A Good Deal

177

A stormy night and being confined to quarters forces two academy roommates to deal with each other.

 

Thank you, Dawn…for teaching me how to step back, take a breath, and see the flowers through the weeds.

Originally published in the Boys In Blue Zine in 2008, edited by Enednoviel.

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STARSKY

It was a rainy Saturday night. I sat at my desk near the window without a whole lot to do because our Sergeant had confined all cadets to quarters for the weekend.

The small Academy dorm room was hot and humid, which had caused sweat patches to spread under my armpits, and my tee shirt was clinging across my shoulder blades. I’d already taken two showers, and wondered when maintenance would follow up on my request to fix the old radiator. It wasn’t even midwinter and the damn thing kept turning on no matter how many times I kicked the coils with my boot. Instead of taking a third shower, every ten minutes I peeled the wet material away from my skin to wring out the moisture. The action brought a few lewd looks from my roommate. Ignoring him, I went about the business of counting the drops of sweat that dripped off my nose. When that got old, I watched my lava lamp. The rise and fall of the red floating blobs always fascinated me. However, I don’t recommend watching the liquid separating into different shapes for too long—my eyes were starting to cross, and from everything I’d read, they could end up staying that way.

I turned my attention to the one and only window in the room. Raindrops banged against the glass, reminding me of miniature hand grenades exploding.

Man, I felt like a prisoner in my own room—sometimes in my own skin. I really hated small confined spaces—I never could sit still—and I hated the rain. It brought back too many memories of my days trekking fearfully through the deep humid jungles of ‘Nam.

It never seemed to stop raining in the tropical forest, the precipitation coming in bursts every thirty minutes like clockwork. If I wasn’t drenched in sweat, I was drenched in brownish rainwater. I’ll never forget the feel of water squishing in my boots, or the sweat and dirt aggravating the sores on the bottoms of my feet. Some days I didn’t know how I kept walking. Do or die, I guess. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long shot. I felt so trapped. Even though I was outdoors, I hardly ever saw the sky through the thick foliage. Mud pits became death traps, local blood sucking residents plagued me with malaria, and the trembling sound of thunder rattled deep in my chest and even deeper into my soul.

I hated thunderstorms. The sound was too close to the sound of AK-47’s mixing with M16’s. The rumble of gunplay would start just as low as the rumble of the clouds above. I never could tell if the sound was the roll of thunder, or gunplay. All I knew was both threatened to tear through my chest, jerk me out of my boots, and send me to the bloodstained mud; crawling over my buddies whose names were now known only to their God, since you couldn’t identify one from the other any longer.

I swiped the moisture off my upper lip and shook the nightmare away, forcing my mind back into the present. No longer stuck in the jungle but stuck in this room simply because we’d failed the Physical Training test.

Correction, everyone failed but me and Daniels. Yet, the punishment applied to us all, reminding me of when my brother Nick and I’d get into a brawl. No matter who was to blame—we both got punished.

Hutchinson, my roommate, and Myers were the worst of the lot. With their oversized hands and extra long legs, they bumbled over the course like a couple of two-legged virgin stags.

Our punishment—confined to quarters for the weekend, until 6 a.m. Monday morning. Where, come rain or come shine, Sergeant Ballard said we’d re-take the P.T. test over and over again until we got it right.

Our drill sergeant was the real deal. A pompous old guy, clearly proud of his twenty-five years on the force. He’d grill you like the sun if you screwed up even the slightest bit. I felt like I was trying out for the eighth-grade football team, listening to him yelling through his bullhorn.

“You dipshits get any slower and you’ll be trampled by turtles,” Ballard spat. ‘”You think P.T. is tough, the streets are tougher! I’m going to see to it you dipshits never forget that!”

I figured he was so hard on us because he didn’t want any of us ‘dipshits’ to become dead on our first day—guess that made him a cool guy.

Still, I was going nuts from the incarceration. I didn’t even get to make it to the cafeteria before we were locked up—I was starving.

I didn’t want my roommate to hear my stomach barking out orders, and I couldn’t just sit, watching the raindrops burst against the window any longer, tracing the drips, and trying to calculate their intended path.

I was reduced to another old Starsky family rainy-day tradition—roasting marshmallows over a flickering candle flame. Pulling out my stash of marshmallows and small roasting stick I’d cut down to size for indoor use from my lower desk drawer, I lit a candle.

Along with that, I had a new ‘Starsky’ tradition, watching another kind of drip—my roommate—Cadet Kenneth R. Hutchinson. Wasn’t sure what the ‘R’ stood for. Maybe Rookie. I’d been boxed in with the big blond for a week and a half, and the only real thing I knew about my roommate was that he was a pain in my ass.

The thing is, I’m no country boy, but I was pretty sure pigs kept their styies cleaner than Cadet Hutchinson kept his side of the room. The man’s desk was cleverly disguised as a trashcan, dirty clothing was shamelessly draped everywhere—underwear included. Crushed potato chips and books lay scattered on top of his unmade bed, but it was under his bed that was the real disaster. Four pairs of running shoes, three moldy towels, a string-less guitar, a busted up Monopoly box, a broken tennis racket, and a virtual rainbow of empty soup cans. Tomato. Chicken. Navy bean. Potato. Hell, even clam chowder. But the real unappetizing kicker of it was—the guy liked to drink them all cold.

“Hutchinson, how can you stand to drink cold soup from a can?” I asked, to make conversation while I slowly rotated my marshmallow stick to toast my treat.

Looking completely distracted, Hutchinson didn’t say a word. Just kept going about doing what he always did this time of day—caring for the three plants he’d brought to live with him.

“Hey, Schweetheart…” I started in on my Bogart routine to vie for his attentions, but was interrupted by my marshmallow bursting into flames. “Holy mackerel!” I blew hard, and it took several tries before the flame went out. I liked my marshmallows well-done, not completely charred. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” I said, pulling the slightly over torched puff off the stick, and popping the gooey treat into my mouth.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Hutchinson spared me a brief look over his shoulder. “Jack Nicholson?”

“Bogart,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Bogart, huh?” Hutchinson arched a brow, indicating to me he didn’t buy my take on the world’s toughest man.

“When I was a kid,” I explained. “My dad took me to see the film Casablanca. I’ve impersonated Humphrey ever since.” I was proud of that fact. “My family all loved my rendition and said I sounded just like Bogie. You don’t think so?”

“There’s no stove,” Hutch answered, going back to his shrubbery.

“Huh?” I asked in confusion.

“How do you expect me to heat up soup when there is no stove,” he muttered and then was quiet again.

So much for making conversation with a shrub.

From my seat at the desk, I continued the fine art of roasting marshmallows, watching the blond pain in my ass water, weed, and lovingly prune the potted bushes like they were the only thing that mattered. He treated his plants like they were his pet dogs. Talking to each one in a tender, quiet voice, stroking the back of their leaves, and calling them his ‘little darlin’s.’ I wondered what it would feel like to have someone care for you that much—I almost was jealous.

Each little lady had its own name, and he called them by name—like he was some sort of woodland Saint Nick.

“Now, now Beautiful Beatrice. Come on there, Gorgeous Gloria. Up, up, Sassy Sally.”

No wonder all the other fellows thought he was a real flake. I really wasn’t too sure what I thought about Hutchinson—for me, it was too soon to tell. At least he was good at keeping boundaries. His mess stayed just that—his mess, on his side of the imaginary line I’d drawn for him the first day we bunked together.

What Hutchinson wasn’t good at was making friends. I could tell he must have been one of those kids in school who always got picked on. Didn’t his parents ever teach him if he was friendlier, and talked to the other children more than he did to his pet salamander, they wouldn’t pick on him so much?

The same held true here at the Police Academy.

If Hutchinson would stop outperforming every cadet on the written exams, and be a little more open, he might not be spending so much time babbling to his plants every night. He’s the only guy I knew who could ace a test without breaking a sweat. I thought about that a moment. Maybe it wasn’t that Hutchinson was more intelligent—maybe I was just book lazy.

I sort of felt bad for the guy. I know how it feels not to be popular. Take me for instance.

I’m not high on the friendly list for one Cadet Robert Mills. I very much doubt he will forget the lesson he got from me under the hot sun for our jujitsu lesson a few days ago. It sure wasn’t even-steven when I was paired off with Robert. He is bigger than me by about twenty pounds and three inches taller.

I had at least one thing going for me. Being a lefty gives me a natural advantage. Most righties are not used to fighting us lefties, while lefties are very experienced in fighting against both. Robert lacked leverage, and coupled with his ‘I can do no wrong’ attitude, gave me the advantage. But not before Robert threw one good punch to my gut and I dropped down to one knee. He mistakenly figured that was game, set and match, and pranced around the circle of watching cadets.

“Can’t beat a Mills! Starsky’s down and he’s staying down!” Robert sing-songed.

Gloating before the fat lady sings is the downfall of a lot of people. Which is something I wasn’t in the habit of doing. I learned the hard way out on the streets of New York. Mental toughness becomes a habit you don’t have to think about, and that street smart habit can beat brute strength any day of the week. I feigned right, then one high kick and a cross punch later—Robert was down and out.

Back in the gloomy dorm room, I watched Hutchinson spritzing his plants. We all could be one of those kids who gets made fun of on the playground at one time or another. I remember when I was in school, I didn’t get hassled because I was too book smart. I got hassled because I suffered from a condition known as ‘big mouth syndrome.’ My mouth got me in more trouble more times than I cared to count. I remember after each hallway fist fight, Principal Johnson would pull me off the other kid, drag me by one arm into his office, and plop me into a chair in front of his desk. Then he’d give me a choice; a call home to mother and three days suspension, or bend over and take the paddle.

I never did want to disappoint mommy, so I took the swats. Eventually, my mom—not to mention Principal Johnson—were at a loss on how to get me to toe the line, so I was sent off to my Aunt and Uncle’s home in California in the hopes that I’d fit in there—no go.

I suspect none of us ever really change. Hutchinson seemed like a good guy. I think he was getting a raw deal. Just because he’d rather study at night instead of thinking up new ways to sneak a twelve-pack into the dorm rooms didn’t make him a flake.

Still, the plant thing was freaking me out. Bet he spent most of his time in a greenhouse when he was a kid. The other thing that bothered me was the fact Hutchinson was always looking at himself in that damn mirror he’d hung up on the wall. You’d think the ten minutes he spent every morning blow drying his hair would be enough mirror time for anybody. He was either that vain or had a secret desire to work in a beauty parlor as a hairstylist.

Or maybe he was keeping tabs on me. My vote was for the latter, since I’d sometimes catch his eye and he’d look away. Hutchinson sure needed to learn a thing or two about fine-tuning his people watching skills.

“Here you go, darlin’,” Hutchinson’s soft voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“Why do you waste your time with those plants?” I frowned as I watched him tenderly pluck a few dried leaves off one of his ‘little darlings.’

Hutchinson turned my way and looked at me with confusion before picking up the spray bottle.

“What do you mean?” he asked, generously misting the ladies.

“What I mean, Hutchinson, is, they don’t even talk back. Why do you bother?”

“Because, they like it.”

“I like artichokes and sex—they like that, too?” I gave my sexiest wink.

“What do artichokes have to do with—” Hutchinson rolled his eyes, something he did a lot. “Forget it, I’m not even going to ask,” he groaned.

“So, seriously,” I said. “How do you know they like it?”

“They grow better.” Sighing, Hutchinson set the water bottle on the nightstand next to his bananas. He ate so many of them I wondered if he wasn’t part monkey.

“Like you said, Starsky—” Hutchinson continued, plopping down on his bed. “They don’t talk back. Why do you waste your time roasting marshmallows… indoors?”

“Oh, you noticed.”

“How could I not?” Hutchinson drawled.

“How do you like them?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Your marshmallows, Hutchinson. How do you like ’em?”

“Over easy,” he said, sounding disinterested.

I cringed and said, “Every decent marshmallow lover knows they taste best well-done.”

“Yeah,” Hutchinson snorted. “Not this decent marshmallow lover.”

I plucked a white puff from the bag, speared it with a stick, and roasted it until it was a pretty light brown color.

“Here you go.” I tipped the stick toward him. He moved to the edge of his bed to take the perfectly cooked puff.

“Thanks.” Hutchinson slid the marshmallow off the stick, juggling it from one palm to the next and blowing. “Hot,” he said just before he popped it into his mouth, and chewed happily. “Why do you like roasting them over a candle flame?” He gave a small nod toward the open bag. “In Minnesota… we roast them over an open fire after the hayride or on campouts.”

“Back where I come from in New York… we don’t have hayrides and campouts.”

“What do you have?”

“Graffiti and cockroach races.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve never been camping—” Hutchinson laughed. “Starsk?”

“So, what of it—” I frowned, not sure if I liked the shortened version of the Starsky name. “Hutch.”

Hutch, as I decided I’d call him, wrinkled his nose, and I was certain he didn’t like the shortened version of his name.

“Oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve roasted marshmallows using a fresh cut branch under a cloudy winter sky while watching the snowfall.”

“What are you? Some sort of Nordic snow bunny?”

“What are you? Some sort of inner-city ninja?” Hutch snapped.

“What do you mean?” My mouth dropped in surprise. It wasn’t often I came across someone who could match my quick wit.

“You really got tough with Mills during our jujitsu lesson a few days ago.”

“So, what of it?” I snapped back.

“So—make my next one well done, would you?” Hutch pointed to the bag of marshmallows. “And ‘what of it’ is—I was impressed.” Hutch looked away, but I caught the small smile playing on his lips.

“Thanks.” I brightened. “So, you like how I handled Mills, huh?” I fished, as I speared another puff and began to roast it.

“Was the best imitation of a tumbleweed I’ve ever seen,” Hutch laughed. “Guy was rolling head over heels before he knew what hit him. I stink at Physical Training,” he groaned inwardly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s all in the attitude,” I replied. “If a guy is tough—you get tougher.”

“Then?” Hutch asked, suddenly seeming to be very interested in what I had to say.

“Then you give them the death stare.”

“Intimidation? That’s a mistake.”

“Trust me—” I assured. “You gotta let them know you’re not afraid. If they think you’re a wimp, that’s when they’ll run you over.”

“Okay, then what?” Hutch asked as I served him up another marshmallow.

“Then you think of the one thing in this world that makes you the maddest and you let it flash inside you like a lightning bolt; let it burn and churn inside your guts until it vaults up your throat and fills your mouth with the taste of stomach acid.”

“And—”

“And then you let it all go like yesterday’s hangover—and you hit ’em.” I gave the old one-two jab for emphasis.

“Is that it?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?” Hutch’s tone was full of uncertainty.

“Then I teach you a few good moves.”

“You will?” His baby blues went wide.

“Yep. Just wish I was as good on the written exams,” I mumbled, secretly hoping he’d pick up on my not-so-subtle hint.

“It’s all in the attitude,” Hutch said. “You have to focus.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“Then?” I asked, stirring restlessly in my seat.

“Then you gotta understand what type of learner you are,” Hutch popped the marshmallow into his mouth, and mumbled, “I think you’re a haptic learner.” He swallowed. “That is someone who can’t sit still. Instead of fighting against your nature, you gotta find your footing, and go with it.”

“Okay.” Never taking my eyes off Hutch I fetched another marshmallow and started roasting.

“Starsky, when you feel frustrated or clogged up, you have to try something different. Maybe play music while you’re studying or punch a bag while you go over and over the facts in your head.”

“Is that it?” I asked with doubt.

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

“Then I study along with you, highlight key points, and run you through the paces.”

“You will?”

“Yep.” Hutch leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees.

It was very quiet the next few minutes, except for the sound of the rain pattering heavily against the window. I roasted Hutch three more marshmallows, neither of us saying a word, until a flash of lightning followed by the crash of thunder made me nearly jump out of my skin. I tried to hide my hang-up by pretending I’d dropped a marshmallow.

“You okay?” Hutch’s sincerity really showed through when I actually paid attention to the guy. Swallowing hard, I could feel my Adam’s apple bob. It was weird to see so much compassion and caring in someone I barely knew. I didn’t get that much emotion out of my own brother most days.

“Fine,” I muttered, picking up the sticky mess with a napkin and tossing the marshmallow into the trash.

“You sure?” Hutch’s tone was composed and light—almost fatherly. I couldn’t have that. I was a full-grown man. I couldn’t let another full-grown man know thunderstorms made me edgy.

“Starsky, are you—”

“Did you know marshmallows date back to ancient Egypt?” I cut Hutch off by using another Starsky family tradition. Talk a lot—sidetrack the subject. “They actually used the sap of a marshmallow plant to make the candy.” I quickly pulled another puff out of the bag and began roasting.

“And did you know, one of the quickest ways of curing a hangover is to make a banana milkshake sweetened with honey?” I gestured with the tip of my chin toward his banana bunch. “And did you know, both George Washington and Thomas Jefferson grew cannabis on their plantations?”

“Starsky, what are you talking about?”

I contained a shudder as another flash of lightning and loud clap of thunder rattled the window, and continued to toss out trivia in my effort to hide my phobia.

“And did you know a pig’s orgasm lasts for thirty minutes? Al Capone’s business card said he was a used furniture dealer. Your stomach has to produce a new layer of mucus every two weeks, otherwise it will digest itself.” I studied the marshmallow, watching for signs of burning.

“‘Stewardesses’ is the longest word that is typed with only the left hand. Reindeer… like to eat bananas…” I paused just a second to draw a breath. “A group of ravens is called a murder… a whale’s penis is called a dork… and if a man trips and falls face down while he has a hard-on… it is possible to break his penis?”

“That is not true. A penis can’t break.”

“It ain’t a pretty sight, Hutch. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”

“Come—”

“That’s the problem, Hutch,” I cut him off. “If a guy’s penis is broken he can’t—you know.”

Having someone to talk to was making me feel better. I wasn’t so sure what Hutch was feeling or thinking. He just kept staring at me with his mouth wide open, not saying a word. I bet he never knew half of that stuff. I could go on all night, but didn’t want to make Hutch feel bad about my vast array of knowledge, so I stopped. Besides that, I had run out of breath.

A few moments of silence ticked by. Hutch kept staring—that’s when I knew he was one of those types who could engage in verbal combat and never say a word. He didn’t believe any of my trivia—especially that last one.

“What?” I nervously asked, thinking Hutch was going to be great at interrogation—just like my father used to be.

“Starsky?” He raised one brow. “Do you always believe everything that comes out that motor mouth of yours?”

“Yes.” I batted my lashes. “Of course.”

“Of course.” Hutch rolled his eyes again and mumbled something else that I didn’t quite catch, but was certain wasn’t very nice.

“I read somewhere if you roll your eyes like that too many times they’ll stay that way.”

“Will you come on! Give it up, Starsky.”

“You know—I don’t give up so easily.”

“You know…” Hutch’s tone was serious. “You should,” he said, turning on his side, and plumping his pillow before jamming it over his head.

My heart skipped a beat. Hutch was a true competitor, someone who could really give me a run for my money. Don’t ask me how but somehow I knew—me and Captain America over there were more than just Academy roommates—we were a good deal that would never go bad.

 

HUTCH

It was hot in the small dorm room where we’d been confined for the weekend. Outside, the rain poured down, feeding the flowers and trees. Inside, sweat poured down my face, back, and into the collar of my shirt. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, mopping my forehead, feeling like I’d been swimming in a tiny puddle. Stuffing the hanky back into my pocket, ignoring my roommate’s twitchiness, I went back to caring for my little darlings, thinking if I’d gotten that guitar string fixed, I could have worked on the song twirling around in my head instead. That might take my mind off this heat and the fact I was stuck in this room because I couldn’t hack Physical Training.

For the thousandth time, I glanced over my shoulder and looked past my roommate’s huge head of curly hair to the window, and wished I was outside jogging in the rain.

I needed to stretch my cramped legs and build my strength. Jogging was a great way to do that, and I loved running in the rain. It was the best time to run. The sidewalks were empty, and the splash splash of raindrops on my face kept me cooler, making me feel faster so I could go the longer distance. The rain always seemed to wash away all that was boggling my mind, and I could just run and run. Running—it’s almost like a drug. I can’t explain the feeling, although the word ‘freedom’ comes to mind. Not too many folks seem to like the rain, but precipitation is an essential part of any ecosystem.

I didn’t know much about my roommate, but I could tell by the look on his face—he was one of those folks who never liked the rain.

The other thing I knew about David Starsky was that he was a pain in my ass. Aside from his stomach always complaining out loud, and his all-night snoring fest, it really annoyed me that he kept his side of the room so tidy and neat. I almost had to wonder if he was sneaking a maid in here when no one was looking. No man ever born made his bed the first damn thing in the morning—before he even took a leak. Everything was clean, organized, dust free, polished, and neatly folded. There was a place for everything, and everything had its exact place. Hell, even his books and eight tracks were kept in alphabetical order. I almost was jealous. Organizational skills are important in becoming a detective; which was my ultimate goal. Being able to put each piece of the puzzle in its proper place brought you to the proper conclusion on the culprit.

We each had a small desk of our own. Starsky had called dibs on the window seat. That was the second thing that ignited my fuse. I hated the fact my desk was stuffed into the dark, cobwebbed corner. And I hated the fact the only thing he kept on top of his desk was a cardboard blotter and a hallucinogenic flask full of red wax.

Worse, he insisted the lava lamp relaxed him and he had to keep it lit so he could sleep. Every night, I opened my eyes to my roommate’s snore fest and the projecting red light; which sent space-aged shadow blobs floating about on the walls like a bad Orson Wells movie.

I set my spray bottle down and turned to the mirror to brush a strand of hair off my forehead. Immediately, I saw a pair of blue eyes that weren’t mine staring at me. Great, David M. Starsky was a mirror watcher.

I pushed the lock of hair off my forehead, trying to pretend I didn’t notice him glaring at me. He sat cross-legged in a chair at his desk near the only window. He looked ridiculous in a black tee- shirt, funky choker chain and blue pajama bottoms, and roasting—of all things—marshmallows over the flame of a candle stick. I wondered if maybe that was what the ‘M’ in his middle name stood for—’marshmallow.’ He had an arsenal of them in his bottom right hand desk drawer. Maybe the ‘M’ stood for ‘mushbrain.’

At any rate, I was glad he’d stopped doodling on the window pane. The high-pitched squeaking sound was giving me a headache. Seems the only time the guy actually sits still is when he’s eating. I’d never seen anyone scarf down food that fast.

I shook my head. The Academy was tougher than I thought. Maybe I should have stayed at Harvard. The class work at the Academy wasn’t difficult, but police work required that you be able to work well with the public—not my greatest attribute. But the hardest lesson to learn was that when partnered with someone, you’d better be able to read between his lines—if you couldn’t, that’s what could get you killed. I’m not a bad guy, I just don’t trust easily.

Something about my roommate told me I wouldn’t have to worry about that much longer. I could tell by watching him that he had the same drive and passion I did when it came to wanting to make a difference in this world.

So far, I’d aced all the Academy’s written exams, but was falling flat on my face when it came to P.T. and making friends. My father would be happy to know that I was a failure, so far. In my father’s opinion, knowledge was life, and friends were the last thing I needed to focus on. To this day, Richard Hutchinson had tried to keep my life fisted in his hand while I buzzed around inside like a trapped fly trying to escape. While I could understand him doing that when I was a kid, it didn’t make sense now that I was a man that he held on even tighter.

When I was a teen, he kept me busy year-round. During the day, I had to sign up for the toughest high school courses and was expected to keep my 4.0 G. P. A.

During the evenings, I was forced to take every private lesson known to man or beast. Guitar, piano, harmonica, flute, French, Spanish, wrestling, boxing, even fencing. Dad had said that sparring with a partner was a good way to learn grace and balance. He also said there was an unheard melody, almost a dance, and most certainly honor, in the art of two guys dressed in white outfits, dueling one on one with swords. I was pretty good with the one-on-one part—it was the hearing the music and the dancing parts that I lacked. I never could block the attacks, and always ended up on the ground. But hand me a guitar—watch me make it sing.

During the summer months, I’d spend most my day working in a greenhouse on my grandfather’s farm. The other half of the day, I’d ride a painted pony named Show Biz through the cornfield down to Jenson’s pond. I always hoped to cross paths with some kids my age. The farm was a good fifty miles from any highway, town, or malt shop—so were all the kids.

Once, I did come across three teenage girls skinny dipping in the pond. They giggled when they saw me and tried to get me to join them. I could only cast my eyes away, feeling my cheeks blush tomato red, before trotting Show Biz down the path back toward home. Some ladies’ man I was back then. Things are way better in that department now; besides, most ladies seem to like a guy in uniform. I couldn’t wait to get into my blues.

A flash of lightning followed by a clash of thunder brought me from my thoughts. I watched Starsky shudder, and drop his marshmallow stick. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or not, but I got the feeling he was scared of thunderstorms.

“Starsky are you o—”

“Where would you want to be, Hutch?” Starsky cut me off. “If you weren’t here, I mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered, seeing right through his child-like need for reassurance. “Haven’t given it much thought.”

“You ever think about what it would be like to rob a bank?”

“What?” I snapped. Where’d that come from left field? “Starsky, we’re here because we are going to become cops.”

“So?”

“So, cops don’t rob banks,” I huffed in irritation. Starsky always seemed to have the weirdest trivia, thoughts, and ideas about the finer points in life. “Besides,” I continued. “No one ever gets away with robbing a bank. Too much security.”

“Not in Bolivia.”

“Bolivia?” I raised my voice a touch. “Are you crazy?”

“I read in a book that’s what Butch said to Sundance, but they did it. What an adrenaline rush.”

“All good bank-robbing stories give you a sample of the rush the thieves feel when they’re pulling off a job,” I explained logically.

“Butch and Sundance could retire in real comfort.” Starsky clicked his tongue in awe.

“Starsky,” I sighed. “Butch and Sundance were killed.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

Another round of lightning lit the room. Starsky fumbled with his desk drawer, shoving the marshmallow bag back in and blowing out the candle flame.

My curly-haired roommate must have eaten his way through three fourths of the bag of marshmallows, but his stomach still rang out its protest like a bank alarm going off. I bet he’d never survive one night on the streets on an empty stomach.

“Hey.” I watched him bounce down on the bed.

“Yeah?” Starsky couldn’t seem to stop his nervous fidgeting.

I reached behind Beautiful Beatrice.

“Calm down,” I said, tossing him the Baby Ruth my mother had sent me in a care package.

I could safely assume the candy bar would do anything but calm Starsky down, but at least he’d have something to occupy himself. For a moment, he looked dumbfounded, like he’d never been shown an act of human kindness before. I blinked, and when I looked at him again, Starsky’s face had lit up that quickly. He was an emotional roller coaster, and I wondered how anyone ever managed to keep up with him. However, I felt like I was getting to know my roommate fairly fast. It didn’t quite put us on even footing—but consciously or unconsciously, I was starting to really like this guy.

Starsky unwrapped the candy, and now stared almost lovingly at the thick chocolate bar.

I had to smile—I never saw anyone eat first with their eyes.

Finally, he bit a huge chunk off.

“Delicious,” he muttered around a mouthful. “Never figured you for the Baby Ruth type, Hutch.”

“What type did you figure me for?”

“More the French gourmet, caviar, veal piccata type.” Starsky took another bite. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” I yawned and stretched. “Think I’m hitting the sack.”

“Me, too, in a while,” Starsky said, stuffing the rest of the Baby Ruth into his mouth.

I cleared my study books off the bed and crawled in, while my roommate went back to the business of bee-bopping around the room.

Starsky checked his gun, laid his clothes out for the next day, brushed and flossed his teeth, tossed a football up and down in the air one hundred times, dug through the dirty clothes basket and matched all his dirty socks, then dropped and gave me twenty.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty—

“I thought you were going to bed?” I asked sternly.

“I will. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six….” Starsky jumped up to his feet when he reached thirty.

“One too many marshmallows, Starsk?”

“I’m still walking straight, ain’t I?”

“Go to sleep, will you?” I pulled the covers up to my neck and turned out my bedside lamp.

“Can’t sleep,” he said, straightening his desk drawers, and organizing his comic book collection, before clipping his toenails.

“Try.”

“In a few minutes,” he said sitting down at his desk. Flipping on a wall light hanging near his desk, he pulled pencil and paper from the drawer, and began to write. And write. And write. And write some more.

But it wasn’t just the writing that drove me nuts. It was the constant mumbling, hems and haws, ooos and awws.

“What are you doing now, Hemingway?” I tried to get cozy on the small bed, but my feet always hung over the edge.

“Writing a letter home to Mom.”

He hymned and hawed another half dozen times before addressing and stamping the envelope. Then Starsky danced around the room again, doing a little of this and a little of that like a Harlem Globetrotter on speed.

After six hours of being locked in this room, my patience was going right out ‘his’ window. My roommate finally settled on one thing, throwing darts at a poster he’d pinned up on the door.

Starsky had a good eye. His execution and style in dart throwing didn’t even compare to how he handled a gun out on the firing range. I was more than a little awed.

“You like that movie?” I reached for a glass of water on my nightstand, watching a dart hit James Dean dead center of his right eye.

“‘Rebel Without a Cause,'” Starsky identified. “Yeah, guy wears a mean jacket. Red’s my favorite color.”

“Red looks better on cars,” I said, taking a sip of water.

“I know.” Starsky nodded.

The water slid down the wrong pipe and I choked. We’d actually agreed on something.

“Did you know James Dean was raised on a farm by his aunt and uncle?” Starsky gave me a sideways glance before he threw another dart.

More trivia, meant to detour and divert.

I swiped a dribble of water off my chin, not letting on I knew his game, and said, “Nope.”

“You ever see the movie?” he asked wearily.

“Yes, I’ve seen it.” I gave my synopsis. “New kid in town. Wants to prove himself to his peers. He’s been in trouble before and gets into more trouble with some real tough guys. Switchblade fights, driving his car toward the edge of a cliff, hiding out from the cops when a friend is accidentally killed. That the one?”

“That’s the one.”

I watched another dart fly, this time hitting Dean in the center of his left eye.

“Don’t you ever take a break or something?” I gripped my pillow, and resisted the urge to toss it at him.

“Couple years ago, taking a break would get me nothing but killed.” He tilted his head, wide blue eyes showing something I’d never seen in them before.

Fear.

Loneliness.

Uncertainty.

“What were you doing a couple years ago?” I asked.

“Invading another country,” he said just barely above a whisper.

“You were in ‘Nam?” I sat up straight, swearing I could see the bombs detonating in his eyes.

“Didn’t get this…” Starsky stopped throwing darts, untucked his tee-shirt from his jeans, and lifted the material high on his chest. “…in a bar fight,” he said hotly, revealing to me a large jagged scar on his lower left side.

“Damn!” I whistled between my teeth.

“Could’ve been worse.” He slipped his shirt down real fast, looking a little embarrassed that he’d showed me his war wound. “I’m keeping you awake.” He uneasily plucked at the feathers on his dart.

“You’re not,” I said softly.

“You know it’s not like in the movies, where somebody screams, ‘lights… camera… action!'” Suddenly looking very tired, Starsky slowly moved back to his window seat. “It just sort of happens.” He rolled the dart between thumb and forefinger. “Having to leave your buddy’s dead body spread eagle in the dirt and—” Starsky shrugged, and swallowed convulsively. “Sorry.” He shook his head, setting the dart to the desk, and pressing his lips together in an obvious effort not to reveal anymore.

“Sorry for what? Defending your country?” I switched on my nightstand lamp and swung my legs out of bed, surprised he’d divulged so much—most I’d gotten out of him since we bunked together was useless trivia.

“Forget I said anything.”

Upon closer inspection, I could see a sort of lost expression on Starsky’s face. Deep lines around his eyes that came only from the grip of fear, and pain, and of seeing things no one deserved to see.

“Go to sleep,” he muttered, eyes straying to the rain outside the window.

The downpour had become quiet and so did my roommate. I wanted to know more about what happened to Starsky in the war, but something told me not to press him too hard. Instead, I changed the subject. For lack of anything better to say, I asked, “Did you ever go skinny dipping when you were a kid?” I asked, but got no answer.

“Starsky?” No response. He seemed to be distracted by his own thoughts, ten-thousand miles away, and white as a sheet. “Hey,” I called, but my roommate continued to sit there with that same lost look on his face, staring into the night. “Hey, Mushbrain!” I shouted.

“Huh?” Emerging from his black hole, Starsky looked my way.

“You okay?” I tensely asked. “For a minute there… I thought… I thought I lost you.”

“For a minute there… I think you did.” He smiled weakly.

I crawled out of bed and pulled my chair out from under the desk. Sitting down beside him, I joined him in staring out the window.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Out of my peripheral vision, I watched Starsky turn to face me.

“Sitting with you,” I said with all the sincerity I had in my heart. “That okay with you?” I turned to look into downtrodden, deep blue eyes.

Starsky quirked his lip and studied me as if to consider my motives. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay with me.” He gave a nod of invitation, going back to stare out the window.

I settled in my chair, and extended a friendly hand to the back of his neck and gave a small squeeze. I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone in this crazy life.

“Want to tell me—”

“No,” he whispered, never taking his gaze from the light drizzle of raindrops sliding down the pane. “I can handle it from here.”

“Okay, buddy.” I let my hand fall away. Whatever ‘it’ was, the case was tightly closed.

“What about you?” Starsky’s eyes locked with mine. His body was tense, tears lingering in the corner of his eyes but not falling. Old school laws—laws my father tried to teach me. Crying in front of people wasn’t permissible. I watched Starsky quickly look away. “What cha’ been up to?” He cleared his throat. “Before you decided you wanted to join the force?”

More tricks from his bag—distracting from his thoughts and focusing in on mine.

Everyone has a story and I had plenty, but I was certain my tales were nothing compared to seeing your buddies on the ground covered in blood.

“Marriage. Harvard Law. Divorced—twice—not in that order.”

I watched Starsky take a deep breath and relax a little, so I kept talking.

“I got to a point where I couldn’t deal with the people in my life who wanted to suck the very joy from me.”

“Your wife?”

“Both of them, and my father.” I leaned forward and traced the last few drops of rain on the window as the storm came to an end. “I hated him for how he treated me. He believed in tough love to the max,” I said, shocked at myself for spilling my guts so openly to a guy I hardly knew. “When I told my dad I wanted to be in the middle of the action instead of some fancy suit behind a desk—” I paused, feeling that same hot angry surge of bile bubble up my throat. I swallowed hard, then said, *”You’d think I’d thrown him under a bus and left him there to die.”

“What’d he say?”

“He told me to shut up about being a cop! He said being a cop wasn’t for me.” I could feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat at the all too clear memory. “How could he know what was for me? My dad was more worried about his money than he ever was about me.” I let my hand fall away from the window, feeling dizzy, instinctively pointing my head downward. “He told me if I did this, became a cop, I could get my ass out of his life—for good!” I shook my head.

“Take it easy,” Starsky said, his hand falling to my shoulder.

I looked up into his concerned eyes. Without words, he asked me what I did. “What else.” I waved a heated hand. “We parted ways. My father’s righteous fury stormed off his way and I stormed off mine. My dad was always quick like that,” I explained. “Quick to write a check, or buy that top-of- the-line car. But listening to his lousy drop out, two failed marriages, wanna be a cop son… just wasn’t his forte… I guess.” I wrung my hands together struggling to keep calm. “He’d listen to the taxman, the car dealer, his personal finance consultant, his barber, even his mistress,” I informed him, my whole body shaking with anger, and my heart twisting into my chest as I panted heavily. “I swore I’d never be like him. Not everything in this world comes down to dollars and cents!”

“I’m sorry,” Starsky said, gently.

“I’m okay.” I forced myself to concentrate on getting my breathing under control.

No one other than ten chapters in my journal and a number two lead pencil knew any of that crap about my dad.

“I’m sorry, Hutch,” Starsky repeated.

“It’s okay. My dad always was a no dessert, all business, no-fun kinda guy.” I secretly wondered if I had the stomach for police work. The rapes. Hostage situations. Blood. Guts. Horror. My eyes once again greeted Starsky’s. “I don’t know. Maybe he was right? Maybe I’m not cut out—”

“You’ll do great, Hutch, be like the caterpillar turning into a butterfly type thing.”

“Yeah?” I asked, forcing my eyes wide.

“Yeah.”

“You play?” Starsky asked gesturing with a toss of his head toward my bed.

“What?” I looked around until I spotted what he meant. “Oh, the guitar? I play some but…”

“No, dummy. You play Monopoly?”

“I’m a big fan of the game. It’s the only thing my dad and I did together and enjoyed. You play?”

“No one ever wins at that game,” Starsky stated firmly. “It takes too long and someone just ends up kicking the pieces all over the room and walking away.”

“You just have to have the right strategy,” I informed. “What’s the first thing you buy?” I asked.

“Utilities.”

“Starsky, never buy utilities first. The best way to win is to buy up all the railroads first, brings in a constant flow of cash.”

“Best way to win—is not to play,” Starsky griped.

“You chicken,” I snuffed.

“Don’t call me that! Game on! I’ll beat the socks off you, Hutchinson!”

“Touchy.” I smiled at the nerve I’d hit. I suspected Starsky didn’t like to lose—at anything he did. I liked his competitiveness.

“It’s late,” I said, looking at the clock seeing it was three in the morning.

“Who’s chickening out now?”

“Fine, let’s play.” I got up, and quickly dragged the box out from under the bed.

“Groovy,” Starsky said, plopping down cross-legged on the floor.

I settled next to him, pulled the board from its box, and began to organize the money.

“Groovy, Starsk?” I laughed at the use of the word.

“Okay, terrific,” he corrected. “I’m the car.”

“I’m the thimble.”

Starsky quirked his lip at me. “Nobody ever wants to be the thimble. You’re weird, Hutch.”

“Thank you,” I deadpanned.

Shirts off because of the broken radiator, we played intensely and energetically for about an hour and a half. Starsky was losing big time already, and getting really annoyed, but he wouldn’t give up. I had to pretend I was a mannequin, not twitching a muscle, batting a lash, or making a sound as my roommate shouted out, ‘vroom, vroom!’ every time it was his turn to make a move.

Starsky just rolled an eight. “Vroom. Vroom!” He moved his car across the board and landed in jail for the tenth time. “Dammit!” With his socked foot he kicked at his dwindling pile of colored money, scattering the bills.

“Try and relax, Starsky.”

“How can I relax when I’m about to mortgage everything I own?”

“It’s just a game,” I laughed ruefully. “Want to buy my ‘get out of jail’ free card?”

“What’ll it cost me?”

“How much you got?”

Starsky yawned, desperately reorganizing his money, and fighting to keep his eyes open. I already knew how much he had—not enough. He was nearly bankrupt, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him; besides, he was playing the master. If the guy was down to his last buck, somehow I knew he wouldn’t admit defeat. I couldn’t help but admire his diehard spirit.

“Starsky, look,” I said deciding to let him off the hook. “Let’s hit the sack.”

“No! Game’s not over.”

I sighed. “Starsky, you can hardly keep your eyes open and I’m beat. Give it up.”

“Fine, Mr. Monopoly,” Starsky groaned, and tossed his money to the board. “But we don’t ever give up. Leave the board alone, and we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

“It’s a date.”

“I only date chicks.”

“Fine,” I said. “It’s a game. I’ll teach you yet about how to win at Monopoly.”

“And I’ll teach you about artichokes and sex.” Starsky stood, stretched then crawled into bed.

“Deal.” Chuckling I crawled back into my bed.

“Good deal,” Starsky mumbled.

“Hey, Starsk, no snoring tonight, okay?” I snuggled down.

“Okay.”

Two seconds later a rancid smell filled the room.

“Starsky!” I pulled the covers up over my head. “Oh, man,” I muttered, still unable to escape the foul stench.

“You didn’t say no farting, Hutch.”

I shoved my face deep into my pillow trying hard not to laugh. Don’t ask me how but somehow I knew—,me and the curly-haired chump over there were more than just academy roommates. There was something magical between us. I hoped we could be together long enough to find out if that magic was real or not.

The end