Chapter 27: PSchnitzel! (Patreon)

Chapter 27: PSchnitzel!

White Rock Vancouver BC, Canada. April 2007.

Sweater weather isn’t quite what I’d been expecting to encounter when I landed in a seaside town. White Rock may look enough like Santa Barbara to shoot a TV show there, but the weather was like being back on set in the UK where every breath felt like I was drinking ice cold water after sucking on a mint. 

I didn’t let it bother me, though. My mind, body, and soul were elsewhere entirely. More than a good chance, I conjured visions of a walking sex toy with how aggressively I was vibrating in my excitement. 

“Need I remind you, Mr Rhys, that I have a strict, no-nappy-changing clause in my employment contract? Do contain yourself.” Pour all the water you want on me Cadbury, you’re the one who’s going to be handling the laundry.

“The only thing you’re wiping right now is the smile off my face.” Don’t chocolate rain on my parade, Cadbury. “Let me enjoy myself. I’m about to be in the best murder mystery show of all time!” Fond nostalgia from a past life outweighed objective reason. 

“Agatha Christie’s Poirot would beg to differ.” Sacré bleu!

“The only reason you’re saying that is because you have a crush on David Suchet. I’d like to see just how well you’d be able to comport yourself if you ever came face to face with him. My guess? You’d probably swoon at the first twirl of his spindly little moustache.” 

For all the aspiring amateur sleuths out there, this back and forth of ours should be clue enough to tell you we’d spent a great deal of our spare time together watching detective programmes. 

No regrets whatsoever. 

“I merely have a healthy admiration for a most renowned thespian of my era.” Who ordered the hot cocoa? “Regardless, perhaps you should focus on your own infatuations.”

Over the last few years, and recently especially, I’ve grown intimately familiar with being approached by fans, fanatics, schmoozers, and even the occasional stranger seduced by stardom who has no clue who I am but demands my attention just because others around them are too. Despite this, I’d never, in any life, held the impulse to profess my undying love for a character on a screen. 

At least until today. I now know what it feels to be star-struck. 

Forget the first step in - I was halfway across the set as soon as I spotted Dule Hill and James Roday. You very swiftly find out who likes whom more by the first hand that’s out for a shake. 

It was mine.

“If it isn’t Shawn Spencer and the Jackal!” Nice to meet you. I’m Stan. 

Butts? Out of seats. Hands? Outstretched and clasped. Smiles? Wide and infectious. I crossed my arms and grasped both of theirs at the same time.

“Dule is a huge fan of Harry Potter.” James Roday said while attached to my left hand.

“James made me binge the entire Fast and Furious franchise.” Dule announced from my right hand.

“And I’ve seen the entire first season of Psych like five times.” Our hands, heads, and knees were all bobbing up and down in unison ‘till we somehow ended up playing ring-around-the-roses, giggles and all.

I know conventional thought always warns against meeting your heroes, but after I’d met Steve Irwin, and now these two, I could confidently say armchair psychologists had no clue what they were talking about. I was having an absolute blast. 

Seeing the last two being the resounding successes they were, what say I make the hero hat-trick? Maxim models her, I come!

–

Procedural crime shows are simpler than bread and butter. The gimmick, slathered on top like jam, dictated each show’s flavour. In Psych’s case, it was basically fake psychic Sherlock Holmes with his horny childhood best friend Watson.

 This week’s episode was ‘Black and Tan: A Crime of Fashion.’ Where Shawn, the white guy, played Black; Gus, the black guy, played Tan; and they infiltrate a fashion house under false pretenses as fake models. There was ample reason I enjoyed this show. My part in all this? I’d be playing the muscles not really from Brussels, with the jawline heavier than a beer stein. Of course, I was going to embody a brainless, narcissistic model with a fake german accent. 

No body meant no crime. Before any culprit could be caught, it was important to establish the corpse. Where better than at the victim’s funeral?

[“Is he wearing Hugo Boss? What a sell out. See you never!”

“Goodnight forever, you bald bastard.”

One by one, shallow, empty-headed models went over and spewed callous insults at the open casket, until the most vacuous of them all - me - swanned up to the actor napping in the coffin.

The wardrobe department had a field day with me as their mannequin. Black turtleneck, black clip-on earrings, black lipstick, and black leather trousers so skin tight I could taste the burger the cow the skin came from became. Whoever dressed me, I speculated, read Harry Potter fanfiction - specifically the type where Snape was inclined to seduce half of Hogwarts.

I looked like I belonged in a My Chemical Romance music video.

“Ya. Uh-huh. Hold on.” I spoke into a prop phone disinterestedly. I peered down at the camera lens next to the victim’s head. “It vos me who peed in zuh hot tub.” I tapped him on the lip and walked off.

No lines had been fed to me for this scene. We were told to just have at it and let the vapid ugly out of our beautiful faces. Needless to say, we’d be doing several takes of the same shot.]

Take two. Reset.

[“Ya. I am at zuh fyunerol. Ya, he is next to me… Okay.” My pretend conversation on the phone carried on. I reached in and rested the phone near the corpse actor’s ear and mouth. “Say hello, Gregor.” Obviously there was no reply, so I took back the phone and spoke into it again. “So rude, just because you are dead does not mean you cannot say hello.”]

Take five.

[Momentarily bored with being the quintessential dick, I tried being more empathetic.

I forced a few tears out and sniffled every step up to the casket. “Gone too soon dear, Gregor.” I leaned in closer to the body and studied my reflection in the camera's lens/sunglasses of the corpse. “Gott, I look ugly!”

With a whip of my hand, I snatched the dead guy’s pocket kerchief, loudly blew my nose in it, and tossed the crumpled cloth back on his chest. “Danke. You were always too kind.”]

Take nine came after a quick lunch break.

[I grimaced as the scene started rolling. My tummy rumbled, my arm rubbed it to soothe it so that the noise of my churning guts wouldn’t get picked up by the mic.

Maybe it was the mayo or something else, but the japadog wasn’t agreeing with me.

By the time I flexed my stomach and puckered my ass enough to remain professional, my turn had come up once more, but I hadn’t thought of a quip yet.

 Fuck it. 

Pwmmph - frrt! Phew, that’s better. I just pouted at the camera and walked past the corpse that I just crop dusted. “My condolences.”

It seemed I’d finally broken the actor by breaking the sound barrier. Poor guy couldn’t decide between gasping for breath or holding it when he reflexively sat up in the coffin.]

“Cut!”

Dule and James, who were close behind me, also gagged and coughed. Hands whipped away the noxious fumes of my digestive tract while fingers clamped nostrils closed. “Jesus! Can someone get some febreeze over here?” Dule called out.

“And a cork for Bas, too!” James tacked on.

Guess we’d be doing a take ten.

–

Step two of solving a murder was sniffing out clues till your nose pointed you in the direction of a possible culprit.

Few better tools existed in a detective’s tool bet to suss out the truth than a good old-fashioned interrogation. 

[“You don’t remember where you were this afternoon?” Timothy Omundson, the scarecrow-esque actor who played detective Carlton Lassiter, grilled me with the exasperation usually reserved by teachers for their most annoying students. 

Growing up, I was always the class clown. “It smelled like cheese. It vos boring.” But vaguely German model Hassenfeffer was a mean girl.

Maggie Lawson, as Juliet O’Hara and the ‘good’ of this cop duo, chimed in with a helpful suggestion. “Maybe it was a restaurant…?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. Just write down zat it gave me indigestion.” Might as well try to help with scene continuity, depending on which funeral take they decide to use. 

“C’mon, you’ve got to give us more than that. Do you really want to remain in police custody, or go to jail?” 

“Don’t bother O’Hara. Something tells me Fabio here would prefer that.”

“Speaking from experience, Fräulein?” Because, yes, Lassiter was, in fact, unmarried (divorced). Unfortunately, he’d make for a hideous woman. 

HIs chair scraped back, his face scowled, and his hand reached down towards his waist. “Detective!” O’Hara chastised her partner like a puppy, and he immediately stopped in his tracks. I made the executive decision not to.

“Oh? Trying to show me your pistol? Or ein sausage, go ahead and do your wurst!” The penis jokes wrote themselves. 

“You’re free to go.”]

At this time, you’re probably expecting me to regale you with the third part of a murder mystery, which, like anybody who’s ever seen an episode of Scooby-Doo knows, is unveiling the villain for all to witness.

But, if by now, you hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that my character lacked the mental capacity to walk and chew gum at the same time - much less commit premeditated homicide - you would have been perfect casting for the role I’d just played. 

The only thing suspect about my character was his sexuality.

I spent the last couple of days on set getting whacked in the face by a pillow and prat-falling over a couch. 

When shooting wrapped, the team graciously handed me a gift basket for my efforts over the past week. Full of pineapples. I’d relish the memories with every smoothie I made back home. 

James and I clasped hands and pulled each other in for a quick hug. “You know that the show’s fans are gonna be itching to have Hassenfeffer return for another episode at some point, right?”

Another dap, and I embraced Dule next. “Not just the fans. Depending on the ratings, the execs are gonna be frothing at the mouth to have you back, too.” It didn’t matter that I’d put deodorant like every responsible teen should, my limited contact with Dule had me smelling like lavender oil. 

That scalp of his was indeed shining.

“Won’t lie, if someone from production calls me, I may not answer. Either of you decide to pick up the phone? I’ll be on set before you hang up. I’ll even do it for free!”

Ahem! Cadbury’s stern cough put a kibosh on my overzealous tongue. “I’ll even do it for a discounted rate?” 

My brief working vacation had finally come to an end. All that was left was a quick layover in LA, following which I’d be trading my first class airplane seat for the gunner deck on a Huey helicopter.

Tropic Thunder beckoned.