Violations

84

A different kind of road rage….

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch mixed zine, The Lucky and the Strong in 1993.

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“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Starsky said once again.

“Believe it,” Hutch assured him, still writing.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you’re gonna look?”

“How ridiculous I’m going to look? You’re the one who’s going to look ridiculous, and you deserve it.” Finished, Hutch tore the ticket from his book. “Now pull over so you can sign it.”

“Stuff it.”

“Starsky.”

“You heard me—stuff it.”

“Your signature is required. It isn’t an admission of guilt—”

“No, but it means I’m actually taking you seriously, which I’m not.”

“Starsky, I mean it, pull the car over and sign this.”

“If I pull over, you’re gettin’ out.”

“What?”

“If I stop the car and sign your stupid little ticket, you can just hike the Pacific Coast Highway home.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Starsky, you passed a car on an unbroken double yellow line back there. That’s a clear violation—”

“I gotta get to my smog check and you know it. The place closes at five and my registration expires tomorrow. Now, are you gonna forget that thing, or are you gonna walk home?”

***

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Hutch said indignantly.

“Believe it,” Starsky assured him.

“We’re partners. You wouldn’t really leave your partner stranded—”

Starsky tossed the pen and ticket at him, glaring. “Shut up and get out.”

Hutch scrutinized his partner, trying to figure out if he was serious. In a moment he got his answer.

“Out! I’ll drop your bowling ball off at your place, unless you want to carry it.”

Hutch didn’t respond, just got out and slammed the car door. Starsky drove away.

***

He’d walked nearly three miles when the Torino pulled up alongside him, lights flashing, siren blaring.

Hutch opened the door. “Well, it’s about time—”

Without a word Starsky leaned across the car seat and handed him a ticket and pen. “Pedestrians aren’t allowed on the interstate. That’s an obvious violation. Sign here.”

“I’m not—”

“Your signature is not an admission of guilt—”

“Why don’t you drive over an embankment?” Hutch suggested, slamming the car door shut.

Starsky drove off.

***

Half an hour later a taxi pulled up on the shoulder ahead of Hutch. “You Hutchinson?” the cabbie yelled out the window at him.

Hutch nodded and hurried toward the cab.

“Weirdest thing. I got this call saying there’d be this guy named Hutchinson on this stretch of interstate an’ I should pick him up.”

“Yeah, I know. The address—”

“Dispatcher gave it to me: two-four-eight-oh Ridgeway Avenue. Right?”

Well, Hutch thought, it would give him an opportunity to slug Starsky. And make him pay for the cab. “Yeah, right.”