Ships Without Sails

Hutch finally brings his partner home after the Gunther shooting. But his joy is tempered by Starsky’s seeming indifference as he begins to experience re-entry into the world.

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch gen zine, Venice Place Times III, published in 2002.

Starsky was quiet on the ride home, and I didn’t disturb the silence. He was taking it all in again, the sights and sounds of the city. The hot sun bouncing off car-tops and shop windows, the dusty shadows in alleys; people milling past each other on the sidewalks, others casually leaning in doorways; strains of music that drifted in and out of the car, mixed with the constant noise of traffic. After five weeks of being cooped up in the hospital it must have been like waking up again. I mean, everyone in there was real nice but… it was a hospital, you know? A world of quiet but pervasive sickness, and the subdued but methodical business of treating it.

The last couple of weeks Starsky was in we’d go down to the big patio behind the building and sit outside so he could have a change of scenery and take in some real air. Even there, and just like us, I guess, patients shuffled around slowly, and visitors and staff spoke in soft, solicitous tones. The atmosphere was the same—sedentary and isolated from everyday life.

When the first terrible days after the shooting passed and Starsky started to make some progress, a little of his sense of humor began to re-emerge. I could tell it was an effort, though, to make light of what had happened, and what was happening yet to him. His jokes were, as always, corny. What was different was that their delivery was forced, not inspired. Just like my laughter—except for the encouraging note in it, it sounded hollow. After a while the jokes all but disappeared, and something settled heavily within him. It wasn’t a clear sadness or depression. I’m not sure what it was, what it still is.

“So,” I grinned over at him, “how does it feel to be a free man again?”

He seemed to consider it for a minute as he squinted out the side window, then just shrugged. “Good.”

“Try to contain yourself.”

He smiled feebly at me. “It does. It feels good.”

I nodded to the large, bulging overnight bag that sat between us. “You sure you got everything?” Inside the bag were a few clothes, a mostly assembled and very carefully boxed miniature model ship, an eighteenth-century frigate, to be exact, that I’d brought him to help pass the time, and some small gifts. I’d teased him this morning about saving all the get-well cards and banners too. “I still think we should have saved room for that nurse—Donna.”

Well, that went over about as hilariously as it had this morning. He turned back to the window.

I pulled up at a red light and studied his face out of the corner of my eye. Starsky’s days consisted of waking up, having a good hour and a half, maybe two, then he’d start to get tired. He’d fight it for a while, finally have to give in and sleep for a while, until it began again, that spiral where being at the top didn’t last long. His recovery was taking longer than I’d ever thought it would. I’d found it frustrating, and a little frightening, until his doctor explained to me that he was okay, it was now a matter of getting over something I should liken to the hardest body-slam imaginable. That’s the way he phrased it. Our little talk made me feel better… sort of.

I knew it was asking too much for him to be more enthused than he was right now. One of the nurses had told me he’d another nightmare last night. His nightmares come like explosions, without warning, and leave him gasping for air. He can’t sleep for a long time after them. So he’d already started off the day tired, and by the time we were through saying our goodbyes to all the staff, signing some papers and making a trip to the basement pharmacy, he looked plain worn out.

Suddenly, a car honked behind me. The light had turned green. “Okay, okay,” I mumbled and stepped lightly on the gas. Something didn’t feel right under my foot as we crossed the intersection… and rolled to an unexpected stop.

What the…?

My car was dead. I’ll be a son of a bitch.

I shot an appalled look at Starsky who simply asked, “What’s it this time?”

“I don’t know.” I pushed the gear into park and tried to start the engine. There was one last whirl of life from under the hood, then silence. I tried again. Zippo.

Starsky was staring at the console. “You got gas?” he asked.

I peered at the needle. “Of course I’ve got gas. I’ve still got a quarter of a tank,” I said. Just as it was dawning on me that I’d been running on a quarter tank for the last two days, a horn blared a few times behind us. I twisted around in my seat. “Yeah, I hear ya!” I yelled, resisting the urge to wave a fist. I caught Starsky’s expression. His mouth was twitching up on one side in a genuine grin, something I hadn’t seen in a while, but in a matter of seconds it was gone.

“So what’s wrong then?” he asked.

I slumped back in my seat, stared straight ahead and muttered, lamely, “Well, I’m out of gas.”

“But there’s still…”

“No,” I turned toward him, “there isn’t.”

He looked at me quizzically, made a small, disparaging face, and that was all. Used to be I could hear his eyes roll. Then there’d be a tirade about my absolute ineptitude in vehicle maintenance, never mind choice and style. Or he’d snicker and crack one dumb joke after another about it until I’d want to push him out the door. It’s funny how life works; right now I’d give anything to hear him start in on me.

I was on the inside lane and vehicles started to pull out and go by my window with some less than friendly glances. “I’ve got a jerry-can,” I rallied. “There’s a gas station four blocks up. I’ll go get some and be right back.”

“Shouldn’t we push this to the curb?” Starsky bobbed his chin toward the nearest empty parking spot, about thirty feet away. “Get her outta traffic?” He read my face and added, “I know, I know… but I can at least steer.”

I thought about it for a minute and pushed my door open. “Nah, let ’em go around.” I got out of the car and ducked my head back in. “You going to be all right? I won’t take long.”

He nodded. “Sure I will. Go on.” The wan smile he managed was meant to be reassuring, I knew, but it just made me want to stay.

“I won’t be long, I promise.”

“I’m okay, Hutch.”

I smiled gently back. “Okay.” I got the jerry-can out of the trunk, went to the front of the car, and raised the hood all the way up. I poked my head around it, winked at him, and headed off.

Beautiful, Hutch, I berated myself as I trudged down the sidewalk. You ran out of gas last week too—which he’ll never know—because the gauge is sticking. But, hey, don’t have it looked at. Oh no, wait until the day you finally get to bring him home, then leave him sitting in the middle of the road. On a hot day. When he’s running on empty himself.

The nearest gas station was five blocks away, not four, and it was close to half an hour before I made it back. Traffic was still snaking around the car. I went to the passenger side and leaned an elbow on the door. Starsky had his head back, eyes barely open. Tiny beads of perspiration sat on his upper lip and forehead but I wasn’t too worried; I was downright sweating myself.

“Hey,” I said softly. He blinked once, then again, harder, and focused on me. “How’re you doing?” I asked.

He pushed himself up in the seat. “I’m fine. Got the gas?”

I raised the can with a grin. “Right here. We’ll be on our way in less than five.”

And we were. After stopping at the gas station to put another ten bucks in, we were back on track. Air circulated throughout the car again, making it more comfortable and, except for the odd word or two, we lapsed back into silence. As I drove out of the inner city and toward the suburbs I glanced over at Starsky often. Sometimes he’d be gazing out to the streets, other times he seemed to be dozing.

A little while later when I rounded the corner onto Starsky’s street, I frowned at what I saw. In front of his place, still half a block away, there was a large group of people, fifteen to twenty of them. Some them were sitting on the curb, others stood behind them on the lawn. In the long string of cars parked on the opposite side of the street were two black and whites. My mind started to race as I scanned the crowd and spotted the uniforms.

Beside me, Starsky stirred. He hunched forward and peered through the windshield. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I don’t know. Something’s happened.”

As we drew closer someone pointed at my car. He must have announced our arrival because all of a sudden everyone jumped up and into action. They scurried around each other, in a bumping rush, until most of them had formed a long, somewhat broken, line. They held up, chest-high, some kind of blocks while the others waved furiously at us.

I began to make out their faces. There was Huggy, and Edith Dobey, Minnie, and some guys from work, and friends of ours too. Like overgrown cheerleaders they beamed as they each displayed a large letter on a piece of cardboard. WELCOM EHOME TSARSKY. The ‘M’ slipped from Minnie’s hand to the ground. She quickly scooped it up and resumed her smiling stance. WELCOM was now WELCOW.

I was doing a poor job of stifling my smile as I braked in the middle of the street. Starsky’s mouth was hanging open.

“Maybe if we go once around the block,” I suggested, “they’ll get it right.”

Starsky’s shocked expression changed to skewered amusement, then changed again to accusation as he turned to me. “Hutch…”

“I swear to God, Starsk, I didn’t know a thing about this.” And I hadn’t.

Sure, most people knew he was getting out today but they didn’t know when. …Huggy…. He’d asked a lot of questions yesterday. What time were we going to leave the hospital? Were we coming straight here? “Huggy,” I whispered quickly.

Starsky’s eyes traveled slowly back to the group and I thought he looked a bit like a deer caught in headlights.

“You ready for this?” I asked.

He blew softly through his lips, then, “Let’s go. My public awaits.”

I parked the car right at their feet. It was on the wrong side of the road, but it was a closer walk to the door for Starsky than from his driveway. I’d move it later.

We both got out and as everyone eagerly surrounded Starsky, I carefully lifted his bag off the seat and closed the door. Despite the fact Starsky had a good face on I knew he wasn’t really up to all of this. I put the bag down and went around the car to his side. As I took his elbow, something that had become second nature in recent times, his eyes flew briefly to mine. No problem, buddy, I thought at what I’d seen in them, wouldn’t be anywhere else.

The apparent leader of the noisy group, Huggy, held both hands up in a quieting gesture. “First of all,” he announced, “have no fear, we’re not staying. We just wanted to be here when you finally touched down. Secondly, welcome back, Starsky! You’re lookin’ good!” He enthusiastically but gently slapped Starsky’s arm a couple of times. “It’s about time you blew that joint and re-joined the world.” He turned his attention to me, his big eyes even bigger now with exasperation. “And speaking of time, what took you so long? You were supposed to be back here over half an hour ago.”

“Well, uh…” I was wondering how to explain my screw-up when, thankfully, Edith cut me off.

“David, it’s so good to see you come home again.” She kissed him on his cheek, and gave it a few affectionate taps. “Harold couldn’t get away, but he made double sure I’d be here. I told him I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Starsky was still blushing when Minnie leaned in and kissed him too. She wagged a finger at him. “You’d better take good care of yourself and get back to work. My morning coffee just ain’t the same without your gorgeous self to look at over the rim.”

As the sun beat down brightly on us all, more chimed in with their greetings and congratulations. I just grinned and stayed close. I hoped that no one was going to ask for a speech from Starsky because, from the look on his face, I knew he wouldn’t make it far into one. The short ‘thank yous’ that he managed were full of unsteady emotion.

Mark and Jonesy, and Pat and Rob, the patrol officers, explained that they were unofficially representing all the units and that the time allotted from their sergeants for this call had long run out. They said their goodbyes, and the others started to follow suit. After another round of handshaking, kissing and well-wishes, the yard was emptying fast.

Huggy was the last to leave, and Starsky did almost lose it when he tried to thank him, but Huggy cut him off with a, “Never mind that. Just keep gettin’ healthy,” and he headed for his car.

We were alone again. “Well,” I remarked, “That was something, wasn’t it?”

Starsky nodded. “Good people… can’t spell, but they’re good people.”

His attempt at humor wasn’t lost on me, but it was dampened by the fact that he looked like he wanted to lay down right there. I looped my arm through his, held it close, and we started for his door. There’s a set of steps halfway up the walkway and we were taking them slowly, one at a time, when he teetered a little. “I gotta sit,” he said in one breath.

“Sure, here, take it slow.” We turned around and I helped him ease down onto the step. I sat beside him. When I slid an arm up and around his shoulders, I felt his weight sink against me. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Uh huh, just gotta stop… just for a minute.”

“Whatever you need, Starsk.”

We sat quietly until our attention was drawn to the sound of an engine roaring to life, Huggy’s big Buick parallel parked just up the street. Huggy, God bless him, has a lot of talents but driving isn’t one of them. We watched, myself with mild amusement, as he tried to maneuver the long car out of its spot. He inched it ahead, stopped, cranked his steering wheel, then crept back the small distance in reverse. This went on for another few minutes, the Buick squirming back and forth in short, futile degrees. There was plenty of room to get out; he just couldn’t seem to find it. Just when I thought I’d better get up and go help him the car finally pulled free. Huggy turned it around in a neighbor’s driveway then headed back our way. He pulled up in front of my car and poked his head out the window. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, Huggy,” I raised a reassuring hand, “we’re fine. Just taking a little break.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, he started off again. As he cut his car very closely around mine there was a low but distinct crunching sound. The Buick stopped. Huggy looked all around him in bewilderment, then paused, shrugged, and drove on.

As weary as it was, there was a measure of astonishment in Starsky’s voice. “He just hit your car, Hutch.” When I didn’t respond he persisted, “Well?”

Stalling, I took a deep breath and let it out. That done, I guess I still had to say it. “I don’t think that was my car, Starsky. I’m pretty sure it was your overnight bag… with all your stuff.”

“It was?”

“Pretty sure.”

After a pause he asked, almost in a whisper, “And my ship?”

“And your ship,” I answered, just as quietly.

He stared out to the street, his expression unreadable, then bowed his head. He was still for a moment, then, to my horror, I felt his shoulders begin to shake. I shut my eyes as a wave of pity swept over me. Too much, it had all been too much. He was wrung out, depleted emotionally as well as physically.

God, I wished we could start this day over again and… and… wait a minute. I lowered my head next to his. He wasn’t crying. He was having a good chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, completely confused.

His head came up. He’d stopped laughing, but his eyes were still crinkled. “Do you know how long I worked on that thing?”

I didn’t want to think about that, so I merely nodded.

“Hours,” he informed me. “Hours and hours.”

I had no idea where this was going. Or did I? “Huggy’s driving is pathetic, isn’t it?” So was the laugh that came out of my mouth.

He looked directly at me. “What was the bag doing in the street?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I put it there.”

With a last soft chuckle, he shook his head and looked away. I was still trying to figure out what was comical—besides me and Huggy being klutzes—about a month’s work being destroyed, and I was about to ask him, then changed my mind.

The humor was sliding from his face, yielding to exhaustion. His eyes were heavy again, and he blinked so slowly I knew it was a struggle to keep them open. I squeezed his arm. “I think we’d better get you inside, huh?”

“…Yeah.”

I helped him to his feet and kept a hold on his arms as he drew in a shaky breath, digging for the strength to make one more small trip. “Hey, Starsk,” I said, quietly, “I’m sorry about the ship.”

“‘S okay,” he mumbled, then raised his eyes to mine. “I never wanted to tell you, but I hated that thing. Know what I was gonna call it?”

“What’s that?”

“The SS Monotony.”

There was that crooked grin again—a tired, pale version of it, but there it was, and the shrug that went with it saying sorry, but it’s true. By the time I returned the grin his expression was dull again, lifeless. But that’s okay, because I think I was beginning to understand.

You ever watch the animals at the zoo that pace their cages? Back and forth, up and down the fence, they follow the same small pattern for hours at a time. They’re not looking for a way out, like some people think, or waiting for an opportunity to escape. Maybe at first they were, but after they’ve been there long enough that walk turns into a kind of silent mantra. It’s like a partial shutting down and tuning out the pain of their captivity. It’s a sad effect of the never-ending boredom and helplessness. No, I know… I know Starsky didn’t pace or develop any obsessive habits. But I think that, in a way, the bars on the cage were, for him, being trapped in a broken body that was trapped in a disconnected, regulated environment. It got to him. And, voluntarily or not, he’d been tuning out.

I’d been thinking earlier today about the sensations he was experiencing for the first time in a long while. Noise, chaotic motion, and splashing colors. The physical stuff. Yet there’s so much more to a person’s life, isn’t there? To someone’s like Starsky’s.

I know things won’t change in a day; it’ll take time as he picks up the threads of his life again. Just as they’d drifted to sleep, his senses will re-awaken slowly and surely. And I’d say that we’d all today, through our bumbling efforts, already nudged a few places slumbering deep inside him.

“Hutch?”

His voice stirred me out of my thoughts. “Mm?”

“Are you ready?”

“I am.” I gently pressed his arms. “We’ll go slow, okay?”

“It’s not that far,” he assured me in a thin voice. “I can do it.”

He probably wondered why I looked so pleased when I answered, “I know you can.”