Hutch and the Black Death

Post-“The Plague”

Is Starsky helping or hindering Hutch’s recovery?

(Weak stomach warning: Contains Revolting, Disgusting, Sickeningly Gruesome, Dreadfully Unpleasant and Awfully Awful descriptions of 12th century bubonic plague conditions)

“You know, you’re really lucky.” Starsky smiled impishly down at his partner who was feebly punching at his compacted pillow.

Hutch, pale and weak, said around a rattling cough, “How you figure that? And while you’re figuring, would you raise the bed?”

Starsky pushed a button on the side of the hospital bed.

“Up, Starsky, UP!” Fever and infection had left Hutch gaunt and easily irritated. “You’re doing that on purpose!”

“You need the exercise, my weakling friend.’

“No, I need peace and quiet, my yappy friend.”

“My, my, aren’t we peevish?” Starsky said as he tucked the blankets around Hutch’s toes.

Hutch growled, “What’s this about me being lucky?”

Starsky held up a book. He ceremoniously cleared his throat, licked his left forefinger and turned a few pages. “This is a book about The Black Death in the 1300s. I thought I should read up on the plague if I’m gonna hang out with you. Did you know-”

Hutch interrupted. “Not tonight. I have a headache. My head hurts and my chest hurts and-”

Starsky ignored him. “It says here that in the 1300s, people threw their waste-that would be bodily waste, Hutch, not just their garbage-out their windows, into the streets. The only law about it was that they had to yell a warning first. They didn’t believe in taking baths or changing clothes. They all had fleas. There had been terrible weather and a famine, and people were starving. The rats were starving, too, so they moved into the cities, and their fleas bit humans, and that’s how the got started.”

Hutch sighed and said, impatiently, “So that has what to do with me being lucky?”

“Just listen, Hutch, listen and learn. It says here that the conditions associated with plague-violence, disorder, filth, malnutrition-were caused by all the wars and some huge earthquakes and tidal waves and volcanoes, and the weather turned cold from what’s called the Little Ice Age. Oh, and the Roman Empire had fallen, so there wasn’t law and order.”

“Not enough cops then, either, huh?”

“Well, you and me-we’re pretty good, but I’m not sure even we could hold off the Mongol hoardes.”

“I kind of feel like I’m doing that now.”

Starsky thumbed through the book. “Oh, so then the plague spread from east to west and killed nearly half the world’s population. There were 3 strains of it. One was 100% fatal in less than a day. Then there was the kind that settled in the lungs, and when the victims coughed, they burbled up blood.”

“Starsky, my head! Just tell me how I’m lucky and be done with it!”

“Wait, wait-get this: then there was the bubonic strain that caused a giant swelling in a lymph node, and these swellings were so painful that people would vomit if they were touched, and they-”

“STARSKY! Oh, my head. Don’t make me yell like that.”

“-they gurgled.”

“What?”

“The swellings made noises. They gurgled.”

Hutch groaned, “I am going to kill you. In fact, that goal will hasten my recovery. You will die gurgling.”

“I ain’t afraid of you, Blondie. Especially right now. Let’s see…oh, here-” Starsky jabbed at a page. “They had 3 days of incessant vomiting and leaked blood from their anus-Hutch, what’s the plural of anus?”

“I cannot believe you are doing this to me.”

“So, let’s see…” Starsky flipped a few pages and continued. “Anyway, they smelled like their insides were gangrenous, and some of them had running sores, and sometimes their hands and feet turned black. So the smell was awful, whether they were alive or dead. They ran out of room for graves, so there were corpses lying around, and the wolves would come out, but then even the wolves would run away.”

“God, I beg you: please smite this man. Starsky, why are you telling me how everything smelled? I thought you were going to tell me how I lucky am.”

“As a matter of fact, Hutch, you smell pretty bad now-can’t imagine how bad you’d smell dead. You know-if your best friend can’t tell you-”

“Luck. Luck. Talk about luck.”

“It was the worst natural disaster in human history,” Starsky said, authoritatively. You are lucky to have had the plague now, instead of then, when there were no antibiotics, no pain killers, no vaccines. No cleanliness. You are lucky because you had no painful and noisy swellings, and you are lucky that running sores did not mar your fair and lovely complexion. Most of all, you are lucky because back then there were no pretty doctors.”

Hutch muttered, “I can’t believe I lived just to go through this.”

His dinner had remained untouched and was now cold and congealed. Starsky poked a finger at it. “What is that? Can I taste it? Hmm…well, it reminds me of-”

Hutch looked around for something to throw. “Do NOT finish that sentence.” His aching head throbbed. “In fact, Starsk, I really do want to go to sleep. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, partner. Tomorrow.” He took a forkful of mystery meat. “Thanks for dinner.” He patted the blond head and left, making a show of leaving the book on Hutch’s bedside table which was promptly thrown after him.

* * * * *

“Hi, honey, I’m ho-ome,” Starsky sang out as he bustled into Hutch’s room. He held up two dripping cups of soda sprouting bent straws and rattled a bag with large and ominous-looking grease spots. “I bought dinner tonight so you don’t have to cook.”

Hutch cautiously sniffed at the aroma wafting from the bag. “Is food responsible for this smell?” Apprehension filled his wan face.

“In the immortal words of my highly educated and esteemed partner: Eat. It. It’s. Good. For. You.” Starsky held out the bag.

“I am not putting my hand into that bag.”

Starsky was unflappable. “Here, little weakling. I will capture the big bad boy in the bag.” His hand disappeared into the rustling paper and after much diligent wrestling, produced an unwrapped burrito dripping with greasy melting cheese, onions and hot salsa.

“Starsk! I am NOT eating that!”

“It’s not even petrified.”

“More like putrefied.” Hutch covered his mouth. “I may gag.”

Starsky bit off a huge mouthful of his burrito, relishing each chomp. “Mmm-extra onions.”

Hutch was silent, staring and scowling. He crossed his arms across his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you. It’s good for you.”

“I will not dignify that with a response.”

“Look, Mr. Skinny Bones, it’s time you realized something about your seaweed and sawdust diet,” Starsky mumbled around a second hunk of his burrito. He noisily slurped his Coke and grinned down at Hutch.

Hutch shifted uncomfortably in the bed, impatiently tugging the hospital gown over his bare ass.

“Thank you,” said Starsky, with exaggerated politeness.

“For what?”

“For covering your unsightly back end while I eat.”

“I’ll have you know there are plenty of women who have remarked favorably about my butt. And if it’s so ‘unsightly,’ why do you pat it all the time? Besides, why are you stalling and waiting for me to ask for your unwanted comments about my diet when we both know you’re going to tell me, no matter what I do? Can’t we skip to the part where you comfort me and tuck me in with an extra blanket?”

Starsky smiled sweetly and licked his fingers. Then he licked the rivulet of grease making its way past his wrist and up toward his elbow. He daintily wiped his mouth and artfully suppressed a burp.

“Consider this, Hutch.” Starsky cleared his throat for dramatic effect. “Who is standing here? Standing straight up like a man in prime condition, fully dressed, having been at work chasing bad guys all day, leaping off tall buildings, and still full of vigor and strength and zest for life?”

Hutch merely raised an eyebrow.

“And who is lying there, frail and feeble, barely able to keep his head on a pillow, white as a ghost, moaning and coughing, wearing a little nighty that leaves nothing to the imagination, not able to pee by himself or shave or comb his golden locks?”

Hutch closed his eyes in exasperation and waved his fingers with a ‘just-get-it-over-with’ gesture.

Starsky needed no encouragement. “What did we learn last night about the 1300’s?”

Hutch’s response was a slow, annoyed sigh.

Starsky continued, “That people who were malnourished got the plague the worst. So what good did all your raw egg shells and your black belt molasses and your bee’s knees shakes do you?” He leaned close to Hutch’s face. “You are sick. I am not sick. You got the plague. I did not get the plague.”

Starsky popped in the last bite of his burrito and drained the last of his Coke with a satisfied smile. “Obviously, oh, puny pal of mine, my diet is far superior to yours.”

For a moment Hutch appeared to be weighing his partner’s words. His eyes still closed, he nodded his head yes and then no, his eyebrows rose and fell, his mouth twitched. Then his eyes opened, and he searched for the call button at the side of his jumbled bed. Looking pointedly at Starsky, he pressed the button, waited for a response, and said, “Zebra 3 to-I mean, this is Ken Hutchinson. I have an intruder in my room. Please get Security in here.”

Starsky was undeterred. “Hey, I saw a really large but very pretty nurse downstairs. Why don’t you call her?”

Hutch directed his right forefinger at Starsky.

“OK, OK. I’ll step outside while you think about what I said.” Starsky stepped toward the door, then abruptly wheeled around. “Oh! I better take my health food with me.” He snatched up the remaining burrito and left the room. He stopped at the observation window and pecked at it. When Hutch looked over at him, Starsky stuffed the gooey mess happily into his mouth and stood there chewing with his mouth open.

Hutch changed fingers.

* * * * *

The next morning he awoke to another red lipstick message on the window. This time it said, ‘BURRITO.’