Twisted Reality

Or

ARE YOU SURE THIS IS HOW PAUL MUNI GOT STARTED?

by

Kaye

Paul Michael Glaser was tired. Dead tired. He had been filming all night long and what he really wanted to do was go home. But it looked like it was going to be a few more hours. He glanced over to David Soul, who had somehow found a place to curl up his long body and take a nap.

They were up in Topanga Canyon, on the side of a cliff overlooking the city. This was the last night of shooting of the last episode of the season. Tomorrow, he and his beloved Elizabeth were off to Morocco for a month of much needed R and R. He was looking forward to it.

"Paul, we're ready for you,” the director called.

"Yeah, we're coming," he replied with little enthusiasm.

They had been trying to get this scene in the can for two hours. The director needed Paul and David to run down the side of the hill, jump into the ever-present Torino, and roar off down the canyon. But, of course, everything had gone wrong. Fans kept shouting from surrounding houses, jets flew overhead, and even a stray cat had jumped on the hood in the middle of the shot. Consequently, they had run up and down this same hill eleven times.

"Hey, Davey." Paul nudged him with his foot.

"Yeah, yeah, okay." David Soul rose wearily and stood beside Paul. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder and remarked, "Think we can get it this time?"

"We'd better. My feet are killing me."

They headed up to the start position of the shot. David climbed the steep hill first, winding his way around the narrow path. Paul followed slowly, favoring his left foot, so he was looking down when David stopped suddenly in front of him. Unaware, Paul crashed into his back. David reached around to steady him, which only served to knock him more off balance. Paul stumbled back into a large pine tree, struggled to regain his step, and caught his foot under an exposed root. He gasped in pain as he tumbled headlong down the side of the hill. He landed in a heap and was still.

gh

Voices floated disjointedly around him. Paul struggled to open his eyes, but a giant weight kept them closed. He recognized David's voice above the rest.

"C'mon, Starsk, talk to me, buddy."

Paul struggled to remember his next line. Was he supposed to wake up? Which scene was this? Why did his head hurt so much?

"Get that paramedic over here, now!" A familiar voice boomed in his ear.

What is Bernie doing here? Bernie Hamilton, the actor who played the venerable Captain Dobey, shot most of his scenes back at the soundstage. Paul wished he could remember his script. Then maybe he could figure out just what was going on. Well, overtime or no overtime, he was going to have to interrupt this shot. He concentrated all his strength and was able to crack open his left eye. He saw the concerned face of his on-screen partner. Directly behind David stood about half a dozen police officers. Funny, he didn't remember so many extras out here before.

"Wha. . .what scene. . .?” Paul's voice was barely a whisper.

"Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy."

Oh, thought Paul, this must be Shootout. But why aren't we in the restaurant? He struggled to his elbows, opening both eyes.

"He's coming around, Captain."

Paul looked into the familiar eyes of his friend and co-star. "Davey, what’s going on? I don't remember. . ."

"Just take it easy, Starsk. You gotta good bump on that thick skull of yours. The paramedics are on the way to take a look at you."

"No wonder my head hurts.” Paul looked over David's shoulder to – wait! There should be cameras, lights. Maybe they. . .he whirled his head around, which caused him severe dizziness. No cameras. "Where's the crew? The cameras?"

"Okay, Starsky, it was a great collar, but do you really think it merits cameras?"

"Collar?" The sharp pain in Paul's head was making it difficult for him to understand. "What are you talking about? Where's Joe? And quit calling me Starsky. Can we go to Cut, please?"

Paul was interrupted by the arrival of the paramedics, who quickly shooed everyone away and began to examine him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pain in his head.

"A concussion and some contusions.” Paul opened his eyes to see the paramedic talking to Bernie and David.

Where is Joe? Joe Naar, the show's producer should be here. If he really had a concussion, the studio would need to be notified. And what about his ankle? He knew he had at least sprained it in the fall.

"What about my ankle?"

The three men turned toward him. "Your ankle's fine, Sergeant," replied the paramedic, "are you experiencing some pain?"

"I think I hurt it when I fell . . ."

"Fell? When did he fall? Hutchinson, I thought you said Stryker hit him over the head."

Why was Bernie calling David “Hutchinson”? And why was David looking at him so strangely?

"He did, Captain. I think Starsk's just a little confused. Maybe I should take him home with me.”

"No, Elizabeth's supposed to pick me up . . . we're going to Morocco . . ."

"Morocco? Maybe we should let the paramedics take him to the hospital,” Bernie stared down at the injured man.

"No, Captain, I'm sure he'll be okay, once I get him home."

Paul felt himself being lifted by the other man. He gingerly put weight on his left foot. No pain. He wriggled his toes. His ankle felt perfectly fine. He didn't understand it. This was so weird. As he tested his reflexes, he got a better look at the surroundings. What he saw didn’t make him feel any better.

They were in a deserted parking lot, not up in Topanga. There were about half a dozen squad cars, an ambulance, four or five unmarked cars, and a paddy wagon – no sign of a single camera or light or even a grip. Instead, he saw about fifteen extras in uniforms, none of whom he recognized. In fact, except for David and Bernie, he didn't know anyone.

"Think you can walk to the car?"

Paul shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and looked up at his friend. There was something very wrong here.

"C'mon, buddy, let's get you home. You'll feel better, I promise."

Well, at least one thing was still the same. David could look at him and know what he was thinking. He allowed himself to be led to the Torino. David opened the passenger door and looked expectantly at Paul.

"What are you doing?" Paul frowned.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm driving you home. You surely don't think I'm letting you behind the wheel?"

"No, I mean, why are you taking this car?"

"What do you suggest we take? Just get in, Starsky. You keep acting freaky and Captain Dobey will order you right into the hospital, quick."

"I'm acting freaky? You're the one who keeps calling Bernie Captain Dobey. And where the hell is everyone? Huh?”

"Just get in the damn car.” Something in the other man’s voice warned Paul not to argue, so he flopped into the seat and slammed the door.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. Like stale coffee and week old burritos. The car was a mess. He was then startled by the noise of the radio.

"Zebra 12 and Zebra 10, please respond Code One to a 211 in progress at 1212 Ocean.”

“Zebra 12 responding.”

“Zebra 10 copies and we are en route."

As he listened, he realized why the sound was so odd to him. It was the first time he had heard the radio live. Usually, the sound editors put it in at post production, but now he was hearing actual transmissions. If this was some sort of prank, it was an elaborate one.

He looked up as David got into the driver's seat and shut the door. He watched him start the car and pull into traffic.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Starsk. I really didn't mean to yell at you. I guess I'm still buzzed after what happened."

"Will you please quit calling me Starsk? You know how I hate that."

"Well, just what do you want me to call you? Rafferty? Or how about Hack? That's a good one – or how bout Zack?"

"David, please. My head hurts enough without you adding to it."

"You don't want me to call you Starsk, and yet you keep calling me David? Are you sure you're okay?" He looked so concerned that Paul felt bad – almost.

"Well that's your name, isn't it?” All of a sudden, he wasn't sure of the answer himself.

Hutch looked at his partner for a beat and then said, "My name is Ken Hutchinson."

"And I guess that makes me the ever-popular David Starsky? I mean your real name."

"That is my real name."

"Fine, whatever." Paul crossed his arms over his chest and stared straight ahead. He didn't know what was going on, but he was in no mood for any of David's stupid pranks.

Hutch yanked the Torino out of traffic, pulled to the nearest curb, and cut the ignition.

He turned toward the scowling man beside him. "Listen, Starsky, I'm not sure what’s going on with you, but unless I get some straight answers, I'm taking you to the emergency room, whether you like it or not, you got it?"

Paul, continuing to stare out the window, just nodded.

"Okay," Hutch began, "first of all, just who do you think I am?"

Paul turned his head enough to reply, "This is completely idiotic – you are David Soul, of course. You are the irritating actor who portrays Ken Hutchinson on television."

Without letting Hutch interrupt, he continued, "And I am one Paul Glaser, also an actor, although not nearly so irritating, who portrays David Starsky, also on that same television show. And up to a few hours ago, we were both shooting that show. Until I fell down that hill and woke up here in Never Never land."

Paul was startled to see genuine shock on his friend's face. He watched him reach into his pocket and pull out his wallet. He extracted something and handed it to Paul. It was a California driver's license. It belonged to one Kenneth R. Hutchinson.

Paul took the license and shrugged. "Yeah, so, it's a prop."

"A prop," Hutch sputtered. "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital right now." He reached for the mike. "Zebra Three to Central. Show us 10-14 at County General."

"No, please." Paul reached up and touched his arm. He wasn't sure where he was or what was happening, but he did know he didn't want to go to a hospital. Hutch ignored him and kept driving.

But was David really taking him to a hospital? Maybe this was some big surprise for him. Maybe they were on Candid Camera. That's it. Why didn't he think of it before?

He looked around the interior of the Torino. This car had been through the mill. He wouldn't be able to find a hidden camera if someone showed him where it was. He started to open the glove compartment when he felt a hand on his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for the hidden camera."

Hidden camera? Hutch shook his head. What was up with his partner? Television cops? Bernie? Joe? That paramedic must have missed something. Starsky had been alone with Stryker for some time before the rest of them got to him. Maybe one of those goons slipped him something. But then what would the hospital do? Put the confused detective in bed and leave him there for twenty-four hours? The one thing Starsky had said that made any sense since he came to was that he didn't want to go to the hospital. He made his decision.

"Zebra Three to Central. Please disregard last transmission. Show both myself and Sergeant Starsky 10-8."

Paul looked up from his camera investigation in surprise.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm taking you home and we are going to get to the bottom of this. And by the time we're finished, you'll probably wish you were in the hospital."

gh

David Starsky knew it was coming. He turned just in time to see Mac Stryker, reputed crime boss and “scum of the earth,” as his partner liked to call him, raise the brick above his head. A white light exploded in his eyes and everything went black.

gh

"Paul, Paul, can you hear me?"

He could hear Hutch's voice. He felt himself coming around. But who was Paul? He struggled to open his eyes. As his vision cleared, he saw his concerned partner bending over him.

"I'm okay, I'm okay. Lemme up, will ya?” He struggled to his elbows. The world tilted and he closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.

"Take it easy, Paul. Help is coming. Just lie still."

"Stryker, where's Stryker?"

"I don't know – just lie still."

Starsky obeyed his partner, laid his head back and looked up into the pine trees, trying to clear his throbbing head – pine trees? Where the hell was he? He sat up quickly, despite the darkness that threatened to wash over him, and looked around. This was not the deserted parking lot where he had cornered Stryker and his men. It looked like he was up in the mountains somewhere. And where was everyone? All he could see was Hutch and a lot of lights and cameras. Cameras!? The bloodsucking press was here already? But just where was here? He looked to his partner for answers.

"Hutch, where are we?"

"Hutch, huh? Well, little buddy, where we are is done for the year. My guess is that your header down this hill effectively ended today's shooting. And if that ankle's not broken, you are on your way to Morocco.”

"Shooting? Who was hit? Where's Dobey? Man, my head is killing me.” What was Hutch talking about? Morocco? If he could stop the pounding in his head, maybe he could get a grip on this situation.

“Paul – David,” a strange voice shouted.

“We're here, Joe. Over here.” Starsky watched as his partner motioned to some men coming around the path toward them.

"We saw him fall, but couldn't find you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I think Paul broke his ankle. He was unconscious when I got to him."

The stranger knelt beside Starsky. "Paul, how you doing?"

Starsky looked around to see whom the man was talking to. Four more men had come around the path and now everyone, including Hutch, was staring at him.

"Well, I have no idea who Paul is, but my head is killing me." He turned to his partner, "And will you stop telling everyone my ankle's broken? Stryker hit me in the head, not the foot."

Starsky struggled to get up. Both Hutch and the stranger jumped to help him.

"I don't think you should do that, Paul. Have you looked at your ank. . .?”

"Aghgh,” Starsky screamed in agony as he put his weight on the injured foot. He sagged into the arms of the man Hutch called Joe.

"Easy there, Paul,” Joe soothed. "We got some help to get you down from here. Don't hurt that ankle any more."

In too much pain to protest, Starsky allowed himself to be carried the rest of the way down the hill and lifted into a waiting ambulance.

He felt someone jump in beside him and turned to thank his partner for coming with him, but it was not Hutch. It was the stranger. Joe. What the hell . . . ?

He searched the crowd that had gathered at the door for a familiar face. Any familiar face at this point. Finally, he saw the one he was looking for and croaked out a pathetic "Hutch. . .?"

David Soul looked up into the ambulance at his friend. He saw the blue eyes silently pleading with him. "Hey, Joe, let me go with him, okay?"

Joe and David exchanged glances above the dark curly head.

"Okay, but I'm calling for backup to meet you at the hospital. I don't want some mob there waiting to catch a glimpse of the injured Starsky and Hutch. You know what happens when you two show up together in public?"

David just nodded and climbed into the ambulance. Joe shut the door and turned to walk back to the rest of his crew. "Actors," he muttered.

gh

The Torino pulled to a stop in front of 1027 1/2 Ocean. Hutch jumped out and ran around to open the door for his partner.

Paul got out and looked up at the apartment in confusion. Then it dawned on him. Candid Camera. "Okay, I get it. Since you are playing Hutch, I guess now we go up to your apartment and you fix me up with some desiccated liver and butterfly bones."

Hutch ignored him and started up the stairs. Paul shook his head and followed behind. He caught up at the apartment door and looked up. The key was resting on the lintel. Whoever planned this had paid attention to every detail.

"Oh, allow me." Paul reached up, retrieved the key, and opened the door.

He got as far as the piano and stopped. It was exactly the same. The apartment was a duplicate of the set. What the hell was going on? He staggered over to the couch and sat down. His head was spinning.

Hutch was beside him in an instant. "Hey, buddy, are you okay?"

Paul looked into the concerned eyes of his friend and pleaded, "What the hell is going on, Davey? Please tell me."

"That's just what we are going to find out – together. You want something to drink?" Hutch asked as he headed into the kitchen.

"A Perrier would be great." Paul just kept looking around the room in amazement. It was just like the set. But different. It looked, well, lived in.

"Yeah, right – how bout a root beer?"

Paul looked up in surprise. "You know I don't eat refined sugar."

"Excuse me? Since when? Did you alert the Hershey Company?"

Realization hit Paul. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot the charade. I'm supposed to be Starsky, so I guess it’s petrified burritos and candy bars for me. Well, no thanks. Just give me a glass of water."

Hutch got them both a glass of water and sat down in the chair opposite his scowling partner. "Okay, let's start at the beginning. What exactly do you remember about today?"

"Well, we were shooting up in Topanga and I was following you up to the start and you bumped me and I fell. I remember catching my foot under some root and then I woke up in that parking lot. You know the rest.” Paul looked at the man seated in the chair.

Hutch was staring at him like he had lost his mind. "You don't remember finding Stryker's men and chasing them to that lot? You don't remember letting me out of the car and going off after Stryker alone?"

"No, what episode is that? Wait, I remember a Stryker in Snowstorm – didn't he get put in jail at the end?"

"What snowstorm?"

"You, know, the episode when we caught the dirty cops stealing the cocaine? And that dog kept showing up wherever we went . . ."

"You mean the cluster at Bear Lake?" Hutch asked.

Well, I think that's where it was supposed to be – didn’t we shoot it in the valley somewhere?"

Hutch looked at his partner seated on his couch as if he was an alien. "Shoot what in the valley?"

"The scenes at Bear Lake."

"We went to Bear Lake. And I killed Corman.” Hutch frowned. He’d never really gotten over the fact that he’d had to kill a fellow officer. Starsky knew that. Why would he bring it up now? What the hell was wrong with him?

Paul watched Hutch as the memories replayed on the other man's face. This guy really thinks he killed Corman. He suddenly felt very tired. He leaned back against the cushions of the couch, his head throbbing. He hoped he would be rid of the pain before he had to get on the plane – Elizabeth.

"Hey, where's the phone? I really need to call Elizabeth. Whatever is going on here, I need to let her know I'm okay."

"Who's Elizabeth?” Hutch asked.

"Who's Elizabeth? C'mon, David. Enough is enough. I'm the one who got a concussion, remember?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm asking. Ever since you got that knock on the noggin, you seem to have created a new cast of characters in your life. First Bernie, then Joe, and now Elizabeth. What next? Doodle Town?"

Paul eyed his friend, confused. "Doodle Town? Oh, you mean Diana Scarwid."

"Who the hell is Diana Scarwid?"

"The girl who played Lisa – you know – Doodle Town?"

"No one ‘played’ Lisa. She is a real person. Why is it you remember some things and yet you can't remember your own name? You are David – I am Ken.” Hutch's voice thundered through the room.

Paul stared at him, surprised at the intensity. The David Soul he was used to was a very gentle man not in the habit of bellowing. He watched as the man who had become like a brother to him the last two years spun around and began watering a plant.

Hutch ignored his partner, trying to gather himself.

Paul rubbed his temples. "I feel like I've been beamed up to some parallel universe. It's like you want me to believe that everything we shot on the show really happened."

Hutch turned and gave him a patented Hutchinson glare. He shook his head and then plopped down on the couch. They both sat silently for a moment, each lost in thought. Suddenly, Hutch leapt off the couch and whirled to face the man still seated.

"Okay, what if, just for a minute, we say that what you are saying is true? That you are really not David Starsky, but Paul, uh. . ."

"Glaser. My name is Paul Michael Glaser."

"Okay, so if you're not Starsky, prove it."

"What do you mean?"

“Well, no two people are exactly alike, no matter how much they look like it."

Paul did not enjoy this little game. "Of course we're not alike. He's a character I created. He's not real."

Hutch was relentless. "Convince me, then. What makes you different?"

"What makes you think I actually think you are who you say you are?" Paul countered.

"No – you answer me first. So, what about it? You got any weird allergies? Six toes? Birthmarks? Scars?"

Paul frowned. "Scars? Like an appendix scar?"

"You have an appendix scar?"

"No, does Starsky?"

"No – this is ridiculous. You are Starsky."

"I thought you were going to believe me." Paul retorted.

"I know, but. . ." Hutch lifted both hands in exasperation.

"C'mon, Hutch, there's got to be something." Paul was finally getting into this little game. He shot the detective his best Starsky smile.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Well, if you’re not Starsky, you must be a clone, because that cheesy grin was all him."

"Except I drive a blue Beemer and despise ‘Linguini widda clams.’” Paul chuckled at his own humor.

“That’s it!" Hutch's voice startled Paul. He was beginning to believe that the man standing before him was not David Soul. He was just too boisterous.

"What's it?" Paul asked.

"The scar. From the shootout in the restaurant.” Hutch took a step toward the couch.

Paul stood up. "What shootout? Oh, Shootout. Where I, I mean, Starsky gets shot in the Italian place?"

"The bullet missed your spine by a hair's breadth. They had to remove it by going in through your side. I'd know that scar anywhere. Take off you shirt.” Hutch demanded.

"I don't have a scar." Paul backed away slowly. "I was never shot. It was a script. A TV show."

"Prove it," challenged Hutch.

"This is ridiculous. I’m going home." Paul started toward the door. His eye caught sight of a framed picture on top of the piano and he stopped. He reached over and took the picture in his hands. It was a photograph of himself and David. Well, at least it looked like them. But it had been taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. And he was wearing clothes he had never seen before. Not to mention the fact he had never been to Paris with David.

"Where was this taken?" He held out the picture to Hutch.

"Where does it look like? Paris. We went there two years ago, remember? That was right before you ate your weight in escargot and puked all the way to Italy." Hutch smiled at the memory.

Paul searched the other man's familiar eyes for the truth. He shook his head and pulled the picture almost to his nose. The two men being photographed smiled like fools. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a publicity still for the show. Like it was "Starsky and Hutch Go to France." Because the faces staring back at him were not Paul and David but the two detectives they portrayed. He put the picture back on the piano, swallowed hard and turned to face the other man.

"I really don't know what the hell is happening here, but you have to believe I am not David Starsky."

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down off his shoulders. Hutch stared at the curly haired chest, familiar to him as his own. "Turn around," he demanded.

Paul turned and to Hutch's amazement, there were no marks. The jagged scar that had been Starsky's souvenir of that awful night was gone. The only blemish on this back was a small half moon scar at the back of the neck.

"Wha . . . the . . . hell . . ." Hutch croaked.

"I told you." Paul said gently. Even if this really wasn't David Soul, which he was now starting to believe, he still felt a connection with this man behind him.

It was now Hutch's turn to fall heavily onto the couch. He continued to stare at the half- dressed man before him. How is this possible? He struggled to remember the last time he had seen Starsky without a shirt. The locker room, maybe? Did he see the scar then? This situation was getting more hinky by the minute.

"David . . ." Paul ventured.

"If I'm going to believe that you're this Paul person, then do me the same courtesy, huh? Call me Ken. Or Hutch."

Paul shrugged back into his shirt. "Okay, Hutch. Where do we go from here?"

"I have no idea. I was hoping you would sleep this hallucination off and be back to normal in the morning, but now . . ." He motioned to Paul's chest.

Paul sat down beside the detective. "Yeah, tell me about it."