Always Be Brave

A trip to the dentist brings up feelings of fear and dread for Starsky.

Thanks to my beta reader Sue.

Hutch walked heavily up the front steps to his door, head down, hands fumbling with his holster. Snapping the restrictive piece off, he searched for his key ring. He was tired and irritable after spending a long hot day in the squad room, minus his partner. He pushed his door open to find Starsky sprawled out on the sofa, air conditioner on full blast, with an ice pack applied gingerly to his mouth.

Having left earlier in the morning to go to the dentist for a routine teeth cleaning, the brunet decided to take the rest of the day off. Hutch had tried to reach him by phone for a good portion of the afternoon, but Starsky hadn’t answered.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Hutch sat down beside his friend.

His partner looked as if he had been through a massive dental procedure, instead of the simple cleaning that it was.

“What’s the matter, buddy? Does your mouth really hurt that bad?” Hutch empathized as he re-adjusted the pillow for his friend.

Starsky had been a nervous wreck all week long, his behavior punctuated by outbursts of temper along with many sleepless nights. Hutch was surprised that he had kept the appointment, as he was prone to canceling at the last moment.

“I feel awful, Hutch.” Starsky massaged his tender jaw.

“Awful how?” The blond waited patiently for a reply.

Starsky looked up thoughtfully. Hutch seemed to be in a sympathetic mood, and for this he was grateful.

“Well, my mouth hurts, and I have a headache, but mostly I’m feelin’ sorta faint. I haven’t eaten since we had breakfast. Could ya maybe whip us up some supper? Please.”

Hutch stood up and smiled broadly at his friend. “Sure thing, pal. You just rest. Never mind me—oh, no, I’m feeling just terrific.” Sarcasm was dripping from his voice. “Spent the entire afternoon stuck inside, at my desk, doing YOUR reports, with Dobey breathing down my neck.” Hutch pulled his shirttail out from his pants. His back was still drenched in perspiration.

“Hey, that’s great. I owe ya one.” Starsky tossed the now melted ice pack onto the coffee table where it immediately left a wet ring, and then nestled deeply into the pillow he had dragged onto the sofa earlier. He closed his eyes while Hutch looked on incredulously.

The guilt trip had failed miserably. Hutch never was very good at it anyway.

Purposely banging open cabinets and clanging pots and pans, Hutch proceeded to prepare spaghetti with a simple sauce, and even hunted up a loaf of soft garlic bread to accompany the meal.

“Just need one more thing,” Hutch muttered to himself as he searched in his closet and found a bottle of Chianti. Pouring two generous goblets of the red nectar, he sliced the bread and went to wake up his friend.

“Come on, buddy, meal’s going to get cold.” Hutch practically shouted, but Starsky remained asleep.

“Okay, then, may as well eat the meal by myself. Sure am hungry, though. Doubt there will be any leftovers.” That last comment brought the shorter man to his feet.

A relatively silent meal, a few glasses of wine, and a sullen Starsky all made for a very unpleasant supper.

Finally Hutch could take no more. “Well, you’re a barrel of laughs tonight, Starsk. You can’t still be brooding over your appointment. It was just a cleaning, pal, not something to get so worked up about.” Hutch began tapping his wineglass with his fork. The pinging sound was irritating Starsky’s already jangled nerves.

Starsky looked down at his plate. He felt his ears burning, his heart palpitating. He felt like a fool. “Gotta use the john,” he exclaimed and abruptly pushed over his chair as he hastily made his way to Hutch’s bathroom.

Hutch stared at his friend in dismay.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting on the edge of the tub, Starsky cradled his aching head. How could he begin to explain to Hutch how afraid he really was? It was no laughing matter, but it really was pathetic, that a grown man was terrified of the dentist.

Memories assaulted him, of his father dragging him to Dr. Winston. Starsky wearing his dark blue baseball cap trailed behind his dad, trying to be brave. The smell of the dental office, faintly minty, very antiseptic. Being placed in the stiff leather chair, having cavities filled without the benefit of Novocain.

Act like a man David

But I’m only a boy

The pain was unbearable. And when the dentist hit a nerve in the badly decayed tooth, Starsky had jumped out of the chair, knocking the drill into the air, and causing a commotion. His father was mortified, and Dr. Winston was furious, lashing out with harsh words at his young patient.

Trying to get up from his seat, Starsky had received a sharp glance from his father, followed by a restraining arm locked across his chest. Young David bucked and kicked trying to break free, but to no avail. Silent tears dripped down his face, as the boy realized it was useless to fight anymore. He was trapped like an animal, held in place by the one person he had trusted and loved. His father.

It’s for your own good son.

So he grew up afraid, but sucked it up. He was a teenager, then a grown man. He thought he hid his fears pretty well. And then this morning, a perceptive female dentist had caused the steel façade to tumble away.

Slowly entering Dr. Bradley’s office, he waited his turn. Noticing a pile of magazines, Starsky rifled through them until he located an issue about photography, mindlessly turning each page, noticing neither the pictures, nor the words contained in the glossy text.

Finally, they called his name. Starsky slowly stood up, as his eyes darted toward the exit. Almost deciding to make a dash for the Torino, he took a deep breath, and with false bravado, followed the receptionist into the exam room.

He sat in the chair, deathly still, as the assistant placed the too small paper bib around his full neck. His fingers automatically pulled on the top flap pressing against his Adam’s apple. In vain, he tried to ease the restrictive feeling. He felt as if he were choking.

Then Dr. Bradley entered the room. She was an attractive woman in her early thirties. Someone Starsky would normally try to impress with his charm and wit. Instead, he gripped the hand rest tightly and clamped his mouth shut.

Sensing that her patient was fearful, Dr. Bradley talked quietly to him. She even went so far as to ask if he had a traumatic experience at the hands of a dentist in his childhood. Starsky was mortified. Flashing a smile at the dentist, he assured her he was fine, just stressed from a case at work.

Reaching for her instruments, Dr. Bradley kept up a soothing litany of words and stories, all for the benefit of her squirming patient. The cleaning and exam were swiftly completed. Finally, Starsky could breathe a sigh of relief.

He paid his bill, and walked slowly to his car, feeling physically exhausted and mentally drained. He drove straight to Venice Place; it was closer than his own apartment. Opening Hutch’s door, he walked in and phoned Dobey, told him he needed the afternoon off.

And that was that. Oh, he knew Hutch would be furious, having been left with a pile of unfinished reports, but at the time Starsky really didn’t care.

He flopped down on the sofa with an ice pack, and quickly fell asleep. His body and mind depleted.

Shaking himself out of his contemplation, Starsky stood in front of the sink. He spared a glance at himself in the mirror. He was horrified at the reflection that stared back at him. Waxen face, dark rings under the eyes. Who was this person?

“You make me sick. You and your fears. Get a grip.” Swinging open Hutch’s medicine cabinet, Starsky found the bottle of aspirin. Shaking out two tablets, he swallowed them while leaning under the running water, taking a few large gulps to help chase down the chalky pills.

Turning off the taps, he went to leave the bathroom, to face Hutch. What a scene he had made…again. Knowing his partner he was probably standing outside the door, pacing and worrying. That thought brought a wry smile to Starsky’s face as he went to push the door open.

Hutch was leaning up against the wall with folded arms, as expected. His fair eyebrows arched as if in question. Their eyes locked. Starsky could feel the concern emanating from his partner.

Probably thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.

“Starsk?” A simple question that really was so much more.

“M’okay, Blondie. Wanna go out… maybe a grab a beer at Huggy’s?” Starsky pushed by Hutch, and went in search of his leather jacket.

“Huh?” Grabbing onto his friend’s shirtsleeve, Hutch yanked Starsky back around to face him.

“Slow down, will ya? We just finished supper, and I feel all grimy from work today.” Hutch rubbed his hands on his corduroy pants in exasperation. “Let’s sit down, maybe have a cup of coffee, we could talk.” His partner’s familiar, caring gaze penetrated Starsky’s sagging spirit, but the thought of analyzing and debating his recent behavior, even with someone as understanding as Hutch, caused the detective’s anxiety to mount ten fold.

“Listen, to be honest with ya, I don’t feel much like chatting. Guess I’ll just head home then, okay?” Standing up, he headed toward the door, this time no arm reached out to hold him back. The two friends always knew when the other needed space and time.

“Okay, pal. Go on home. Try and get some more sleep.” Hutch smiled tiredly at his partner as Starsky quietly shut the door and went down to his car.

The blond watched through his living room window as his friend departed. Shoulders slumped, no spring to his step. Hutch wearily sat down on the nearest chair. He had a nagging feeling that he should not have let Starsky leave Venice Place alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Starsky decided to drive straight home. Flopping down on his sofa, he guzzled a few beers, while mindlessly changing channels on his television set. After his third brew, his eyes began to droop.

Tired.

He went into his bedroom and fell on top of the covers. Shadows danced across the ceiling, as the humiliation of the day coursed throughout his body. Mocking himself, and his father, he began to speak to the ghosts that haunted him.

“Are you happy now, Dad? Did you know what you were doing when you held me down in the chair, when you told me to act like a man? God, I was only seven years old.”

Always be brave.

Starsky jumped up and started pacing. He pushed his fingers frantically through his curls.

That’s when he saw it, the photo he kept by his bedside. Father and son.

It was his undoing. He picked up the nearest object, his alarm clock, and savagely threw it across the room. A stream of expletives exited his mouth, as he grabbed his tennis racket, and flung it against the wall. Slowly he turned his bedroom upside down, until he felt the rage start to whither and leave his body.

“That’s good, buddy. Let it out.” Hutch muttered quietly to himself as he witnessed his best friend’s actions, all the while remaining hidden in the shadows.

Starsky grabbed the only thing left standing in his room. The framed picture. He stared into his father’s eyes, and then with one final push of rage, smashed the glass frame to the floor. His knees started to buckle as he slowly started to sink to the ground. Strong arms grabbed him, to cushion the fall.

Hutch.

Soft murmurs of “It’s okay.” A handkerchief wrapped carefully around Starsky’s bruised and bleeding hand.

Starsky reached forward and pulled the crumpled photo out of the mangled frame. He looked one more time into the face of the man who he had thought was his hero.

“Bastard. You knew it hurt, and you held me there.” Said feather soft. The picture fluttered to the ground.

THE END