My Hair Like Jesus Wore It Part Three

[your_woman_now]

When Meredith realized they were going to keep calling her Joanie, she began calling them Davey and Kenny.

Starsky sat on the floor, leaning against her legs. She hunched over him, her fingers moving quickly. Beer in hand, arm flung over the back of the couch, Hutch watched, fascinated as she plaited his partner’s bubble of hair into neat corn rows that followed his skull. Hutch thought it all looked pretty violent. Meredith tugged, yanking Starsky’s head back while he yelped, “Ow, honey, not so hard. Ow, owie yee-owitch!”

Meredith slid into their lives easily, dropping by Hutch’s sometimes with Starsky, sometimes on her own. She brought him matzo ball soup from the Jewish delicatessen while he was healing, purple leaf salad, vegetarian lasagne and wholegrain bread from the Rainbow. She brought him a bag of frozen peas to lay over his aching shoulder, a trick she’d learned from her boxer brother. Hutch could see how good it could be, the three of them. Meredith brought out the best in Starsk, she could hardly argue with the crazy cop hours and she understood the Starsky/Hutch bond as well as anyone who wasn’t Starsky or Hutch. Still Hutch couldn’t make himself love her the way he’d loved Terry. That moment had passed.

When Meredith ended things, she talked to Hutch first.

“Think being a black cop is tough, Kenny?” They were in Hutch’s kitchen. She was washing, Hutch drying. Starsky had jogged down to the 7-11 for a six pack.

“Yeah.” Hutch knew it was.

“Think being a woman cop is hard?”

Hutch nodded. Hell, he’d made it hard for a woman or two, himself.

“How about being a black woman cop?”

Hutch nodded again, stacked plates. He waited to see where Meredith was going.

“How about a black woman cop married to a white man cop?”

“What?” The silverware clinked, slipping through Hutch’s fingers. He was suddenly off-balance, like the kitchen floor had tipped.

“Sorry,” said Meredith, gathering up the utensils. She cut her eyes at Hutch. “Guess I rattled ya.”

“I, uh, yeah, uh.” Hutch felt sweat in his armpits. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. “I, I, well it’s just that Starsk never mentioned anything.”

Meredith’s mouth turned down. “Oh, he didn’t, did he?”

“Oh, well, you know, he might have-”

“Don’t snow me, Kenny,” Meredith said flatly. “He never said pea-turkey. Thanks, that tells me just what I need to know.”

“Aw, Joanie-” Hutch started, his voice conciliatory.

“Huh uh,” Meredith held up one soapy hand. “Don’t make it pretty neither, just say it like it is. I thought we were going somewhere but he was just along for the ride.”

“C’mon, Joanie,” Hutch protested. “Starsk’s not like that.”

“Sure he is,” said Meredith. She plunged a coffee mug into the sink, thoroughly drowning it. “All you guys are.”

“Some guys are!” said Hutch, suddenly angry. “But not Starsky. Not with you. He’s not using you, for God’s sake!”

Meredith snorted, her mouth unhappy.

There was a moment of silence. Hutch watched Meredith scrub the mug hard enough to scrape off the “I Love NY.” He rubbed his sore shoulder, feeling foolish, like he’d been suckered into a hunt for a left-handed screwdriver.

Finally he said, “Joanie, you played me.”

She sighed, rinsed the mug, set it in the drain. “I’m sorry, Kenny,” she said. “I just needed to know.”

“Well, maybe you should have just asked,” snapped Hutch. “I feel like an ass for being so sincere.”

Meredith shook her head. “I know you, Kenny. You would have been a gentleman. This way, I got the truth.”

“Jesus,” said Hutch, wishing he’d asked Starsky to pick up smokes too. “Interrogated in my own kitchen.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith said again, looking miserable. “I’m just in over my head, Kenny. I’m getting in deep here, deeper than a smart girl should.”

Hutch took a breath, struggled with his resentment. “Joanie,” he said. “Starsky’s crazy about you. If you really want him, give him time.”

Meredith shook her head sadly. “I know when to cut my losses, Kenny. I’m pushing thirty and I want a family. Think I have time to wait around for that fool?”

“Guess not,” said Hutch. He leaned back against the counter, massaged his shoulder. The ache in his chest made him feel mean.

Meredith picked dismally at the lasagne pan. “Do you want me to rub that?” she asked.

Hutch’s mouth twisted. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll wait for Starsk.”

Meredith exhaled sharply. “Kenny, do you want me to leave? I don’t want Davey to come back and find us glaring at each other.”

Hutch sighed, closed his eyes. “Don’t leave,” he said finally. “I was being a jerk.”

Meredith shot him a look, her fine-plucked eyebrows lifted. “No you weren’t,” she said. “And you’re still mad.”

Hutch didn’t deny it. “All that black and white stuff,” he said. “Was it just your set up?”

Meredith had the grace to look abashed. “No,” she said. “Not really. There’s been…stuff. My mama’s not happy and my sister asked me if I was trying to pass.” She sighed. “Nothing’s easy for mixed raced couples, Kenny. And mixed-race kids? They feel different right off the bat, like they got no people. But if Davey really loved me, I could deal with it. I could tell the world to go to hell. Now it’s just one more reason to give him up.”

Hutch put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder. He felt a pang of honest sympathy, but it wasn’t nearly as sharp as his relief. Her gain would have been his loss.

“Kenny?” Meredith looked up at him, her large eyes luminous. “I am sorry. You must think I’m the biggest bitch.”

Hutch chuckled. “I don’t know, Joanie,” he said. “I’ve known some bitches in my time.” He paused, let the last of his anger float away. “You don’t even make the top ten.”

Meredith stared at him a moment longer, her mouth trembling. Just when Hutch thought she might cry, she burst into laughter.

Hutch laughed too, feeling the tension break. “Joanie, honey,” he said, “If you need reasons to let Starsky go, I can give you plenty. He snores, he eats like a pig, he’s a mama’s boy, his feet stink and he’s never met a shower drain he couldn’t clog with all that hair.”

“Oh, Kenny,” said Meredith. She laughed again, put her arms around him. “You’re just a big ol’ blond softie.”

Hutch hugged her, curling his big frame over hers. As he held her, his heart opened like a flower. He could finally love her the way he’d wanted to all along.

*****

Starsky’s new nurse snapped three teeth on her comb trying to untangle his hair. She looked disgusted and tossed the comb into the trash, suggesting a shaved head. Hutch told her he was sorry Starsky was such a fucking inconvenience. His tone was so icy she left the room in a huff.

Starsky sighed, gave Hutch a wry glance. “Let’s call Joanie,” he said.

Meredith came with oil and a wide-toothed pick, working both through Starsky’s hair after Hutch had helped him with the complicated business of rolling to one side.

Hutch sat on the edge of Starsky’s bed, Starsky’s head in his lap. Meredith sat on the other side of the bed, leaning over Starsky. She separated tangles with the pick, sticking it in her own hair when she needed both hands. Her fingers were gentle this time, she wove loose fuzzy braids instead of tight rows.

“That’s nice, Joanie,” sighed Starsky. “How come it hurt last time?”

“Maybe, Davey,” said Meredith, smiling at Hutch, “I was a little mad at you last time.”

“Not mad anymore?” Starsky asked hopefully. He looked up at Hutch.

“How could I stay mad at you?” Meredith said lightly. “Besides, babe, I got a better offer.”

“Ow,” said Starsky. “Now, that hurts.” He closed his eyes, one hand curled on Hutch’s knee.

“You had your chance, baby,” said Meredith. “Check it out, Kenny. See how long his hair is when I pull it straight?”

Hutch leaned across Starsky. Meredith tugged a lock of Starsky’s hair, pulling it out to its full length. Coil by coil it unwound, shiny black and slippery with oil, until it reached nearly to Starsky’s shoulder blade. Hutch looked up to see Meredith watching him. Her large liquid eyes were guileless. Whatever had passed between them had passed. All was forgiven.

*****

After Starsky was released from the hospital, Meredith dropped by again, this time to take the braids out. She picked out Starsky’s hair, combed it until it fluffed from his head in a large dark halo. “Now you know how the soul brothers do it,” she said.

“Wow, Starsk,” said Hutch, impressed. “You should see yourself. You have a giant afro.”

“So take a picture,” said Starsky sourly.

Hutch wanted to. Starsky looked like Pam Grier with Groucho Marx eyebrows and no boobs. But there were shadows under his eyes and his mouth was tight. Two hours of PT and twenty minutes of Meredith pulling his hair had worn him out, he was hurting, pissed, probably teetering on the edge of a hissy fit.

“Someone needs lunch and a nap and maybe a hug,” Hutch said.

“Fuck off.” Starsky lifted a middle finger.

Meredith grinned at Hutch, waved and slipped out the door.

Hutch left Starsky scowling on the couch and cobbled together a comfort meal-scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sweet canned peaches. He brought Starsky a plate and plopped down beside him. He ate, ignoring Starsky’s foul temper, the slump of his shoulders, the towering afro that leaned and swayed when he shifted.

After lunch, Hutch gathered the dishes, watched with the eyes in the back of his head as Starsk eased off the couch and worked himself across the room, leaning on the back of a chair, against the wall, the bookcase. Hutch sighed over the sink, picked dried egg with his thumbnail. It’ll get better, he thought. It will get better.

By the time Hutch joined him in the bathroom, Starsky had managed to shuck his clothes by himself. He stood under the spray, bracing himself with his left arm, hand flat on the tiles. Hutch leaned against the doorjamb, heart clenching and unclenching.

“Find the shampoo?” Starsky asked, breathless under the spray. The afro was taking on water weight, collapsing slowly, falling to his shoulders and into his eyes.

“Sure.” Hutch wheeled about, looking for the shampoo, finding it in the cupboard under the sink. When he turned back, he saw Starsky easing himself down to the tile floor.

“Hey, hey,” said Hutch, alarmed. Without thinking, he stepped into the shower, catching Starsky by the arm.

“Hey yourself,” said Starsky, gasping. “I’m okay.” He sat on the tiles, pushing back the slumping afro. He winced, laid his head on his knees.

Hutch hunkered next to him. “Sure you are,” he said. “You always sit down in the shower.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Starsky. “I got a little light-headed, nothin’ I can’t handle.” He lifted his head, his eyes took in Hutch, flicking from his feet to the top of his head. “Idiot,” he said. “You’re in my shower with your shoes on… your shoes, your socks, your jeans, your t-shirt and a flannel shirt. This ain’t laundry day.”

“Idiot?” said Hutch. He shoved his wet hair back, felt his t-shirt sticking to his back, water running down his sides. Under his jeans, his underwear stuck to his ass. “I was worried about my dipshit of a partner.”

“You probably have your holster on,” said Starsky.

“No, but look at my Nikes,” said Hutch. His new nylon and suede Tailwinds were soaked, the waffle soles squelching as he shifted his weight. “This gonna hurt them?”

“Won’t do ‘em any favors,” Starsky said. He shifted, grimacing. “Hey, long as you’re here?”

“Make myself useful?” said Hutch. He squirted a healthy glop of Prell into Starsky’s hair, worked up a lather. The last of the afro wilted, twisted back into looping curls. Hutch’s arms were heavy in his wet sleeves, his legs clumsy in stiff, sodden jeans.

Starsky ducked his head under the spray. The suds poured down his chest, collected in his crotch. His naked back was a wreck, a patchwork of puckers, ridges and train track scars.

Hutch moved closer. He traced the longest train track, running from rib cage to hip. He sighed.

“Not a pretty picture,” said Starsky.

Hutch traced Starsky’s back with both hands, letting his fingers wander over the strange new ridges and hollows. “I think it is,” he said.

“You would,” Starsky said.

Hutch moved his hands across Starsky’s back, touching all the knots and gouges, the white lines and shiny new flesh. The scars on Starsky’s back were his. Starsky never saw them, they belonged to Hutch. Hutch leaned forward, pressed his lips to a finger-length weal, its stitch marks radiating like a centipede’s legs.

Starsky’s breath caught. He turned, slipped into Hutch’s arms.

“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch murmured. He caught Starsky, held him close. Water echoed in his ears, ran into his eyes, dripped from his moustache. He let his hands slide up and down Starsky’s sides, the skin naked, warm and soapy against his flannel shirt and jeans. “Hang in there, baby,” he said, kissing Starsky’s neck. “Hang in there, darlin’.”

*****

Hutch had no clear recollection of how he’d arrived at Memorial without a drop of Starsky’s blood on him. When reality had shifted, he’d been standing on the fault line. Like any survivor, he’d found himself stumbling out of the rubble with fragmented memories like snapshots in a shoebox, jumbled and out of order.

He remembered the tail lights of a cop car, Dobey in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open, arms flung wide. He recalled uniforms mobbing the Torino and Minnie on her knees, glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. Sweet Lou Legette charged by, buffeting Hutch with his wake. Then someone was talking in his ear and pressing on his hands. Minnie had flecks of blood on her glasses and she wanted Hutch to lower his gun.

He then found himself in a cubicle, wrapped in a blanket. Images swam out of the back of his mind like small fish out of dark water. He looked over an oxygen mask at a feminine hand holding his, feminine fingers pressed to his wrist. The hand disappeared. When he removed the mask and slid from the gurney, no one stopped him. He left the cubicle and found a hallway. As he walked, he felt like he was pushing aside layers and layers of dirty scrim, surfacing from a murky dream. He recognized the halls of Memorial, saw himself reflected in glass windows and steel trolley legs, a tall slouching figure with a white face, a white shirt. The pristineness of his own whiteness appalled him. He looked like a bride when he should look like a butcher. Minnie, he remembered, had blood up to her elbows, like she’d dipped her arms in spaghetti sauce.

Sweet Lou’s soprano led him to another hallway. Hutch shouldered past the uniforms, waved off Dobey, found a chair and turned it backwards. He sat in front of a plate of glass. On the other side of the glass was Starsky.

Months later reality shifted under Hutch once again. This time he was expecting it, waiting for it. Even so, he was taken by surprise.

After Gunther’s arrest, Hutch had shrunk his world to two. Anything that wasn’t Starsky, Starsky’s recovery, had simply fallen away. In the hospital he’d helped Starsky eat, wash, relieve himself, shave, brush his teeth. He’d clipped Starsky’s toenails, scratched itchy places Starsky couldn’t reach. And after they returned to Starsky’s apartment, Hutch had been the one to answer the phone, pay the bills, cook the meals, wash the clothes. He’d driven Starsky to his doctor’s appointments, to PT, he’d helped him through his exercises, consoled him when they hurt too much. He’d filled prescriptions, dispensed painkillers and antibiotics, he’d kept water on hand to flush toxins. He’d comforted Starsky when despair hit like a locomotive, coaxed him out of bed on mornings when he couldn’t be bothered. He’d commiserated, calmed and distracted when he could, raiding the Hobby Shop for model ships and Lionel accessories, cooking pots of chicken soup and following Judith Starsky’s instructions to whisk an egg yolk into each hot bowl. He’d screamed, yelled and threatened when he had to, bullying Starsky into cooperating with his physical therapist, telling him to stop sulking and fucking blow in the spirometer before someone shoved it up his ass. He’d been the one to move, finally, lock stock and barrel into Starsky’s apartment, bringing his fussier plants over in groups of three and four, settling them in a sunny spot under the bedroom window, separate from Starsky’s plants as though his partner’s spindly philodendron, drooping spathiphyllum and water-logged African violet could be bad influences. He’d moved off the couch and into Starsky’s bed when it became clear that Starsk slept better with him there, he’d spooned up to Starsk in the night when he realized it was a relief for his partner to rest against him and take his own body weight off his tender, healing muscles. He’d raised his eyebrows over the copy of Couples Massage Starsky had never taken back to the City library and replaced it with Swedish Massage Therapy which he’d found in the Rainbow Grocery. He’d been the one to roll up his sleeves, grease up his hands and put in hours of massage, just like Starsky had when he’d been shot, hours of kneading hard hurt muscle, warming it until it could begin to stretch again.

“Didja do that all that 4H farm kid stuff?” Starsky asked one day when Hutch had him face down on his bed, working him over with oiled hands.

“Sure,” Hutch answered. “Raised a few cows, some pigs.”

“I feel like the prize pig,” Starsky said, flinching, gripping his pillow. “That you’re groomin’ for a show.”

“A show, huh?” said Hutch. He dug into the muscle under Starsky’s shoulder blade, into the latissimus dorsi, feeling the gnarled tissue restricting Starsky’s right arm movement, causing him hip pain at night.

Starsky’s breath caught. “Jeez…or for slaughter. Hutch, that hurts.”

“I know,” said Hutch. “I’m sorry. There’s a word for that, you know.” He hooked his thumbs into a knot, bore down. “Caring for livestock, I mean.”

“What?” Starsky stiffened. “Fuck, that really hurts.”

“Deep breath, babe,” said Hutch. He put both hands on Starsky’s back, on the long muscle that fanned like an inverted wing from the armpit to the tailbone. He used gliding strokes to warm the cross-hatched flesh, the wounded train-track scars. “Husbandry. It’s called husbandry.”

“No kiddin’?” Starsky panted. He tipped his head, looked back at Hutch. “You’re my husband? T’rrfic.”

Hutch laughed, worked the muscle, building heat. “Well,” he said. “Husbandry usually includes breeding.”

“You’ve got my clothes off, you’ve got oil, you’ve got me face down on the bed,” Starsky said, relaxing a bit. “How much closer can we get?”

Hutch laughed again. He tapped an adhesion, imagined the rigid tissue breaking up, washing away in the blood stream. How much closer? They’d already moved from colleagues to friends, from friends to partners, from partners to best friends, from best friends to co-custodians of Starsky’s healing body. And now? Hutch dripped more oil on Starsky’s back, wondering what would finally trip his heart, send it flying over the last flimsy barriers between them.

In early September, almost a perfect four months after the hit, Starsky managed a trip to the beach, a walk along the shore. He was laughing, walking hip to hip again with Hutch. He wasn’t galloping, he wasn’t leaping, he wasn’t even close to his old confident arm-swinging swagger. But he was walking, laughing, nudging Hutch with his shoulder, gesturing just as widely as he used to. Hutch was laughing too, nearly giddy with delight. He could hardly believe how far they’d come. Starsk, who had taken four bullets, Starsk who had died on the table was up and at ‘em again, on his feet, out of bed, out of doors, reveling in the warm sun, the chilly wind and the sand under his bare feet.

Starsky stopped, watched the ocean go in, go out. “Wanna get my dogs wet,” he said. He looked down at his feet as though they were a thousand miles away.

Hutch leapt to help him. “Let me just roll up your jeans a bit.” He knelt at Starsky’s feet.

“Hey, I can get down there,” protested Starsky. He started to bend awkwardly.

“Stand up, dummy,” said Hutch, slapping Starsky’s thigh. “Just let me do this for you. Actually, it’s for me,” he glanced up at Starsky. “Don’t wanna kill my back hauling you back up.” He turned Starsky’s jeans up quickly.

“T’rffic,” said Starsky, hands on his hips. “Now I feel like Ma.”

“Okay, you lost me, buddy,” said Hutch. He looked up at Starsky again, waiting to hear what weird association his partner had made this time.

“When she was pregnant with Nick,” said Starsky, “she used to make me put on her shoes for her. I still remember her toes…like little sausages about to bust their skins.”

Hutch laughed. “So you’re saying you’re like my pregnant wife?” he said.

“Hey!” Starsky was indignant. “Kish mir en toches.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hutch. He continued to kneel at Starsky’s feet, gazing up at him with amusement.

“Wanna know?” said Starsky. “Learn to speak Yiddish, nudnik.”

“Oh, I know a bit of Yiddish,” said Hutch. “Putz.”

“Yutz,” countered Starsky.

“Shmuck.”

“Shlub.”

“Shleeze.”

“Shleeze is not a word,” said Starsky.

“Okay, shmoe, then.” said Hutch.

“Shmendrik,” said Starsky, looking at the ocean. “Gayn cacken ofn yam.”

“All right, all right, matzel tov,” said Hutch. “You win.” He started to rise.

“Of course, I win, baby blue,” said Starsky. “I’m a born winner.” He put a hand out to help Hutch up. “Hutch?”

“Yeah, what now?” asked Hutch. He took Starsky’s hand.

Starsky looked down at him, his smile brilliant. “Ich libe dich,” he said.

“What?” Hutch froze, his heart somersaulting.

“Ich libe dich,” Starsky repeated.

“My grandmother used to say that to me.” Hutch sank back down into the sand. He felt the world shift, tilt him gently.

“You had a Yiddish grandmother?” Starsky asked. He was still holding Hutch’s hand.

“German,” Hutch whispered. He leaned against Starsky’s thigh to steady himself. “She used to say ‘Ich liebe dich, kleiner’.”

“Ah,” said Starsky. He ran his free hand through Hutch’s hair. “Ich liebe dich, Hutch.”

“Ich liebe dich auch, Starsk,” said Hutch. He pressed his face into Starsky’s thigh. “Ich werde dich fur immer lieben.”

Hutch rubbed his cheek on Starsky’s thigh, closed his eyes. He felt Starsky stroking his hair, the wind pulling at the sleeves of his flannel shirt. The wind blew and ocean rolled in and out, hissing on the sand. Hutch rubbed his chest. Deep in his core, things were moving, almost as though his body were changing. Something popped and splintered in his chest, something else snapped into place. Ouch, he thought, touching his heart. Hurts.

“Hutch?” Starsky was still stroking his hair, holding his hand.

“Yeah?”

“You okay, babe?”

“Sure, Starsk.”

“Then why is your nose bleedin’?” Starsky stooped stiffly to look at his face.

“Is it?” Hutch touched his face. “Oh, hell.” He laughed. “Figures. Must have been the adrenaline.” He clambered to his feet.

“Did you get a rush?” asked Starsky with a shaky laugh. “I did too. Look.” He held out his hands. “Tremblin’ and everythin’,” he said.

“Christ,” said Hutch, laughing weakly. “What a pair of maroons.” He wiped his face with his shirt, examined the blood on the flannel fabric. “It’s not too bad, is it, Starsk? Is it stopped? Get it out of my moustache, will you?”

“Ya big blond goof,” Starsky said. He stood close, laughing as he licked his fingers, scrubbed at Hutch’s moustache. “There ya go, clean as a whistle.” He patted Hutch’s cheek. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Sure, Starsk. Good.” Hutch laughed. “Well, a little dizzy, actually.” His heart floated in his chest, giddy, trembling.

Starsky snorted. “Dizzy blond. I coulda told ya that.”

“I’m okay, Starsk.” Hutch took both of Starsky’s hands, held them in his. He felt himself grinning. “I’m about as good as it gets, okay?”

“Okay.” Starsky’s smile was tender, fond. He gripped Hutch’s hands.

Hutch felt his grin fading. He heard the ocean hiss, go in and out, a couple walked by chatting. This, he thought, there is only one word for this. They had said it, now they needed to cement it. Hutch moved slowly, reaching for Starsky’s hip. He gave a gentle tug.

Starsky came readily. He fit his body into Hutch’s.

They stood like slow dancers for a moment, chest to chest, groin to groin, thigh pressing thigh. Then Hutch pulled back slightly. He tilted his head in an unmistakable way, leaned in slowly. “Okay?” he whispered just before his lips touched Starsky’s.

Starsky's lips moved under his. "Okay,” he whispered back.

They kissed very gently on the sand.

The ocean went in and out, hissing while they kissed. Hutch dipped his head slightly, Starsky lifted his face. They leaned against each other, locked together, swaying gently. Starsky’s lips were soft and warm, wet when he pressed in deeper.

After a long time, Hutch raised his head. “Is this weird?” he asked. He had to know.

“Hmmm?” said Starsky. “What?” His lips were swollen, his face flushed.

“Kissing me,” said Hutch. “Is it weird?”

Starsky looked surprised. “What’s so weird about kissin’ a gorgeous blond?”

Hutch laughed. “What about a blond with one of these?” He touched his moustache.

“A misplaced eyebrow?” Starsky touched it too.

“Lip spinach,” said Hutch, his heart soaring.

“Yuck.” Starsky made a face. “Are you tryin’ to talk me out of this, Blintz?”

“Not at all,” said Hutch. “I’m just saying I’ll shave if you want me to. Don’t want you to think of Aunt Malka when I kiss you.”

“Aunt Sylvia,” said Starsky. “Aunt Malka was as bald as a baby’s butt.”

Hutch laughed again, folded his arms around Starsky, pulled him in tighter. “Oh, Starsk,” he said. “I’m a guy. Don’t you mind?”

Starsky shook his head against Hutch’s shoulder. “Nah,” he said. “Okay, maybe I minded a long time ago, back when I first figured out we might be headin’ this way.”

“A long time ago?” asked Hutch, surprised.

“Yeah,” said Starsky. “Back when all that stuff happened with Johnny Blaine, I had to do a lot a thinkin’…about love and sex, about you and me, about… you know, honesty.” He shrugged. “I figured out we might be headed this way and I minded some, yeah. But time went on, a lot of shit happened and I kinda got it through my thick head that some things just don’t matter, you know?” He gazed at Hutch in that direct way of his. “How ‘bout you? Do you mind?”

“No.” Hutch shook his head, thinking. “I always knew we had something special,” he said, “but I didn’t have a name for it. Then when I did, I…well, I just sorta waited it out.”

“Waited it out?” asked Starsky, puzzled.

“Yeah,” said Hutch. “Waited for it to happen naturally.”

Starsky’s brow creased. “Happen naturally?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “You mean you were waitin’ for me to make the first move!”

“Was I?” Hutch asked. He felt himself smirking.

Starsky looked comically annoyed. “You dirtbag!” he said, stepping back. “You always make me go first. So when there’s a fuck up, I look like a dumbass and you come off smellin’ like a rose!”

Hutch caught Starsky’s left wrist as he slid out of his arms. “Okay, okay, I’m a dirtbag,” he said, laughing. “I’m a chicken shit. But you have to admit there was a lot at stake.” He raised Starsky’s wrist, kissed the pulse point.

“Was there?” Starsky asked. He watched Hutch kiss his wrist, his forearm. “How so?”

“Well,” said Hutch, now kissing the tender bend of Starsky’s elbow. “What if I had kissed you and you hadn’t wanted it? I could have screwed us up.”

Starsky looked at him like he was crazy. “There ain’t no way to screw us up, Blintz, or we’d have done it by now. Sure, it might have been rocky for a while, but we’da got it together. We’da gone on bein’ us no matter what. We’re always gonna be us.”

“And now?” asked Hutch. He tugged Starsky gently back into his arms.

“And now, this is us,” said Starsky. He slid one hand up the back of Hutch’s shirt, his thigh between Hutch’s legs.

“This?” asked Hutch. He lowered his head, desperate to kiss again.

Starsky lifted his chin, his lips brushing Hutch’s. “This,” he said, “is us.”

“Me and thee,” whispered Hutch. He couldn’t wait any longer. He held Starsky’s head, kissed him hard. He felt his heart go then, fly out of his chest like a kite jerked up into the sky by a strong wind. And when Starsky laughed into his mouth, he knew Starsk had felt it too.

***

Was he a good lover? Hutch wondered sometimes. But most of the time he figured he didn’t have to be. Starsky did all the work.

These days, Starsky was a live wire: cheerful, animated, energetic, glad to be alive. He was also as horny as a three-balled tomcat. When Hutch opened the door after work, he did so cautiously, never knowing what he’d find. Starsky might meet him with slippers and a martini, candles and chocolate sauce or handcuffs and a smirk. Once he’d wrapped himself in Saran Wrap, an idea he’d gotten from Total Woman, a book Minnie and the girls had been guffawing over at work.

As a lover, Starsky was inventive, curious, uninhibited, intense. He was bossy, mercurial, both tender and rough. He might leave a trail of rose petals and chocolate and want to make love all night, or he might push Hutch against a wall for a couple of quick hand jobs. He liked control-tackling Hutch to the bed, startling him in the shower, pressing him to his knees in the kitchen-and had a genius for turning everyday objects-wooden spoons and oven mitts, fern fronds and watering cans, toothbrushes and dental floss-into sex toys. He also had a smirking fondness for public risk, happily groping Hutch in the back of crowded elevators, under the table in restaurants and bars, fondling him to erection in a packed movie house. At work Hutch was often self-conscious; he could smell Starsky all over himself, on the collar of his shirt, in the lining of his jacket, and in the locker room he had to be careful to cover the evidence of their love-making, marks on his neck and nipples, razor burn on his face and thighs, rug burn on his knees, shoulder blades and ass. At home, their sex could get so vigorous and noisy the neighbors had once pounded on the wall, mortifying Hutch. Sometimes Hutch wanted to say, What are we, rabbits? Maybe we should do something else tonight, but he never got further than Jesus Starsk and ah God do that again.

As much as Starsky liked control he had a way of giving it up that simply turned Hutch inside out. He could let Hutch turn him this way and that, stand him on his head, swing him from the chandeliers, or work him over until he was an incoherent mess and never worry he was giving away more than he should. Hutch had never experienced such openness, such ready, willing and able-ness with any other lover. His women had all been exciting but each one had brought her own set of complications. Nancy had been young and skittish, too inexperienced for anything more than the basics; Vanessa had been a ball of fire but manipulative, withholding and, honestly, a bit evil. Jeannie had been sweet and china doll pretty but so listless and anemic, Hutch had felt like a nuisance when he wanted sex. And poor doe-eyed Gillian had been so wistful and eager to please that Hutch’s need to protect her had always surpassed his desire for her. Even beautiful, loving Abby, by far the healthiest of his women, had had her tricky moments. A few times, Hutch had misjudged her readiness, her interest, a few times he’d touched her in places he clearly should have known were off bounds. A few times he’d missed important cues and found himself apologizing for the rest of the weekend. And once he’d walked in on her laughing with a girlfriend about faked orgasms. As wilting as that was, the confrontation was even worse. Abby’s reassurances-not with you Hutch, never with you, you’re so good in bed-made him feel like an ass, a peacock who needed to be reassured his strutting was magnificent, and her insistence that it was no big deal made him wonder what the hell was a big deal if lying during love wasn’t. In the end, with all his women, Hutch had learned to keep an eye on himself when he made love, and to keep his expectations reasonable.

But with Starsky, things were different. For one thing, Starsk couldn’t fake an orgasm if he tried. For another, with Starsk, Hutch was simply unable to keep an eye on himself. He found himself meeting Starsky’s openness with a lack of self-consciousness he’d never known before. For the first time in his adult life, he stopped hovering above himself in bed, analyzing, second-guessing, examining his performance. He stopped wondering if he was good enough, sensitive enough, responsive enough, if he was misreading a yes or a no or a glance or a silence. He just made love. It was kinda magical, really: his zipper went down, his cock uncurled and his brain tumbled out of his skull, floated up and out of the way. Starsky opened his arms, said, “You can have whatever you want, Hutch,” and Hutch took it all.

Even so, they hadn’t leapt straight into bed after that first kiss on the beach. They’d both known there was talking to be done first. So they’d talked, parked in Hutch’s latest decrepit LTD at a look-out point in the hills, at Starsky’s kitchen table, playing hands of gin rummy and drinking a little wine. They’d talked in Hutch’s greenhouse while Hutch watered and Starsky limbered up on the large exercise mat Hutch had bought him for the bodyweight calisthenics he’d worked into his recovery therapy. They’d talked in the park, at the grocery store, in the bathroom, over the laundry, cooking and cleaning. They’d chatted on the phone for hours after Hutch had packed his plants and his guitar and moved back into Venice Place to give the new thing they were making between them room to grow.

They’d talked about a lot of things, like why Hutch had been so pissy in the months before the shooting, what had really happened with Kira and whether Starsky would have eventually married Terry. They’d talked about their women, their first loves, true loves, puppy loves, ships in the night, missed opportunities and really bad ideas They’d discussed growing up, becoming men, being cops, growing older and measuring up to fathers, grandfathers, uncles and mentors like Dobey, Iron Mike, John Blaine and Luke Huntley. They’d talked about mothers and siblings and whether, when and how Nick was going to screw up again. They’d discussed Starsky’s conscription to Vietnam, his twelve month in-country tour and Hutch’s decision to drop out of med school and turn his back on a comfortable life in the Hutchinson family practice. They’d discussed football, baseball, basketball, boxing, wrestling, running, gymnastics and tennis, driving cabs and playing guitar, painting, toy trains and model ships, chewing gum and cigarettes, and how Hutch, a long time social and stress smoker, hadn’t lit up since Starsky took two bullets in his right lung. They’d talked and laughed until their sides hurt. They’d wept a little too, or rather Hutch had while Starsky who was not a crier-they’d talked about that too-hadn’t.

They’d talked for nearly two months and while they were talking, Starsky was growing steadily better, stronger and more independent. He’d begun taking classes at the Center for Yoga on Larchmont, calling it the High Temple of Whole-Grain Hooey even while his balance, flexibility and strength improved dramatically. He’d started driving himself places in a ’69 Palmetto Green Bonneville his Uncle Al had provided. While Starsky was never going to love the Bonneville like he’d loved the Torino, he was happy enough to drive it to yoga, to PT, to the hospital for check-ups, to the Dobey’s for weekly dinners, to the Alpha Beta and the Rainbow, to the thrift store where he was keeping an eye out for a new bomber jacket since his old one had been cut to pieces in the ER.

Hutch, meanwhile, had returned to Metro after six months compassionate leave and joined the team created to unravel the many threads of the Gunther case. For the first time in his police career, he found himself clocking out at 5:30 every afternoon just like a regular Joe, eager to get home to dinner and spouse.

They still weren’t having sex but Hutch certainly would have said they were making love. They spent hours on the padded mat in the greenhouse, Hutch’s big plants bending over them. Hutch had never felt more in his element, under his heavy rubber trees, his airy ferns, with the humid smell of dirt, the sky through the windows and Starsky above him, beneath him or beside him, eyes dark, body pressed to his. They kissed for hours, undressing slowly, lying skin to skin. They held each other, breathed together, passing one breath back and forth until they were dizzy. They caressed each other, petting and teasing, they slept and woke, tangled and nude. They spooned or lay face to face, wrapping arms and legs around each other, faces in each other’s necks. They slid against each other, letting sweat and friction do their work, bringing each other, time and time again, within a hairsbreadth of orgasm before backing down, beginning again. The decision to delay penetrative sex, ejaculation, wasn’t something they discussed. Rather, Hutch thought they were acting instinctually, taking everything they knew about love and sex back down to the bone, undoing it and rebuilding it, honing and refining until it was something entirely new, a thing only the two of them could have made together.

Then sometime in November, the third or the fourth, though Hutch refused to remember the exact date-even utterly in love he resisted the sentimental circling of dates-Starsky asked him if he’d mind losing the moustache.

Hutch’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really?” he asked, touching it. “You don’t like it?

“I like it fine,” said Starsky, stripping off his shirt, lobbing it into the laundry basket. “I just wanna know what it’s like to kiss you without it.” He tucked his chin, grinning both shyly and slyly. “I’ve heard good things about your upper lip.”

“My upper lip.” Hutch frowned. He followed Starsky into the bathroom. “From whom?”

“Judith.”

Hutch peeled off his own shirt, dropped it to the floor. He watched Starsky move about the sink, opening the hot tap, collecting his shaving supplies. He dropped his eyes to Starsky’s back, to the smooth bare skin on his shoulders and below, the weals, welts and train tracks. “Who?” he finally said. “Judith? Your mother?” He wasn’t trying to be coy, he truly didn’t remember.

“No, other Judith.” Starsky lathered his face. “Dr. Judith.”

“Oh.”

In front of Starsk, the mirror steamed. He shaved himself with quick efficient strokes, twisting his wrist this way and that. He tapped his razor on the sink; blue-black whiskers and suds filled the bowl. His face, when he rinsed it, looked brand-new, pale and raw.

Hutch moved in behind Starsky, wiped the steam from the mirror. He put his hands on Starsky’s hips, caught Starsky’s eyes in the mirror. “Do me now,” he said, nuzzling Starsky’s neck.

In the cloudy mirror, Starsky’s eyes were amused, aroused. “You mean shave you?” he asked.

They ended up on the floor, arranging and rearranging themselves until they found the best position-Starsky with his back against the tub and Hutch lying in his lap, his head resting on Starsky’s hip. Starsky took Hutch’s chin in his right hand and with tiny scissors in his left clipped Hutch’s moustache down to stubble. He wiped Hutch’s face with a hot towel, draping it for a moment over Hutch’s jaw. “Hot towel’s ‘sposed to soften the beard,” he said. “But your hair is so fine, it might just melt in the heat.”

“Zatso?” murmured Hutch, perfectly happy to melt in the heat. He closed his eyes, willing to lie forever in Starsky’s lap, Starsky’s belly under his cheek, Starsky’s thighs at his back.

After a while, though, Starsky moved. He hung the towel over the rim of the tub, lifted his arm to the sink, found his shaving brush. Hutch kept his eyes shut, felt Starsky raise his chin, lather his face with tickly circular motions. He smelled the soapy mint of shaving cream, Starsky’s warm skin.

Starsky lifted his arm, dropped the brush in the sink, found the razor. “Ready?” he asked, touching the razor to Hutch’s cheek. Then he laughed. “My first time doing this to another guy.”

Hutch felt his lips tilt up in a smile. “Mine too.” His skin felt clean and cold after the razor, jazzed and jumping with blood. “Is it weird,” he asked, “if I get turned on?”

“Not if I do too,” said Starsky. He wiped Hutch’s face with the warm towel, tipped him gently back to lie on the tile floor and climbed on top of him.

When they kissed, it was the barest kiss Hutch had ever had. His shaved lip felt naked and raw, almost too tender for touch. Starsky’s breath was warm and damp, his kisses soft, flicking to the sides of Hutch’s mouth, to the top lip, the bottom. Hutch turned his head, following Starsky’s mouth, trying to catch the quick kisses.

Starsky dodged Hutch’s mouth. He laughed, licking, nipping, running his tongue over Hutch’s sensitive skin. Hutch felt a growl rise in his throat. He slung an arm around Starsky’s neck, pulling him down and closer, forcing him into a deeper kiss. Starsky opened his mouth wide, taking Hutch in. For a moment they grappled, arms pulling at each other, hips grinding, then Hutch surged up, seized Starsky and flipped him to his back. He hung over him, hands planted on either side of Starsky’s shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. “So, partner,” he said, breathing hard. “Wanna dance?”

“Yeah,” said Starsk, his voice hoarse. His eyes, hot, fixed on Hutch’s.

Hutch yanked the snap on Starsky’s jeans, suddenly in a hurry after months of waiting. “Where’s the…” he asked, looking around.

“Under the sink,” said Starsky, popping the button on Hutch’s cords.

Hutch lunged for the sink cupboard, knocked aside shampoo, Comet and tile cleaner. He found a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil and held it up.

“Yeah,” said Starsky. He wiggled his tight jeans down his hips, kicked his legs free. “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, sounding a little desperate.

Hutch’s hands were shaking. He pushed Starsky back down on the tiles, spilled a puddle of oil out onto his belly. He slid his hand through the oil, coating his palm, his trembling fingers.

“Hutch,” Starsky gasped. He sat half-way up, grabbing Hutch’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

Hutch rubbed the oil into Starsky’s belly. Starsky’s hips lifted, his cock, hard, leaking and florid, tried to find Hutch’s hand

“Easy, lover.” Hutch pushed Starsky down again, skimmed his oily fingers over Starsky’s hip. “We’re gonna do it. Just tell me how you want it done.” He caught Starsky’s cock in a loose fist. “You want top or bottom?”

Starsky hissed, rocked up into Hutch’s fist. “Top, bottom, middle,” he said. “All of it.”

***

In February Starsky passed his boards and returned to work.

As soon as they hit the streets together, they realized they had to get off.

***

Hutch quietly sold a chunk of land his grandfather had left him in Minnesota. When the rather handsome check arrived, he stepped outside to watch Starsky in the drive washing the Bonneville with a bucket and a garden hose.

“Hey Starsk,” he called. “Get yourself a passport. I’m taking you to Italy.”

“Italy?” Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. His hair was shaggy, the ends wet and hanging in tendrils. His jean shorts were so cut high, the back pockets were exposed. “Why Italy?”

“Because I like Italy,” said Hutch. He loped down the stairs while Starsky leaned over the Bonneville’s big hood. “It’s the best place for Renaissance art. You like Italian food and God knows you could use the culture, pal.”

I got culture,” said Starsky. He slopped a soapy sponge over the hood, leaving white curls of soap on the green paint. “I got a library card and a Huichol Indian yarn painting so authentic it smells like peyote. That’s culture, baby.”

“Okay, okay, you’re Mr. Culture,” said Hutch. He sat on the grass a respectful distance away from Starsky and his wet sponge. The sun struck his crown, heating his scalp. He brushed his fingers through his feathery, fly-away hair, which he’d recently cut short to match his clean-shaven upper lip. Hutch missed his old don’t-fuck-with-me look but Starsk said he looked ten years younger. “Let me take you to Italy anyway, babe,” he said. “I’ll buy you an espresso.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. He scrubbed the Bonneville, his arm jerking, his ass wiggling. “We’re going all the way to Italy just for an espresso?”

“Sure, why not?” said Hutch. “The shit we drink at Metro, you think that’s coffee? Time you knew what real coffee tastes like.”

“I know what real coffee tastes like,” said Starsky. “My grandma used to make Turkish coffee-”

“I know, I know,” said Hutch lightly. He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes shifting between Starsky’s ass and the soap sliding in foamy lumps over the Bonneville’s grill. “Your Yiddish grandma made Turkish coffee above an Italian restaurant in a Polish neighborhood.”

“That’s right,” said Starsky. He tossed the sponge in the bucket. “So?”

“So?” Hutch leapt to his feet, strode toward Starsky. “So Rome, Venice and Milan, Starsk! Florence, the Tuscan hills, the Italian Riviera! Dontcha wanna see the world, Starsk? See the great cathedrals, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Santa Maria del Fiore? Dontcha wanna see Brunelleschi’s bronze dome, the Palazzo Medici and the Pitti Palace?”

Starsky laughed, picked up the garden hose, adjusted the nozzle. “You’re cute, Blondie, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” He flicked a handful of soapy water at Hutch.

“Philistine.” Hutch turned away. Suddenly he whirled back. “Say, you know what, Starsk?” he said excitedly. “There’s a city in Italy called Torino!”

“No way!” Starsky’s eyes opened comically wide. “Really? For real?”

“Sure as shittin’, Starsk. Wanna go?”

Starsky’s mouth opened and closed. He stared past the Bonneville which gleamed like a beached sea creature in the sun, all metallic ocean green and white wet foam. Finally he turned back to Hutch. “What's it like, Hutch?” he asked. “You know, Torino?”

Hutch grinned, spread his arms wide. “With a name like Torino? Gotta be great!”

Starsky nodded, adjusted the nozzle again. “Sure,” he said. “Gotta be.” The hose coughed and jerked, let go a thick stream of water. “Hey Hutch?” Starsky called over the water.

“Yeah Starsk?”

“If we go to Italy, can we go to Germany too and drive two hundred miles an hour on that Autoban?”

Hutch felt his face light up. “Only if you get a passport.”

***

In May of 1980, when they handed their two week notice to Dobey, they stood out of respect.

Dobey stayed seated, staring at his blotter, a half-eaten ham sandwich in wax paper. “You’re sure?” he asked.

Starsky nodded. “Everything’s changed,” he said. “The whole shootin’ match.”

Hutch winced at the word choice. He tried to explain. “We’ve changed,” he said. “Out on the street, our priorities have changed. We can’t quite give the job our all anymore, Cap’n. But we don’t know how to do it halfway. That make sense?”

Dobey grunted, shrugged. “Your call,” he said.

“We think we better get out while we’re still ahead.”

Dobey frowned, tapped his blotter with his Cross pen. “Lieutenant’s exam?” he asked.

“We don’t think so, Cap,” said Starsky. “We’re just going to take some time off. Explore our options.”

“But thank you all the same,” added Hutch.

Dobey clicked his pen, looked from Hutch to Starsky, then out the window. “Damn,” he said, softly.

Hutch stood with his hands locked behind him, parade rest. Beside him, Starsky shifted, bounced lightly on his toes, his restless energy back in full.

“All right,” said Dobey. “So be it.” He tossed his pen down, pushed out of his chair and rounded his desk, coming to stand in front of them. Much to Hutch’s surprise he opened his big arms, gathered them both into an embrace..

Hutch stumbled, catching himself on Starsky’s shoulder. They stood in a triangle, chests brushing, arms around each other’s shoulders. Dobey was talking low and fast under his breath.

“Amen,” said Dobey. He let go, stepped back.

“Amen,” echoed Starsky, realizing they’d received a blessing.

“Amen,” Hutch started to say. He got as far as “Ah” before his throat closed up. “Ah,” he tried again. “Ah, ah.” His voice cracked, his eyes filled with tears. “Ah shit.”

Starsky patted him on the back, whisked a napkin from Dobey’s desk. “Sorry, Cap,” he said, smirking and passing the napkin to Hutch. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

Hutch shrugged helplessly, blew his nose into the napkin.

The next two weeks were filled with parties and Hutch found himself struggling into work hung-over most days. There was a precinct barbecue in the park, a final softball game against West Valley, a shindig down at the bowling alley and the blow-out to end all blow-outs at the Pits. Hutch got so loaded at the Pits, he woke up on Huggy’s pool table, his feet stacked one on top of the other and propped on a ladder-back chair. The queasy smell of frying meat filled his nose and he could hear Starsky singing like Ethel Merman in the kitchen.

When Kathy Marshall got wind of their departure, she threw them a private party at Starsky’s. She brought over dinner, way too much champagne and bid them an energetic, affectionate good-bye. Hutch doubted that any two people had ever been said goodbye to so many times in one night, and in so many different positions. Starsky’s mattress looked absolutely violated in the morning, stripped of its blue sheets, toppled to the floor and splotched with oil and bodily fluids. The bathroom floor was covered with sopping towels and in the front room his papa-san chair was in splinters, wrecked beyond redemption.

They were invited to Maggie Blaine’s for dinner, to Mitzi and Lisa Graham’s, to the Ramos’s, the Walters’s and Minnie’s. They took Sweet Alice to a fancy restaurant, dropped in at the children’s center where Terry once worked and caught a special performance by Sugar at the Blue Parrot. They got shit-faced with Merle the Earl who hung fuzzy dice around Hutch’s neck and customized his denim vest with strips of shag carpet. They had notes or calls from Mickey, Joey, Chris Phelps, and Luke Huntley. Ray offered them half-price tattoos and Chickey dropped by to give Hutch a big sloppy smooch, something he claimed he’d been dreaming of for years. On the day before they left town, they got a call out of the blue from Joe Collandra who usually went out of his way to avoid them.

And now they were back at the beach, ready to throw their badges into the ocean again. They were leaving Bay City. They didn’t know exactly where they were going, only that they were going.

They sat, perched on the hood on Hutch’s LTD, watching the sun sink and the surf go in and out. Starsky shifted about on the hood, foot tapping, one knee jouncing while Hutch watched the surf go in and out until it went out finally with the chunk of his brain that did his worrying for him, leaving behind the white noise of water on sand. He let his shoulders down then, and let his mind float, feeling it-wide open possibility-hovering just behind him.

They had a car. They’d drive and follow the road just to see where it would take them. They had time and enough money to afford months of diner food and king size Travelodge beds. They’d drive and drive and eventually they’d drive to an airport, leave the LTD and fly over the ocean to Italy where there would be other cars to drive, pasta and sauces to eat, culture to absorb, wine and dark rich cups of coffee to drink. And then there was Torino, where Starsky claimed they’d discover the true meaning of life and Hutch had no reason to doubt him. After Torino, they’d drive to Germany, to the mythic highway running in infinite loops through the country. They’d blow down the road, two hundred miles an hour, spinning through the loops, laying the accelerator flat, opening up the engine and letting the wind scream through the windows. Somewhere on the Autobahn, they’d find it, Hutch thought, their moment of wide-open possibility. They’d drive fast enough, hard enough to blow it all away, Bay City, the rough streets, the guns and badges, the ghosts of souls damaged and lives lost on their watch. They’d leave behind the reports and the courts, the judges and lawyers, the fathers, mothers, preachers and teachers, everything they’d learned and needed to forget. They’d burn every bridge behind them and not even care because out of their own ashes they’d pull something new, something all theirs and only theirs, something that didn’t exist yet and wouldn’t until he and Starsky made it.

The water hissed on the sand and on the hood of the LTD Starsky shifted and squirmed like a kid who had to go to the bathroom. Hutch rubbed his upper lip, missing his moustache. He thought about the early days when he’d pick through all the names and labels in the world, looking for one pliable enough to stretch over his relationship with Starsky. He’d been an idiot, he supposed.

“Hey, Starsk?” Hutch put his hand over Starsky’s where it lay next to his thigh. “What’s another word for love?”

Starsky didn’t look at him but his lips curved up in a smile. “Don’t need no other word, Blintz.”

“Guess not, said Hutch. He squeezed Starsky’s hand. Without speaking, they slid from the hood, Starsky going left and Hutch going right. Hutch tossed the car keys over the LTD’s hood and Starsky caught them, sliding into the driver’s seat. Hutch slammed the passenger side door. They pulled into traffic, slow at first but gaining speed, gaining speed. Hutch watched the rear view, the side mirror as the beach, then the city fell away. They were on their way for sure.

Author’s notes: I had never heard of Rumkies until I picked up a Young Adult book called Yellow Star by Jennifer Roy. Yellow Star is the story of Roy’s aunt who survived interment in the Lodz Ghetto in occupied Poland. I also took the family name Perlmutter and the first names Sura, Haskel, Edit, Schmuel and Malka from Roy’s book.

Hutch quotes John Keats’s “A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever” and Pink Floyd song “Breathe.”

The title,” My Hair Like Jesus Wore It,” comes from the song Hair from the Musical “Hair,” lyrics by James Rado and Gerome Ragni.