All language subtitles for The Kids Are Alright s01e02 Poem.eng

Adult Timmy: The 1970s were
an awesome time to be a kid.

It was the Wild West.

Bike helmets hadn't been
invented yet or car seatbelts

or even
normal adult supervision.

Dads weren't around
as much as they are now.

And my mom was busy
running the house.

She had a lot on her plate
and no time for tomfoolery --

whatever that is.

There were eight of us boys,

including my oldest brother,
just home from college.

That's a lot of testosterone
under one roof.

[ Clank, projector clicking ]

Mouse, you'll do.

When I was a kid,
nothing bugged my mom more

than seeing us happy
and relaxed.

You're not gonna
spend the summer lounging around

like it's some filthy mud-pit
at Woodstock.

[ Drapes rattle ]
Outside.

We were expected
to get summer jobs,

and since
I was the creative type,

I always sought work
which allowed me to

express myself as an artist.

Tell me --
did you go to school, stupid?

Yeah. And I came out
the same way!

[ Laughter ]

Unfortunately,
a mysterious basement fire

compromised my co-star.

So, Knuckles,
do you have a girlfriend?

Yeah.
Unfortunately...

[ Children screaming ]
...she's a dummy.

[ Girl crying ]

Uh...uh...

The guy at the shoe repair
said he can fix Knuckles' face,

but he wants 20 bucks.

You could help me
on my newspaper route.

I need someone to protect me
from dogs

and some of
the bigger cats.

I'm holding off
for something more suited

to my
artistic temperament.

You know, when you
say things like that, people don't like you.

Hey, guys,
Dad's pulling in with --

Ahh!
[ Horn honks ]

He has feelings,
you know!

In our house, Dad handled
the grocery shopping --

20 bags,
eight half-gallons of milk,

two or three times a week.

And if we expected
to eat any of it,

we had to help load it in.

♪♪

Let's go, people!
Move! Schnell!

These frozen pot pies --
they are ticking time bombs!

I'm coming!
I was in the bathroom!

Oh, at last,
Eddie deigns to join us.

Meat first, then milk!

Look at all this
processed food.

You know, at the seminary, we
ate more fruits and vegetables.

We eat plenty
of fruits and vegetables.

Grape jelly.

And every kind of potato --
chips, flakes, and tots.

I mean fresh --
food that gets to us

before Dow Chemical
has their way with it.

I mean, seriously, do we even
know what's in this stuff?

Look, I don't know
what's in the polio vaccine.

I'm still glad
some of you kids got it.

Your father works real hard
to pay for --

$32?! Holy moly!

Something
might have to go back.

Imitation SPAM?

We don't even get
real SPAM anymore?

Oh, big opinions from the guy
who got to the car last.

Hey, don't bury
that imitation SPAM.

It's on the menu
for breakfast.

Dad, I was actually
just asking Mom

about maybe adding
some produce to our diet.

Ooh, then maybe you should
produce some money

to pay for it.

Rabbit food ain't cheap.

Yeah, but this stuff
isn't healthy.

I mean, seriously,
is Pat even growing?

He's growing...enough.

We certainly don't want him
growing any faster.

He'll catch up to
William before William's done with his clothes.

Give me that.

Fresh fruit
is a crapshoot.

You need to eat it right away,
when they tell you to.

With this stuff?
Ho ho!

You are not my boss,
broccoli.

Lawrence, we're just not
fresh-vegetable people.

I mean, who we trying
to impress?

I don't know.
Our colons?

There we go --
my newspaper.

Sorry.

The Parks Department is holding
a kids' poetry contest.

First prize
is 25 bucks!

I can get a new face
for Knuckles!

Knuckles!
Listen to this!

Can, uh, other people
see Knuckles?

All right.
[ Refrigerator door opens ]

All right, buddy,
we're gonna win the prize money

and score you a new face.

I'm so creative.

I'm a shoo-in.

So many ideas.

Too many.

They're popping in my head,
like popcorn.

Maybe I'll make some popcorn.

[ TV plays indistinctly ]

Okay.

Nature.

The topic is nature.

I could go outside
and look at a lamppost.

Or fire hydrant.

Have I ever seen nature?

[ Door opens ]
Peggy: You're thinking too hard.

Don't make a federal case
out of it, like you always do.

It's like the time Aunt Alice
asked you for ideas

for what to name her baby,
and you just kept saying "puppy"

and then had diarrhea.

The deadline
is tomorrow.

You can do this.

I wrote plenty of poems
in school.

Easy peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Did you just do that?!

Did I just
watch that happen?!

You're not the only creative one
around here.

A poem's much easier than some
story that has to make sense.

If your poem
confuses people,

they just think you're deep
and they're dumb.

And that's the whole point
of poetry --

making other people
feel dumb.

Ah, here it is.
My old rhyming dictionary.

Yeah.
Maybe it'll help.

But honestly,
rhyming doesn't even matter.

I'm telling you --
poetry's a racket.

"Mountain," "fountain"...

"countin'"?

Okay, you're really cutting
some corners there,

rhyming dictionary.

And there it was --

a poem my mom had written
in high school.

"Ode to a Tree."

And I knew it was really good
because it made me feel dumb.

I was a decent enough kid

to know that stealing her poem
was wrong.

In retrospect,
I choose to blame

the void in moral leadership

which defined
the Nixon administration.

A week and a half later,
and the verdict was in.

Frank, give it to me!
It's my letter!

What does it say?!

It says, "To the parents
of Timmy Cleary."

Thank you.

"Congratulations.

You won first prize."

[ Gasps ]
I won! I won!

I won 25 bucks!
Let me see that.

Says you'll be
receiving your prize money

at a special
ecology and nature fair --

Oh, brother --
held at Oak Park.

Nice!
"...at which you'll read your poem aloud

for assembled dignitaries,
friends, and family."

Family?
And dignitaries.

You wear the new velour shirt
I got you for your birthday.

You got that for me.

You didn't win anything.
It's his now.

I'm not buying it.

You're no poet,
and I know it.

♪♪

Joey.

I'm in trouble.

Maybe you can help me.

You do a lot
of bad things.

I keep busy.

The poem is stolen.

It's something
Mom wrote in high school,

and she'll recognize it
the second she hears it.

I guess
we don't let her hear it.

Crap. She already
wrote it down.

But, unfortunately,
she'll be a little late.

Cover her eyes.

That's really good!

I've been turning F's
into A's since 1966.

I also do
Mom's signature.

I've been on field trips with
schools I don't even attend.

[ Door opens ]

Oh, uh, didn't hear
the horn, Pop.

It's fine.
It's just the two bags.

Lawrence, get in here!

I got inspired,
picked up something

for our eldest
to shove in his mouth.

Oh, look, son,
a surprise --

two bags
of veggies and fruit.

Oh, great! Now I'm gonna
have to spray for ants.

Right on, Dad.
You really listened.

Grapes and lettuce harvested
here in California.

You're welcome.

You've got to be
kidding me.

The grape and lettuce pickers
are on strike.

Haven't you heard
about the boycott?

I might have heard
Cronkite mention something

on his nightly coverage
of whiners and crybabies.

The migrant workers
are picking this stuff

for mere pennies an hour.

I guess
that's why it's so cheap.

Let's hope the bacon workers
strike next.

[ Laughs ]
Very funny.

Well, I, for one,
won't be eating any.

Seriously?
Those are racist grapes!

They are steeped in the sweat
and tears of oppression.

Good! Then we don't need
to wash them!

Unbelievable.

No gratitude.

That clown
is never happy.

What am I supposed to do
with all this stuff?

I have no idea,
but we're not wasting it.

Throw it in a stew
or something.

[ Doors open ]

Hey, this would be
a good moment

for Pat's lost hamster
to turn up.

[ Scoffs ] Yeah.

That's not gonna happen.

The day to read my poem
arrived,

and, fortunately,
Mom was thoroughly distracted.

Grape casserole,
grape loaf...

grape Suzette.

Fancy.
Mm.

♪ Don't it always seem to go ♪

♪ That you don't know what
you've got till it's gone? ♪

♪ They paved paradise
and put up a parking lot ♪

[ Applause ]

A big thank-you to Valerie
for the singing.

Valerie is my niece,
but she did have to audition.

[ Laughter ]

And now it's my pleasure to
introduce a very special guest.

He hates pollution.
We all do!

Welcome, Woodsy Owl!

[ Applause ]

Give a hoot!

Woodsy's appearance
gave me a respite

to reconsider
what I was about to do.

I hadn't done
anything terrible yet.

If I walked away now,
refused the prize money,

didn't read the poem,

I could go back to being
a basically decent person.

Or...

-You ready, kid?
-Am I ever!

And now, to recite
his prize-winning poem,

our own Timmy Cleary!

[ Applause ]

Thank you. Thank you very much.
Thank you.

[ Clears throat ]

"Ode to a Tree."

"Your branches doth spread out,

reaching like outstretched arms,

welcoming morning dew..."

JFK, The Beatles, me.

So few had
the charisma necessary

to mesmerize the masses.

The audience adulation
knocked the fact

I didn't write the poem
completely out of my head.

Was I becoming a sociopath?

I actually prefer another word

meaning roughly
the same thing --

a showman!

"At last,
our willow shall weep no more."

[ Applause ]

♪♪

Knuckles!

Thank you!

♪♪

She heard it.
My mom heard her stolen poem.

Well, 12 years --

that was a decent lifespan
in Roman times.

You came.

I almost didn't.

Somehow I wrote down
the wrong time.

Luckily,
Frank reminded me.

I didn't know
you had such a fondness

for flowering
dogwood trees,

which are non-native
to California.

Very curious.

Don't be ridiculous.
He got it from me.

What?

Your creativity.

What else would you have
gotten from me?

Nice poem.

Timmy: She's got to know
I copied it, right?

I knew in five seconds.

You're not a big user
of the word "doth."

But then
why didn't she bust me?

She's being really nice,
and it's freaking me out.

I suppose it's possible
she doesn't remember writing it.

Mom might be senile.

She is really old.

Mom is playing you.

She enjoys tormenting us.

I don't think
Mom's that twisted.

Oh, yeah? Remember
the mysterious basement fire

we had last Christmas?

The one where
Knuckles lost his face.

Yeah.

Mom might have certain evidence
implicating me,

including a bill of lading

from a Mexican
fireworks wholesaler,

but she's never once
accused me.

She just keeps sighing
and saying how sad she is

someone in this family
can't be honest.

She's waiting
for my conscience to kick in.

Good luck.

The best plan
is to just come clean

and take your punishment.

That's what I doth think.

But what if
she really doesn't know?

The big win for Mom here
is getting you to confess.

Then she gets
to punish you,

pretend you learned
a valuable lesson,

and feel like she's
a really good mother --

the Catholic guilt
trifecta.

Just like
Jesus taught us.

Mm-hmm.

♪♪

What is that?
Peggy: Waldorf salad --

lettuce, grapes,
walnuts, and mayonnaise.

They served it
at Tricia Nixon's wedding.

If it's good enough
for the First Daughter,

it's good enough for us.
Mm-hmm.

It tastes weird.
What you're tasting is exploitation.

Well, if that's the case,
they should bottle it

because it's delicious
and cheap.

Hey, Timmy,
I saw Reader's Digest

was having
a contest, too,

judged by top poets,
like Rod McKuen and Dr. Seuss.

You win this one,
millions of people

will see your poem...

that you wrote
by yourself.

That's okay.

I don't want
any more attention.

Yeah, isn't there stuff
to talk about

other than poems
and salads?

I've also
been thinking about

the mysterious basement fire
last Christmas.

Destroyed the only photograph
ever taken

of my great-grandfather.

My Pop-pop.

He'll always
be in your heart.

I'll have more salad,
Dad.

We all need
to have more salad.

We're not eating it
fast enough.

In fact, the kitchen's
on lock-down

till all the lettuce
and grapes get consumed.

-Thank you, Lawrence.
-Yeah, thank you, Lawrence.

I'm sorry that I care about
people less fortunate than us.

-Wait. We're allowed to leave?
-No.

Peggy: Mike, you need to make
a food exception for Timmy.

I baked him a cake.

I know you're not supposed to
have a favorite child,

but when one is this creative,
who we kidding?

I'll probably just
e-eat it later.

-Absolutely outstanding, Peg.
-Aww.

You don't think
of putting mayo on a grape,

but here it is...
Mm.

...a winning
combination.

Mmm.

[ Door opens, closes ]

Something is very wrong,
Joey.

It's chocolate,
my all-time favorite,

and I feel so guilty,
it just tastes bitter.

That's because Mom
didn't put any sugar in it.

She's messing with you.

She wants you to think you can
no longer experience joy.

Are you serious?

You should have tasted
the guilt meringue pie

she baked for me
after the basement fire.

That means
she absolutely knows.

Like I'm saying,
now you just wait her out,

and you can win
this thing.

Joey, I'm not built like you.
I have a conscience.

A disadvantage,
but I believe in you.

No! I-I've got to admit to her
I stole the poem!

Of course you did,

and I found where you stole it
from, you little crook.

I camped out in the library,
and look what I found --

"Ode to a Dogwood Tree," 1914,
by David Langford Lawless.

Everyone made fun of me for
laminating my library card...

but this is the ticket
to secrets.

♪♪

♪♪

Whatcha doin', Mom?

Oh, just a new outfit
for Knuckles.

That's really nice
of you.

We all express our creativity
according to our own gifts.

My mom
taught me to sew.

It's still making something
out of nothing, but...

'course, it's not at the level
of your literary achievement.

But how could I even dream
of ever writing a poem

as good as yours?

I keep thinking
maybe Knuckles has a secret

he wants to tell me.

If I hold him
up to my ear...

[softly] maybe
he'll whisper it to me.

He's a doll, Mom.

I know.
[ Chuckles ]

I just thought...

sometimes it's easier
to say things that way.

There is something
I wanted to tell you.

[ Clicks tongue,
sighs ]

Okay, then.

About the contest.
Mm.

The Reader's Digest
contest --

I want to enter it.

All that's left
is your signature as my parent,

swearing that
I am the author,

legally binding
under penalty of perjury...

[ Western showdown music plays ]

...and in the sight
of God.

♪♪

You sure
you want to do this?

Oh, absolutely.

I want more people
to read the poem --

even people in Wisconsin,

birthplace of
David Langford Lawless.

♪♪

But compared to
his poetic genius,

I'd only give myself...

an A-minus.

♪♪

And that was it.

Mom knew
that I knew she stole it,

and I knew she knew
that I knew.

But neither one of us
could bust the other

without admitting
their own guilt.

This was crazy!

If Reader's Digest
printed the poem,

we would both
be exposed as frauds.

But Mom was not only willing
to risk humiliation,

she was willing
to waste a six-cent stamp.

♪♪

Well...

we should mail this.

If we hurry, we can make it
to the box for the last pickup.

♪♪

It was poetry-contest chicken,

each of us refusing to blink.

♪♪

[ Door opens ]

♪♪

[ Door closes, rattles ]

Well, that's that.

Yes, it is.

I realized then
that my mom and I

were more alike
than I'd ever thought,

both sharing
the same self-destructive,

stubborn streak.

And I suddenly felt
very close with her.

♪♪

Mike:
I'll take that bologna.

Oh, hey.

I wasn't gonna eat that.

It was just in the way

as I was reaching
for more salad.

I really developed
a taste for this.

Great.

Have a seat.

[ Drawer opens, closes ]

[ Exhales heavily ]

Enjoy.

[ Chair creaks ]

[ Squish ]

[ Slurps ]

Mmm.

It's all
kind of slippery now.

Slides right down.

[ Door opens ]

Hi.

Hello.

How was
your dinner out?

Met some friends,

ate, uh, a lovely meal
at a -- at a vegetarian place.

Who are these friends --
a rabbit, a turtle, and a bird?

It was actually
really tasty,

although I was starving again by
the time I hit the parking lot.

-You can have most of this.
-Oh, no, that's all yours.

Eat up. The mayonnaise
isn't getting any younger.

[ Sighs ]

Have a slice.

Thank you.
Oh, see?

That wasn't so hard,
a "thank you."

Where was that when I picked up
the lettuce and the grapes?

I guess
I was taken aback

that you didn't care
about the farm workers.

I mean, you say
you admire hard work,

but somehow
that doesn't seem to apply

with people
of any shade darker than...

No. This isn't
about color.

You said
you wanted produce.

I saw a good price,
and I jumped at it.

I don't care
if the guy who picked it

is as white
as that mayonnaise or...

brown as that other mayonnaise
on the edge there.

You can eat around that,
son. [ Groans ]

You just enjoy
a good bargain?

I like providing
for my family

and nobody
going to bed hungry.

[ Muffled ] I'd give anything
to go to bed hungry.

Dad, nobody's going to bed
hungry in this house.

It's not something any of us
have to worry about.

Because I worry
about it --

every day and every single night
since that morning in 1952

when I walked into that room
in St. Vincent's Hospital

and met my firstborn son,

premature and needing
all sorts of expensive medicine.

That was
a long time ago.

You're not struggling now.

I mean,
nothing's gonna happen.

Sure.

Probably.

But a man can't just
turn off the worry.

You'll see someday,
when it's your responsibility

to fill that box up
three times a week.

I've been where your farm worker
fella has been.

♪♪

I feel like I should apologize
for calling you a racist.

Up to me,
your friends Paco and Pablo

would get every peso
they're worth.

And then
you say stuff like that.

All right,
how about this?

I promise, no more green food
in this house again...

once Eddie
finishes that.

Yum.

♪♪

So, what do we got here?

[ Forks clanking ]

♪♪

[ Laughter ]
Knuckles got his new face and threads,

and we got back
on the party circuit.

I even updated my act
with topical references.

So, Knuckles,
why did the lifeguard

not save
the drowning hippie?

Because he was too...

far out, man.

[ Laughter ]
Weeks passed.

Mom and I didn't speak
of the poem again, until...

Mail's here.

This came
from Reader's Digest.

Our only hope
for not being publicly shamed

was losing that contest.

Crap.
Darn it.

And yet when it happened,

we were both
strangely disappointed.

This makes no sense.
That poem is wonderful.

Yeah, but Timmy
didn't write it.

Oh, be quiet.
You wouldn't understand.

Yeah. You're not creative,
like me and Mom.

Timmy's not creative.

Oh, really, Frank?
Where's your poem? Yeah, Frank.

Where's his?
I can show you in a book.

Oh, books!

I once read a book
about dragons.

They don't exist.

You know,
these poetry big shots

are always threatened
by fresh talent.

Fresh?
The guy wrote it in 1914.

Who are these people
to judge us?

They're the judges.

Wait.
There's something else.

"Dear poet,
your poem was super groovy.

You have lots of potential,
which will only get better

as you work at it,
so keep on truckin'.

Peace and love.
Rod."

Rod McKuen
sees potential.

I know I act
like a cool customer,

but it is nice
to get encouragement

from a fellow poet.

Nobody in this room
is a poet.

Mr. Rod McKuen
disagrees.

Thank you, Timmy.

[ Sighs heavily ]

[ Exhales sharply ]

Rod McKuen.

My mom and I together had
committed the perfect crime.

We stole a poem and somehow
convinced ourselves we hadn't.

That might be why she cherished
that letter so much.

It connected us
in a true act of creativity --

reinventing a frustrating world

and insisting
that others play along.

My mom taught me
that a small amount

of cheerful self-delusion
is sometimes necessary

in nurturing
a gentle and artistic soul.

Keep on truckin', Peggy.

Joey, be a dear
and run down

and get me that bolt
of dark green corduroy

from the basement, hmm?

Sure, Mom.

Ah, wait.

Darn it all.

That fabric got destroyed

in the mysterious
basement fire.

That's too bad.
Mm.

That corduroy
was very special to me.

The same fabric
as the dress I wore

to my grandmother's funeral,

God rest her soul.

You win some,
you lose some.

♪♪

That kid's going places.

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