A Striped Tomato or a Trojan Horse

Hutch is not loving the Torino.

“Starsky, just what are you trying to prove with this car?”

Starsky switched off the engine and turned to gaze quizzically at Hutch. “I’m not trying to prove anything. This high-performance machine will have ample opportunity to prove itself.”

“This is a muscle car, Starsky.” Hutch wished, for the third time today, for a cigarette.

“Oh, and I suppose that a muscle car is too much car for a girl to drive.” Starsky’s curls seemed to twitch indignantly.

Hutch tried to resist answering with a knowing smirk, and promptly failed. “So you are trying to prove something.”

“Listen to this.” Starsky opened the driver’s side door, then looked expectantly at her partner.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.” Starsky grinned. “Unlike that bucket of bolts you insist on driving, the bad guys will not be able to hear us coming.”

Hutch sneered. “They’ll be able to see us from a mile away. This ridiculous car looks like a striped tomato.” She exited the passenger side and scowled, wondering why slamming the door didn’t give her any sense of satisfaction.

Hutch stalked out of the police garage and into the station, trying to ignore the sense of relief she felt when Starsky caught up to her longer strides.

“What’s eating you?”

Hutch had reached the coffee pot and was reflecting on the fact that the assured lousiness of what she was pouring into a cup could most certainly be a metaphor for the varied disappointments of life. She spoke softly. “We already have to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously.” Hutch paused, then stole a glance at her partner. She expected to see either irritation or amusement, but found contemplation instead.

“So you probably won’t believe me when I tell you that I just really love the car. You probably want me to tell you that the car symbolizes non-conformity, or something like that.” Starsky grabbed another cup and held it out expectantly.

Hutch opened her mouth to reply, and found no reply forthcoming. She swallowed a sigh and filled Starsky’s cup.

Starsky took a sip, made a face, and met Hutch’s eyes with her own. Beneath their familiar humor there was something else, just as familiar, but more seldom present. Something that usually went unnoticed by people other than Hutch, and often to their detriment. Hutch could only describe it as formidable. “If you don’t want to accept the simple explanation, then I’ll give you this. The Torino says “We’re here! We’re not going away, and we are not to be messed with.”

Starsky turned and sauntered to her desk. Hutch couldn’t help but think that Starsky was rather optimistic. But then again, one of them had to be.