So I enjoyed all the discussion this weekend about Laura's Something to Talk About vid and how peeps were so surprised there was so much on-screen slashiness and I just sat back and thought, well yes, that's why I have a hard time with all the other shows, trying to force some slash into them . . .
so this little ditty is what came up. I was actually trying to write a drabble for ME and THEE 100. Kind of an overreach I would say . . .
it's for Laura, whose vid is so awesome and a perfectly perfect example to show the world why OUR BOYS are the BEST.
And also inspired by silver chipmunk and her cat walking and also for the Hawaii Five O episode tonight, whose previews harken me back to other boys and other plagues and poisons and wringing of hands . . .
TItle: We'll Give Em Something To Talk About
Set in the present and also during the shooting of "Gillian"
We’ll Give Em Something to Talk About – for Laura
David: You done with your fairy tale tour?
Paul: My fairy . . . Oh, the book.
David: Book? You’re calling it a book?
Paul: At least I have a book. Actually published.
David: Published in your basement.
Paul: Davey, I am in the middle of something. How can I help you?
David: You know how.
Paul: You’re so predictable.
D: Consistent. I’m comfortably consistent.
P: Okay, fine. Nice to talk to you-
D: You watch Hawaii Five O?
P: Is that a trick question?
D: I need to find someone who’s watched it.
P: And you thought to call me?
D: You were my last resort.
P: Why do you want to know?
D: You don’t want to know why.
P: I don’t want to know anything. I’m working, Davey.
D: Drawing rainbows for your new book?
P: Again, at least I finished a book.
D: Again, I can’t finish a book because you won’t release your chapters.
P: I’m not getting into that conversation with you.
D: So let’s have this one – you know little Scotty Caan?
P: Jimmy’s kid – yeah.
D: He’s on Hawaii Five O.
P: He’s not old enough.
D: No, Paulie – the new one.
P: There’s a new one?
D: You do own a TV, right?
P: Funny stuff – now will you let me get back to my work?
D: Okay, okay. You’re no fun. So apparently, the new Hawaii Five O is trying to do our shtick.
P: Which shtick is that? And I’m already regretting asking that question.
D: You know – buddy cops, love story, all the good stuff.
P: And why do I care?
D: Because it has caused a bit of a stir and now Raynebow’s video has gone viral.
P: Are you talking gibberish?
D: Paulie, do you ever listen when I talk to you? Raynebow – that vid chick from YouTube who made those vids of our show . . . remember the vid that brought you to Rome last summer in a hot lather . . .
P: Oh, those vids.
D: And he joins the program. Yes, those vids. So she’s got one that showcases almost every time we touched.
P: How long is the video?
D: And now all these Hawaii Five O fans are learning how the grown-ups do it –
old school and I checked and our DVD sales spiked this weekend.
P: DVD sales? The ones we get no royalties from? How bored are you, Davey?
D: I know, I was waiting all weekend for a phone call. Got a fucking cold, too. Didn’t leave the house.
P: And again I ask with no hope of an answer – why are you telling me all this?
D: Just thought you’d like to know we’re still relevant. Still the ones, capitol O. Still rocking and rolling after all these years.
P: Okay . . .
D: Seriously, Paulie – I’ll send you a link to the vid. You are pawing me in every frame.
P: Must be a mirror copy – all I remember, which is not much, is you pawing me.
D: Damn straight. Especially after Karen showed up on set.
D: My second and sexiest ex.
P: You number them now?
D: Tell me you don’t remember.
P: I don’t remember.
D: The bowling alley? The apartment? The little motel behind it. The guy with the crazy cat?
P: Is this an episode?
D: Should have been. Paulie, try to think.
P: I’m thinking I should hang up.
D: I’m sending you the link to the vid. Watch it and call me back. And if you don’t remember what I’m talking about, I will pay you one thousand dollars.
P: I won’t remember.
D: You will remember. Go watch it Paulie.
Paul opened his email and clicked on the link. He knew it was a bad idea. He had three scripts to go over. He had to write a letter for the donation packet and he was supposed to meet Jake for supper. But as usual, David had made him curious. He also wanted to know more about this Hawaii Five O – sounded like a good directing gig, especially if they were actually shooting in Hawaii. He wouldn’t mind a couple of weeks with good weather and lighting to die for.
He watched as the song started – Bonnie Raitt – and then there they were. He always felt his chest tighten whenever he caught a glimpse of the two of them back then – too young too rich too pretty, how much they looked like they had just finished fucking . . . he rewound and watched the first bit again. Hell if Davey wasn’t right about this one – they touched all the time. He wondered if there was a difference before and after. Before they had tumbled into bed and down the rabbit hole – after they had fucked it all up – considered for a minute about finding the DVDs and doing a study – scientific of course – as to whether it was obvious, the way their relationship changed through the series. He already knew it was all there on screen for the last bit. Knew because he had tried to make sure they were barely on screen together at all – he did remember that part. Davey with that fucking moustache, usually drunk, always trying to get him to stay . . . wait. He rewound again. That apartment looked familiar – Davey was crying . . . must be the one. Karen was a hooker or a drug dealer or something. Found her dead on the floor – he would never tell Davey that he really only remembered it because he had been so bored waiting for the set up between shots that he had doodled art all over the window blinds . . . and then it hit him. The bowling alley. The little motel behind it. The guy with the crazy cat. The way Karen had looked like she wanted to kill them both.
“Cut. Print. Thanks guys. That was excellent. We are wrapped for the day.”
Paul buried his head in David’s chest and waited for his breathing to calm down. David hung on, pulling them both gently to the floor. They stayed locked together, allowing the emotions they had drawn to the surface to subside. It was a killer scene. Killer episode. Nothing like discovering the dead hooker girlfriend of your partner to really cement a relationship. Not that their relationship needed any more glue. Karen had been commenting on it since she walked on set and so today, seeing her lying there dead, had been a bit of a relief. At least there was no chance of Gillian becoming a regular cast member.
“Fuck,” David muttered and pushed against Paul. “You fucking killed me Paulie.” They staggered up, pulling on the jackets they had practically ripped apart just minutes ago.
“It’s called acting, Davey.” Paul straightened David’s jacket and brushed a stray hair off his shoulder. Leaned in close. “But you know I believe it.”
The line in the script was, “You’re my partner, Hutch.” Paul had changed it to “You’re the best friend I got in the whole world . . .” which was the real reason David had just collapsed in his arms. The director, who knew enough about the pair to leave them alone, left them alone. And got the shot he needed.
“Man, I love you.” David slid his hand up Paul’s neck, threading his fingers in Paul’s hair. “Let’s get out of here.”
Paul nodded and they headed out of the apartment and down to the sidewalk, where they watched Karen drive off in the only car left. They had all arrived this morning in the same car, having left all their personal cars back on the lot. They were shooting most of this week in the apartment and the bowling alley, which was next to a little pink motel. Typical L.A. street. They’d shot a dozen scenes in the bowling alley and then had moved to the big scene in the apartment. Now the honey wagons were the only thing left on the street. Oh, and the Torino. But neither one suggested they take the Torino. It wasn’t that long ago they had gotten drunk after a long day and had decided to take the monster out for a spin. That little escapade had ended with a tow truck and screaming teenagers in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard. And a long apology letter to Leonard and Aaron.
“Fucking hell.” David reached in his pocket for a cigarette. “Now what?”
Paul took the cigarette from David’s fingers. “She’s your wife.”
“Was my wife.”
“Is pissed at you. I think she thought this was going to be the reconciliation episode.”
David chuckled. “And we make her a hooker and kill her. Probably thought I wrote the script.”
“Probably.” Paul looked around the street, hoping to see someone from the crew. They hadn’t been upstairs that long had they? He was just about to suggest they call a cab when he saw the sign for the motel and had a better idea.
David followed his gaze and his better idea, took the cigarette out of Paul’s mouth and headed for the motel.
Paul walked behind him. Hoped David had his real billfold. He’d hate to try to pay for this motel with Starsky’s credit card. Hoped no one was watching Starsky and Hutch go into a motel together, Hutch having acquired a rather large bulge in his corduroys during the walk across the parking lot.
David paid with cash and they made it just inside the door before the jackets were ripped to the floor and Paul was trying to get David’s shirt up over his head. They stumbled toward the bed, David kicking off his shoes, Paul undoing his own jeans, having learned early in this job that Starsky’s jeans cannot be peeled off in any romantic fashion. He got them as far down as his knees before David shoved him on the bed.
“Fuck, wait.” Paul reached around and pulled a badge case out of a pocket. “Fucking thing.” He threw it to the floor and David ripped the rest of Starsky’s clothes off his body. He reached for David’s pants, snaking his hand under the waistband. David moaned a bit and stood up, Hutch’s clothes joining Starsky’s in a heap on the floor.
The first time they both came fast. Too fast. Paul hung onto David’s shoulders as David arched away from him and then fell hard against him, panting. Paul thought about searching for a cigarette, but David’s legs were lying across his and he didn’t have the strength to move.
The knock on the door startled them both.
“What the fuck?” David whispered and rolled away from Paul, tried to stand.
“You expecting someone, Davey?”
“Funny.” David limped over to the window.
The knock was louder now. “Excuse me gentlemen. But you left your billfold in the office and I was out walking Boris . . .”
The motel manager.
“Answer the door.” Paul pulled the sheet over his chest. “Get your billfold. Dumbass.”
David grabbed the sheet off Paul, wrapped it around his waist and peered through the peephole. Paul reached down and grabbed Hutch’s jacket and covered his crotch with it.
David turned back to Paul. “He’s got a cat out there.”
“Yeah, on a leash.”
Paul got up, tying the sleeves of Hutch’s jacket around his waist and peeked out the window. There stood the motel manager, holding onto a little blue leash that was attached to a fat yellow cat. With a pink collar.
“Well, answer the door. The cat won’t bite.”
David grabbed Paul’s arm. “What if this is a set-up?”
“Yeah, candid camera shit – I mean, who puts a cat on a leash?”
The motel manager knocked again. “I can hear you moving around in there. I don’t mean to disturb but I am soon to be quitting the work and I didn’t want to leave your valuables with Corky.”
David mouthed, “Corky?” and Paul shook his head, shrugged into his shirt, and shoved David out of the way.
He opened the door. Held out his hand for the billfold. The motel manager looked at him and shook his head. “No sir, not your billfold, the blond gentleman. Is he here?”
A hand appeared around the door.
Paul rolled his eyes. “There, put the wallet in his hand. He’s shy.”
“But sir, I cannot completely identify the hand.”
David pulled his hand back and poked his head around the door. “Just give me the fucking billfold, will ya?”
The man took a step back and accidentally stepped on the cat’s tail. The cat screeched and jumped sideways, knocking the billfold from the manager’s hand. Paul reached down to pick it up and the cat leaped onto Paul’s arm, clawing and shrieking. Paul shook his arm, shouting, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” and the manager yanked hard on the leash. The cat dropped to the ground. Paul stumbled back against the door, the jacket slipping down. David reached toward Paul, trying to keep the jacket up, trying to keep his sheet up, trying to pull them both inside the room, trying to kick the cat, who had regained his balance and launched himself against Paul’s chest. Paul let go of the jacket and tried to get the cat off his chest, the claws digging into his shirt, his skin. David reached down and grabbed the billfold, grabbed the cat by the neck, flung it toward the manager, grabbed Paul and pulled him backwards into the room. They landed in a heap on the floor and the manager, now dangling the cat a foot off the ground by the leash, stepped in, murmured some sort of apology, backed out and gently closed the door.
They stayed on the floor for a minute, trying to figure how to untangle sheet and jacket and wondering what the hell had just happened.
“So if that was round two . . .” David rolled off Paul’s arm.
“Shut the fuck up and look at my fucking arm.” Paul held his forearm, red and bleeding up to David’s face. “You gotta fix this.”
“What am I? Florence Nightingale?” David reached for his pants, feeling for his cigarettes and lighter. “That was one crazy motherfucking cat.” He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Paul, who had crawled over the bed and was sitting against it, fingering the scratches on his chest.
“I should fucking sue.” Paul took the cigarette and leaned his head back against the bed.
“Oh yeah, I want to see that one. Starsky attacked by pissy pussy. There’s not enough minutes on the eleven o’clock news for that one.” David joined Paul against the bed. “Those look like they hurt.”
“They fucking hurt. Cat’s probably got rabies.”
“I guess we should go get you some alcohol or something.” David ruffled Paul’s hair. “Don’t want some infection halting the shooting schedule.”
Paul leaned into David, took a drag, blew it out slow. “You’re funny.”
David’s hand moved down Paul’s leg, massaging. Paul sighed and reached for the tin ashtray half hidden under the bed, snatched David’s cigarette out of his mouth, crushed them both in the ashtray, turned toward David and spent the rest of the night trying to forget about anything except the way David’s hair fell across his chest, the way his dick moved under his hand, the way everything melted away every single time David shouted his name . . .
David picked up the phone on the first ring.
D: I told you you’d remember.
P: Fucking pussy.
D: The cat was an asshole, too.
P: How do I forget that? I mean until I saw that jacket . . .
D: You know that wasn’t the only time you tangled with that pussy.
P: I would have remembered seeing that fucking cat again.
D: No, asshole, I didn’t mean the cat.
P: Oh, yeah – she did another episode didn’t she? That one in the car.
D: Yeah, all of us snuggled up together in the front seat. For a week.
P: Her idea?
D: Probably. So now, you get what I mean? We have to watch Hawaii Five O.
P: How did you get from motel sex a hundred years ago to Hawaii Five O?
D: Did you watch the video? They say we’re the best. Unequalled.
P: Is there a contest? And what again does this have to do with Hawaii? Unless of course this is your way of inviting me to Maui again.
D: Perfect idea!
P: Davey, I have work . . .
D: Meet me in Oahu.
P: Right. Just like that.
D: Yeah, we can get some sun, and find out about this Five O thing. Maybe we can guest star. Two old detectives running a bar, maybe someone gets killed. We get called back to duty to solve the case. Show the kids how it’s done.
P: Are you drunk?
D: Cold medicine. But I’m serious. We need to school the new kids.
P: I am not meeting you in Oahu. And you know I hate Honolulu.
D: You’re saying that if I get us this gig, you won’t come?
P: I’m saying you should sleep it off and call me in the morning.
D: You’re probably right. Fuckers won’t hire us and you’d end up pissed you weren’t directing.
P: Finally, you’re making sense. Call me tomorrow.
D: You know the motel’s still there.
P: What motel?
D: Kitty Motel.
P: How do you know that?
D: I just do. Wanna make a sequel? We could get a real cat.
P: How much cold medicine did you take?
D: Not enough to stop me from having bad thoughts about you and bad motel rooms.
P: Go to sleep Davey. We’ll talk all about motels and Hawaii and videos tomorrow.
D: Maybe ol’ Raynebow can shoot a new vid for us. Call it Something to Really Really Talk About . . .
P: Goodnight Davey.
D: Goodnight Paulie.