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So hey, remember the past couple weeks when we liked Don cause he was all “I’m gonna comfort my daughter!” and “I’m gonna flirt with my hot smart wife and remember that she really actually is my dream woman after all!” Well, it’s time for one of those episodes whose driving purpose is to remind us that Don is a complete tool. Roger, who is somehow capable of being full of shit and right about everything at the same time, says it: “You’re in over your head.” That Season 3 logo is making more and more sense. And what does Don do when things slip out of control? He bullies his way into bed with Sally’s old teacher, who is initially reluctant but ultimately totally caves. Betty also gets annoyed when she doesn’t get what she wants, even when it’s pretty much exactly what she wanted. Sort of like her entire life. Throw in a few of the first rumbles of the Civil Rights Movement – the inspiring bits and the horrifying bits, which tended to come one after the other – and more references to Dallas as Autumn of 1963 settles in, and you have yourself one hell of a depressing episode. Also, Sal gets thrown under the bus, which seriously pisses me off.
3.09 Wee Small Hours. More dreaming. Lots of dreaming this season. Betty’s lying back on her fainting couch, which can’t be all that comfortable considering all the relevance and symbolism and metaphor stuffed in there. Someone’s taking her dress off, and gross, it’s Henry Francis. I thought we were done with that guy. Anyway, she and Don and the baby are all jolted awake by an indecently late phone call from Connie Hilton, apparently not the first of its kind. He’s been praying, and he’s been inspired, and he trusts his visions, because he’s a wacky lovable folksy old coot, and also, he’s clearly kind of insane. Don scribbles as Connie waxes philosophic. “We have an impulse and we act on it. How do we decide, Don? How do we decide to do something?” “Instinct?” Don guesses. “So you’re telling me you’re just like a dog?” Connie counters. “I’m telling you to get to the goddamn point already, it’s the middle of the night, do I look like freaking Smithers here?” Don wants to say, but doesn’t. The point is, Connie wants Don on his international hotels too. He wants Hiltons all over the world. He wants a Hilton on the Moon! “That’s where we’re headed!” Yes, sure, whatever, oh my god don’t you have some meds or something you should be taking? When he finally hangs up, Betty comes in, comforting and feeding a wailing Baby Gene. “I want what I want when I want it!” She says on his behalf, “kind of like someone else I know,” she finishes. At first I thought she was talking about Don, but apparently she’s talking about Connie. And also maybe a little bit about Don.
Don can’t get back to sleep, so he heads into the office early. Like, really early. Way too early for a normal person, say, a schoolteacher, to, for example, be out for a morning jog. Don slows down to pester a distractingly bouncy Miss Ferrell. “Where are you going? I’ll give you a ride,” he says, clueless. “I’m going home,” she pants,” and the whole point is to run there.” I love how Don is starting to sound like an old man. You kids, with your crazy “Reds” and your kooky “running-on-purpose”! He talks her into a ride around the block. You know, to take a break. The radio news is playing the “I Have A Dream” speech and she has to stop Don from changing the station. She’s going to read it to her new class when school starts, she says. “You think they’ll understand it?” Don wonders. “I think they already know it. It’ll be nice for them to hear an adult say it.” She’s all earnest and idealistic and just when I’m thinking “isn’t this exactly the kind of person that would annoy the hell out of Don?” He sort of shakes his head and says “Who are you? Are you dumb or pure?” She doesn’t answer, probably because she doesn’t really know either. They pull up in front of her garage apartment. “Have coffee with me,” Don says, and is frightened and confused when she manages to turn him down, because what gives with that? Don heads to the office, probably to call someone at Nike about inventing the sports bra.
Carla brings the paper in for Betty to frown at. Looks like people are already assuming her good pal Henry’s good pal Rocky will lose the Republican Presidential nomination to Goldwater. Betty does not in any way give a shit, but it gets her thinking about her naughty dreams. Upstairs, she sits at her writing desk and addresses a note to Henry Francis on nice creamy stationery with a single gold fleur-de-lis. (Go Saints!) “Does anyone else read this? -B” Also, she’s a lefty!
Grumpy sleep-deprived Don is shooting down Hilton campaign proposals from Smitty, Kurt and Peggy. Hey look, Peggy! Don’s smackdown that led her to seek solace in the gross squirmy arms of Duck Phillips appears to have blown over without incident. Offscreen. Okay then. And also: Everybody’s ideas are stupid and terrible. “The tag is flat,” he says about Peggy’s Window On The World ad. When she protests that it’s one of his, he snaps “That doesn’t make it good. If it’s bad, don’t use it.” Kurt doesn’t fare any better. “Now that I can finally understand you, I’m less impressed with what you have to say.” Heh. He sends them back to the proverbial drawing board with their portfolios between their legs.
And now, the entirety of Pete Campbell’s contribution to tonight’s episode: At a Lucky Strikes commercial shoot, Harry and the client convince him to take a puff of a cigarette, even though he protests that it’s bad for him. His three-minute coughing fit provides the background soundtrack for the rest of the scene. Heh. Also, weird that I never noticed Pete doesn’t smoke. Does anyone else not smoke? Bert maybe? Anyway, Sal’s directing the commercial, featuring a manly man staring out into the distance. (Pete: cough cough cough.) The client doesn’t get it: “What’s he supposed to be looking at?” Sal says the point is for people to concentrate on the cigarette, not the guy. (Pete: cough cough cough.) But the client wants the manly man looking right into the camera, so hey, that’s what Sal does, cause he’s a professional like that.
It’s Wednesday September 4, Don’s car radio tells us as he drives slowly in the dark, looking vainly for his bouncy joggy teacher pal. He zooms off, annoyed that the world exists independently of his whims, and that things don’t stay where he left them. Betty brings the Draper kids home from their first day of school, but zones out when she sees a letter from Henry in the mail. The baby starts crying. “I’ll get him,” Carla says. “Would you?” Betty says to no one without looking up from her hot hot illicit ivory stationery romance, the latest installment of which reads “You asked if anybody reads my mail. Not anymore.” Woohoo! That’s totally as smokin hot as her thing with Don in Rome! Also: Sally really wants a pencil case for her looseleaf.
The Lucky Strikes guy is hovering over Sal during the editing process, clearly annoying the everliving snot out of everyone. “I’m just so fascinated with the process!” He says. Sal tells the sound guy they can finish it tonight if he’ll hurry and get the voiceover work done. He leaves Sal and Lucky alone in the editing room, and wow, in terms of general grossness, this guy makes Duck Phillips look like Duckie Dale. He apologizes if he’s being rude – he had a “very wet lunch.” “Too much to drink?” Sal small-talks while he tries to do his job. “And other things! Secretaries nowadays, they don’t give you a choice! Know what I mean?” Sal doesn’t really know what he means, actually, and he’s getting uncomfortable. “I don’t have a secretary,” he mumbles, and tries to distract Lucky with a rough cut of the commercial. He leans over Sal’s shoulder and casually starts feeling him up. Sal extracts himself, but Lucky’s all, “aw, come on, I’ll lock the door!” Sal huffs that he’s married. “So am I!” Lucky shrugs. Sal politely says there’s been a misunderstanding, but Lucky grins and says “I know what I know!” Sal gets back to business as best he can, turning on the lights and telling Lucky without meeting his eyes that the commercial should be ready for him to see in a few days. “I get it,” Lucky sneers slimily. “You’re at work. Too bad!” Once he leaves, Sal exasperatedly grabs some noisy things and throws them violently at some noisier things.
Harry and Paul are in Harry’s office, eating and watching commercials. (Harry: “My mother-in-law says I look like Perry Mason.” Kinsey, who kind of does look like Perry Mason: “That’s not a compliment. It means she thinks you’re fat.”) Harry’s phone rings, and it’s Mr. Lucky Strike, asking a tiny favor. Get rid of Sal. Period. Harry sputters that he’s not in charge of that sort of thing, but Lucky (fine, Lee Garner) says he won’t work with Sal, so get him off the account and do it without telling anyone else. He’s very obviously drunk, and Harry manages to change the subject and hang up without actually agreeing to anything. Then he of course immediately tells Paul, who doesn’t know what to do either. “I’m not going to panic and do something stupid like I usually do,” Harry declares in a way that suggests he’ll probably panic and do something stupid.
Tonight Don’s lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, pretty much waiting for Connie’s call. Also, interestingly, I guess because it’s closer to the phone, Don is sleeping on Betty’s side of the bed. Which was a little throwaway line from last week’s episode actually (in their giant bed in Rome), and probably means something about the changing dynamic in their marriage, or the balance of power, or something your English teacher would make you write an essay about. So when the call comes, Don’s ready. Connie can tell he’s annoyed, but he feels that calling Don at home is a privilege and he doesn’t think he’s worn it out yet. Well, Connie, that’s because you’re so rich you have your head stuck three feet up your eccentric ass. He asks Don to come have a drink with him. In the city. At 11:30. From Ossining. “You can say no!” Connie says, by which he means “You probably shouldn’t say no!” Don’s not sleeping anyway. He meets Connie in his increasingly Howard Hughesy suite at the Waldorf for some Prohibition-era booze and earnest folksy father figure type conversation. The conversation is basically “I think you know I’m kind of going overboard with this, and I’m lonely, and by golly I’m King Midas, but God totally has my back, and also you’re my angel, and the son I never had, even though I actually have sons.” He touches on something that he doesn’t know is kind of a secret – that Don’s better than a son, because he didn’t have what his sons had. Don had to earn it. I don’t even know if Betty knows that.
Speaking of Betty, she’s just the cutest thing, bounding down the stairs in her adorable little shorts when the doorbell rings. She peeks through the window and from her “ZOMG! Squee!” reaction we know it’s Henry. WTF, Henry? He just had to see her, blah blah, and Carla, who is no dummy, no sir, walks in on what is clearly not a business conversation. “…So anyway, this house is perfect for a fundraiser!” Henry covers awkwardly. Well shit. Now Betty has to have a damn fundraiser.
SIGH. Everybody’s getting ready to debut their Lucky Strike commercial. Lee Garner is ushered in by Pete, takes one look at Sal, who has no idea what’s going on, and leaves without a word. Pete runs after him but he won’t even say why he’s leaving. Harry reluctantly admits that he knows what this is about; i.e., he panicked and did something stupid. Lucky wanted Sal fired but didn’t want Harry to tell anybody, and Harry figured it was just a random drunken rant he’d forget about. But nope, $25million client just stormed out. Roger is seriously pissed off that Harry made an executive decision to do nothing. “Everyone’s an account man! What is it you think we do here, Crane? We handle clients!” Fucking Harry, man. I’m still mad at him for blowing Joan off when she was so clearly good at the scriptreading job she did until someone with a penis could replace her, and now I just want to smack him. “Sal, you’re fired,” Roger says matter-of-factly. Bam, just like that. It’s a no-brainer. Sal < $25million. Math. Pete is has no idea what's going on and no one bothers to tell him. "You're going to use your dying breath to tell Don to fix this," Roger growls at Harry. "Don?” Pete, still clueless, wonders why Accounts won’t be handling this Account. “Lee Garner has a problem with Creative; let Don solve it.” Roger says. “He does it all now anyway,” he adds bitterly. So yeah, Roger and Don, the whole Martin and Lewis thing, not really working out. Waste of a good wet shave.
Harry and Sal shuffle sheepishly into Don’s office. “Who died?” Don wonders, looking at their wide-eyed ashen faces. “I screwed up with Lee Garner Junior,” Harry understates. “He told Harry to fire me,” Sal explains. “I didn’t, but now Roger just did,” Harry sputters. “Great,” is Don’s assessment. He tells Harry to leave and asks Sal what the hell happened. “Lee Garner Junior got drunk. I think if I lay low for awhile…” But Don wants to know what happened at the shoot, dammit, surely something happened. Sal hems and haws and finally says “He was drunk, and he cornered me in the editing room. I backed him off, I told him I was married, and he was embarrassed and he left.” And surely this is the part where Don intervenes on Sal’s behalf, because he has his own secrets, and because he knows Sal’s secrets but trusts and respects him. Right? That’s what part this is? No, actually, it’s the part where Don out-bastards himself. “But nothing happened,” he says sarcastically. Sal is taken aback. “I swear on my mother’s life!” “You sure you want to do that?” snarls Don. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” and I want to punch him, because oh my god are you fucking kidding me? “Was I just supposed to do whatever he wanted?” Sal pleads. “What if it was some girl?” “That would depend,” Don says coldly, “on what kind of girl it was and what I knew about her.” Oh. No. You. Di. Ent! Don shakes his head. “You people,” he says. “You asshole,” I respond out loud. And I still don’t know what he means by that. You gay people, just in general? You gay people with your “keeping it in your pants at work even when the rich client wants it”? Is that a gay stereotype? You people as in you stupid people who work for me, you and Peggy and Smitty and Kurt who can’t do anything right lately? Any way you slice it, I want to take Don’s stupid pocket square and jab him in the eyeballs with its perfectly starched corners. Ugh! Sal is devastated. “I didn’t do anything but turn him down,” he says sadly. “Lucky Strike could shut off our lights,” is Don’s bottom-line response. “I think you know that this is the way it has to be.” He stands up and offers his hand to a stunned, heartbroken Sal. “You’ll do fine,” he says. Exit Sal.
So okay, fine. Don is feeling more and more powerless, and he’s probably annoyed with himself for being even remotely compassionate about Sal in the first place. He’s supposed to be a badass, after all, and now Big Gay Sal and his Big Gay Vibes may have lost them an account because Don wasn’t man enough to fire him the second he saw him with that bellhop. And the client is worth probably a thousand times more than Sal’s salary, literally, so if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes, and why couldn’t Sal just play along and whore himself out like the rest of them do? But holy fucknuts, Don. On a better day he’d be marching into Roger’s office, furious that Roger fired Don’s employee over a ridiculous request, which, by the way, is completely Harry’s fault, since all he had to do was keep Sal out of that conference room and none of this would have happened. UGH. So Sal gets to bear the brunt of Don’s need to assert his manly dominance or whatever. Classy. (The fact that I’d driven by Bryan Batt’s house in New Orleans earlier that day made it worse for some reason that doesn’t make any sense.)
“How was your day?” Betty asks Don as he walks in. “Not good,” Don replies, and because she’s still rushing to save face in front of Carla, she hurriedly says “I didn’t want to bother you with it, but that man from the governor’s office stopped by today. Carla met him.” Carla’s like, la la la none of my business I’m just doing dishes la la la. Don says he doesn’t care if Betty has her fundraiser at the house as long as he doesn’t have to go. “A fundraiser for Rockefeller,” Don says, appreciating the irony. Later, as Don’s watching TV in the den, Betty calls Henry about the fundraiser she had to pull out of her ass, loudly enunciating for Don’s benefit. Don of course doesn’t give enough of a shit to be suspicious or even notice she’s on the phone, but she’s covering her bases anyway.
Sal is still at the office, looking sadly at his completely awesome portfolio. He gets extra sad when his assistant says “Goodnight, Boss.” Sal’s been there for ages, hasn’t he? It’s really sad, dammit. He calls Kitty from a payphone later that night, telling her Hilton has them all working late and not to wait up. The payphone is obviously located in the kind of park you might go to if you’re a closeted gay guy who’s really good at your job, but you just got fired for keeping it in your pants, apparently, so maybe you just go “Fuck a bunch of keeping it in my pants, then.” That kind of park. Maybe we’re supposed to think he does this a lot, but I don’t know, it seems like a final straw “what’s the point in fighting it anymore?” kind of thing. Or did he set up some kind of deal with Lucky to make up for it? I’ll do this if you get me my job back? I don’t think anything could change Lucky’s mind at this point – it’s about spite, and power – but who knows, maybe he would get off on making a guy whore himself out to get his job back. Any way you slice it, it’s fucking depressing, and Pete better be on the phone with Duck the very SECOND he finds out Sal’s gone. They didn’t bring Duck and Grey into this for no reason. And I don’t think I have to remind you that if a rivalry does develop between the two firms, well, Sterling Cooper is the fictional one, so they better watch their backs. Maybe Sal’s the first to emigrate? (Next: Joan! Please?)
And hey look! It’s one of the famous “Don pitches something brilliant and everybody pees all over themselves at his awesomeness” scenes! This one’s for Connie Hilton, who totally loves him, so it’ll be a snap. Don says they’ve already been trying to lure the American traveler abroad, but now they need to assure them that they’ll be treated like, you know, Americans. International travel with the comforts of home, because who the hell wants to go to Athens or Barcelona if you can’t come back to a room that could easily be in Cleveland or Scottsdale, am I right? Anyway, the idea is “How do you say ‘fresh towels’ in Farsi? Hilton. How do you say ‘ice water’ in Italian? Hilton: It’s the same in every language.” It’s no Carousel, but it’s not bad. Connie says it’s good, but where’s the Moon? Don can’t decide whether or not he’s fucking with them, but nope, he’s totally serious, because he’s a crazy person, and when you’re that rich you can be that crazy without people calling you out on it. “Right now that’s not an actual destination,” Don explains patiently, but Connie says that’s not the point. The point is when he asks for the Moon, he wants the Moon. Look, Connie, I just listened to that entire conversation and nowhere did you specifically ask Don to include the Moon in his campaign, you just said you wanted a Hilton there someday, but whatever, Mr. Burns gets what he wants, even when it’s patently ridiculous. Mr. Burns also gets to be a complete dick about it. He tells everyone else to leave the room, then privately rips Don a new one. It’s almost like he’s so rich and bored he orchestrated this entire thing just to make a point, which is that he’s one of the only people in the world who’s not afraid to tell Don to get over himself. Even if it’s for really, really stupid reasons. Don sighs. “It’s a good campaign.” Connie’s like, fine, it’s good, “what do you want from me? Love?” Yikes. He leaves Don alone to stand around looking at this awesome pitch he’s worked on for weeks only to have it rejected because there’s nothing in it about the GODDAMN MOON.
Betty’s fundraiser is humming along, rich housewives writing checks and dropping them into a lockbox, gossiping about politics. Francine wants to know what Rockefeller is going to do about the South. “Do you know how bad it must be for the Negroes to descend on Washington like that?” Segregation is uncivilized, plain and simple. “You know what my father says about the South – it’s not 1963, it’s 1863! Teehee!” They all titter about how totally tacky those Southerners are, while Carla answers the door and collects coats right behind them. We get it, show! Sheesh. I actually have no idea how upper class New Yorkers felt about Civil Rights in 1963, so anyone who does, speak up, I’m curious. Anyway, Henry Francis hasn’t shown up yet, and Betty’s getting nervous because he’s supposed to give a little talk, and she doesn’t know a damn thing about Rockefeller. A matronly lady introduces herself to Betty as Elsa Kittridge, who works with Mr. Francis and is there on his behalf. “That’s…disappointing,” Betty pouts. Elsa assures Betty she knows just as much as Henry, maybe more, since she’s the one who briefs him, but she isn’t the one who’s been undressing Dream Betty on her dream couch, now is she?
The next day Betty gathers all the checks and cash together into the lockbox and drives it down to Henry’s office. Before he can say a word, THWACK! Betty throws the metal box across the room at him. Ha. “Where were you last night?” she snarls. “I watched the door all night like a sap!” He tries to calm her down, saying he couldn’t go – she had to come to him. “Ugh! The ego,” Betty rolls her eyes. She knows this one. No, he explains. “Because you’re married.” Oh, right. That thing. They kiss, (the second kiss, i.e., the first Shadow) and he goes to lock the door, but something stops her. “No, Henry.” He doesn’t know what’s wrong. “We’re locked in this office,” she says. “Where, on the desk? The couch?” He says they’ll get a room somewhere, but she says no. “It’s tawdry.” And really, I think this actually is the first time it has occurred to her that any of this is in any way unseemly, or that actually following through with it would be all messy and, you know, real. “I don’t know what you want,” he says helplessly, and she nods at him like “yeah, that makes total sense.” “I’m sorry I started this,” she tells him, and leaves. There aren’t any tacky motels in her sexy dreams.
Meanwhile, Roger is fed up with Don. Apparently Conrad Hilton walked out of here in a huff too, he says – that’s two zillion dollar accounts in one week. Don has his head so far in Hilton’s lap he’s ignoring everything else. “Everything’s under control,” Don says smugly. “You won’t even let me meet the man,” Roger says. “What do you think Accounts does? Besides limit your brilliance.” Heh. Is that what they want to be known for? Pissing off important clients and chopping people’s feet up in lawnmowers? “I’m putting you on notice,” he yells, pulling rank in a way he doesn’t usually have to bother with. “You’re in over your head.”
Carla is setting the table. She pauses, listening to MLK deliver the eulogy for the four little girls killed in the church bombing in Birmingham. (Side note: Need a quick and easy way to traumatize yourself and sit staring at your television filled with horror and revulsion at what human beings are capable of right here in your own country not all that long ago? Accidentally watch a 2am History Channel rerun about pretty much everything that happened from 1963-1968. You’re welcome!) She turns off the radio as Betty enters, and poor well-meaning clueless Betty is all “Oh, you can leave it on your station,” like there’s a special All Horrible Civil Rights Tragedies, All The Time station just for black folk. She asks what it is, and when Carla tells her she says, genuinely, that it’s absolutely horrifying. “Are you okay? Do you need a day off?” Which again is perfectly well meaning but so freaking patronizing, like oh, they’ve declared war on my entire race and little girls are getting blown up in churches, so I think I’ll stay home and have some chicken soup. Carla says she’s fine. Carla is my new favorite member of the Draper household. “I hate to say this,” Betty says, which is usually a pretty good way to tell when you shouldn’t say something, “But it’s really made me wonder about Civil Rights. Maybe it’s not supposed to happen right now.” Wow, that’s some real deep political thinking there, Betty. Jesus.
When Don comes to bed, he still can’t sleep. He sits there for awhile and looks over at a sleeping Betty, and I think, aw, here they are, each narrowly avoided cheating on the other and now he’s looking at his beautiful wife and realizing that she’s the only constant thing in his life, and even when things get out of control and he does things he’s ashamed of, she’s there to… Nope, actually, he just woke her up to lie to her about having to go into work, and heads off to harass Miss Ferrell. Nice, Don.
Did I mention UGH? Because ugh. Don shows up at Miss Ferrell’s door asking to come inside. “For what?” she teases. “To talk,” he says. “…says the man as he unbuckles his pants,” Miss Ferrell finishes for him. Don: “What do you want me to say? You’ve been flirting with me for months.” This is officially the most resistance I’ve ever seen Don encounter. Finally, to cap this episode off, his one recourse when he’s powerless – seduction, conquering – finally he’ll be denied it and he’ll have to find a way to actually deal with it! Right? Miss Ferrell seems to be helping me out with this. Don says he can’t stop thinking about her, and she says it’s because she’s new and different. Or maybe she’s exactly the same. Either way, she knows how this ends. “So what?” Don says sort of derisively. Well, here’s so what: “You live two miles from here, I was your daughter’s teacher, I see you wife in the market.” She shakes her head like she’s concerned for him. “I don’t think you’ve done this before this way.” Which is of course exactly why I thought he’d never do this, way back when she was just Miss Maypole. Don grabs her by the waist and whispers whiskily in her face “But I want you. I don’t care. Doesn’t that mean anything to someone like you?” Which, again, what? Someone like her? You people? What the hell is that? Anyway, I’m all excited because I think here it is, a big character defining moment when she actually turns him down and he has to deal with it. But nope. She gives in. BO-RING. We’ve seen this before, it’s just a little more self-destructive this time, and he had to do a little more persuading than usual, but it’s the same story anyway. Don Draper exerts his manliness in your general direction and your panties fall down of their own accord. YAWN. The last shot we see is of the two of them in post-coital sleep in her little bed, and Don is sleeping like a damn baby for the first time this entire episode. Bastard.
Go watch the teaser for this week’s episode if you haven’t already – there’s actually some interesting stuff in there that makes me pretty optimistic about the LAST FOUR episodes we have left. FOUR! Holy Christmas. So yeah, I mean, I’m not too annoyed, I guess, because they have time left to explain to me why “Women are powerless to resist Don” is a theme we still have to keep going after all this time. I guess it’s the dangerous nature of this particular affair, which she and I both spelled out pretty plainly for him. Don doesn’t even dip his pen in company ink, why on earth would he decide to shit where he eats? Bad idea, and I can only hope some of it is guilt over throwing Sal under the bus like that, with a few derisive patronizing remarks to take with him on his way out. That, my friend, was shitty, and thanks for reminding us we shouldn’t be idolizing you.
I really want to know what’s going on with Roger, though, and what’s going to happen with all the seduction Duck’s been up to, literally with Peggy, and figuratively with Pete. I don’t think Sal’s gone for good like poor old Freddy Rumsen, and Joan isn’t either, so I really hope we’re seeing the beginnings of a nice rivalry here, where people have to pick sides, and Don may at some point get another reminder that he isn’t as in charge of everything as he thinks, at work or in his pants. I just hope Betty and the kids don’t get caught in the crossfire.