The List

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“Sometimes we can’t stand the sight of each other, but I always figured that just proves how close we are.”

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Okay. Hutch and I fight. Ask anybody down at Metro. Yeah, we fight. Sometimes we can’t stand the sight of each other, but I always figured that just proves how close we are. You know how it is, you only really fight with the people you trust not to walk away — the ones who love you enough to put up with all your crap and still come back for more. Hutch and I are like that — family, you know?

So this is a story of one of those times we weren’t really getting along all that well. It still kinda pisses me off to think about it, even though I forgave Hutch a long time ago. My partner’s real smart when it comes to book learning and things like that. I mean, he didn’t have to be a cop. He could have been a lawyer or a doctor or something. Like some people maybe keep a copy of Car and Driver or Mad Magazine next to the john, to read or whatever when you’re just sitting there. Hutch keeps a copy of Smithsonian. That’s what I mean by smart. But being smart doesn’t mean you always have good sense, an’ sometimes Hutch does things that ain’t too bright. Like THE LIST. THE LIST was not one of my partner’s better ideas…

It all started on a stake-out…

But before I get into that, there are a few things I gotta set straight. You see, people get this real glamorous idea of what police work is like, all car chases and shoot-outs and exciting stuff. Blame it on TV I guess. Truth is, a lot of police work is pretty boring. I mean, you ever see a cop show where the good guys sit around doing tons of paperwork or directing traffic? Nope.

And stake-outs? Well, on TV stake-outs never last more than two minutes, and they’re never a bust, but that just ain’t they way it is. Most the time, stake-outs are boring as hell. Just lots of sitting around trying to stay awake waiting for something to happen, and half the time, it never does. Hutch and I have spent a lot of our lives sitting around waiting for something to happen, and I tell you, it can get real old real fast. They say your first long stake-out can make or break a team, and I’ve known more than one partnership that ended in divorce after too many hours trapped in the same car or small room. It’s lucky Hutch and I get along as well as we do, I mean, people talk about us like we’re Siamese twins, but even we can get pretty touchy when we’ve been cooped up with each other too long.

Case in point — keeping an eye on this rundown rat-trap cause the chick inside was the girlfriend of this two-bit pusher we were trying to finger in a couple recent assaults. It was hot as hell and we’d been sitting there stewing for over three hours. My butt had gone to sleep, and Hutch was complaining of feeling like a pretzel, so neither one of us was exactly in the best mood. But I was trying, you know?

You’d be amazed at all the kinds of things you can come up with to pass the time when you’re stuck on a stake-out. Some are pretty legit. Like reading the paper. That’s usually good for a while. Or trying to finish that book that’s already overdue by a week.

Me? I like games. Card games. Guessing games. Magic tricks. I even brought a Ouija board once and we set it up on the seat between us, but Hutch refused to play after a while ’cause he said I was moving the pointer. He called it the “ideomotor effect” and started babbling all this scientific stuff about how I was influencing the “planchette” through my involuntary motor behaviors. Like I said, he’s smart, but he sure knows how to ruin a fun time. Freaky thing was, I swear it wasn’t me. I think Hutch was moving it and was just trying to play with my head.

That’s Hutch. He does mind games. Not me. I leave those kinda games alone. I figure screwing around with people’s heads just leads to trouble. But my partner is real good at them. So good that sometimes I don’t think he even knows he’s playing, you know what I mean? And the inside of Hutch’s head can get really confusing, like one of those maze things, so sometimes you just have to tear down a wall or two to get back out. Some of our worst fights have started with one of Hutch mind games, but that’s another story… or maybe it’s not. Maybe this list thing was all another kind of mind game. Who knows?

Anyway, back to what I was saying about games. Sometimes, if I know we’re gonna be sitting for a while, I’ll get organized and bring a deck of cards, or maybe a new magic trick to show off to Hutch. Usually, though, I have to improvise — make up something — like having Hutch pick a color and me pick a color and seeing who has more cars of their color go through the intersection in ten minutes, or having a race to see who can get the whole alphabet off passing license plates first, or asking really far out questions just to get Hutch’s shorts in a knot.

Hutch likes things like crossword puzzles and word searches, but in my opinion, things like that just ain’t kosher on a stake-out. They’re too solitary. Like, what am I supposed to do? So I usually bug Hutch till he agrees to do what I want. He always makes it out to be this big sacrifice or something, like I’m the kid and he’s the parent, and he does these things just to keep me quiet or something. Really, I think he has fun with it, he just can’t be seen stooping to my level by giving in too easy. He feels he’s got this reputation to live up to — being the long suffering, sensible one. Costello to my Abbot. Bert to my Ernie. Secretly though, I think he counts on me to keep him entertained. I mean, crosswords puzzles will only get you so far in life.

Course, there was the one time with the trick hand-cuffs… I bought these trick cuffs, and I kept after him to let me put them on him. So after about two hours of going back and forth with it, he finally said okay. But his wrists are kinda big, and I must have bent them putting them on, ’cause they wouldn’t come off the way they were supposed to, and he just sat there holding his wrists out in front of him and looking at me like as soon as his hands were free he was gonna throttle me. I mean, there was enough steam coming out his ears to fog up the windows, know what I mean? No way Hutch would let anyone know about it, so we had to call our pal Huggy and get him to come by with some wire cutters. Hutch was really ticked that time, so I bought him this book to keep under the car seat, Crossword Puzzle Omnibus, and I didn’t say a word about magic tricks or games or anything else ’til he filled up the whole damn thing.

Anyway, back to the stake-out. It was on this really boring little side street. Not much going on, and I was having a real hard time thinking of diversionary tactics. But there was this stop sign on the corner, so Hutch and I had this bet going. Hutch was saying, most drivers would come to a complete stop for the sign, and I was betting they wouldn’t. We were pretty even. Seven to nine and arguing over the last one, cause Hutch said the yellow VW Bug did stop and I said they didn’t, and that’s when I tossed my empty soda cup into the back seat.

Now, you gotta understand. My Torino had been acting dodgy, so it was in the shop, meaning we were stuck with Hutch’s car, if you can call it that. My partner seems to think his battered, old LTD is some kind of classic, but just between you and me, it’s a rat trap on wheels. Anyway, like I said, I tossed my empty cup into the back seat. And it ain’t like I haven’t done that a million times, but this time Hutch almost bit my head off.

“Starsk! Goddamnit!” he yelled, and when I looked at him, he had that fierce look in his eyes and his lips were all pinched, like he was trying to keep from calling me something really foul. I didn’t need a mood ring to know he was really pissed, I just didn’t know why. So I just sat there, and I must have had this really stupid look on my face, cause he said, “How many times have I told you not to do that?”

“Do what?” I still didn’t have a clue. “Wha’d I do?” Not to worry, Hutch was gonna let me know. My partner is real thoughtful that way.

He got that cool look he gets when he’s feeling superior, and he said, “You threw your litter in the backseat! Again!”

Oh.

I didn’t see why he was getting so uptight. We toss trash into each other’s back seats all the time. It’s like a game. Sometimes Hutch grumbles about it, but he usually doesn’t go ape-shit. Besides, have you ever seen the backseat of his car? Course not. Too many layers of Hutchinson castoffs. It’s like a junkyard back there. Some college professor’s gonna show up some day with a permit for one of them archeological digs through the crap in my partner’s back seat. They’ll probably find Jimmy Hoffa. Anyway, I figured he was just getting edgy. All this waiting around was getting to both of us, so I thought I’d joke around a bit and lighten things up. “Yeah? It’s not like anyone’s gonna notice. This hunk o’ junk is such a sorry sight, I’m surprised you haven’t been cited for pollutin’ the street.”

But that didn’t seem to help, cause his face got even darker and he started yelling about how he was sick and tired of me insulting his car, and how there is nothing wrong with it. Then he started waxing lyrical about that old, rusted LTD, and I was having a real hard time keeping a straight face cause the car he was going on about sure ain’t the same one I was sitting in.

“This car has class! Character!”

And stupid me. I was still thinking I could tease him out of his bad mood, so I started rattling off my own descriptives. “Mange. Fleas. Ringworm.”

That didn’t go over any better than my last attempt. Hutch was still glaring at me, and then suddenly he got this ‘Ah ha!’ look in his eyes, like he’d just figured out the meaning of life or something. And he snapped at me, “That does it! I’m going to make a list!” An’ he smiled like this was a very good idea he’d come up with and then he said it again. “Yeah. A list.”

Now, I was looking at him trying to figure out what he was talking about, ’cause this thing about a list was like, way left of center field. I mean, we’ve been playing this game for years. I insult his car, and then he says something nasty about my Torino and we bitch back and forth for a few minutes and then we both feel better. That’s they way the game is played. But Hutch had gone and changed the rules, and I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. I mean, usually we kinda just know what the other one is thinking. Half the time we don’t even need words, but this time it looked like I was gonna have to ask, and that really annoyed me. But I was curious enough to bite.

“What list?”

And then I really wished I hadn’t, ’cause Hutch got this look, kinda nasty and pleased all at the same time, an’ then I knew he’d been waiting for me to ask an’ now he felt like he’d won some sort of contest. An’ then he said, “A list of all the things you do that drive me nuts.” He said it real soft, but with Hutch, soft can be deadly, and I know him well enough that I heard the razor blades.

So I let some of my own anger show and I asked him what he was talking about, an’ then he really let me have it.

“Maybe if it’s all down in black and white I won’t have to keep repeating myself all the time! Maybe if you take it home and study it every night something will finally stick inside that empty head of yours.” An’ he glared at me like he was daring me to argue with him.

Now, I was pissed, but I was hurt too. I mean, it don’t do a whole lot for your self-esteem to have your best friend talking about making a list of all your faults, but I’d be damned if I was gonna let him know that, so I grumbled something about how it was gonna be a short list.

An’ Hutch, the son-of-a-bitch, said, “Oh no!” An’ he started going on about how it was gonna be a long list, a “fucking book,” for Christ’s sake. “All The Things My Partner Does That Drive Me Crazy.”

An’ I was thinking this game ain’t much fun, an’ if he didn’t shut up, knocking his teeth out might end up being the first thing on that list. “Write a song, why don’cha?” I told him.

“Maybe I will.”

It was all so stupid, so I just shut up, and sat staring out the windshield, hoping he’d keep his mouth shut, ’cause I was about to blow.

An’ he must have realized I was pissed at him, ’cause he didn’t say anything till the girl came out the house, and then it was like nothing happened. We followed the girl and the bust went down smooth as silk. I almost forget about the list thing till he brought it up again.

It was hot as hell outside, and by the time we got back to the station all I really wanted was a cold beer, but we were on duty, so I figured the water cooler was better than nothing.

Hutch had filled up one of those flimsy, little paper cups with water, so I just kinda grabbed it outta his hand and drank it. I mean, I didn’t even really think about it. He’s always sharing his stuff with me anyway. Sometimes we even drink outta the same cup, so I sure didn’t expect that look he gave me — cold enough to cause frostbite, you know?

“That was mine,” he said, an’ his voice was real low and controlled, like he was trying to keep from screaming at me — not ’cause he was worried about yelling at me. He just didn’t wanna cause a scene. An’ I was thinking, ‘Where did this come from?’

An’ then he took the cup back, with two fingers, like it was contaminated or something an’ he crumpled it up in his fist, all the time looking right in my eyes. Hard to miss the message there!

“That’s another thing I hate. You’re always taking drinks away from me. Sharing my beer. My coffee. My cola. Never asking. Just taking.”

I was standing there with my mouth open, looking like a dork ’cause I didn’t even know what to say, an’ then he jabbed me in the chest with that Hutchinson finger — he oughta hafta have a permit for that thing — and said in this real nasty tone, “I think I’ll put that on my list too.”

I guess that’s when I started to remember that I have a mouth, too, an’ I didn’t hafta stand there and let him dump shit all over me like that.

“Oh yeah! Well, in case you never noticed, buddy, you do the same thing to me!” I filled up my own cup of water an’ drank it ’cause somehow it seems important that I show him I didn’t need his water anyway. Then I threw the cup at him. I didn’t hit him, but it was the gesture that was the thing. An’ then I launched into a whole shitload of stuff Hutch does that gets on my nerves. Like tasting my food all the time, and snatching bits of my lunch off my plate, and eating up all my french fries when he’s always the one who says, “No, don’t get me any fries. I won’t eat any. Too greasy. ” And asking for sips of whatever I’m drinking, ’cause, see, Hutch doesn’t “sip.” Give him a “sip” and he just tilts his head back and that long throat gets to working, and gulp, gulp, gulp, all you’re left with is Hutch spit. So I was laying into him about every annoying thing I can think of that relates to food, and Hutch was looking around the squad room, like he wasn’t too happy with all the attention we were getting.

“Starsk,” he said, and he was keeping his voice low, like that was supposed to make me lower mine. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

And I knew he was right. People were starting to look. But I was on a roll an’ I was not about to stop just ’cause he was feeling shy. I mean, he started it, right? “I s’pose you’ll put that on your precious list too! My partner makes a spectacle of himself!” And I started digging through the mess on my desk looking for my notepad ’cause I figured it was about time we got on equal footing.

“I got news for you, pal!” I told him, feeling real sure of myself. “Two can play this game. If you can make a list, so can I!” Which I knew, sounded real juvenile, but I really didn’t care. I found my notebook, but I couldn’t seem to find a pencil, and that’s when I made another mistake. I grabbed one of Hutch’s pencils out of his holder.

Hutch always has pencils. Bright yellow, perfect pencils. Sharpened to flawless points. Erasers barely worn. It’s weird.

Me? My pencils always look like they’ve been chewed on by a rat. Too short. No erasers left. Dull or broken points — and that’s when I can even find one.

So, I snatched one of those perfect pencils, and Hutch gave me his snooty look and I just knew what was going to be next on his list.

But what the hell, I was worrying about my list, so I started trying to decide what to write down first. I was thinking maybe I should start with, “Always has perfect pencils,” ’cause I was that ticked off, but that seemed kind of like sour grapes, so instead I put, “Eats my food” and then, “Throws trash in my car” and “Says bad things about my Torino.”

I wasn’t sure if those should really count, since I do the same things to Hutch. Seems like they ought to cancel each other out — Except that I knew Hutch was going to put them on his list, so it was only fair that I put them on mine, too.

I figured I was off to a pretty good start, but after those first three things, it seemed to get harder to think of anything. I mean, sure there are all kinds of things about Hutch that annoy the hell out of me — like him always blaming himself for things that aren’t really his fault — but that’s just Hutch, and if he didn’t do those things, then Hutch wouldn’t be Hutch. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that’s just how it is.

I looked over at Hutch and he was busy scribbling things in his own notebook.

“You makin’ your list?” I was trying not to sound too interested.

“Yep.” And that’s all he said, like he knew I was curious and he was determined to make me squirm.

So, I was sitting there trying to figure out how I could ask him how many things were on his list without looking like I really cared, and he was watching me, and I guess I started tapping my pencil. I don’t really remember, but suddenly he got this wicked smile and wrote something down in his notebook.

“What?” I knew I’d done something, but I couldn’t figure it out. And Hutch kept shifting around, so I couldn’t even get a good peek.

Real cool, he goes, “I hate it when you tap your pencil.”

Can you believe it?

“You put that on the list?”

“That’s right.” And he was proud of it, the putz!

I’m getting worried. I mean, if he was putting things like tapping pencils down, who knows what he had on that fucking list!

“So. Just how many things you got on that list?” I was trying to sound real casual, but I could tell Hutch wasn’t buying it. He was looking at me like he felt kind of sorry for me, and then he ran his pencil down the page, real slow like, counting to himself. “Twelve.”

Twelve! The turkey already had twelve things on his list! Twelve things about me that bothered him! And I was stuck on three! So I got to thinking maybe I was being too easy on him, and maybe I should have put down that bit about perfect pencils.

“So when so I get to see this list of yours?”

“Next Friday.”

Friday! That was almost a week away! I couldn’t decide if I should try pouting, or shouting. “Why so long?”

Hutch was smiling at me with that older and wiser look, so I knew I was about to hear some of that infamous Hutchinson wisdom. “Well, I figure one week is about all the time you’ll need to work through your entire repertoire of things that annoy me. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

“Oh yeah?” I was getting real hot under the collar, and it didn’t help that Hutch was having such a good time with all of it.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I just thought of another one. Using big words like ‘repertoire’ all’a time!” I was feeling pretty good, cause I had four things on my list and I figured I was making progress.

Hutch gave me a phony sympathetic look and said he was sorry — which was a lot of bull — and how he’d try to keep it to two syllable or less. And then he started spelling ‘repertoire’ for me, real slow, like I’m some kind of moron and he was just trying to be helpful, when really he was being an ass.

I yelled at him that I knew how to spell it, which I don’t, but I sure as hell wasn’t gonna tell him that, and besides, a dictionary don’t get smug.

Then I gave him back his pencil, putting it back in his pencil holder real careful like, so he’d be sure to notice.

“There! That makes eleven.”

I got him that time, but he was frowning at me like he didn’t understand what I was talking about, so I guessed I’d have to spell it out.

“That one about my takin’ your pencils all’a time.” I know he wrote that down somewhere on his list. “I put the pencil back, see? So you can scratch it out. That leaves eleven things on your list.”

Makes sense, right? But Hutch was giving me a look that let me know he saw it different. “It doesn’t work that way, Starsky.”

“What’dya mean it doesn’t work that way?” And I was thinking, since when does he get to make up all the rules?

“Starsk,” he goes, using that real patient, ‘watch me explain something to my dense partner’ tone I hate. “Putting my pencils back one time, does not make up for all the hundred of times you’ve borrowed my pencils, pens, stapler, tape and white-out without returning them.”

Well, if that’s how he was gonna be, I figured I’d keep the damn pencil! So I grabbed it back and told him so. I wanted to tell him a few other choice things, but Minnie had just walked into the squad room, and one thing my mother taught me was always to watch my language around women. So instead, I used his pencil to write one more thing on my list. Number five: “Being a self-righteous prick!”

It was raining. Hutch made a run for the Gulf service station restroom and left me sitting in the Torino watching raindrops slide down the glass. It was grey and wet, and I was feeling pretty low. I have to admit, after four days I was really beginning to hate the thing with the list. Maybe it had started out fun… maybe. I wasn’t even sure about that.

Four days, and it seemed like every time I turned around Hutch was adding yet another item to that damn list of his. Like borrowing money for the snack machine. I’ve been begging coins for the snack machines since during our Academy days. It’s practically a tradition! Hutch never seemed to mind before. Sure he gripes, but that’s just part of the game, least I thought it was… But now it was “on the list,” and I’ll be damned if I am ever gonna ask for another penny from him.

All I did was ask to borrow a dime. Can you believe it? One lousy dime and he says, “You don’t ‘borrow’. You take. Money is only ‘borrowed’ if you return it, which you don’t!”
I pointed out that I gave him change whenever he asked for it, but he was ready for that one too.

“Starsky, how often do I ask you for money for the candy machine?”

Score another one for Hutchinson.

And that bit about opening the top file drawer when he was crouched down and digging through the bottom drawer. If he’d had been more careful, he wouldn’t have straightened so fast and slammed his head into the bottom of my drawer. So maybe it had happened once or twice before, it wasn’t like I was doing it on purpose!

And snapping his ass with a wet towel in the locker room. That was supposed to be a joke for Christ’s sake!

Can you believe he even snapped at me for “always” handing him his coffee mug with the handle turned the wrong way so he has to turn it around to pick it up! Which is totally untrue and made me so mad I considered pouring the whole thing in his lap. I mean, seems to me he should have been thanking me for getting him coffee in the first place. I ain’t his servant! From then on, I decided, he could get his own coffee. So the next time he asked, I said no, and predictably he lay into me about how he gets coffee for me all’a time, and you’d think I could do him one little favor, seeing as I’m the one sitting next to the coffee machine. Etc. Etc.

I left the room to use the john, It was either that or the next day’s headlines were gonna read, “Homicide Detective Commits Homicide.”

I mean, I was really starting to feel like everything I did was being weighed and judged, and I was definitely coming out on the wanting end.

At first I tried keeping things even with my own list of “Hutchinson’s Annoying Habits,” but somehow I couldn’t seem to put much into it. So I finally just threw my list in the trash. There just isn’t that much about Hutch that really gets on my nerves. Or at least not that much I can’t live with. Sure Hutch drives me crazy. Sure he’s a stuck-up, smug, mule-headed, pain-in-the-ass jerk… but he’s also smart, charming, big-hearted, and a loyal best friend. I really wouldn’t want to change him, you know?

When Hutch came out of the service station restroom, I made sure his door was unlocked. Hutch gets annoyed if he has to wait too long for me to open his door. Of course, “too long” is relative, and his “too long” is a lot shorter than my “too long.” I figure it’s his own fault anyway. He’s the one who has taken to locking his door. Even worse, half the time he forgets he did. Okay, I’ll admit, the Torino has a problem with the doors staying shut — some kind of design flaw, I guess — but Hutch seems to have come to the conclusion that if he doesn’t keep his door locked it’s going to fly open some day in the middle of a chase and he’ll be thrown out onto the street. That doesn’t explain locking the doors when we’re not in the car, but Hutch is an orderly kind of guy. If he locks his door when he’s in the car, he’s going to lock his door when he’s not in the car. Besides, he says he can’t stand it when he shuts a door and it pops back open. The way I see it, if he didn’t lock the door he wouldn’t have to wait for me to unlock it, right? I’m hoping it’s just a phase. The first time a suspect gets away cause we gotta wait for Hutch to unlock his door, gonna be the last time he locks his door, guaranteed. However, for the moment he’s locking doors, and I didn’t figure leaving him standing in the rain would be a smart move, however tempting. He’d probably just get pissed and add it to his list. “My partner doesn’t unlock the car doors fast enough.”
When he got in the car he smelled like wet leather and that cheap, powdery, pink soap the put in bathrooms.

I grinned at him. “Wash your hands?”

He stuck his tongue out at me. He knew I was teasing him. Hutch always washes his hands. That’s why he likes that Gulf station. They always have soap. Mrs. Hutchinson must have enforced the clean hands rule with a bull whip. Hutch always washes his hands, and I always tease him about it. Come to think of it, I always wash my hands too, least when I’m with him. The one time I made the mistake of walking out of a stall and through the door without a visit to the sink, I had to endure a fifteen minute lecture about germs and unhygienic bathroom practices. That is about all any man can take.

“Feel better?” From the sounds he’d been making before we pulled into the station, we’d cut it pretty close.

“Yeah.” He was trying to flatten his hair into place. “Thought my bladder was going to burst.”

“Not on my seats!”

He was still working on the hair, checking himself out in the rear view mirror and not looking too happy. Hutch has real fine hair. Real soft and silky, but when gets damp, it kind of likes to stick up all over the place. Looks like the down on a baby chicken. You know, when they just hatch? Neumeyer’s Florist was just down the street when I was a kid, and they used to have baby rabbits and chicks in the window every Easter, so I know. I think it’s cute, the way it fluffs up, but I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I said so.

“What’za matter, Goldilocks? Don’t go for the drowned rat look?”

Hutch gave me a dirty look and I pulled into traffic. Don’t know why, but I decided to shake him up a bit, so I pulled this whipping U-turn that had the tires squealing, and okay, maybe I overdid it a bit. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, just keep him on his toes, but I guess I must have thrown him against the door ’cause he kind of yelped.

Come ta think of it, maybe that’s why he locks his door.

“Starsk!” he snapped. “We’re not on a call. You don’t have to drive like a maniac!”

I expected him to nag. I mean, that’s the fun of the whole thing, but he was rubbing at his elbow and I felt bad about that.

“Sorry.”

Didn’t seem to help. He was still glaring at me. “Why do you do things like that?”

What was I going to say? “Cause I get a kick out rattling your cage?” No. I don’t think so.

So I snapped back. “Got a problem with my drivin’? Put it on your precious list, why don’cha?”

“Your crazy driving? I already have.” He leaned back in the seat, trying to stretch his legs out under the dash. “Number five.”

I bit down on my tongue and said nothing.

***

As we passed the snack machine back at the station, Hutch reached out and grabbed me by the arm. “Hey, good-lookin’. How ’bout I buy you a candy bar? My treat.”

He was in a good mood — all teasing, blue eyes and that open grin I think of as his real smile, the one most people don’t get to see too often. See, with most people, Hutch either doesn’t smile or he smiles this perfect, charm-them-out-of-their-tree smile that’s a little too Hollywood for my taste. But my favorite smile is the one when his controls slip a little and he lets himself get kind of silly. I call it his sunshine smile, ’cause it’s like the sunshine breaking through clouds. Yeah, I know, kind of soapy and you’ll never get me to admit it in a court of law, but that’s how I think of it.
Anyway, I could tell he was feeling good and I guess I kind of resented it. I mean, this whole list thing was his idea and it was making me miserable. It just didn’t seem fair that he was having such a good time. So I walked away. “No thanks. Not hungry.”

“Starsk?” He came after me, and I could hear he was worried. He caught up just outside the door to the squad room and stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Since when do you turn down a candy bar?”

Okay, what I did wasn’t very nice, but all I could think was that I wanted to punish him for making me feel bad — about myself and about our friendship, so I shook off his hand. I could tell that hurt him. The light kind of went out behind his eyes, but I tried not to feel sorry about it. I mean, that’s what I wanted, right?

“I told you. I just ain’t hungry right now. I’m tired. I just wanna write up the Clark report and go home.”

He was just standing there, looking at me, sort of confused, sort of unhappy, like he wanted to believe me, but he knew something else was going on.

But I wasn’t going to tell him. I was steel inside, you know, and I wasn’t going to let him get to me. So I gave him this real patient look, letting him know he was wasting my time. “That okay with you?”

I was trying to be cool about the whole thing, but half an hour later, I really blew it. We we’re getting ready to call it a day, and Hutch asked if I wanted to grab some dinner together.

“Nah. Still got some of that pizza left in the fridge. You wanna come over?”

“No. I think pizza three nights in a row is pushing it. Carol gave me a recipe for lentil loaf. I’ve been meaning to try.”

Lentil loaf! Can you believe it? And they guy thinks my eating habits are weird. “If you have left-overs, don’t invite me.”

I got to the door first, so I held it open for Hutch. Then I gave him a shove just as he was going through. Just a little joke. Buddy-buddy stuff, you know? But Hutch tripped — probably over his own feet. I mean, you gotta admit, he’s a bit of a spaz sometimes — but he blamed me.

“Dammit, Starsky! I really hate when you do that.”

And, I don’t know. Something snapped I guess. I mean really snapped. SNAP! I sure heard it, and I was kind of surprised everyone in the building didn’t stop and look around wondering what that ominous sound was. Suddenly I was so angry I couldn’t even contain it, like I was stepping outside myself. And it was kind of frightening ’cause I knew I was way out of line, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I really wanted to break something, preferably my blond haired, blue eyed, pain-in-the-butt, putz of a partner.

I guess something must have shown on my face, ’cause when I took a step forward, Hutch took a step back, and the look in his eyes was strange. It was, I don’t know… not really frightened but something more than wary. Like he knew something was coming, but wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

And then I was on him.

“If you don’t like it…” I gave him a shove backwards, and it wasn’t a joke this time. Definitely not a buddy-buddy kind of shove. “Why don’t you…” I pushed him again. “Go write it…” Another hard shove. “On your goddamn…” Shove. “Fucking…” Shove. “Dafook…” Shove. “LIST!” And I would have pushed him again, except I had him all the way across the hall and up against the wall.

And the stupid chump didn’t even fight back. He just let me bully him, there in front of everybody, all the time looking at me like he was trying to decide what planet I’d dropped in from.

Guess I had enough control left to know I’d better get the hell out of there and away from him before I clocked him one. So I made myself let go of his jacket and back away.

“Goodnight!”

And I split. I don’t remember much of it. Leaving the building. Getting the Torino. I was shaking, and I had to sit in the car for a few minutes before I trusted myself to drive. Hutch didn’t come after me, but that was okay. I wouldn’t have known what to say to him. By the time I pulled into my drive, I was feeling pretty rotten about the whole thing.

I got a brew from the fridge, switched on the TV set, and flopped on the couch, but I can’t really remember what was on. Hawaii Five-O maybe. I don’t think I was really watching it, but I didn’t want to turn it off ’cause then the house would’ve been too quiet. I didn’t want to be alone with what was going on inside my head, ’cause my thoughts were pretty loud, you know? And I guess I hoped the TV would help drown them out a bit.

This whole list business had me confused. Maybe if we had talked things through earlier, I wouldn’t have jumped all over Hutch in the hallway. I mean, I hadn’t meant to lose it like I did. Temper tantrums are for kids, but I guess I’d just finally had enough.

It hurt. That was the root of the matter, I suppose. It hurt to know there were so many things about me that Hutch found lacking. I mean, your best friend’s supposed to be the one who has all the good things to say, right? And now everything just seemed messed up. What I thought of as being fun and spontaneous, Hutch considered irresponsible. And when I thought I was being playful, Hutch said I was childish. I guess I felt kind of betrayed.
I mean, what does it really matter if I bend my paper clips out of shape? And so what if I hum to myself when I’m writing reports? So what if I get my mouth on the spout at the water fountain? So what…

I must have been pretty deep in that self-pity pit, cause when the knocking at my door registered, Barnaby Jones was on, and my beer had gone warm and flat. Needless to say, I was really feeling pretty sorry for myself about then, so I almost ignored the door. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for company, or more to the point, company probably wasn’t in the mood for me. But they knocked again, so I drug myself over to the door and took a peek out the little peep window. Found myself staring into a familiar pair of blue eyes.

Hutch.

I suppose I could have shut the window and pretended he wasn’t there, but I figured I might as well get it over with, whatever it was going to be. I opened the door.

For a minute we just kind of stood there sizing each other up. Hutch had his hands shoved way down in his pockets and this look on his face like he wasn’t sure if I was gonna invite him in or kick him down the steps, and maybe I wasn’t too sure either.

It was starting to get a little silly, the two of us just standing there. One of us had to say something. Maybe Hutch was braver, or maybe he just figured if he said something first it would keep me from being able to come up with some really nasty comment. Anyway, he asked if he could come in, and he said it real soft and worried like. His eyes were all little-boy-lost and his mouth was turned down around the edges, so I knew he’d been kicking himself pretty hard.

And suddenly I wasn’t mad at all, you know? I just felt really close to him. I never have been able to resist the guy. I mean, I’d give him just about anything. Well, anything short of my car keys.

“Sure you can come in.” I stood to the side and made a grand sweeping gesture of welcome. “I ain’t gonna bite.”

Some of the gloom lifted and I think he almost smiled as he stepped over the threshold. “You sure about that?”

“For now, but I ain’t saying I won’t change my mind.” I offered him a beer.
“Yeah. That’d be great.”

I snagged a couple of Schlitz outta the refrigerator and handed him one. He’d snapped off the TV and was sitting on the arm of my armchair. I took the couch.

“So?” The ball was in his court. I wasn’t gonna say a word till I knew where he was coming from. I mean, wanting a cold brew might have been reason enough for Hutch to drop by on any other night, but not tonight. I suppose I could have apologized for what happened in the hall, but I was still feeling a little ticked off, and I didn’t want to say I was sorry when I didn’t really mean it. Hutch would hear the lie. I waited.

“So.” Hutch was looking at the beer in his hands, running a thumb up and down the side of the bottle. I watched the thumb. It was easier than watching his face.

“We have to talk, partner.”

I agreed with that. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

“It’s really got you upset, doesn’t it?”

I decided to play dumb. I mean, I wanted to make sure we were both talking about the same thing. “What?”

“This list thing.”

I kind of fiddled around with the couch cushions. “What list?”

“Starsk, don’t… Come on.” I could tell by the edge to Hutch’s voice that he was getting exasperated. “We both know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah? So? What about it?”

I was getting to him. He started rubbing his free hand up and down his thigh like he does when he’s trying to talk about something that makes him uncomfortable. I started watching his hand.

“You’re not making this any easier.”

I wasn’t gonna give an inch. Hell, he got us into this mess, I figured he could lead the way out. “Should I?”

Hutch kind of snorted, like he wanted to laugh but things were too heavy, you know? “No. No, you shouldn’t, but I was kind of hoping you would.” Then he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees looking at me. This time I risked looking him in the face, and his eyes were so steady and clear, I couldn’t turn away.

“It was a stupid idea, Starsk.” He smiled a little, but it was a bitter smile, the kind he liked to save for himself. “Another in a long line of Hutchinson screw-ups.”

I relaxed a little. This territory was familiar. I have a lot of experience in dealing with the Hutchinson brand of guilt. Now, I happen to believe a little, healthy guilt is good for the soul — what can I say — I had a Jewish mother. But Hutch will flog that particular horse to death, so you gotta be careful not to indulge him too much.

You see, for a guy who always seems so sure of himself, my partner’s got a lot of insecurities. Most people never realize it, but that confident exterior hides some pretty shaky groundwork. A lot of it has to do with the “Hutchinson Upbringing,” but I really don’t want to get into that here. Let’s just say, if I ever do meet his parents face to face, what I have to say would probably peel the polish right off Mrs. Hutchinson’s nails.

I knew Hutch was trying to tell me he was sorry, but for some reason, he finds it real difficult to say those two words. Oh, he’ll show you and kind of beat around the bush about it, but to come out and actually say, “I’m sorry…” — don’t count on it. Anyway, I figured that was why he had come over, and if I didn’t help him along, we might be hashing this out all night, so I eased up a bit.

“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t one of your greatest ideas, but I shouldn’t take it so serious. It was just a joke.”

Hutch winced and I knew I’d poked a soft spot. “No. It wasn’t.”

Ooops. Okay, so now I knew where we were going. I mean, Hutch could have laughed and agreed, and maybe we could have just tried to forget the whole thing… maybe. Except that we both knew it wasn’t a joke, and the fact that Hutch was admitting it meant we were really gonna get into some serious baring of souls here, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he was gonna say. Either way, I needed another beer.

“Wanna ‘nother beer?” I popped off the couch and headed for the kitchen.

“Ah… no thanks. I haven’t finished this one.” He followed me into the kitchen, kind of tailing me like a quiet shadow. “Starsk…” He was stuck again, and the heaviness in the air was making me feel like running or crying. I couldn’t decide which, but the kitchen seemed to be shrinking, so I made for the living room again and appropriated the armchair.

“Starsky. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t a joke. I wish I could say it was, but I really meant it.”

Ouch. Okay, so I knew he’d been serious about the whole thing, but hearing him say it was like getting punched in the gut.

He was playing with the beer bottle in his hands, not really looking at me, but that was alright ’cause I wasn’t really looking at him either.

“I guess I was thinking I could help you break some bad habits. Improve yourself or something.” He looked kind of embarrassed. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. In retrospect, I guess it was pretty lame.”

Lame is not the word I would have used, but I didn’t think he’d really appreciate the descriptive adjectives that were in the front of my mind at that moment.

“I couldda told you that.”

He smiled at me, and it was his soft, ‘I really like you sometimes,’ smile that always makes me feel like I just caught the brass ring on the merry-go-round. “I think you tried. Several times. I just wasn’t listening.”

I shrugged. Hell, it’s easy to be gracious when you’ve got the superior position. “So what made you change your mind?”

“Well, you did really. And I know you’re going to think it was this afternoon, but it wasn’t that. I mean when you blew up it got me thinking, sure, but that was more a confirmation than anything. I knew what was wrong by then.”

I was trying very hard not to show how I was hanging on every word. “Yeah? And what’dja figure out, Oh Wise One?”

Hutch started pacing, shoulders hunched, hands in his jacket pockets, back and forth across my living room. “I’ve been watching you all week, and I know you’ve been trying not to do anything that would set me off. Not one comment about my car. Nothing about the food I’ve been eating. You’ve kept your desk immaculate. Put all my phone messages right where I can find them. Haven’t asked to borrow any money. Haven’t been late once all week. You’ve put all the files back where they belong. Haven’t tried a single wastebasket drop shot. Hell, you’ve even been driving like we’ve got a priceless set of crystal in the back seat!”

“Have not!” I protested. It wouldn’t do to have him get carried away.

“The point is, I know why you’ve been doing it, and it’s not because you’ve been trying to improve yourself.”

He paused for a moment, and I almost sighed in relief. I mean, all that pacing back and forth was not only wearing the polish off my floors, it was probably giving me neck strain keeping an eye on him.

“Let’s face it, Starsk. You’ve just been trying to keep off my list.”

It took him all week to figure that out? He was slipping.

“But even by some miracle, you were doing it because you wanted to better yourself, I don’t think I’d feel very good about it.”

What? I sat up straighter in the chair. For the first time, Hutch was saying something that I didn’t find obvious. “Wait. I thought that was the whole point. Me recognizing my faults and overcoming them on my journey towards self-actualization.'”

Hutch looked like he’d just swallowed something vile. “Oh God. Did I really say that?”

“That and several variations on the theme.” I grinned, trying to let him know it was okay. “The problem with pop psychology as a hobby, Hutch, is that it tends to alienate y’friends.”

He was smiling at me. “Are you alienated?”

“No. That sounds a little too respectable for what I’m feeling. I’m just plain pissed.”

“I see.”

“Hutch.” I was still missing part of the picture. “I don’t understand. If self-improvement wasn’t the point, what was? Were you really just trying to make me feel bad about myself?” I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t believe that.

“Hell no!” Hutch was obviously alarmed by my apparent confusion. “I never meant to hurt you. Really. I know that I did, but that wasn’t what I intended. Sure I wanted you to become more aware of your… ah… behavior. Maybe try and fix a few things. But I doubt, in the beginning, my motives were even that noble. I just wanted you to stop doing things that bugged me, that’s all. If you learned something in the process, that was great, but that wasn’t the original intent.”

I still felt a little like I had all the pieces of the puzzle in front of me, but that they just weren’t fitting together.

“But you said yourself, I stopped doing a lot of the things you find annoying. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes. But not at the price you were paying. I mean, sure, the first time you actually returned my liquid paper after you used it, or when you let us ride all the way to the twenty-fifth floor at that hotel without pressing any elevator buttons in between, I felt like I was winning something, but after a while…” He trailed off and the look on his face was suddenly pained, like something was really hurting deep inside.

“What?”

He sighed, and it was like I could hear some of the pain escaping. “I missed you.”

Now, I was really confused. “Missed me? But Hutch, I wasn’t…”

“I know.” He finally alighted on the edge of the armchair, looking down at me like he was trying to commit my face to memory. “It wasn’t that I missed you so much as I missed all the things that make you you. All those things you do that annoy me? You know? Well, when you stopped doing them, I found out I missed them. It was like you weren’t you anymore.” He shook his head. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but…”

I couldn’t help laughing, remembering all the trouble I’d had trying to come up with a list of things that annoyed me about Hutch. “Hutch. It makes perfect sense to me.” I reached up and tugged on his jacket. “You’re just sayin’ you’re smitten!”

He actually blushed. “Starsk…”

“It’s okay, partner.” I pretended to zip my lips. “They’ll never hear it from me.”

He sighed and gave the back of my neck a squeeze. “Idiot.”

“Yeah. Well don’t forget who’s brilliant idea the list was.”

“Oh! Speaking of the list…” He reached in a pocket and pulled out a couple dog-eared pieces of paper. “I brought it over. I thought you might want to take a look at it.”

Have you ever been having a conversation with someone that you thought was going real well, and then they suddenly said something that made you realize you weren’t even speaking the same language? I couldn’t believe it! After everything we’d said that afternoon, the turkey really thought I’d want to look at a list of things he’d decided were wrong with me?

“You’re kidding!”

“No.” He held out the list. “Here. I think you might find it interesting.”

I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.

Remember Lot’s wife? The one who was turned into a pillar of salt ’cause she looked back over her shoulder at Sodom and Gomorrah when she was warned not to? She just had to see. Human nature, I guess.

I took the list.

Not a book, no, but a fairly long list in that familiar, neat print. I couldn’t help skimming to the end to see just how many of my bad habits had made the grade. Fifty-two. The asshole had managed to come up with fifty-two annoying things to put on his list. So there it was, The Fifty-Two Things My Partner does That Drive Me Crazy. Shit. He’d even needed two pages for the whole thing.

I was kind of skimming the list, not really seeing it, you know? I couldn’t seem to focus real well. There were few things crossed out here and there, like on second thought he’d decided they weren’t so bad after all, but for the most part, it was pretty much what I expected.

Number five: “He drives like a maniac.”

Number nine: “He takes my pencils.” Yep. Knew that was in there somewhere.

Number thirty-three: “He’s always late with his part of the paperwork.”

Number forty-six: “He misuses the English language.” Oh, La Te Da!

But a few were surprises. Like number sixteen: “He leaves smelly socks in his locker.” What the hell does he care what I’ve got in my locker?

Number twenty-two: “He calls me ‘blondie’.” Ha! I could think of a lot of less flattering things to call him from then on.

Number fifty-one: “He never says ‘excuse me’ when he burps.” Well, EXCUUUUSE ME!

The fifty-two basic flaws in my character, according to Kenneth “Mr. Perfect” Hutchinson.

“Maybe you shouldda tried for a list of things you actually like about me. Wouldda used less ink.” I tried to sound like I didn’t give a shit, you know, but I guess he wasn’t buying it.

“Ah Starsk… Don’t.” The S.O.B. was actually trying to wrap an arm around my shoulders. The last thing I wanted from him was a hug right then, and I made to pull away, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“Wait. Read the title. Did you read the title?”

Title? What was he going on about? Couldn’t he see I was hurting?

His voice was close in my ear. Very soft. Very gentle. I wanted to crawl in his pocket. “Read the title, Starsky.”

“‘kay.” It was all I could get out past the golf ball I seemed to have swallowed. I’d read the damn title, and then maybe he’d go away and leave me alone.

There, at the top, scrawled across the page in capitals. “THINGS MY PARTNER DOES THAT DRIVE ME CRAZY…” Only, that’s not what it said. I mean, that was what it used to say, but that part had been scratched out and below was a second title. “FIFTY-TWO REASONS I LOVE MY PARTNER.”

Ah, damn. I think my heart went all soft and sweet like melting taffy. Nobody can get to me the way Hutch can. If I hadn’t already been in love with him, I would have fallen for him right then.

But I didn’t say anything. I’ve got this thing about ‘soapy scenes’. Hutch understands. He didn’t say anything either, but that’s okay. He didn’t have to. He just patted me on the arm and stood up.

“Hey. I could really use that second beer now.”

I looked up at him, all shinning gold and white and baby blue — and kind of blurry around the edges.

I couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

Yeah. Sure. Anything, babe.

Guess I’m a little smitten myself.

We’ll be okay.