The Big 4-Oh

“What if we hadn’t been born the same year?” and other interesting questions.

A person ought to develop immunity after such long and repeated exposure, Hutch thought, rubbing his forehead. But, apparently, there was no known defense against Starsky-logic.

“Hutch, what if you and I hadn’t been born the same year?”

Starsky had posited this question during lunch at a diner that scarily promised “Home Cooking, Just Like Mom Used to Make!”

Starsky had dragged him to so enough obscure eateries over the years that Hutch had developed a strategy to cope, which was much easier than saying no to Starsky. He always ordered the most bland and innocuous thing on the menu. Not that he wasn’t willing to experiment under different circumstances but he had a thing about indigestion. Not to mention food poisoning.

So, he was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat, with a glass of milk when he was asked this particular question. Luckily, peanut butter made it impossible to answer immediately, so Starsky answered his own question.

“I bet we’d never have met at the academy, for one thing.”

Finally able to speak after finishing his milk, Hutch replied nonchalantly, “Maybe, maybe not.” It was good not to encourage Starsky in a “what-if” mood, unless he wanted to hear stories about girls named Alice who weighed 200 lbs. in the sixth grade.

Starsky had paused to dig into his meatloaf and mashed potatoes with extra gravy. Hutch always wondered if Starsky was on some sort of Holy Grail quest to find palatable meatloaf in a diner. Strange, because Starsky made the best meatloaf Hutch had ever eaten.

Hutch was a fellow who liked his meatloaf made by loving and trusted hands. God only knew what a person could conceal in meatloaf.

He was interrupted from that disturbing line of thought by Starsky’s next question.

“So, whaddya think of turning the big 4-Oh tomorrow?”

“You tell me, Starsk, you’ve been 4-Ohing for a few months now.”

Starsky appeared to consider, chewing slowly and thoughtfully for a few beats.

“It’s all right, I guess. It’s just that I thought maybe…” he trailed off without finishing, making a relief map out of the pile of mashed potatoes still on his plate.

“What?” Hutch prompted as he pushed aside the remnants of his sandwich. This was different; Starsky was rarely broody, and not overly introspective. It was one of Starsky’s best traits, in the opinion of Hutch, who disliked his own tendencies to be so.

“Oh, you know.” Starsky added helpfully. He gave a dismissive wave with his fork. “It’s nuthin’ you need to worry your blond head about.”

Setting down the fork, he pushed his half-eaten meal aside and pulled the napkin from where it was tucked into his shirt and tossed it onto the table with a few bills.

“Let’s go, meatloaf isn’t as good as I remembered,” he muttered as he strode toward the door.

Hutch silently complied, adding another bill to the pile as he followed Starsky to the car.

Something was stuck in Starsky’s craw, as his granddad used to say. Hutch slid on his sunglasses as he walked out into the late August heat.

Starsky was waiting in the car with his usual impatience as Hutch climbed in shotgun. Starsky still usually drove.

“And he thinks I’m a control freak,” Hutch thought briefly as he noted the clenched jaw and white knuckles on the wheel.

“Not like you to lose your appetite,” Hutch remarked. Starsky turned the key and as soon as the engine caught, he cranked up the air conditioning.

“I can’t believe I thought this place had great meatloaf.”

“You make great meatloaf.”

“Yeah, I’ll make someone a great wife someday.”

“Starsk?”

“Huh?”

“Did your mom call again?”

Starsky peered at Hutch over the top of his sunglasses. “Yeah.” He exhaled noisily and his jaw stopped clenching.

“Hey, you don’t expect her to give up without a fight, do you?”

Starsky sighed again. “She keeps actin’ like this thing between us is just a phase or something, like when I used to suck my thumb. As if I’ll just get over it someday and go find myself a nice Jewish girl.”

“Maybe it is…a phase, I mean.” Hutch grinned.

“You’re not funny, Blondie.” Starsky growled. “Let me take care of the comedy in this relationship. You just sit there and look pretty.”

Hutch shook his head, grinning even wider. “Well, you could always look up one of my old girlfriends. I hear Diana Harmon is still in Cabrillo.”

“Crazy bastard.” Starsky muttered, but he was smiling now.

“Nah, just stubborn and stupid. I wasted all those years looking for the perfect woman when I already had the perfect man.”

Starsky full out grinned. “I’m not perfect. I have weak ankles, one and a half lungs and I snore.”

Hutch laughed. “But, you make great meatloaf.”

“And I’m great in the sack.” Starsky added, unselfconsciously.

“Don’t forget modest.” Hutch said dryly, still chuckling.

“Well, if I don’t blow my own horn, who will?”

“Me.” Hutch said in a growl that went straight to Starsky’s horn.

“You sure you can handle that, old man?”