A Different Language

Hutch questions Starsky’s use of ‘foreign’ words.

“Sure, but Simmons cheats.”

“Yeah, and his partner looks the other way.”

“What, you wouldn’t cover for me, Starsk?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Thanks. Um, Starsk, what is it with this penchant of yours for things English?”

“Penchant.”

“What?”

“Penchant. It’s French. Penchant.”

“I know that, but in case you hadn’t noticed, we live in California not London, or Paris as the case may be.”

“True.”

“So? Spill it. ‘Bloody likely,’ ‘bonnet,’ and, God forgive me, Cockney Rhyming Slang. Why?”

“Hee, hee, hee. I forgot about the Cockney Rhyming Slang. Do you want a little refresher?”

“No!”

“All right. Calm down. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You got a bowl for this salad?”

“Oh, brother. And I am calm. Oops, sorry about that.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Mmm, tastes good. You wanna try some?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, I didn’t give you permission for that! Use your fingers.”

“Fine. That is good. So?”

“So what?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Gordo.”

“What was the question again?”

“Bonnet? Things English?”

“You know, lots of people call it a bonnet.”

“Not here they don’t. Most Americans refer to it as a hood.”

“And how do you know that? Did ya take a poll, Mr. Gallup?”

“Never mind. Can you grab me the red wine under the counter there?”

“Come on. What’re ya gettin’ all bent out of shape about? Here. Do we have any of that to drink?”

“It’s over on the table. I’m not all bent out of shape. I just think that sometimes you even try to make conversations into competitions.”

“I make them into competitions? I think it’s kinda hard to have a competition without two willing participants.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Forget I said that.”

“I don’t think so, buddy boy. You musta meant something by it, Hutch, or you wouldna said it.”

“Ever since… since… well, now that we’re being honest with each other since… well, I think it was just me letting my tongue run away with my mouth. A lot like what’d been going on with us up until, um, she came in the picture.”

“Yeah, but she’s outta the picture and things had gotten back to the way they were with us. Better than the way they were. I thought.”

“They are. Things are great and I’m so grateful for that. Hey, I don’t know what got into me. I am sorry. Really. Can we call it an unfortunate slip? I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Okay, Blondie.”

“Um, hello, you still in there Starsk?”

“Yeah.”

“It got kind of quiet. Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just a penny?”

“Well…”

“Never mind, funny guy. I was just thinkin’ about Simmons and Babcock and you and me.”

“And about how we never challenge them again…”

“Nah…”

“Okay. So what great insights have you come up with about you and me and Simmons and Babcock?”

“Nothin’ really, ‘cept…”

“Except what?”

“I don’t know. You think Simmons and Babcock are close?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“Do you mean how close? Ah, you mean compared to us. Here, taste this.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re pretty tight, I think. Does it need salt?”

“Do you think they’re havin’ dinner together tonight? Tastes fine. Are we almost ready? I’m starved.”

“Probably not. They have…”

“What about last night? Do you think they were together last night?”

“No, but…”

“And this weekend? Do you think they’re planning to get together this weekend, like we are?”

“Starsky, what is your point? Go ahead and pour the wine. Dinner is served.”

“I’m not sure that I have one. I guess I think about Simmons and Babcock and how they don’t socialize much without other cops or their families, and go entire weekends without seeing each other.”

“And you can’t picture how that can be?”

“Right.”

“It’s pretty simple, if you ask me.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“They’re not us. Bon appetit.”

“There. Ya see? French.”

Finis (Ya see?)