People only go out to bars in Histogram City so they can yell at each other.
There they can drink and take their bad days out on their best friends who also had really bad days.
They all drink more than one another, come home and take their bad days out on the nights of their families.
They scream at or beat their wives and children for demanding more efficient allocations of balance between time and energy, emotion and responsibility.
But split screens don’t exactly focus on the big picture.
Mortimer went to the bar every night after work, got drunker and drunker, yelling louder and louder at his best friends.
As a kind of preemptive measure, he would go to the payphone and call his house.
He would yell at the top of his lungs and those of those around him into the phone.
Not one member of his family, his wife or two or three children, would pick up the phone.
They’d all huddle together behind the couch, listening to it ring.
Mortimer would leave a message, yelling into the machine:
“Hello? … Please pick up the goddamn phone…”
Mortimer would breathe real heavy.
“I want you safe and gone, alive and well and out of the house before I get home. I love you…”