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Sam gets a disturbing phone call at the start of this episode -- disturbing because it's coming from a seemingly disconnected phone as well as the fact that it seems to be originating from 2008. Anyhow, the voice on the other end of the line is Sam's mother. No, she's not in trouble with loan sharks again -- this is the 2008 edition of Sam's mother, and she's letting her apparently coma-plagued son know that the doctors would like to pull the plug on him. Even more alarmingly from Sam's standpoint, she's agreed -- the Machine That Goes Ping gets shut down at 2 p.m. that day.
This proves to be rather inconvenient for Sam, coming as it does at the precise moment that someone's taken hostages at the nearby hospital. Unless all of his demands have been met, he's going to shoot the hostages, and he gives the police until 2 p.m. to appease him. If you think that time is more than a little coincidental, then you have plenty in common with Sam, who naturally concludes that his fate is tied into the hostage situation getting resolved with a minimum of bloodshed. You can imagine Sam's agitation, then, when the responsibility for resolving the crisis falls on the shoulders of Ray "Shoot First and Ask Questions While Continuing to Shoot Later" Carling.
So here's the skinny: the hostage-taker is a kind-hearted (if thick-headed) lout who's upset that a doctor at the hospital performed a minimally invasive lobotomy on his brother. And what he wants is for the doctor to perform some sort of surgical procedure to reverse the fact that a large chunk of his brother's brain is floating in a mason jar somewhere. They have the technology to do reverse lobotomies, right?
...Oh. Tough luck, Sam.
Well, Sam tries to take matters into his own hands by charging into the hospital to confront the hostage-taker himself. What winds up happening is that an orderly gets shot, Hunt and Annie join the hostage ranks, and everything's just about to go pear-shaped when both Sam and the lobotomized brother go to their respective happy places, convincing the hostage-taker that his brother isn't totally a lost cause and, not coincidentally, convincing whoever's still around in 2008 not to pull the plug on Sam.
Well, except for Maya, who seemingly pulls the plug on her relationship with Sam at episode's end. I'd tell you more, but I was too busy blasting Kool & the Gang's "Celebrate" to pick up much of what was said in the closing minutes.
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Previously on Rock 'N Roll Suicide... well, nothing really went down in the last episode that's gonna inform the narrative here. You know that Sam ran into his mother a while back, right? And that he's dating Lisa Bonet? Okay, cool.
So we pick things up with Sam crouched in an out-of-the-way corner of the 125th Precinct, struggling with the fact that 1973 typewriters don't have a delete key. "Stupid analog piece of crap machine," he mutters. Hey, watch your language, buddy -- ABC can't afford the FCC fine. Not in this economy, anyhow. At least Michael Nesmith's mom has already invented Liquid Paper, so you've got that going for you at least. But it's not wrestling with antiquated technology that's got Sam in such a pissy state -- it's the fact that, for this night at least, the 125 has apparently been transformed into Party Central, with uniforms and detectives alike flagrantly disregarding open container laws and public decency standards. What could possibly be the cause for this celebration? Somebody finally figure how to stamp out all that crime? No, something more momentous as it turns out -- the cops are celebrating how something as beautiful as the human act of love could produce Ray Carling. And here's the Birthday Boy now, dressed to the nines in his best Huggy Bear ensemble and with a hooker on each arm. No, I'm not being ungentlemanly about the ladies who have accompanied Carling to his birthday bash -- the man brought along actual hookers, an entire squadron of them actually. "Let the scotch flow free," Carling declares. "And let no hooker spend the night in holding." It's appropriate that he delivers this line with an affected Kennedy-esque accent, since I believe this is how Ted usually celebrates his birthday.
Sam wonders if, maybe in their haste to celebrate, the other officers of the 125th Precinct have forgotten about more pressing matters -- you know, like the whole keeping law and order thing? Carling tells him to relax: The 114th Precinct will take up the slack this evening because New York is apparently a sleepy kind of one-horse town where an entire battalion of cops can take the night off without any uptick in crime. Now if you'll excuse Carling, he's gotta go sex up some hookers, while Mrs. Carling celebrates with her gift -- not having to touch Ray at any point this evening.
Through all the drunken debauchery, Sam notices Annie taking a complaint from a rabbi, who finds the noise and lewdness emanating from the precinct house a wee bit unacceptable for his tastes. I'm sure the police will get right on investigating that... just as soon as they're finished making all that racket, of course. After the rabbi departs, presumably to join his friends the priest and the minister at a local bar, Annie sighs about how it was her dumb luck to get desk duty on the night of the Ray Carling Birthday Bacchanal. Why not go to the party then? "Maybe because the only women partying are hookers," Annie says. They are? Well, why am I not at the party then? Annie puts that very question to Sam: "Because all the men partying are tools," he replies. Again, why am I not at this party? Anyhow, Sam would love to stay, but all he needs to do is put his immaculately typed report in a case file, and he can go home. Yes, this report right here -- allow Sam to hold it up in the air so that we can admire its clean, unblemished lines. Oh! A drunken Skelton just staggered by, grabbed the report and used it to wipe the hooker sweat off his hands. Guess you've got a night of typing ahead of you, Sam. Or you could always opt for Plan B: "Just for tonight," a resigned Sam says to Annie, "if you'll be a hooker, I'll be a tool." Engage in role-playing on your own time, Tyler. We've got a party to get to.
Indeed, Sam and Annie have joined the party with a vengeance, dancing on top of a desk while the coterie of cops, hookers and inflatable dolls joins in the backing vocals of Grand Funk Railroad's master work. I will refrain from describing Carling's unbuttoned shirt on the off-chance that some of you might be eating. "I think they like you," the hooker-for-a-night says, as Sam does the robot. "Well, they're going to love me after these futuristic dance moves," the tool-for-a-night retorts. And with that, Sam grabs Carling's pimp hat and executes a Michael Jackson dance maneuver -- you know from the Thriller era and not the People vs. Jackson era. And as the crowd chants "Spaceman," Sam breaks out into a moonwalk -- before moonwalking his way right off the desk. The crowd gasps, the Grand Funk Railroad grinds to a halt... and Sam pops immediately up with a "Who's bad?" You are, friend. Definitely you.
The morning, the 125th looks decidedly less festive, with detectives in various states of passed-out at their desks and on the floor. The camera doesn't pan up, but I assume one or two are probably dangling from the rafters. Sam is among the casualties trying to sleep it off -- someone has thoughtfully applied masking tape to his forehead and scrawled the word "freak" across it, which will come in very handy should he happen to encounter anyone during the course of the day who wonders to themselves, "Is this man, in fact, some sort of freak?" But Sam has other concerns right now -- namely, answering the telephone so that its infernal ringing will stop. Even more alarming: The ringing phone is not actually connected to any phone line. I have a feeling we're about to hear the sounds of The Machine That Goes Ping on the soundtrack, signifying some sort of message from 2008.
Hunt emerges and tells Sam that a direct line will soon be set up with the hospital. In the meantime, they'll use the most sophisticated tool at their disposal to reach the hostage taker -- a phone booth. Hunt bums a dime off Sam and dials up the hostage taker. "Are you even prepped?" Sam demands. Hunt concedes that he is not -- he produces a hip flask out of jacket and takes a swig. Preparations concluded. Let's get to some hostage negotiating. Sam cautions Hunt to keep the hostage taker cool and calm, and gets an OK sign from Hunt as the phone rings. The hostage answers, and their conversation is short, but to the point. "If you don't come out now," Hunt says, by way of introduction, "I'll send the hammer of New York's Finest UP YOUR PAIL!" Then he slams the phone. Well... ball's in your court, Mr. Hostage Taker. Nice knowing you, Sam.
Naturally, Sam is aghast at all this, but Hunt has a method to his brusque madness: since the hostage taker is doubtlessly crazy and has probably killed all the hostages anyhow, there's no need to pursue any course of action that doesn't involve him on the business end of a police sniper's rifle sight. But if Sam thinks he can do better, he's welcome to reach out and touch someone on the pay phone. Well, of course, Sam thinks he could do better -- could any English-speaking person do worse? He dials up the hostage taker, introduces himself as Detective Tyler, and apologizes for his friend's rude behavior. "You have to do something," the hostage taker says. "You're running out of time, Sam. Two o'clock." And then he hangs up. Of course, you're probably thinking the same thing Sam is: of all the phones in the hospital, how do they know they're dialing the right one? Oh, and also, how'd the hostage taker know what Sam's first name is?
Before Sam can panic more about the sands of time dribbling out of his hour glass, Skelton shows up with the results of his having thought outside the box. Naturally, it is a box. Actually, it's what inside the box -- an EEG machine like the hostage taker asked for. Skelton's plan is to fit it with a false back and put in a covert recording device "like what they use on Candid Camera." Great thinking, Chris -- perhaps we underestimated you. So where's the camera and the transmitter to beam those images out? Well, Skelton didn't say there weren't some holes in his plan. Anyhow, back to the drawing board. Annie's got some intel on Dr. Schwan, the noted psycho surgeon and renowned hostage: he apparently likes to "cure" people by removing chunks of their brain. Well, that method would certainly do away with many abnormal behaviors -- as well as most normal behaviors, come to think of it. The hostage taker does not have nearly as extensive and horrifying a CV. He signed in with the hospital registry as Michael H. -- that narrows it down to 50 people with that name who either visited the hospital or were admitted as patients in the last six months. Sam frets that there's not enough time to run down all of those leads. Annie points out the armed shock troops assembling under Carling's direction and helpfully notes that it looks like the hostage crisis will soon be drawing to a distinct if somewhat bloody conclusion.
As the '70s Cop Music cranks into high gear, Hunt barks on his bullhorn for the hostage taker to come out with his hands up. The hostage taker counters that any cop entering the premises will force him to shoot every last hostage. We appear to be at a standoff, then. What say we bring matters to a head by firing indiscriminately at the other party, then? The hostage taker complies, the cops dive for shelter, and Carling wisely yells for everyone to hold their positions. Sam decides that there's no better time to tell Annie that the hostage taker knew his first name than when the two of them are cowering in fear of an armed madman. Annie shoots Sam the "Are you kidding me?" look and Sam concedes that perhaps he's being a little self-absorbed. But he's also not looking forward to a future in a persistent vegetative state, so he decides that what's called for here is some bold, decisive, ultimately stupid and reckless action. He hands over his sidearm to Annie and runs toward the danger with his hands up. Hunt sums up what we're all thinking over his bullhorn: "Get down, you idiot." But after the hostage taker lets loose with few rounds of unfriendly fire in Sam's serpentine direction, the gunplay stops. And Sam manages to shout out that he's unarmed and would very much like to join the other hostages, please. "Cops aren't going to mess with you if you're holding on of their own, right?" Sam asks. From the look on Hunt's face, I'd say that Sam's well-being is not terribly high on the list of his concerns right now. But Michael H. is convinced: he tells Sam to come on inside -- this hostage-taking party is just getting started.
In the time it's taken ABC to sell you stuff you don't need and probably can't afford, Sam has made his way into the eerily deserted hospital and ridden the elevator up to the third floor. His wanderings take him past the watchful eye of a security camera to an empty room that has an invitingly open window. There's also a radio playing "Going to Make a Time Machine" by The Majestic Arrows, and in case the subtlety of that musical selection has escaped you, the lead singer is crooning about how he's "going to go back in the past and relive all the good times I've had." Of course, with the clock on the wall giving Sam less than three hours to take care of business, this would probably not qualify as one of those good times. Mike H. directs him to keep walking down the hall and head off to the right. That would be the Psych Ward, in case you're not familiar with the Memorial Hospital layout.
This not one of those Psych Wards filled with hell-raising individuals bent on revolting against the system and its maddening conformity, by the way. Most of the patients seem to be milling about docilely. One patient's in a wheel chair parked to a guy in a lab coat who appears tied up -- let's save time and say that it's Dr. Schwan. We also see an orderly who seems to be seriously reconsidering his career choices. Oh, and there's a guy with a gun pointed at Sam's head. Michael H., I presume? He orders the orderly to shut the door and demands to know where that EEG machine he wanted is. Sam begins his spiel about how he's here to help work things out, but Michael H. interrupts him by slamming him into the cage door and screaming "Where's my machine?" So... you're just visiting the Psych Ward, you say? Anyhow, the machine is vital because the bound-and-gagged Dr. Schwan needs it to perform an operation on Michael H.'s kid brother. See, Brother H. was diagnosed with schizophrenia and, rather than be a burden to his big brother, went to Dr. Schwan for a consult. Dr. Schwan's diagnosis: There's nothing wrong with you, young man, that removing part of your brain won't fix. The end product of that operation is the vacant-eyed youth staring back at Sam in the wheel chair. "Four years he's been like this," Michael H. spits. But with the help of that EEG machine, Dr. Schwan has apparently told Michael H. that he'll be able to do an operation that will set things right. Presumably, that means Dr. Schwan plans to use the machine to beat Michael H. senseless so that all this talk of reversing lobotomies will cease.
Just then, the phone rings. It's Hunt, who'd like hostage negotiations from this point forward to proceed in a less bombastic manner. And to show he's serious, Hunt's going to send up that EEG machine tout de suite. That's all well and good, but Michael H. would also like a big bus in the parking lot behind the hospital ready to leave at 2 p.m. Hunt is very pessimistic about the chances of that happening, but just before Michael hangs up on him, he asks to talk to Sam -- "just to make sure he's all right." Once Sam gets on the line, Hunt is decidedly less concerned about Sam's well-being, considering that he opens the conversation by threatening to shove his fist in a very uncomfortable orifice. "Oh, I'm fine," Sam says brightly. "So are the other 12 patients and staff and Dr. Schwan. But it's getting kinda hot with the sun coming in." See, what Sam did there is covertly convey to Hunt how many hostages there are and that they're in an east-facing wing of the hospital. And you thought Sam was just a self-absorbed narcissist. Shame on you.
Hunt, who is chained up to a nearby radiator, disagrees with me. "You've got all that crap churning in your head," he sneers from his spot in the peanut gallery. "No wonder you're seeing things." Hunt asks Sam how long he's been feeling like it's him against the world -- he does not pose the question particularly sympathetically. Sam responds that he's felt that way since arriving at the 125, an answer that apparently cuts Hunt to the quick. "Being a loon is one thing," he says. "But that's the first I'm hearing of your dissatisfaction with being on the squad." If Sam's feeling so alone, Hunt continues, maybe he and Annie shouldn't have bothered coming in after him. It's the petulant, quick-to-take offense Gene Hunt, ladies and gentlemen -- I bet when this is all over, he goes home and eats an entire pint of Haagen Dazs while writing all about this in his Cry Journal. Before we can linger too much on that mental image, Michael H. reappears to announce that it's time for an ill-considered surgical procedure. To the abattoir!
In the operating theater -- really just another dingy room with one of those big surgical lamps -- Dr. Schwan preps for surgery, while Sam, Annie, and Hunt have been re-handcuffed to new parts of the room. Dr. Schwan's plan is to stimulate Johnny's brain so that the EEG machine indicates that there's activity. And after that? Well, Dr. Schwan hopes that by the time the gun-wielding maniac realizes that someone's pulled a fast one on him, the hostage crisis will be over. The characters in this episode must have gotten a bulk discount rate at the Bad Idea Store. Michael wheels in his newly-shorn brother and puts him on the slab. Johnny's hooked up to the EEG machine and grabs a tool -- I believe the proper terminology is That Whirly-Looking Saw That Cuts People's Skulls Open. What? You can't trick an EEG machine into recording brain activity without breaking a few eggs -- the "eggs" in this case being Johnny's skull.
As the blades of the rotary tool get perilously closer to Johnny's flesh, Sam speaks for all of us when he demands that Dr. Schwan stop what he's doing. "This is not going to work," Sam tells Michael. "This operation -- it's not going to bring Johnny back." Michael orders Dr. Schwan to resume with the sawing, but Sam is most insistent: "What you're about to do is not helping Johnny. It's hurting him, Michael." Michael thinks it's high time Sam got a second opinion on the procedure from Dr. Fist, who, unsurprisingly, prescribes a savage beatdown for Sam. Annie and Hunt scream at Michael to stop -- beating on Sam is the exclusive right of the 125th Precinct, you animal! But it's finally Dr. Schwan who puts an end to this charade. "He's right!" Dr. Schwan confesses. "I can't do it. I can't help your brother." Well, can you do anything for Sam, then? Surely, all these weekly blows to the head aren't helping with his brain injury.
Sam seizes upon one last attempt to avert a fate worse than death -- double death! "Your brother is in there, somewhere," he pleads with Michael. "And believe me, that counts for something." Enough talk, buster -- now's the time for pointing pistols menacingly and ordering Sam to step aside so that Michael can blow this taco stand up. Sam can't help but notice that it's now two o'clock... and he also can't help but flashback to that scene he described earlier. He's in the bar, and a Tom Waits song is playing. (Well, actually it's not. C'mon, producers -- you can give us Grand Funk Railroad and the Majestic Arrows, but you can't spring for one Tom Waits song? Jeez, let me know time and I'll send you an iTunes Gift Card so that you can download Closing Time.) Maya, of course, breezes in, and delivers the very speech that Sam gave us earlier. Only remember how it was cool and affecting and evocative when he said it? Yeah, not so much when those same lines are delivered by Lisa Bonet. Seriously, it's like she learned the speech phonetically right before the cameras started rolling. Her delivery is flat and emotionless. That problem I mentioned earlier about how I really didn't think they've done a good job of establishing the special relationship between Sam and Maya, thus robbing Sam's plight of some of its poignancy? I think I may have just pinpointed the root cause of that problem.
When we return to the here-and-now -- well, as here-and-now as 1973 can be -- Sam is smiling. And the people in 2008 who are turning off his life support have noticed, too. So has Johnny, who looks quite pointedly at his brother. See? Dr. Schwan left a little bit of brain in there. This heart-warming moment featuring the redemptive power of love, however, is cut short when Hunt and Skelton burst onto the scene, guns drawn and ready to fire. A panicked Michael trains his gun on those two, while Carling and Detective Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care to Learn Apparently charge him from behind. Before they can reach him, Michael fires and Hunt crumples to the ground. Well, at least you didn't die, Sam. That's a positive, right? Turns out Hunt isn't going to die, either -- Michael's shot hit his flask. "What are the chances?" a relieved Carling exclaims. "Actually," Hunt says, sitting up, "pretty good." He pulls another flask out of his coat pocket. And one more out of his side pocket. Let's end this scene, before he reaches down into his pants and produces some sangria.
Outside the hospital, Cat Stevens starts singing about how Tuesday's dead, which is fitting, because so is that orderly who got shot earlier. "I was supposed to die at two," a shaken Sam tells Annie. "Now he's dead. And I'm alive." Sounds like a net gain for you then. "You're alive, Sam," Annie reminds him. "Can't you let it go?" Sam decides to give it a shot.
The detectives of the 125 have retired to a local watering hole to celebrate the minimal loss of human life; Sam still looks decidedly mopey. Hey, if it's any consolation, Carling's sorry he almost got Sam shot up by snipers. Well, not really -- Hunt made him apologize. "You know, you don't have to treat the 'crazy' cop with kid gloves," Sam huffs. "Good," Carling retorts. "Because I ain't that sorry, and I still think you're a meatball." Oh, just kiss already. Hunt looks like he has something on his mind: "You know, Tyler... you're not so special. We all go crazy at some point. It happens to every cop who gives a crap about what he does. That's why we're alcoholics. That's why our women leave us. We're broken toys. What makes us different from those folks in the Psych Ward... we keep each other sane. That's what it's all about. Any decent precinct house... we keep each other sane." "After all," Carling adds, "we're an American band." On that note, maybe we should get out of here.
Which is what Sam does, only outside the bar, he happens to spot a TV through a window playing that same soap opera from earlier. The mother on said soap opera has seen her comatose son smile and is now refusing to let the doctors turn off the machine. So that's apparently how things played out in 2008... hopefully with much better acting. Annie happens by just then and notices Sam staring through that window. "Are you adding 'peeping Tom' to the list of your bizarre attributes, Sam?" she asks playfully. He responds by joyfully giving her a bear hug to celebrate the news of his non-demise. She makes a mental note to add "Inappropriately Familiar" to the list after "Peeping Tom" and "Narcissist." But no, the hug is a thank you to Annie for helping Sam remember something real -- that was what spared him from the Flatliners Club. "Thank you for keeping an insane man... sane," he tells her. She seems to agree with him about the "insane" part.
Annie heads toward the bar, and Sam's about to head home, when he notices Maya -- well, the 1970s soap actress version of Maya -- on the TV. The good news? She's happy they didn't pull the plug on him. The better news? She's not going to let them do it if they try again. The best news? "I also don't think I can keep doing this," Maya says. "I'm so sorry. It's just... it's been months. I gotta say goodbye. I gotta let you go. It's time for living." The soap opera music swells -- perhaps not loud enough to drown out the cheers from the Sobell household -- and Sam turns to walk away. He pauses outside the bar and takes a good long look at Annie. They share a smile. And in a particular nice touch, the show closes with a 1970s soap opera-style title screen. I hereby declare this a Bonet-free zone.