Hurt and Comfort to Go

Starsky whines, Hutch comforts.

“This doesn’t have anything disgusting in it, does it?” Starsky eyed the milkshake handed him suspiciously.

“No!” Hutch was indignant, eyes widening innocently, mouth pulled down into a frown. “Would I do that to a sick person?”

“Yes.” Starsky sniffed the concoction as if that would give him the information he sought. “That’s exactly what you’d do. You think I’ve forgotten the goat’s milk? I know what a sneaky bastard you are. Better than anyone.”

“I swear, it’s just a vanilla milkshake. Cow’s milk, I swear.” Hutch put his hand over his heart and gave Starsky a sincere look that had been working for him since he was eight years old, broke his grandmother’s favorite vase trying to rope her cat and blamed it on his cousin Randy.

“Cross your heart and hope your mustache falls off?” Starsky asked him.

“Just drink it. You haven’t eaten anything for two days. I told you to get your swine flu shot, didn’t I? I got one and I’m fine.”

“I hate shots, you know how I hate shots. Besides, anything with swine in it can’t be good for you.”

“It doesn’t have pigs in it Starsk, the flu spread from pigs to humans, that’s why it’s called swine flu! Didn’t we already have this discussion? Drink your milkshake. I thought you wanted a milkshake?”

“I need chicken soup. Chicken soup will cure anything. Maybe you should call my mom and ask her for her chicken soup recipe.” Starsky tried that adorable pleading look that had worked for him since he was ten and had talked his brother Nicky into giving him his favorite Ted Williams baseball card.

“Starsky, do you know how long it will take me to call your mother in New York, get her chicken soup recipe, and then make it from scratch? You’ll die of starvation before then! Will you just drink this goddamned milkshake I made for you before I find another way to get it in you!”

Starsky pouted into the milkshake. “You’re mad at me now, aren’t ya? Geez, a guy only wants a little chicken soup when he’s almost dead from the flu and he gets yelled at and threatened with all sorts of nasty things.” Starsky gave a pathetic little cough and lay back closing his eyes in a long-suffering manner, still holding the milkshake.

Hutch sighed loudly: “Okay, I’m done. I give. Uncle. If you drink that, I promise I will make you some chicken soup. Just like your mother used to make, okay?”

Starsky opened his eyes and smiled up at Hutch. “Really? You’d make me chicken soup? With the matzoh balls and the extra garlic and everything?”

“Extra garlic?” Hutch echoed resignedly. “Sure, if that’s what it takes, buddy. I may have to wear a gas mask for a week, but if you want extra garlic, you got it.”

“See, he loves me.” Starsky addressed the bedroom. “I’m a loved person. He’s going to make me soup. All I wanted was a little soup.”

“Are you going to drink that now? Come on, a deal’s a deal. Drink up.”

“Sure thing. Down the hatch.” Starsky saluted Hutch weakly and took a long sip of the drink. “Say that’s great. Tastes fine. Sorry I thought you put something weird in there.”

“Just finish it. You need something in that cesspool you call a stomach. Now, I’ll go call your mom and get busy with the soup.”

“You’re a real pal, Hutch.” Starsky had finished the glass and handed it to Hutch. “Man, I’m sleepy. This flu is really kicking my ass. Gonna take a little nap now.”

Hutch reached over and ruffled Starsky’s hair. “You do that, and when you wake up, chicken soup.”

Starsky smiled sleepily. “Just like mom used to make. You’re a good frien’ Hutch,” he slurred out as he sank into the pillows. “Take care of me, make me soup.”

Hutch took the glass into the kitchen and rinsed it out in the sink, and put away the various bottles and canisters of vitamins, minerals, lecithin, sea kelp and desiccated liver he’d mixed into Starsky’s milkshake, walked over to the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Steins Deli? I need a quart of your chicken soup. To go.”

THE END