My Hair Like Jesus Wore It Part Two
Another favorite story of Hutch’s-the time Starsky’s hair nearly cost them Biggy Bigamist. Emily had just regained her sight and Starsky was in high spirits. They were cruising Fairfax in the LTD, shooting the breeze, their eyes tracking the street. Hutch had his left hand on the wheel, his right arm stretched across the back of the seat.
Suddenly, Starsky’s head whipped to the right. “Hey! Ain’t that Biggy Bigamist? Hutch, pull over!”
“Son of a bitch!” said Hutch. George Bigelow and his three wives pushed some of Bay City’s dirtiest heroin.
“Boy, talk about your Mormons gone wrong,” muttered Starsky, turning in his seat to watch Bigelow amble down the sidewalk like an honest citizen. “Let’s get the bastard, Hutch. Vice wants him bad.”
“On it,” said Hutch. He lifted his right arm, intending to get both hands on the wheel, cut across traffic and slide discretely to the curb. Instead, the cuff button on his flannel shirt snagged in Starsky’s hair. Starsky yelped and Hutch fumbled the turn. The LTD lurched; someone behind them leaned on their horn.
On the street, Biggy’s head popped up. He looked left and right.
“Shit!” Hutch wheeled left. He flapped his trapped arm, tried to shrug out of his sleeve.
“Ow!” yelled Starsky. He grabbed the back of his head. “That hurts! Willya get this tub to the curb?”
“I’m trying!” Cursing the ridiculous luck of stumbling over one of Metro’s Most Wanted while his arm was stuck to the back of his partner’s head, Hutch bumped the car to the curb.
“Call it!” Starsky yelled, yanking up on his door handle.
“Hang on, hang on.” Hutch tried to unbutton his cuff. “Just a sec, Starsk.”
“Lemme out!” bellowed Starsky. “Biggy’s running!” He bounded out of the car, holding Hutch’s sleeve at the back of his head and pulling Hutch after him.
Hutch swore as he scrambled across the seat, his left elbow, shoulder and hipbone banging against the steering wheel, gearshift and dash. He stumbled out of the passenger door and found himself on the sidewalk, for a very silly moment flailing both arms frantically. Then he was alone, stripped to his t-shirt and holster while Starsky flew down an alley after Biggy, Hutch’s black and white flannel shirt streaming out behind him.
Disgusted, Hutch radioed Metro before sprinting down the alley. By the time he caught up with Starsky, his partner had Biggy against a wall, reading him his rights. Hutch’s flannel shirt hung down his back.
“…one will be appointed for you. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, SLEEZEBAG?”
Biggy grunted.
Starsky turned to Hutch. “Hello, Grace.”
“My shirt,” said Hutch, weakly. He started to giggle.
Starsky shrugged, wound the shirt around his neck like a scarf and shoved Biggy toward Hutch. “At least it wasn’t your moustache caught in my fly,” he said.
*****
There wasn’t much Starsky hated more than being doped, yet here they were again. Forest, Bellamy, Marcus, Matwick and now Travers. Whatever Travers had given Starsky, it had kaleidoscoped his vision and made him floppy, unsure of what his arms and legs were doing. It also had a sedative effect he was fighting tooth and nail, but at least he wasn’t fighting Hutch.
“If I drink enough,” said Starsky, “I can piss it out.” He fumbled at the tap, nearly falling into the sink.
“Jesus,” said Hutch, catching him. “You sit. I’ll be the water boy.” He steered Starsky to the couch.
“You look like a big blond bug,” said Starsky, poking Hutch in the forehead. “You have at least twelve eyes.”
“And yours as a bloodshot as a basset’s,” said Hutch. He tilted Starsky against the arm of the couch and brought him water.
Starsky held the glass with both hands, dripping water on his shirt. “I played my guitar and sang to her,” he said, “then she tried to kill me.”
“You sang to her?” said Hutch. “Well, no wonder she tried to kill you.”
As the night passed, Travers’s junk worked its way through Starsky’s system. When the sun came up, he stood on one foot, walked a straight line, touched his nose, recited the alphabet and the fours times-table.
“You are officially sober,” Hutch pronounced.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Starsky. He went into the kitchen and brought out a bottle of Jose Cuervo.
Not the best idea, but Hutch jumped on board anyway.
They spent the morning sipping tequila, curtains drawn against the sun, the radio turned to the classical station.
“What’s this one?” Starsky asked.
Hutch, Scottie dog in his hand, paused in the middle of counting seven spaces from Park Place Avenue. He cocked his head, listened to the music. “Beethoven,” he said. “Fur Elise.”
While selling his Marvin Gardens hotel back to the bank, Starsky asked, “How ‘bout this one?”
Hutch listened. It was Grieg, Peer Gynt Suite. But what part? Obviously, Starsky needed him to know. “Aase’s Death,” he finally decided.
“Aase?” said Starsky. “Like the Red Sox pitcher?
“Yup,” said Hutch, picking up a Chance card. “Except now he’s in the Angels’s bullpen.”
They spun the day out with a few hundred gin games. They called out for pizza and walked to the 7-11 for cigarettes, Wrigleys, beer and the kind of food Hutch once wouldn’t have put in his body. Hutch tuned Starsky’s guitar, tightening the sixth string until it sounded like the E in his head. He picked out Fur Elise’s perfect notes while Starsky shifted through the contents of an old cigar box, showing him photos he’d already seen: Sura Perlmutter, Starsky’s maternal grandmother; Judith and Haskel Starsky as a young couple; kid Starsky, looking like he was about to bolt out of the frame; kid Nick, his face scrunched like he was about to burst into tears.
“Did I ever show you these?” Starsky asked. He held up two dented and scratched aluminum coins.
Hutch looked over the guitar. The coins were stamped with a Star of David and the word Getto. He hadn’t seen them since Terry’s memorial but remembered Haskel’s cousin Edit had carried them out of the Lodz ghetto. “Ruskies?” he asked.
“Rumkies.” Starsky said. He put them back in the box.
Around nine, they went to the park to shoot hoops. The rim, a dull ring of light hung on the dark, banged and clattered; their sneakers slapped and skid on the concrete.
A few hours later, they flopped next to each other on Starsky’s couch.
Starsky wrinkled his nose. “Do I smell as bad as you?”
“Worse,” Hutch assured him.
“Great.” Starsky bounced off the couch. “Gotta pee,” he said.
“You always do,” muttered Hutch. He let his head fall back against couch. The tequila, the beer, the cigs, the hours without sleep were catching up with him. At this point, Travers’s junk had to be long gone and Starsky running on nerves and sheer stubbornness. Hutch closed his eyes, let himself drift.
The next thing he felt was a tickle under his nose. He opened his eyes, saw Starsky standing behind the couch, looming over him.
“Hey, Blintz,” Starsky said softly. He stroked one side of Hutch’s moustache. “Why didja grow a moustache anyway?”
Hutch shrugged. “Dunno. Makes me look tougher?”
“Tough as a pussy cat,” said Starsky. He climbed over the back of the couch, plopped on the cushion next to Hutch. He took Hutch’s face in both hands, his thumbs rubbing either side of the moustache. “Whyja go for a long droopy ‘stache?”
Hutch closed his eyes again. Starsky’s hands were cool and damp, smelling of soap. “You think I’d look better with a pencil-thin?” he asked.
“Nah,” said Starsky. He brushed his fingers over Hutch’s upper lip. “I was thinking of a toothbrush.”
“Like Hitler?”
“Nah. Somebody cool. Like Oliver Hardy.”
“Charlie Chaplin.”
“Or,” said Starsky, “we could get some grease-”
“Wax,” Hutch corrected.
“Wax, and we could give you one of those training wheel-”
“Handlebar,” said Hutch.
“Handlebar,” said Starsky. “I knew it had something to do with a bike. We could give you one of those handlebars with the curlicues. Like Snidely Whiplash.”
“No thanks,” said Hutch, yawning.
Starsky stroked Hutch’s moustache again, slid his hands up into his hair. Gently, he kneaded Hutch’s temples. “How ‘bout a walrus?” he asked.
“No soup strainers,” Hutch said. He turned his head under Starsky’s fingers, the gentle rubbing about to put him to sleep.
“’How ‘bout a beer?”
“Huh?”
“Wanna beer?”
“No.” Hutch sat up and rubbed his eyes. Starsky’s hands fell away. “Starsk?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m hitting the wall here. And you need to call it a night.”
“Yeah,” Starsky said. He sighed and picked at a worn spot on his jeans. “But Hutch, I’m not tired.”
“Not tired? Of course you’re tired. Jeez, Starsky, you sound like a kid.”
“I do not,” said Starsky petulantly. He shifted away from Hutch.
Hutch rolled his eyes. He grabbed Starsky’s wrist and checked the time. Near midnight.
Starsky reached for a Car and Driver on his coffee table.
Hutch sank back against the couch cushions, hooked a finger in Starsky’s belt loop. “Scoot this way,” he ordered, tugging
Starsky slid a few inches closer, muttering to himself.
Hutch found he could reach Starsky’s left shoulder without sitting up. He cupped the shoulder, squeezed, worked the tense muscle. “Listen, buddy,” he said. “You’ve been on the high wire all night, and all day. It’s time to come down.”
He felt Starsky’s shrug, heard the magazine slide away.
Hutch’s hand drifted lower, over the muscles in Starsky’s back. “You know, Starsk, it’s not like I don’t understand.”
“Sure,” said Starsky, and Hutch felt his back relax a little. “You get it, I know that.”
“That’s right,” Hutch agreed. “I’ve been where you are now. I know it messes with your head, your sense of control. You wind yourself up like a clock just trying to hold it together.” He touched Starsky’s shoulders, the taut muscles.
Starsky nodded, poked the Car and Driver until it plopped to the floor. “Hard to let go,” he admitted.
“But you can let go,” Hutch said gently, squeezing the back of Starsky’s neck. “You’re okay, you’re safe. You know you’re safe with me, don’t ya, Starsk?”
Starsky glanced back at Hutch, made a face. “Yeah, I know I’m safe, Hutch,” he said. “You’re here and you’d breathe for me if you had to but that’s like lettin’ someone else drive my car. I’d just rather do it myself, you know?”
Hutch chuckled, reassured. “Fussy,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” said Starsky. He put his elbows on his knees, scrubbed his face with his hands.
Hutch slid his hand up the back of Starsky’s shirt, let his fingers touch warm flesh. “Breathe,” he said, humming, searching for the tune. “‘Breathe in the air. 'Don’t be afraid to care. Leave but don’t leave me…’” He let his voice trail away and yawned. “God, I don’t even have the energy to sing Pink Floyd.”
Starsky snickered. “Ain’t your style anyway,” he said.
“It ain’t Vic Rankin,” agreed Hutch. He let his head fall back against the cushion, patted Starsky’s back and closed his eyes.
Starsky sighed and shifted. He was silent for a while. Then he said, “My Uncle Herschel had a Fu Manchu. Unusual look for a Jew. “We called it his Jew Manchu.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Hutch said.
“His wife, Sylvia, had facial hair too,” Starsky went on. “She shaved it but Nick and I could feel the stubble when she kissed us. But no one was as hairy as Uncle Murray. He used to say, ‘when there’s a full moon, three times I have to shave.’”
“Must be something to that wolf-man curse,” Hutch said. He slipped lower, propped his feet on Starsky’s coffee table. He let his hand drop to the small of his partner’s back, curve around his hipbone. He tuned out as Starsky rambled on about his Uncles Herschel and Murray, his bald Aunt Malka, and Shmuel, the Orthodox uncle whose side curl dipped into the soup at the seudat mitzvah after Nick’s bris. Hutch relaxed, feeling Starsky’s voice wash over him. His partner’s stream of consciousness was his lullaby, the most familiar and comforting sound in his world. He let it lift him and rock him, float him like a baby in a Moses basket out of the room and into an easy sleep.
Sometime later Hutch awoke with a neck cramp and a hard-on. Starsky was sprawled in his lap, dead asleep. His head was in the crook of Hutch’s arm, his left hand lay heavily in Hutch’s crotch, his exhales warming Hutch’s ribs. Hutch yawned and stretched, lifted his ass to restore the blood flow. After a while, he settled again, plucking Starsky’s hand out of his lap, studying the palm as though he could read the lines. Back in the early days, he’d wondered about the two of them. He’d worried a bit, picking through labels and names, looking for one pliable enough to fit over his relationship with Starsky. Eventually he’d given up. Every word or phrase he knew sounded like someone else’s definition of what he didn’t really want to bind up with names and labels after all. Hutch closed Starsky’s fist, swung his long legs from the coffee table to the couch, worked them under Starsky’s. When he was reclined on the couch with a pillow supporting his neck and head, he pulled Starsky up to his chin like a blanket and closed his eyes. Whatever they were, they had always been.
*****
When Hutch made a mental list of all the women in his life who’d knocked him for a loop, he had to give little Vivian a place of honor. She’d laid him flat, damn near wrecked his heart, put him in the hospital and on the couch for nearly two months.
He pulled the tension band his therapist had given him, amazed that muscles that used to move with well-oiled ease now stubbornly refused to give. He poured sweat, cursed in star-spangled colors and wondered if, considering his right leg and lower back, this shoulder was his third strike. He gained fifteen pounds, got hooked on Days of Our Lives and decided Starsky was a freak of nature for bouncing back so quickly from the bullet Joey Martin put in his back.
Starsk rode a desk at Metro, or hit the streets, occasionally partnered with Joan Meredith but more often with Sweet Lou Legette who had hands as big as frying pans and a voice like a piccolo. Most nights after work, Starsky dropped by Hutch’s with whatever had caught his eye at the Rainbow Grocery-soybeans with feta and peppers, bean sprout-mushroom salad, Gorp, honey, tahini and thick brown bread. He brought greasy bags of fast food for himself, but he always brought more French fries than even he could eat, and always placed them where Hutch could reach them without twanging sore muscles. He also picked up books from the Bay City Library: Updike, Cheever, Mailer, Kesey, then Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates and Erma Bombeck when Meredith pointed out he was only choosing male authors. While they ate, Hutch leafed through the books and Starsky studied a glossy hardback called Couples’ Massage.
After they’d eaten, Hutch sat forward on the couch, let his button-front shirt slide down his arms. Starsky sat behind him, greased his hands with baby oil. He rubbed, starting with Hutch’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the pain until he got Hutch past it. Starsky’s hands were strong and warm. They went up and down Hutch’s back, under his armpit, down his side, around to his chest and entry wound. They softened the unyielding muscle, worked healing blood into rigid scar tissue. Some nights Starsky rubbed for more than an hour, until Hutch was as loose and relaxed as a baked noodle, tipping at the edge of sleep but unwilling to go over because Starsky’s hands felt so good.
When he did tip over into sleep, Hutch always seemed to take Starsky with him. He’d awake to find himself slumped on his side against the couch cushions, Starsky spooned up tight against his back, thighs against his ass, arms around his waist. The position reminded Hutch of early days when he still had his bike and Starsky rode behind him, holding him just like this. They’d wind up and down the Hollywood hills late at night, running away from their uniforms and Vanessa, blowing off the day’s steam. They’d find a straight desert stretch and Hutch would lay down the throttle. They’d rip through the dark, the wind whipping Hutch’s hair the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Behind him, Starsky would be laughing like a loon, arms strong and holding on tight.
On the couch Hutch lay snug and slumped in Starsky’s arms, aware that deep in his core something was moving. All those names and labels he’d picked through over the years, none of them fit. There was just one word for this, the thing he and Starsky had made together. There was one word and he’d buried it deep inside years ago. It floated now, untethered, starting a slow ascent to the surface.
Chapter Three http://your-woman-now.livejournal.com/2224.html#cutid1