California Christmas

A California Christmas.

Originally published in the zine, The Fix #9, in 1990.

“Do you believe that?” Starsky nodded in the direction of the shoreline. He would have pointed at the unbelievable scene with his finger, but at the moment both hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets for warmth.

Hutch squinted into the afternoon sun. He shrugged and smiled. “It’s still the thing to do, Starsk. Call home and tell everyone you spent Christmas Day lying on the beach. It’s an L.A. kind of thing.” Hutch inspected the inhabitants of the beach. He and Starsky had abandoned the sidewalk in favor of plodding along the wet sand, and had an excellent view of their fellow beachgoers. Even though it was a balmy 69 degrees downtown, the wind off the ocean was chilling and the temperature here was at least 10 degree cooler. Yet some diehards insisted on putting on their bikinis and wetsuits and spreading their beach paraphernalia on the cold sand all in the name of “California Living.” A couple of neon-covered surfer dudes were out trying to catch a curl without catching their death of cold. And two bikini babes, decked out in color-coordinated thongs, had more goose flesh on them than the goose Hutch had put in the oven earlier that morning. “Yeah, Starsk,” Hutch smiled at the scene around them. “Tell me you didn’t use to call your mother and tell her how hot it was in the middle of December and how great it was down at the beach during the holidays.”

Starsky grinned. “You lose. I didn’t start coming down to the beach until you were out here.” He cast a sidelong glance at Hutch. The golden yellow tones of the sun reflected off Hutch’s hair and blinded as easily as off the crystal waves of the ocean. Still. “You’re the one who refuses to give up this life-long obsession with the sea. Sometimes I can’t believe you’ve still got us coming out here.”

Hutch shrugged, adjusting his jacket around his neck. “I like it. It’s colorful. It’s an artists’ colony.”

“It’s a hangout for the homeless, you mean.” Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. “Look at that. Cardboard box homes, tents strung together from filthy blankets, grocery cart condos. This place has gone from being a trendy weekend bikini beach to a tourist trap complete with gangs, addicts and transients. I mean, look at this,” Starsky pointed his foot at an offending glob of trash. “Old condoms, used tampons, slimy strands of puke green seaweed.”

“It’ll come around again,” Hutch insisted. “These places always do.”

Starsky responded with a look of pure disgust. “For a guy who spends his life trying to become the perfect cynic, you sure have some weird blind spots.”

Hutch smiled.

“What are we doing here?” Starsky took his hands out of his pockets to gesture at the vast expanse before them. “Christmas is for snow and cold and snuggling in front of fireplaces and drinking hot brandy and watching little kids get all excited over Santa.”

Hutch took a moment to study the man strolling next to him. Threads (but just threads) of silver glided through the chestnut curls. The face was a little more worn, a little more rugged, a little more full, but the eyes–those eyes–still glittered and gleamed in response to certain things. Christmas. Birthdays. A good bust. His partner. “We could have taken some time off and gone home,” Hutch responded. “Plenty of snow and cold back there. The windows at Macy’s. The show at Rockefeller Center. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”

Starsky kicked at a rock half-buried in the wet sand. “Not much back home anymore,” he sighed. “Nowhere to go, really, now that the old apartment’s gone. And seems like most of my generation’s spread out so much there’s no way to get the family together like we used to.” No question that “home” meant New York, not Duluth. “Guess my family’s out here now.” A brief, satisfied smile played upon his lips.

“What does Christmas mean to you?” Hutch stopped to free a shell caught in the sand. Starsky paused a few feet ahead of him. “After all, you are Jewish.”

Starsky’s hand moved down to brush his groin. “Naw!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “How could you tell?”

Hutch smirked as he examined the tiny white armor in his hand. He looked over at Starsky. “Really. What does it mean to you?”

“It means it’s easy to get into a movie on December 25th?” Starsky waggled his eyebrows.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, Starsk.”

Starsky scratched at the holiday stubble on his cheek. “Means my birthday’s only three months away!”

Hutch pitched the shell back into the water. “You’re goofy, you know that? You’re also getting too old to be counting down to your birthday.” He resumed walking.

Starsky took his place beside him. “Ain’t fifty yet. I can still say I’m only in my late forties.” He grinned at Hutch. “I could probably even get away with saying I’m in my early forties.” He stuck his nose in the air, an aristocratic pose. “So can you for that matter,” he said admiringly.

Hutch ignored the compliment, instead looked out toward the horizon, then focused on the sand in front of him. “Do you realize we’re almost half a century old? Fifty years we’ve been alive. Fifty years.”

“But not yet!” Starsky insisted. “Geez, Hutch, if I’d known you were gonna get morose in your old age along with everything else…besides, fifty makes you just a youngster if you’re gonna live to be a hundred and forty-something.” Starsky bumped shoulders with Hutch, attempting to lighten the mood. Hutch didn’t respond. Starsky forged ahead anyway. “At least we’ve put a lot of living into those fifty years.”

Hutch flipped his jacket collar up and hunched his shoulders. Starsky would have thought the wind had kicked up the way Hutch shivered. Would have, except the wind had actually died down.

“A lot of dying, too.” Hutch’s voice was ice-cold.

Starsky shut his eyes a moment and pursed his lips. “I think if one of us spent more time thinking about all the things he’s done and seen and helped instead of thinking about all the things he hasn’t done and hasn’t seen and hasn’t helped, both of us would be a lot happier.” He reached over and released the hair trapped inside Hutch’s collar. “If you want to regret something, regret that damn goose you insisted on personally plucking and cooking instead of things you have no control over.”

Hutch stood a little straighter. “Goose is just as traditional as turkey,” he defended.

“Yeah, but I like turkey,” Starsky groused.

“Is that what Christmas is to you?” Hutch resumed their earlier conversation. “A specific menu for dinner? A set of holiday traditions? A bunch of kiddy things to do once a year?”

The tone of Hutch’s words wasn’t exactly one of honest curiosity. The tone was actually more accusatory. Starsky ignored the pain in Hutch’s question. He stopped walking and put his hands back in his pockets. “You know, now that I think about it, I didn’t really get into Christmas until I came out here. Maybe ’cause all my buddies were Christians and I didn’t want them to think I was different. Or maybe ’cause it just seemed like fun. With Chanukah I could do my religious duty, and then do all the Santa stuff with Christmas. Sort of the best of both worlds. With twice the presents.”

Hutch had stopped next to him, but stared straight ahead. “Religion and fun. Family. Gifts. Thinking about others.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Laying on the beach. Going to the movies. Parties. Sales.”

“Being together.” Starsky took a step toward Hutch. “Making sure you tell the people who are important to you that they are important. Remembering to take the time to think about all the good things you have.” He brought his hands out of his pockets. “And you have good things to remember, Hutch.” He took another step closer, reaching over to take Hutch’s hand in his. Starsky held it tightly, offering warmth and comfort, strength and love. “I’ll help you remember them.” He tugged on Hutch’s arm gently, urging him forward.

Hutch resisted, but only for a second. He fell into step beside Starsky, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, hand in hand.

The tide flowed up the shore, then slipped back down. They walked silently, slowly, contentedly home.