Pizza

Starsky and Hutch face their differences over a New York style pizza.

Originally written for the 2013 Cabrillo Con zine.

Special thanks to Keri, who always inspires; Rosemary, without whom this story might never have ended; and St. Anne…who always eats two slices at a time with a knife and fork.

Starsky opened the pizza box lid and inhaled. Oh, yeah. This was a good one. He could smell the garlic in the sauce, rich and pungent, mixed with just enough oregano. New York style, of course. Made in California by necessity, but Toni’s pizza chef had learned his craft in Brooklyn, so it was as close to home as Starsky was likely to get in Bay City. He could tell just by looking at it that it had the perfect balance of cheese and sauce, and that the crust was thin but not overcooked. Yes, this was a good one.

When they ordered from places other than Toni’s, Starsky was willing to pile on the toppings. Lots of meat and onions could distract him from spongy crusts or the cracker thin excuses some places had for pizza dough. But when he ordered from Toni’s, he wanted the real thing–a plain cheese pizza, New York style. A piece of home. A little slice of heaven flavored with garlic. He inhaled again.

“Are you going to serve that or make love to it?” Hutch complained, dropping silverware on the table with a clatter. “We haven’t eaten a thing since noon. I’m famished!”

Starsky glanced at his partner with disdain. “You Philistine! You should take a moment to appreciate a work of art like this!”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Starsky. It’s a pizza. Just like the hundreds of pizzas we’ve had before it. Just like we’ve had twice this week already, thanks to this deranged schedule Dobey’s got us on. I’m beginning to think he’s trying to kill us. And if he is, it’s your fault for that last prank you pulled.”

“I pulled?” Starsky blinked. “It was your idea!”

“But your execution. And you’re the one who got caught. If you aren’t going to take a piece of that thing and start eating–”

“Okay, okay,” Starsky conceded, realizing Hutch’s hunger was sharpening his peevish mood. Besides, what would a boy from Duluth know about pizza, anyway? They probably put corn on it where he comes from. He selected what he decided was the primo slice and stepped out of Hutch’s way before he got run over.

Hutch must be starving, Starsky thought, as he watched his partner pick up two pieces of pie at once and plop them on his plate.

Starsky sat at Hutch’s table, took a refreshing sip of his ice-cold beer, and took another whiff of his glistening slice. The olive oil nestled among the cheese in droplets as if beckoning him. Carefully, so the cheese wouldn’t ooze out and drip off, Starsky folded his piece in half, preparing to lift it to his mouth. He was being cautious. They’d picked up the pie as they got off duty, just as it was coming out of the oven. If he bit into it too quickly, he ran the risk of burning that sensitive part of his mouth right behind his front teeth. Distracted, he wondered what that part of his mouth was called.

As he contemplated that, Hutch put his plate with the two pieces of pizza on the table as he took his seat across from Starsky. Picking up his cutlery, Hutch proceeded to methodically slice both pieces into manageable bites.

Starsky frowned. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Hutch said, not looking at him. Finished dividing the pie into many smaller parts, Hutch speared a piece and shoved it into his mouth, then nearly spit it out, holding it between his teeth and grimacing.

“Slow down, bronco,” Starsky said. “It’s really hot!”

Hutch gave him a look that clearly said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Did you burn it?” Starsky asked as he cautiously took a bite of his own folded slice. Ah, just the right temperature. The flavors bloomed in his mouth, delivering everything the aroma of the pizza promised.

“Burn wha’?” Hutch mumbled, chewing gingerly, then washing down the hot mouthful with a slug of his beer.

“That little thingy behind your front teeth. Whatever it’s called. I hate burning that thing, and pizza’s the most efficient way to really scald that whatever-it-is. What’s it called, anyway?” He chewed slowly, savoring the texture of the crust and the combined sensations of heat, the acidity of the sauce, and the mellow bite of garlic. Cold beer was the perfect accompaniment.

Hutch, spearing his second mouthful more cautiously, said grumpily, “Why would you think I’d know that?”

“You do, don’t’cha?”

Hutch looked a little abashed. “Well….”

“So, what’s it called, anyway? I’d like to know what I’m mangling every third pizza or so.”

“Every third?”

“About. When I’m so hungry I can’t wait. Like you are tonight. So what’s it called?”

“It’s the incisive papilla. It’s at the end of the palatine raphe, the seam that joins the two halves of the hard palate together–”

“Okay, that was more than I needed to know. Decisive–”

“Incisive papilla. Will knowing its name make it hurt any less?”

“Probably not. But the next time I do it I can yell, ‘Ow! I just burned the hell out of my derisive puppy’.” He waggled his eyebrows as he deliberately mispronounced the anatomical feature, hoping to make Hutch laugh.

It worked. Hutch’s face relaxed, the edges of his mouth turning up. “Take it easy on that derisive puppy, will ya? You’ve only got the one.” He forked another piece, blew on it quickly, then ate it.

“That’s kinda interesting, too, when you think about it.” Starsky took another cautious bite, enjoying this one just as much as the first as he slowly chewed the hot mouthful.

There was a pause while Hutch finished the piece he was eating and finally said, “I know I’m going to regret this, but…what’s interesting?”

Starsky took his time swallowing just to make sure he had Hutch’s complete attention. “The fact that we’ve only got one of these puppies in the first place. I mean, we’ve got two arms, two legs, two ears–”

“But only one head, one mouth, one tongue,” Hutch interrupted.

Starsky laughed ruefully. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like plenty of the people we meet speak with two tongues.”

“You mean with ‘forked tongue,’ Kemosabe?” Hutch asked. “Like Willy the Weasel this afternoon?”

Starsky tossed the remains of his gnawed pizza crust back in the box as he helped himself to another slice. “You don’t mean to imply that you doubt Willy’s version of the events that took place at Rudy’s Discount Emporium this afternoon? A fine, upstanding citizen like Willy?”

Hutch snorted in response. “A fine, upstanding citizen with eleven priors and a B and E track record going back to the Stone Age.”

“In Willy’s case, it’s more like the ‘stoned age’,” Starsky agreed. “I think you’re just mad at him because you couldn’t get him to admit that he used a gun in the robbery or where he’d hid it until I leaned on him a little.”

Hutch stared at him. “You leaned on him, all right. You leaned directly over him, pinning him to the chair where he couldn’t escape.”

“I never laid a hand on him, Officer!”

“You didn’t have to!” Hutch sputtered. “You overslept so late this morning, you were still asleep when I showed up, so you jumped out of bed, grabbed the same clothes you’ve been wearing for the last three days, skipped showering–”

“You’re the one who said I didn’t have time, that Dobey was screaming for us to get to the scene.”

“And then, after a long hot day on the streets, after chasing Willy three blocks, you tackled him right into a garbage pile. I could barely stand sitting next to you in the car!”

“We were in your car, buddy, so how you could tell my manly aroma, even combined with a little dumpster delight, from your car’s regular essence of phew is a mystery.”

“Trust me, I can tell! So, when you say you leaned on him, you’re completely ignoring the effect your body odor had on the poor man. He would’ve confessed to anything: sinking the Andrea Doria, losing Amelia Earhart, burying Jimmy Hoffa–”

“But he didn’t,” Starsky interrupted smugly. “He admitted to using a gun in the robbery and told us where he’d hid it. All because I leaned on him.”

“Over him.”

“Whatever. He spilled his guts. And the gun was right where he told us. It’ll hold up in court and keep him off the streets for a long time.” Starsky knew he was smirking. “I don’t know why you’re mad about that.”

Hutch hesitated as though reluctant to speak his mind. “I’m not mad. It’s just….”

Starsky put the slice he was eating back on his plate. He grew concerned. It wasn’t like Hutch to have trouble telling Starsky what was on his mind. If their partnership was built on anything, it was on their total honesty with each other. “It’s just what?”

“It’s just…I think if you wanted to change the way we work together, you should have discussed it with me first, that’s all.” Hutch stared at the two remaining bites of his precisely cut pizza as if he couldn’t meet Starsky’s eyes.

“Change the way we work? What are you talking about?”

“We’ve always agreed on how to handle the whole ‘good cop/bad cop’ thing,” Hutch said softly. “Sometimes I’m the good cop; sometimes you’re the good cop. Sometimes we’re both the bad cop.”

“So, what’s changed? We handled this one the same way.”

Hutch shook his head regretfully. “No, we didn’t. This time, you decided to go full bore ‘good cop/smelly cop’ without even telling me.”

Starsky rolled his eyes as Hutch guffawed at his own humor. “Keep your day job, boy,” Starsky warned, picking up his slice again. “You’re never gonna make it in stand-up.”

“I’m never gonna last another day in that car with you if you don’t improve your personal hygiene,” Hutch insisted.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? I stood close enough to Dobey to make him pale. Why else do you think he let us off for the night and told us to come in late in the morning? Besides, we’re takin’ my car tomorrow. I’d never wear these clothes in my car!”

Hutch shook his head. “Of course, you wouldn’t.” He stood, dropped his neatly cut pizza crust back in the box, and took another two slices back to his plate. Picking up his knife and fork, he was just about to cut into the new pieces when Starsky stopped him.

“You never answered me before,” Starsky said.

“About what?”

“I asked why you do that, why you cut up your pizza slices so neatly.”

“To make them easier to eat,” Hutch said matter-of-factly.

“How is that easier? First, you need a knife and fork–which you will then have to wash. Then you have to cut the slice into all those jigsaw pieces. Then you have to lift each widdle piece to your mouth. How is that easier than just picking up the whole slice, folding it, and taking a bite?”

Hutch sighed, clearly exasperated. “Okay, maybe it’s not easier. But it’s more civilized. More refined. Any barbarian can pick up food with his fingers. We invented silverware so we could keep our hands clean. And look! Your folded pizza has dripped oil all over your plate and your hand. It’s messy.”

Starsky rolled his eyes as he wiped the pizza oil off his hand. “Some food is just meant to be eaten with your fingers. Pizza. Corn on the cob. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Fried chicken.”

“I use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken,” Hutch reminded him.

“Picnics must’ve been a whole lot of fun at your house.”

“We thought so,” Hutch said. “Everyone would bring their homemade hot dishes–what they call casseroles out here–and different kinds of potato salads and coleslaws, baked beans, deviled eggs, and of course, the ever popular Ambrosia salad–none of which can be eaten with fingers. At least, not by any sensible human being. How about you? Do they even have picnics in Brooklyn?”

“Of course, we had picnics!” Starsky said indignantly. “Out in the park. Or on the beach. Coney Island. Rockaway. And while we always had potato salad and coleslaw, we usually didn’t have casseroles. Mostly we had hot dogs, hamburgers, barbecued chicken, and corn on the cob. At Coney Island, we’d also have raw clams and fried shrimp–most of which we could eat very easily with our own two hands.”

“Now I see where this bad habit got its start,” Hutch said, as he poised his knife and fork over the current slice on his plate.

“Bad habit! Listen, buddy, if you went into a Brooklyn pizza parlor and even asked for a knife and fork to carve up your pizza, they’d run you outta town. The only person in New York I ever met who ate pizza like you do was a girl I went out with once who was scared to mess up her dress. I never went out with her again.”

“You are not going to sit there and try to turn this into some kind of manliness challenge,” Hutch said, irritated.

Starsky shrugged as he folded his piece and took a bite. “If the shoe fits, buddy…” he said around a mouthful of food.

Hutch closed his eyes and looked like he was counting to ten. When he opened them again, he said, “Fine. Okay. If it will make you happy and end this ridiculous conversation….” He painstakingly folded his uncut piece and very carefully lifted it to his mouth and took a serious bite, then put it down.

Starsky couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t drip a single drop of olive oil on his plate, his hand, or get any on his fingers. Only Hutch could eat pizza so daintily and still look all-man.

He was so intent on watching Hutch take his second, equally careful and precise bite, he wasn’t paying any attention to the slice he was holding aloft. It slowly collapsed, allowing the cheese and sauce, which had collected in a pool in the folded slice, slide off right onto his lap.

“Ow!” he yelled, dropping the remains of the piece on his plate as he leaped to his feet and started dancing from foot to foot, trying to dislodge the wad of sticky cheese clinging to the crotch of his denim pants. “Ow! OW! It’s still hot!”

Instantly, Hutch came to his partner’s assistance. Grabbing Starsky roughly by the shoulder, he anchored him in place, then used his fork to pry the heavy wad of hot cheese off his partner’s pants.

Starsky, desperately trying to pull his skin-tight jeans away from the most sensitive part of his body, wasn’t having much luck. The oil and sauce that still clung to the fabric was hot enough to scald.

Without hesitation, Hutch grabbed Starsky’s nearly full bottle of beer and used it to douse the hot spot.

“Hey, THAT’S COLD!” Starsky yelled, but then realized the pain from the hot cheese had stopped abruptly.

“You know, there are days, Starsky,” Hutch said dryly, “when you can be very hard to please.”

Starsky stared in consternation at his cheese-and-beer soaked pants.

“It’s a good thing I eat pizza with a knife and fork,” Hutch said calmly, “or you might have burned off something a whole lot larger–and much more important to you–than your incisive papilla.”

Starsky nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his cold, wet pants. “That was quick thinking, Hutch. Thanks, buddy. Trust me, I’ll never hassle you over the way you eat pizza again. I might even try it myself. I still have a change of clothes here, don’t I? I can’t get in the Torino like this.”

“Yeah, you do. Why don’t you hit the shower and I’ll go get–”

The phone rang.

The two detectives looked at each other.

Hesitantly, Hutch lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

Starsky could tell by the look on Hutch’s face that it was Dobey on the other end.

“But, Captain, we’ve been working nearly round the clock for– But you gave us the night–”

Starsky could hear Dobey’s volume climbing from where he stood, and he watched Hutch slowly yield to the inevitable.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Twenty minutes, sir.”

Starsky’s eyes widened as Hutch hung up. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish. We pulled a double homicide halfway across town. A messy one,” Hutch said. “You’ve got three minutes to shower and change.”

“But, but….”

“Move it, Starsk. It sounds like an all-nighter, and Dobey’s on the warpath. We’ll need the Torino. I’m almost out of gas. I’ll find your change of clothes.”

“Okay, okay.” Starsky started shuffling toward Hutch’s bathroom. “Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah?” Hutch was coming from the closet with Starsky’s extra clothes.

“Let’s plan on having Chinese next time, okay?”

~end~