You might be right.
- Ugh!

I know.

Can I ask you something?

Anything.

Promise to tell the truth?

Scout's honor.

Do you think...
I'm unremarkable?

Unremarkable people don't worry

about being unremarkable.

This is it, Beck.

This is the moment
I'm gonna show you

just how remarkable you are.

You want down and dirty,
you got it.

Stop, Joe, stop!

What? I--What?
I thought that you--

That I wanted to get arrested

while you're going
all bush diver on me in public?

That's not exactly
on my to-do list today.

I guess I read that wrong.

You haven't made eye contact
for the past ten minutes.

Things couldn't get
any worse right now.

- Hello?
- Hey, Joe, it's Ethan.

- Ethan from the bookstore.
- Yeah, yeah, I know

who you are, Ethan.

Right. Thing is,
the power's out. Um...

the electrician says he thinks
the system is overloaded,

but he can't get
to the fuse box because...

It's in the basement
with a dead body.

Which is locked.
He thinks he can pop the lock,

but I just wanted to--

No! No, no, no, no, no!
Just--Just--

just tell the electrician
to go home.

I'll call him later.
You lock up and go home.

I'll deal with it
when I get back.

All right?

Okay.

- Everything okay?
- Yeah, it's fine.

It's fine. It's just
a little problem at the shop.

I should get you... home.

I was afraid this might happen.

Six humidifiers and an AC unit
from the late '70s

cranked to its lowest setting...

even in death, Benji is
a colossal pain in my ass.

Okay. With the AC out,

seems deterioration speeds
really picked up.

Oh! Is that... ooze?

Things have grown

biologically dire
in the Benji department.

Also the rare book department.

But... I can't protect them
until I get rid of him.

Benji has to go.

Ugh!

Hey, what are you up to?

Do you happen to read Chinese?

Or own a mallet?

The books were safe.

Basement is 100% corpse-free.

Can't burn the body
in daylight anyway,

so the least Benji can do

is wait in the car
for a little while.

- Ready for that.
- Okay.

Let go for a second.

- Okay.
- Yeah.

- It's in the peg!
- Okay.

- Hand me the mallet.
- Yeah. Ah!

Should be good.

There it is.

Go!

Say when.

When. I think--when.
When, when, when.

Cheers to us.

You make a good apprentice.

I was gonna say
the same thing about you.

I'm sorry about earlier.
I didn't mean to get so upset.

It's okay.

No, it's not, it's just...

I don't want you to think of me

like that.

I... like you, Joe.

Like actually... like.

And I was a little
in my head, to be honest.

Blythe's short story kinda
threw me for a loop.

It's not a competition.

I know, but...

I wonder...

am I ever gonna write
anything that amazing?

You're talented.

- You don't know that.
- I--I know--

I know you need to
get out of your head and...

forget Blythe,
this Blythe person.

Forget everybody.
Just write what you want.

God! Everyone says that
like it's so easy.

I know, I know.

Okay, so, um...

pop quiz.

Don't think.

Just answer.

Okay.

What hits you
like a gut punch when you--

the first thought?

My dad.

Before he...

Yeah. Right.

Of course.

He was an addict.

It was hard...

and scary.

I mean, there were
good days too.

Like I always knew
it was gonna be one of those

when I woke up to the smell
of pancakes cooking.

He used this red ladle
to scoop up the batter.

This is the red ladle story?

And I would be... laughing,

singing along to some

bad Top 40 song.

And everything
would be... right.

But then he'd...
he'd go out and...

the ladle would go back
in the drawer.

And I'd wait
for the next good day.

Until there weren't any more.

Wow!

I did not expect
to say all that.

I think you're right.
You definitely don't have

anything meaningful
to write about.

Ohh. Benji was wrong
about all of it.

His whole red ladle story.
You don't wanna be spanked.

You wanna feel safe,

loved.

You want someone to make
pancakes for you.

Um...

hold that thought.
I'll be right back.

Coming!

- Is everything okay?
- No!

- Peach. I should have known.
- Thank God you're here.

I'm having a really
bad flare-up.

I think I need you to take me
to the emergency room.

Oh... Joseph.

I didn't realize you were here.

I told you he was coming.

Uh, Peach is really sick.

This is probably more
than you need to know,

but... I have a rare
chronic bladder disease

called interstitial cystitis--

Oh... gosh!

I mean, you know, some
people think I'm being uppity,

but... I can't have
any fast food.

And if I drink, it has to
be a high PH, you know,

like Ketel One or Goose

and pear juice.

Weren't you doing Jager
shots at your party?

Oh--oh!

Let's get you to the hospital.

- Yeah.
- And Joe has a car.

He can take us. Right, Joe?

You can take us?

Of course.

I mean, I've got a dead body
in the trunk,

but, hey, no biggie, right?

Oh, this is taking forever!

I mean, he took the worst
street to get across town.

Be nice.

I'm in real pain!

I'm sorry.

Ohh... Joseph...

- Yep.
- I'm feeling nauseated.

Can you crack a window?
There's like a...

sort of putrid aroma that keeps
wafting in the backseat.

What can I say?
The smells of the city.

Oh... God.

I can't deal. I can't deal.

We'll walk!

I'm so sorry.

It's almost the witching hour.

Grab the supplies.
Drive the narcissistic cadaver

formerly known as Benji
to his final destination,

light a match,
and I'm yours forever, Beck.

Well, this is a development.

That's him.

Potassium nitrate.

Six rolls of duct tape.

Fire starter, twine,
burlap, wood stakes.

You wanna explain
what all this is for?

Explain the shopping list

straight out of
"Body Disposal for Dummies"?

I know.

I know how this all must look.

I know involving Paco
was the wrong thing to do.

But th-things have been
a little crazy for me lately.

I guess I was hoping I could
make the world a better place.

You know--It...

it would--it would just
be easier if I show you.

Yeah, I'll show you. Come on.

Technically, we're not allowed
to plant anything in here.

I was just trying to keep it
a bit under wraps.

And the chemicals?

They dissolve roots.

Fire starters?

I like to grill.

Here.

It's good.

Thank you.

So he built a garden. So what?

I told this guy--stay away
from my girlfriend's kid.

And what does he do? He gives
him money for errands?

Hey, I told you,
I'm a parole officer, okay?

We see guys like this
all the time.

He's a sicko.
I feel it in my gut.

Hey, will you get back
inside, Paco?

Just tell your mom I'm gonna
be right there, okay, buddy?

All right, all right, all right.

Kid's got ADHD.
Tough to manage at times.

But that's what makes him
vulnerable to freaks like this.

Look, I apologize
if I crossed the line.

I just noticed how hungry
Paco is all the time, you know?

I gave him a few dollars
to go to the store, honestly,

so he could buy himself
a sandwich.

I lend him books from time
to time, too--that's all.

Just seems a little neglected.

- You kidding me right now?
- I'm not saying they're unfit.

- A lot of people drink--
- All right, that's it--

All right, all right, all right.

Sorry to have
taken up your time.

Good luck with the garden.

Thank you, Officer.
People. They're easy to fool.

Like these cops. I'm the nice,
straight-edge guy.

So there's nothing
to worry about.

People believe whatever
supports their world-view.

Unfortunately, that seems
to include you, Beck.

You believed you deserved
Benji and his neglect,

and you believe you deserve
Peach and her drama

and on and on.

I want to call and tell you,
but I can't,

because there's a traditional
waiting period

between every goddamn
communication

when trying to date someone.

I hate this generation.

Thank you.

Thanks for staying with me.

Honestly, I... I don't know

what I would have done
without you.

You can always count on me.

Thanks.

So what do you think about Joe?

Uh... yeah, you know,
I like him.

I think I might really like him.

I mean, I wasn't sure
if I was ready to get involved,

- but... maybe?
- Okay, you can't be serious.

I mean, the guy
works at a bookstore.

Beck, look, I know you.

You don't wanna spend
your fifth anniversary

going Dutch at Katz's Deli.

You need someone
to take care of you.

So you can write, be free,

happy.

Not someone like Joe
and his financial limitations.

That is not fair.

Nobody pays me to be fair.

What do you say we get
a bite to eat?

- 'Cause I'm starving.
- I think I better skip it.

I should really get home.

Glad you're feeling better.

Oh, no. No, not--not now.

Okay, Beck. All right.

Hey. How's the patient?

Better. Thanks for the ride.

The doctor said it was good
that we came when we did.

Oh, yeah?

Why don't you meet me
back at my place?

Maybe we can pick up
where we left off?

What about Peach?

- What about her?
- Where is she now?

Indochine.

It's her comfort food.

Perfect.

Peach is gulping steamed
Chilean Sea Bass

down her scrawny gullet,
and I'm about to get caught.

So... what do you think?

I think you complain about
not being able to write,

but then you, you know,
drop everything

for some medical emergency,
which, by the way,

many believe to be
psychosomatic in origin.

I meant about you...
coming over.

I wish I could.

Ha. I wish I could, but I'm
just really busy right now,

so... in fact, I should go.

Look, I know Peach
showing up was bad timing,

but I wasn't exactly writing
when she showed up.

No, I know. Pro tip of the day:

screen your calls when
you're trying to burn a body,

because it turns out
things slip out

that you didn't actually
wanna say.

I don't mean to be harsh,
but... you know

you're sending
some mixed messages, right?

What is that supposed to mean?

I'm--I'm trying
to do what you want,

but I-I can't tell what that is.

Like build you a bed,
be with you on the bed?

Drop you down the block
because your friend

is asking, and not very
politely?

Seriously, Joe, shut up.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I have to go.

But--

- Hey, how's it going?
- Good.

That's one hell of a bonfire.

Yeah, what can I say?
I went a little crazy.

You know what, you're welcome
to join if you like.

Please say no. Please say no.

Oh, that would be great...

but we need to get back
to the car

before it gets any darker.

Good luck.

- Yeah, have a good one!
- You too.

Did you remember
where you parked?

I believe in love
at first sight.

I had it with you, Beck.

And maybe, just maybe,
I destroyed it

just as fast, in the space
of a single phone call.

Was all this for nothing?

"The king and queen,

when they saw their daughter..."

I've been calling Beck, but...

straight to voicemail.

Worst three words
in the English language.

I wonder what our kids
would have been like.

They'd have grown up reading,
not glued to iPads,

and we definitely
wouldn't have named them

things like Gulliver or Blaze

or Misti with an "i".

We would have crushed this.
Together.

It wasn't supposed to
end like this.

Call me back, Beck.

The end.

I don't mean this to blow
smoke up your ass or anything,

but your writing makes me think

that Raymond Carver
has been reincarnated.

That is so kind of you
to say, Tomas.

I was born in '88,
the year he died,

so, weirdly enough,

you're not the first
person to have said that!

Again, great work, Blythe.
Excited to see what's next.

Beck, we weren't expecting you.

You didn't send along pages.

I know. I'm sorry.

And I'm sorry I'm late.
It's just...

I wrote them, but they
sounded super emo.

So I wrote them up
and started over,

and I lost track of time,
but, uh...

this... feels like me

and what I want to say.

It's only one page, but--

That isn't really enough
for us to critique.

Are we supposed to
read it now... in front of you?

That's... kind of awkward.

If that's the case,
I should warn you,

I have this facial autism thing

where I can't hide
what I'm thinking.

Let's just reschedule

your review for another time.

Beck?

Hey.

Uh... okay, so I hate
to admit it,

but you were right.

A little bit.

I will do anything
for my friends,

and do I hide behind them--
yeah.

And do I use them as
an excuse not to write?

Honestly, I'd use anything
as an excuse not to write,

because... okay,
I'm afraid I might fail--

one terrible page away

from confirming I'm the worst
writer in history.

All of that to say
if I'm sending mixed messages,

it's because...
I don't know who I am.

So how am I supposed to
know what I want?

And I know--I know
I sound super gross,

like so...
I don't know--millennial.

Don't say anything.

In this moment,
you are everything.

Here's the thing.

If you know who you are,
it's not like you share it.

I mean, you're a Nice Guy with
the "You are remarkable" stuff

and Feelings Guy with the
"Write what moves you".

But then
you try and go down on me

in the middle
of a furniture store.

If I didn't know better,

I'd think you were hiding
something.

For God's sakes, why are you
holding a Pendleton blanket?

I've never even seen your place.

And you never talk about
any of your friends.

I mean, who are you?

Okay, that was too much. Um...

It sounded better in my head.

I wanna show you something.

You wanna know me, Beck?

I'll show you exactly who I am.

This is where we keep
the rarest books--

the collectibles,
first editions.

It's paper, cloth, leather,

paste. It's all vulnerable.

All sensitive to light,

humidity, temperature.

That's why...

they need to be in here.

To protect them.

I can take you to my apartment.

Anytime you want.

I want you to meet
my friends, I do.

But this...

this right here

is the most important
place in the world to me.

As weird as it sounds...

these books are more alive,

more... worthy

than most people I know.

You wanna know who I am,
this is it.

There you are.

That's it. I am officially
out of the Tinder business.

Bravo, honey.

I just--Oh, I feel like
this is a good step, you know?

Like this is good for me.

Joe is good for me.

Whatever you need, Becks.

No, I'm just saying--
and I mean this, honestly--

maybe a simple life
isn't so bad.

Maybe it's what you need.

Maybe I should be
looking for that.

Joe isn't simple.
He's... he's different.

Complicated.

That's funny...

there's a book missing.

Really? What book is that?

"Ozma of Oz."

Huh. It was just here.

Joe was looking at it
at my party.

I'm sure it'll turn up.

You've deleted Tinder,
and now you've called

and asked me to come over.

My faith in our epic love
story is officially restored.

I'm sorry, Joe. I'm so stupid.

I left your list on my bed,
and Ron found it.

- I'm sorry.
- You're not stupid.

- It's not your fault.
- I tried to explain, but...

It's not your fault!

Guys like Ron are bullies.

We just need to stay
one step ahead of them.

Like the Musketeers--always
one step ahead of the Cardinal.

Right?

One for all...

And all for one.

Paco!

Get inside.

I can smell the bourbon
from here.

I told you...

leave the kid alone.

Look, you may have
the cops fooled

with your bullshit
tomato garden,

but I'm right.

There's something wrong
with you.

I see it in your eyes.

File that away

under future problems.

Knock, knock. You here yet?

Because tonight...

tonight I show you...
I'm The One.

Oh--

Did you just...