Miscellaneous Drabbles

688

Six unrelated drabbles (100, 200 or 300 words) – some about work, some about art, all about friendship.

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“Music”

Starsky listened, entranced, as the song ended. “Hey,” he sighed. “Hey, Kenny-boy. How come you only sing for me when you’re drunk, huh? How come?”

Hutchinson was leaning over in his chair, trying to prop his guitar against the dorm-room wall. A difficult maneuver: he fell onto the floor during the attempt. They both started laughing.

“I don’t… wait ‘til I’m drunk,” Hutchinson giggled. “I wait ‘til you’re drunk.”

Starsky laughed harder… then he got mad. “Wait.  Huh?  Why?”

“Dunno. So you’ll like it more? So it sounds better?”

“God.” Starsky crawled over to shove his roommate’s shoulder. “You’re so dumb.”

 

“Angles & Avenues”

“Gettin’ my own some day.”

Starsky contemplated his next shot. “Your own what, Hug?”

“My own establishment, man!” Huggy, beer in hand, sketched the future in the air. “My own drinks emporium.”

“Yeah?” Starsky leaned low, eyeing the angles. “Where ya gettin’ the bread?”

“I got avenues.” Huggy watched Starsky take aim, watched him slide the cue through the loose loop of his fingers. Crack – the three-ball sank.

Starsky straightened, glancing over. “Those avenues shady, pal?”

“Little leafy, maybe. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“How much can ya handle?” Starsky bent again.

Huggy’s eyes slid lower.

“More’n you know, my brother.”

 

“Big Night”

The fourth all-night stake-out finally paid off: brutal boredom culminating in action, danger, and an adrenaline-fueled vow to celebrate by getting drunk.

Through interrogations and paperwork, the promise of their well-deserved binge kept a spring in Hutch’s step, a cocky grin on Starsky’s face.

That evening they picked up a case of Lowenbrau and two prime steaks. With coals in the hibachi and hoops on TV, they toasted themselves, laughing.

Hutch awoke later, cheek pillowed on Starsky’s hair, Starsky drooling on his shoulder – first beers in hand, still full. Coals dead, game over.

He sighed, settled closer, and drifted away.

 

“Art Appreciation”

Starsky loved the oil painting, its rich color and composition: a dark blue bowl of oranges, a gold pocket-watch, and a Swedish ivy on an antique tabletop. An open window filled the background. The wooden sill and gauzy curtains framed the stormy sea and sky beyond.

Starsky admired the solid, realistic still-life set against the blurred edges of clouds and rain and tossing waves. He felt the painting said something, maybe something about order and chaos. Maybe something about the beauty to be found in both.

It moved him — especially the faint, modest HUTCHINSON in the lower right-hand corner.

 

“Fireworks”

Hutch was flat on his back, gazing up at the sparks and smoke and flashes of light. He felt un-tethered – relaxed and weightless, as though he were spiraling slowly upward.

Funny, it wasn’t even the Fourth of July, and Southern California didn’t usually do big fireworks displays like this. Way too dry. Duluth did magnificent shows, though. He’d loved them as a kid. Such brilliant colors, and he always got a thrill from the heavy thump in his chest when the big bombs went off.

He’d felt a similar thump a minute ago. He could still feel the heat of it, could feel the noise in his ears, in his head. It almost hurt.

“Ohhh,” Hutch breathed, as a beautiful glittering shower exploded high above. He watched the sparkles rain down, tinkling like glass as they fell, stinging hot and sharp on his skin.

Suddenly Starsky appeared above him, bending close, touching his face, looking sweaty and grim. “Hey,” Hutch protested weakly, annoyed that Starsky was blocking his view. He wanted to watch the fireworks, but all he could see were Starsky’s anxious eyes and the smudges of ash on his forehead and cheek.

“Hey yourself,” Starsky said. He was running his hands over Hutch’s chest and arms, was ghosting his palm over Hutch’s hair. “Oh, god… Come on, babe. Let’s get you out of here, huh?”

Hutch was disappointed. He hated missing the big finale. “Show’s not done,” he murmured. “Don’t you like fireworks, Starsk?”

“Not this kind, partner. C’mere, c’mere, we gotta go. It’s all comin’ down.”

Hutch sighed, acquiescing. He wanted to stay and watch ‘til the end, watch the lights and smoke and drifting sparks… but his eyes were burning and tired, and Starsky was gathering him close, lifting him into his arms, carrying him away.

 

“Job Well Done”

The Feds left Dobey’s office smiling, so pleased now with the detective team they’d initially reviled.

Dobey beamed like a proud papa ready to hand out cigars. “Well, that ended nicely. Good job, boys.”

This, from Dobey, was effusive praise. Hutch glanced over for Starsky’s reaction. Starsk, rubbing his forehead with his bandaged hand, simply looked tired.

“That’s 100 busts since I teamed you,” Dobey grinned. “Drinks on me.”

Alcohol sounded great to Hutch. Celebrating did not. Not after what they’d seen and done today.

“Another time, Cap,” suggested Hutch, eying his partner.

Dobey nodded, slowly. Hutch knew he understood.