Love Isn’t Silly at All

An oldies station reminds Starsky of watching Hutch dance.

Starsky always flicked on the radio before backing out of the driveway. It was reflex, particularly after the years as a cop when he’d listened to dispatch doling out crime scenes to officers cruising their beats. Now, he generally went for NPR news programs and occasional top 40 hits.

“Spotlight on the seventies this weekend!” the gravelly voice of a Wolfman Jack sound-alike with the unlikely monitor of Smooth Stevie yelled at full volume. “Every hour, we’ll highlight one of the decade’s greatest artists. I know you all recognize this golden oldie…”

“You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs…”

Chuckling, Starsky was instantaneously transported back 46 years. Those hot summer nights, making the rounds of discos and nightclubs, watching Hutch’s frenetic dance moves. The man could have invented the funky chicken, and despite Starsky attempting to demonstrate a few sexy sways and dips, Hutch had never improved. Which endeared Starsky all the more. Hutch could sing like an angel, but hadn’t a graceful bone in his body.

He’d be out there on the dance floor with Molly or some other flight attendant they’d picked up for the night—fun girls to usher around for dinner and dancing. Starsky usually danced too, but he loved watching Hutch. Hutch threw himself into the awkward jerks and thrusts to the beat without a care in the world.

Simply enjoying life.

Which made Starsky happy.

Which is why he sang along to Silly Love Songs, even without his lover in the car. Because the damned ear-worm was absolutely true.

“Love doesn’t come in a minute, sometimes it doesn’t come at all…” he warbled, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove down Sepulveda Boulevard. “I only know that when I’m in it, love isn’t silly…”

He turned right beside the recording studio, parking in the miniscule lot behind the derelict looking building. Sure, the place need a coat of paint and new screens on the windows, but inside, all the equipment was brand-new.

Ken Hutchinson had made it in a field that discarded even the most talented in an instant. After leaving the police department the year following Starsky’s near fatal shooting, they’d been adrift until Huggy hired Hutch to entertain on slow Monday nights. Then Tuesdays, alternate Thursdays, and all day Saturday. An up and coming music agent heard him.

One year later, he released an album. Starsky was his manager, connecting with producers, radios DJ’s, and TV show directors. He had a ball schmoozing with the paparazzi, to tell the truth.

Hutch was box office gold. Still couldn’t dance.

But hey, Starsky loved the big palooka anyway. And dipped him regularly.

FIN