A Kick in the Ass

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Hutch does the unforgiveable and runs.

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The words could not be taken back, they’d been said and the reasons and events that led to them were a memory now. However, the echo of the rage, anger and hurt that resulted from the words still reverberated in his soul.

He had requested and been given personal leave, the empty wreck that walked and talked being easily assessed by his boss. There was a degree of pity in the granting of his request, and a questioning look that invited confidence, which he ignored.

He had then contacted an old friend in Minnesota and requested the use of his back woods cabin, the very thought of the seclusion and peaceful autumn setting urging his flight.

He made no further contacts with those he left behind, just disappeared into the night sky on the first available flight.

He moved on automatic through the deplaning, the rental of a car, the quick visit to his friend’s home for keys and directions. A three hundred plus mile journey lay before him, yet he gave it no thought as he threaded his way out of Duluth and headed for Lake of the Woods country.

He drove and drove and drove; somehow making all the right moves when it came to traffic and the small towns he passed through. Darkness and hunger finally forced his attention to focus. He was ten miles from Bemedji. He would stop there and rest.

He remembered nothing of the night before as he set out again the next morning. He presumed he had slept, but these days waking and sleeping were much the same. He didn’t feel hungry, but bought coffee and sandwiches for his journey.

Another day passed, but he retained enough sense to stop at the last hint of civilization to stock up some basic supplies, even buying some winter weight clothing and boots.

Before sunset had begun its colouring of the night sky, he arrived at the rustic cabin and shuffled everything inside. Then he stood absolutely stock-still, and empty.

What should he do now? What could he do now? The devastation of his lost life hit him like a ton of bricks and he stumbled to the sofa, collapsing as waves and waves of pain and fear triggered the long held in tears. Then he slept.

Later, when he was functioning again, he thought he had slept for two or three days. That time was lost to him, but it did set him on the road to repair.

He had arrived to the glorious splendour of a Northern Minnesota September, and spent those fall days doing absolutely nothing except absorb the peace and beauty. His soul needed the time. He needed the space.

One day in November, over a coffee in front of a roaring fire, he finally felt alive again and ready to look his life right in the eye. Self-pity, longing, guilt and despair had been wrestled with. The right and wrong of his decision had been examined and he now knew the true reasons for his actions. He felt like his own man again.

He could not yet face the one he had hurt, but he needed to purge his soul. So he picked up pen and paper, and sitting at the only table, he put his life and heart into what turned out to be an epic.

David:

It is a truism that you cannot literally give yourself a ‘kick in the ass’, as much as you would like to at times.

If someone else does it for you, for the right reasons, it hurts temporarily, the pain focusing your attention where it truly deserves, then it fades leaving echoes that guide your future actions.

However, the proverbial ‘kick in the ass’, using words, never seems to go away. It worms its way deep into your psyche and clouds your interaction. Why is that?

Words are a weapon of choice that cut deeper than any other. They linger where the damage cannot be seen, and silently work their destruction.

We may outwardly offer forgiveness for the ill-chosen words, but within, they continue to boil and ferment only waiting for a like opportunity to be thrown out at the offender.

And so goes the cycle.

Understanding and truth are a long time coming and only achieved through the resolution of self-doubt and the return of confidence.

It matters not that the persons involved may be closest of friends or lovers, have faith and trust in each other. And therein lays the problem.

Because we have this faith and trust, we cannot help but believe that all the words spoken were used in truth, thereby making the offensive usage take on an importance that was not intended.

We even ignore the cause of the outburst, be it anger, fear, loss, threat or intimidation. It does not matter, what was said, and it’s too late for apologies.

Amazingly, we can take the written word and analyse it to death without being overcome by the words. In this state, they are not personal or dangerous. They seem more self-directed and thus not a threat to ourselves. We can deal with them as an exercise in human frailty.

This is what I hope for in writing this, an explanation that will open the window of my soul to you. At the very least I want you to try and understand. I ask only that you please listen.

Didn’t mean to write a sermon here, but I have done a lot of self-searching in an attempt to explain myself to myself, and now hopefully to you.

I can hear you saying it now, “You think too much Blintz”, and you are right, but this time, I not only allowed my fears and insecurities to try and control your life, but I blindly cut my own heart out. And now here I sit, a man with lessons learned at the loss of everything that had any meaning in his life.

I will not apologize for the feelings that led to the ultimate betrayal, for they were real and are still with me. The way in which I used those feelings, as an excuse to manipulate your life to meet my own selfish needs, is quite another matter, and for that there can be no forgiveness.

By going behind your back, as I did, I betrayed every element of friendship and trust that had sustained us through so much.

Starsk, you have no idea what Gunther’s attack did to me. It was the bitter last straw in a long line of close calls, each successive one burning its way deeper into my layers of guilt.

You were my partner to protect, and I wasn’t doing my job. Through some failing of mine, you kept taking all the punishment as I stood by wringing my hands helplessly.

I came to realize that, as the only person in my life whom I trusted implicitly, without question, and who loved me without question, you were vitally important to my continued existence. You were that important to me that I needed to do whatever it took to guarantee that you would still be there for ME. It no longer became a matter of protecting you from harm, but protecting what I needed to keep me safe and sane.

It’s a subtle difference, but a huge one. And that’s when it all went wrong and I lost every iota of common sense and human dignity. I honestly feel that at that point I wasn’t even Ken Hutchinson any more, just one selfish bastard who surrendered all his morality to ensure that his own reason for living continued to live.

Does this make any sense to you Starsk? It sounds very feeble to me right now, and not worthy of distinguishing with the name friendship.

Anyway, my befuddled mind decided that the only way to guarantee what I wanted was to control our environment, our cases, keep us out of harms way.

What you overheard was my attempt to convince Dobey not to assign the Roberts case to us. You remember Roberts, right? Drug kingpin, with an army at his disposal, and as cold and soulless as anyone I have ever met. To get him, we would have to go deep under for who knew how long.

I was outright panicked, so I buried my conscience and pulled out all the stops. Tried to show Dobey how you still weren’t ready, had problems doing this, that or the other, that your confidence had not returned and I worried about your ability to keep focused. Well, you know the rest. You heard it.

I died that day Starsk. Everything emptied out of me so fast when I realized you were standing there, that I don’t remember a thing after that, except your words which will never leave me. Their truth burned forever into my heart and soul.

“You lying son-of-a-bitch. I thought you were my friend, my partner. How could you make a mockery of everything I’ve worked for?”

Writing those words, even now, brings back all too vividly your look, the way the light died in your eyes and you locked me out. Your burning cold gaze turned my lifeless body to ice.

After that I moved in isolation, knowing just one thing. I had to get away. So I did, coming back to the familiar but leaving my soul behind.

I ask nothing of you, and expect nothing. I have manufactured my own fate and am, in a way, content with the conclusions I have reached.

I offer you my apologies and my sincere desire that you can accept my words as they are intended, not as reconciliation, that is beyond hope, but as an attempt at truth and an acknowledgement of my responsibility for destroying something of more value than my future.

I hope my words will ease the pain I have given you and release you from the hate you must feel. Know that for the rest of my life I will pay penance for what I have done and that if I could take your burden from you I would, for you do not deserve to carry it in your innocence.

God how I miss you buddy, how I wish I could turn back the clock, but what is done is done and I can only attempt to somehow find the peace that will allow me to continue on.

If I have the courage to mail this letter, know that it is sent out of the deepest respect for you, and with a love that I will never experience again.

Ken

The letter sat in its addressed envelope for the two weeks it took for him to winterize the cabin and get ready to move on. It travelled with him back to Duluth, sitting arrogantly on the dashboard, daring him to put his newfound humility and desire for his own brand of absolution into action.

He met his friend for lunch, returning the cabin keys with his sincere thanks. His friend agreed to drop him at the bus depot and return the rented car.

At 3:30 p.m. he walked onto a Washington State bound bus and never looked back. It wasn’t until they were several hours on the road that he remembered the letter, but couldn’t recall when he’d last seen it. It seemed like an omen. He was really on his own now.

Little did he know that fate butted her nosy little head in by having a very conscientious rental car employee retrieve the fallen envelope and perform a friendly act by dropping it in the local mailbox.

 

Part Two

It was two weeks later that a very weary David Starsky arrived home in his usual emotionless state. He automatically cleared his mailbox and trudged up his alpine-high set of stairs.

Switching his take-out dinner to his hand that held the mail, he fumbled the door key into the lock and entered his sanctuary.

Everything in his hands was dropped onto the coffee table in front of the sofa at the same time as he dropped himself onto the sofa, sinking back with a relieved sigh. It was O.K. now; he could drop the mask that hid his empty shell.

His face turned slack as he closed his bloodshot eyes and drew in deep breaths. He just knew it was never going to end; he could no longer feel his initial pain and anger at Hutch’s betrayal, in fact, he felt nothing at all. All sensation and emotion was lacking in him now and he doubted he would ever feel again.

A tiny tear rolled down his cheek. Funny, he could always cry, as if that was his only way to acknowledge how wounded he was, how lost.

Slowly the questions returned. ‘Why did he do it? What made him forget everything they meant to each other? How could he turn his back on all that? How could he believe he wasn’t ready, and able, to back his partner all the way?’

More tears.

“Why Hutch, why? Damn it, why couldn’t you talk to me. Why go behind my back and betray me like that? What did I do?”

The same questions he had been asking himself for almost three months now and only the same frustrated silence in reply.

He sternly got himself under control, knowing there was no answer, and that he had nothing left in him to try and find one. Dobey had been patient, allowing him to solo on inconsequential follow-up routines, but that would change soon and he would have to make a decision, a decision that would seal his future beyond retrieval.

When next he moved, two hours had passed, normal for him lately. He wearily sat forward and picked up his taco special. Eating was essential; he knew that. It was the lack of quality in the food he ate that contributed to his steady weight loss and lack of energy. That would get better soon; he knew it would.

His meal did nothing to satisfy or soothe him, so he turned to the three days of accumulated mail that lay scattered over the coffee table. Immediately his eye landed on the small envelope with the easily recognized script: Hutch.

He froze. Oh, God. His hand trembled as he reached for the letter. But he couldn’t pick it up, just sat and stared at it until he couldn’t see it anymore.

He raised his eyes. Dark, it was dark. He blinked, and blinked again. Night. It was night. A shake of his head, oh God he couldn’t do this. Not now. Not after so long in limbo, lost in a dark pit.

He began to shake, unable to control the passion of the moment. He hugged himself and fought the chill overcoming him. Tomorrow, he would deal with this tomorrow. Shutting his mind down, he stumbled into the bedroom and flopped on the bed. It must have been sheer overload that allowed him to sink into unconsciousness, for it wasn’t sleep that claimed him.

When he opened his eyes he was instantly aware, as if no time had passed at all. The only difference was that the sun was glaring through the bedroom window, burning his sleep-deprived eyes. He rested for a moment trying to work it out.

‘All right, he had a letter from Hutch sitting on his coffee table. Did he want to read it? Did he need to read it? What would happen if he did? Could he even bear to deal with the consequences?’

To this point in time, he had not seriously tried to deal with what had happened, operating on sheer emotional energy and blank, shocked proof of his own eyes and ears.

Hutch had hurt him beyond repair, or so he thought.

‘If that was so, why was he so afraid of opening the letter? Was it even fear? Maybe he didn’t want to know or understand why he had done it. If he did, would he ever be able to climb the ladder of friendship again without falling into the chasm that had been created. Could he truly forgive and forget?’

He honestly didn’t think so. Everything he valued had been trampled and he felt no more than a puppet, used and discarded.

So, what was he to do? If he ignored the letter, he would be turning Hutch out of his heart for true and sure. And somehow, despite everything, he still needed Hutch in a way he couldn’t explain. Even with the cold block of indifference he had become, he was missing an important part of his life. He couldn’t deny that.’

In fairness to himself, and to Hutch, he had to read the letter. But before he did so, he had to fortify himself, calm himself. Deliberately he showered, dressed and left the house, completely ignoring what lay on the coffee table.

He met Huggy as he was opening The Pits, startling the man right out of words, an unheard of happening. Huggy, and all his friends, had been tip-toeing around him for months knowing only that something catastrophic had happened between him and Hutch. He had not enlightened anyone to the particulars, protecting his wounded self against further emotional encroachment.

Today, he asked for and was brought a full Huggy-style breakfast which he practically inhaled, then over coffee, carefully and explicitly filled Huggy in on exactly what had happened, even down to the letter that waited for him back at his place. It was strange, but rather than feeling more depressed and angry, he felt awakened and confident, decision made. It was freeing, and although he dreaded it, he felt the key to his continued existence was contained in that letter. He was anxious now to return to his apartment, and life, such as it was.

 

Part Three

It was bloody cold in the mountains. The sun sparkled off the snow that covered everything in sight. Everything was picture card perfect; the tree branches bowing under their load of snow, the unmarked carpet of white that faced him everywhere he looked, the almost blinding clear blue sky with not a cloud in sight, the mountains forming a majestic backdrop to it all.

With a deep breath he inhaled the pristine, fresh, crisp air wondering how he had ever survived the smog laden Bay City equivalent. No, he wasn’t going there. That was the past. Not a day went by when memory didn’t trip him up and he had to fight to stay in the real world.

But today he had a ton of work to do, and that night he would be so tired he just knew he would fall into a dreamless sleep.

Back in December he had taken a job with the North Cascade National Park service. He was mainly to patrol his designated area and report instances of human encroachment into protected areas, or abuse of the environment and wildlife. In the two months he had been here he had seen nary a soul except for other Park staff. It was idyllic, but he had to admit that now he was getting a bit itchy to move on. His contract was up in April. He should start planning.

But for today, he had to get moving. The new snowfall meant he had to lay his trails again and that would take time and energy. He relished the challenge and strode forward.

By the time he returned to the cabin seven hours later, he was dragging and wondering whatever had possessed him to think he could handle this job. He was about to discard his layers of clothing when he remembered his lack of firewood. Everything in him was crying for rest but he resolutely turned back to the outdoors.

He was concentrating so heavily on getting enough firewood for the night that until a harsh voice ordered him to bend over he was unaware of having company. He froze, his mind barely accepting what he thought he had heard.

A sharp jab in his back reinforced the repeated command. “Bend over now.”

He slowly obeyed and was promptly hurled forward into the snow by the force of a heavy boot applied against his ass. Having discarded his parka, gloves and hat to chop wood, it took only a few moments for the snow to make itself felt.

Before anger could generate any response on his part, his head was pulled back and more words were growled into his ear.

“You are one selfish bastard. I should kick your ass all the way down this mountain you arrogant, self-centred prick. Did you really think you could get away with it? Huh? Answer me. Answer me now, if you can.”

Starsky. Momentary joy was overcome by momentary fear at the harsh, recriminating words. He was speechless.

Eventually his head was released with an almost disgusted push and Starsky got back on his feet and moved away.

Fear that Starsky was leaving forced him to his feet with words tumbling over each other in order to reach the other.

“Starsk wait. Please. I…” His quick turn brought him almost toe-to-toe with Starsky, who had moved only a foot or two away. His words drifted off as he took in a sight he had never expected to see again.

Starsky looked ridiculous in all his mountain gear, done up as if he were on an Arctic expedition. How he could move at all was a mystery. A smile and chuckle almost escaped before his eyes made their way to the closed face. There was no welcome there, only indifference.

He tried to regain some composure, beating back the shock that was spreading through his entire system.

“Starsk. Why?”

Again that harsh, emotionless voice: “Why what?”

He couldn’t hold it any longer and began shaking uncontrollably, whether from shock or cold he couldn’t tell. Starsky moved toward him, roughly pushing him towards the cabin.

“Let’s get inside.” Was all he said.

Somehow he managed to grab an armful of firewood, get inside and then just stand there.

“Go get changed Hutch, I’ll start the fire.”

That he could understand, and actually do, but he moved as if fighting his way through a bowl of jello and half-an-hour had passed before he returned to the main room.

A roaring fire and a mug of coffee waited for him, Starsky sitting rather stiffly on the sofa. A hand swept through his hair, and he tried to think of something to say. He wasn’t ready for this and wasn’t sure he could survive it.

Without looking at him, Starsky said, “I just want one thing from you, Hutch. I want you to look me in the eye, and without any Hutchinson garbage, give me the one true reason you did what you did.”

Starsky stood then and approached Hutch, looking straight into his face, his eyes demanding, daring and challenging.

Hutch looked deep into Starsky’s eyes, still not believing the man was actually here, and then he looked deep within himself to search for the courage to say out loud the truth he had finally admitted.

“I love you, David. You are so deep in my soul Ken Hutchinson no longer exists without you. Losing you meant losing me, and the fear of that, before I recognized it for what it was, scared the shit out of me. I would give my life to protect you, but I was suddenly not being rational for a reason I couldn’t identify. I’m sorry.”

Starsky recognized the truth of Hutch’s words, but stood long moments as if in judgement.

“I wasn’t sure what would happen. I just knew I had to find you, to settle this one way or the other, in person. Damn it Hutch, I’ve been a walking zombie for months now. I never knew love could hurt like this, that I could feel so empty yet still want you in my life.”

Starsky’s words were still hard and almost emotionless, but Hutch felt, and knew, the underlying anguish and hope that was there. Starsky had said he still wanted him in his life, but he also knew he had no right to ask for anything, or even expect a hearing. Starsky was the victim, judge and jury, with every right to demand his ‘pound of flesh’.

Hutch stood silent and open hoping to assure with his willingness to allow Starsky to see the man he was now.

Starsky moved to the small front window and silently gazed out into the dark.

“Come here Hutch.”

When he was standing slightly behind Starsky, he followed the pointing finger with his eyes.

“When Ranger Patterson brought me up here, we passed a whole mountain that was black and devastated, with no sign of green. There was no life, no animal tracks, just blank white snow. What happened out there Hutch?”

“Last year was a year of monumental fires throughout the whole north west. Thousands of acres, and wildlife, were lost.”

“Will it come back?”

“Yes. It will take years, but already there is new growth under the snow.”

Starsky turned to look at Hutch, and for the first time Hutch saw real emotion in his eyes.

“Can we do the same Hutch? Can we start again?”

Hutch closed his eyes at the simple plea for release, and a new beginning. His empty soul began to fill at the prospect of regaining what was most essential to his survival.

He offered his to hand to Starsky and then drew him into a huge hug that they both sustained for endless time.

No promises, no pain, no hiding this time. If he had learned anything during his period of seclusion, it was that he had to be honest; not only with himself, but also with those he loved. He was not an island; he needed just as much as he was needed.

They had two months to work it out.