After-Christmas Blues

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Starsky is suffering from the after-Christmas blues and Hutch tries to help.

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Hutch had been kept busy paying bills for the better part of the morning when it suddenly occurred to him that the house was very quiet, too quiet. He was used to listening to the background “music” his normally ebullient and enthusiastic partner provided him with and found himself missing the constant running commentary on life, love and the pursuit of anything that popped into the head of the dark-haired dynamo.

He shut down his computer and went looking for Starsky. He found him in the living room, packing away the Christmas decorations. Knowing that the holiday season was the man’s favorite and that he could get a little melancholy when it was over, Hutch decided some TLC was called for.

“Hey, buddy, after-Christmas blues?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Who knows you better than I do? I’ve only lived with you for what…twenty plus years? You can read me like a book, too, can’t you?”

“Sure, the dictionary.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m boring?”

“You know better than that. I mean….it seems like you’ve got so much more going for you than I do and it becomes more glaringly apparent every year. I mean, your music….you can play so many different instruments and you sing like an angel. You even have a flair for cooking. Not that I’m jealous of those things. I get the benefit from all of them. I love to hear you sing and play. And god knows, I love your cooking.” He smiled and patted his stomach. “I just don’t seem to have found anything artistic that I do well.”

Hutch grinned. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “Funny you should bring that up. I found something the other day you might be interested in. Hang on.”

“Not goin’ anywhere.”

When Hutch returned, he was carrying a sheaf of papers with a blue ribbon tied around them. “I knew you’d forget all about these.”

“Aw, Blintz, you’re not gonna read your will to me again, are you? I get it. You leave everything to me. Including the heartache, pain and grief. Somebody once said it’s hardest on the ones left behind, you know.”

Hutch laughed. “No, I’m not gonna read you my will. I had trouble enough getting you to accept that you’re my beneficiary. I promise to never mention it again.”

“That’s good, but you have to promise to never die, too.”

“That I can’t promise, but I will try, just for you.”

“So what’s all that?”

“Your poetry….every poem or letter you ever wrote to me.”

“Aw, shit….bring on the suds. What do we want to re-hash that period of our lives for? As I remember, there wasn’t much to be happy about, with me getting shot and you having to clean up after me like I was a baby.”

“I loved it, Starsk.”

“I believe you. You had me right where you wanted me. You’ve got control issues, blondie.”

“And you don’t? Who still likes to play with handcuffs?”

“I’m beginning to be sorry this subject ever came up.”

“And I still can make you blush.”

“Hey, if I’m gonna get drop-kicked down memory lane, let’s get on with it. I’ve got Christmas stuff to put in the attic.”

“Look, here’s the first poem you ever wrote me. It was before you were shot, after we first got together.”

Starsky groaned.

In spite of his partner’s lack of enthusiasm, Hutch proceeded to read:

Take me to heaven, Baby-blue,
Carry me to Paradise,
Love me tonight like only you can,
Such feelings in me you entice.

Love me forever, Baby-blue,
Don’t ever let me go,
Keep me in your heart always,
Make our love grow and grow.

Make me surrender, Baby-blue,
Never to be apart,
Always to be together,
Perfect in soul and heart.

Give of yourself, Baby-blue,
Offer your love so free,
Make me believe you love me,
That there’s only me and thee.

Grow old with me, Baby-blue,
Come to our journey’s end,
Together, still in love
And still the best of friends.

“You were a little single-minded back then.” Hutch coughed to cover up the quaver in his voice. He plucked at his shirt collar. It seemed like the temperature in the room had gone up several degrees.

“Single-minded, is that a new phrase for bein’ horny as hell, all the time?”

“Don’t you think that’s a pretty good poem for a first attempt?”

“Would it do me any good to disagree with you?”

“No, here’s another good one:

Sometimes I feel like
I can’t go on,
Sometimes the world seems cold,
Then I’m glad I can count on
Your hand to hold.

When I’m injured
Or when I’m sick,
When my life is out of control.
I always know I can rely on
Your hand to hold.

If I’ve been hurt
By someone else,
If everything starts to unfold,
I know I can just reach out for
Your hand to hold.

It’s your hand I can count on
When I need to be consoled,
I know that you will give me
Your hand to hold.

We’ve learned
To count on each other,
And our love will grow untold,
All because you give me
Your hand to hold.

Starsky took Hutch’s right hand in his left, turned it over and brought it up to his mouth to kiss the palm.

“Well, that one at least has some truth. You’ve always been there for me and I’ve had to hold tight to this hand more than once just to make it through.”

“That goes for me, too.”

Starsky was silent, remembering times past, beginning to see how far they’d come.

“Look, Starsk, this was one of my favorites,

This morning I awakened first
And watched the sunlight play,
Making highlights in his golden hair
As against my chest it lay.

The words he said to me last night,
Just before he fell asleep,
In the silence of the darkness,
Their power made me weep.

Thoughts of life’s deep ironies,
The contradictions that it brings,
Occasions when my heart can break
And others when it sings.

There are times when life with wings will soar,
And with tenderness overflows,
With the softness of a kitten,
It can gently hold me close.

It often takes me fiercely,
With a passion uncontrolled
On a roller coaster ride,
That leaves me grasping hold.

It takes me to the mountain peaks
Where I see beauty all around,
Without a word, it lets me loose
To fall back to the ground.

I follow it through valleys
Where the sunlight doesn’t pierce.
There the storms and rivers rage
And the beasts I face are fierce.

But these are very special words
That tend to calm the sea.
They hold the raging beasts at bay
And make the demons flee.

They soothe my aching heart
And make my love seem new,
When he whispers those mystical words to me,
“Baby, I love you.”

Hutch looked into the still vibrant deep blue eyes of the man sitting beside him on the love-seat. “You’ve always had more than a little bit of romance in your soul. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t gotten together the way we did?”

“We’d probably both be someplace being happily unhappy. Anybody we’d married would have succeeded, whether she tried or not, to cut a wedge between us. There’s just no way we could ever have lived truly contented lives without each other. I guess we’ve got a lot to be thankful for, don’t we?”

“Probably more than we’ll ever know, Starsk.”

Hutch indicated the papers stacked in front of him. “Are you planning on doing anything more with these?”

“Yep.”

“Great! You’re going to start writing again?”

“Nope. The fire is dying down. This will be just the thing to get it started up again.”

He started to scoop the pile up off the table.

“No way. These are precious to me. I’m keeping them where I can take them out and read them again. They remind me of special times, make me love you just that much more.”

“Well, maybe I could jot down a verse or two now and then. Maybe even take that creative writing class they advertised in the paper.”

“There you go. That sounds great.”

“Trying to get me out of the house two nights a week so somebody else can move in on you?”

“You still jealous after all these years?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m not sharing you with anybody.” He got up and started gathering up the boxes. “But I guess I`d better get this job done now or it`s not gonna get done today.”

Hutch knew he’d succeeded in lifting the man’s spirits when he heard him start to sing,

“Later on, we’ll perspire
Makin’ love by the fire
And if my undies are red,
Hutch’ll give me some head,
Walkin’ in my winter underwear.”

Hutch chuckled and shook his head. Maybe the ability to rhyme wasn’t so much of a blessing after all. Still….thinking about Pine Lake and those long johns of Starsky’s got to him every time. The rascal knew it, too. And there was that old mattress stored in the attic.

“Wait up, Starsk,” he called. “I’ll help you put that stuff away,”

THE END