I Am Man

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The partners have a Sunday morning discussion.

 

First published in the 2004 SHareCon zine.

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“Hey, Starsk, guess what?”

“You’re finally done with the paper and now I can read the sports?” Starsky quipped, running a crumpled napkin near Hutch’s cereal bowl to capture some careless drops of milk.

“No. I mean, yes, you can have the sports, which I told you thirty minutes ago-”

“I don’t like my paper sectioned out,” Starsky interrupted, “which you also know, so how come you get it first every Sunday-?”

“Do you want to hear my ‘guess what,’ or what?”

“What?”

“Huh?”

With infinite patience and a quick transfer of all of the newspaper from Hutch’s hands, Starsky replied, “Yeah, I wanna know your ‘guess what.'”

“Helen Reddy is coming to town,” Hutch pronounced, with enough happiness in his tone to imply he had arranged the visit personally for both their pleasure.

“And I care about this, why?”

“Because she’s a terrific singer!” Hutch responded as if he couldn’t hear the lack of enthusiasm in his partner’s voice. “I think I still have one of her albums around here somewhere.”

Starsky narrowed a pair of dubious eyes. “Isn’t she the chick who sang that ball-bustin’ song?”

“What ‘ball-busting song’?” Hutch asked indignantly.

“You know the one, ‘I Am Woman.’ I didn’t like that song much, especially the part where she sang, ‘I been down there on the floor and no man’s gonna keep me there no more.’ I never kept any woman on the floor when I was keeping women.”

“Keeping women?” Hutch’s chin dropped to his chest while he shook his head. “And those were not the lyrics.”

“They were somethin’ like that, and what about the roaring part? ‘I am woman hear me roar.’ Roar about what?”

“It was symbolic.”

“Symbolic for what?”

“For the female voice needing an outlet for equal opportunities and treatment in the workplace, for one.”

“Ah, ha! You know the song I mean, then, and you gotta admit it was a ball-buster.”

“It was almost an anthem to the entire women’s movement, Starsky, a very important social cause.”

“Oh, no, you’re not gonna make me talk about social causes on my Sunday off, are ya? And for the record, I always treated women with respect at the station. Look at Minnie, she loves me!”

“Not always, you didn’t.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You used to slap their asses,” Hutch said in a tone that brooked no argument, getting up from the table and wandering over to his knee-high stack of record albums next to the stereo.

“So did you!” Starsky replied with confidence. “Maybe not as much, but you did.”

“Name a time,” Hutch challenged, now sitting cross-legged on the floor in order to search through his albums more easily.

“There was that one time…” He narrowed his eyes again, and his brow wrinkled in concentration.

“I’m waiting.”

“Yeah, well…” Starsky slipped into an obvious segue. “…that was way before we had the department-mandated sensitivity training and I learned I was being a Neanderthal. Who knew? Plus, it was also way before half the department was female.”

“Half the department is not female, Starsk.”

“Gettin’ there.”

“Got a ways to go for that. Maybe by the nineties-”

“You’re missing my point. I haven’t slapped any ass in years, ‘cept for yours, and you like it.”

Starsky scored a major point when Hutch said nothing, but developed an interesting pink stain on his ears and neck.

“Don’tcha?” he continued. “Like last night, just before-”

“Oh, good, I found it!” Hutch interrupted loudly, standing up and holding out the album so Starsky could see the title.

“Oh, good? You’re gonna play that?”

“Every song, but first I’m going to find my credit card and order us tickets over the phone before the concert is sold out.”

“Us? I’m not goin’.”

“Yes, you are.” Hutch put the album near the stereo and began fumbling through some papers on the nearest end table. “Where’s my wallet?”

“On the dresser and I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are,” Hutch replied sweetly on his way to the bedroom.

“How come I hafta go?”

“Because this is a partnership, and where I go, you go,” came Hutch’s reply from the bedroom.

“I don’t remember signing up for that,” Starsky said, joining Hutch in their bedroom and festooning himself across the unmade bed.

“It was in the small print, Starsk. You should have checked it before you moved in with me.”

“You moved in with me, and I don’t make you go places you don’t wanna go.”

“Oh, tell me you’re kidding,” Hutch said with a laugh, then removed his credit card from the wallet he’d found, and sat down next to Starsky.

“Name one place!”

“The monster-truck rally last week, the pool tournament the week before that, the chili cook-off in the park-where you also made me sample some of that mess-that space movie-”

“Okay, okay, you made your point, but you had fun at all those places,” Starsky affirmed with a slight pout on his face.

“I had fun ’cause I was with you, and you’ll have fun at the Helen Reddy concert ’cause you’ll be with me,” Hutch said logically, the grin on his face saying he knew this argument was in the bag. He leaned against the headboard, stretching his long legs out in front of him, grabbing Starsky by the waist to pull him close. “Won’t you?”

“You know, Hutch, I really hate it when you try and sucker me this early in the morning. Haven’t even had a shower yet.” The pout went full-bloom, then softened into a resigned smile. “Okay, so I’m goin’ to Helen Reddy.”

“Yes, you are.” Hutch’s mouth found a tender spot on Starsky’s neck and began to nibble a thank-you.

“There won’t be anyone but chicks there.”

“Women,” Hutch corrected automatically, working his mouth more enthusiastically until he received a slight purr in response.

“Women,” Starsky agreed, his tone saying he was losing interest in the conversation. “Gave ’em up years ago. Guess I’ll have to just pay attention to you.”

“You in the mood to pay me some special attention right now?” Hutch asked, placing a suggestive hand on his own groin.

Starsky removed it and put his own in its place. “Get that outta my way and I’ll pay you some attention, but I just have one question first.”

“What’s that?” Hutch was losing interest in the conversation himself.

“How come no one writes any songs about being a man? I’m a man, and I’d like a song.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re all man, baby. Get on top of me and I’ll sing one for you.”

Starsky complied immediately. “Always did love to hear ya sing. Now it’s beginning to feel like Sunday morning.”

“Unless I should call the ticket place first….”

“I don’t think so, Hutch.” And Starsky made sure the conversation was over.

The End