Night of the Burrito

780

A Starsky ramble at 3 A.M.

---

Bad things always happen at 3 a.m. It has something to do with biorhythms, according to Hutch. It’s the time when old people give it up, gasping out their last rattling breaths, and when if you’re in pain, the pills quit working, or our darkest desires lead us down paths we’d never consider otherwise.

Unfortunately for me and my gut, it’s often the time I wake up with mine in a snit. Things aren’t quite the same as they were since a few bullets rearranged my insides. And there are things I probably shouldn’t eat. For all kinds of reasons.

Like that burrito I saved from the other day ago at Muchos Tacos. Sometimes, you get busy and you just grab this stuff and never get a chance to eat it. Or Hutch, that sneaky bastard, he comes along and throws out my lunch and I’m stuck eating some squirrel bait. A person should not be eating something called gorp. It sounds like something I scrape off my shoes at night.

Hey, I did that once, scraped something disgusting off my shoe and offered it to Hutch. “Got some gorp here, buddy.” I said, grinning at him. He didn’t think it was funny. I keep telling him, someday we’re going back to Minnesota and finding your sense of humor… that and your ability to dance. The man cannot dance…well, not in an upright position. I’m working on it, but he’s stubborn. But, you take what you can get, good with the bad in these things, right?

Yeah, I know, I’m distracting myself from having to puke again. I hate puking, and I sure as hell don’t want Hutch to hear. I’m not in any mood for a lecture at this ungodly time of the night. The man is heartless, you know. He’d be lecturing me on my sodium and fat intake if I were dying, you know he would. Course, it’s just to cover up how soft-hearted he is, all that crust is just for show. Never bothered me none.

Oh, boy…damn, that’s nasty….I remember once a long time ago, when Hutch was married to Vanessa…. boy, that seems like ages ago now, doesn’t it? I never liked her much, but you know how it is…you put up for the sake of the partnership.

Anyway, he comes to work that morning looking like someone ran over his dog or something. Turns out Mrs. Hutchinson thinks she might be, to put it delicately, knocked up. She’s waking up sick; has all the symptoms.

I knew right then they were on the outs. I mean, what guy wouldn’t be thrilled about that unless he thinks he’s going to be father to Rosemary’s Baby?

And Hutch, you know he’s good with kids. Kids like him.

But, I keep my mouth shut. None of that being any of my business, you know. I’m figuring he’ll open up to me eventually anyway, because it’s not like he’s got anyone else close to talk to, anyway.

He spills eventually. Even then we never kept much from each other. So, he’s telling me he’s praying to God it’s nothing, and I’m nodding. Yeah, it’d be a shame to bring a kid into a deal like that. I mean, I guess kids do all right with divorced parents, but it can’t be easy.

Turns out it’s nothing, just a bad egg roll or something.

I guess that’s why I’m thinking of this at what time is it?…3:23 in the morning. Yeah, we keep a clock in the bathroom. Keeps Hutch on time for work. You don’t even want to know how long he spends fixin’ his hair in the morning…it’s true what they say, you never know a person until you live with them.

Oh, Geez…I think I woke him up…maybe if I’m really quiet and just sneak back into…damn…shit.

“Starsk, you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…just having a little conversation with the dinosaurs, s’all; go back to sleep.”

“You should have woke me.” The creaking of bedsprings and a little grunt tell me that it’s a done deal now. I’m about to have company. I try rubbing a little color into my face to look like I haven’t just been sick as a dog. Hey, I’ve had practice. Know all the tricks.

He’s there, blinking in the glare of the fluorescent light over the sink. I’m thinking he’s kind of cute with his hair sticking up all over like a baby chicken. Well, except for the scowl. Okay, that’s kind of cute too. I’m easy. He rubs his hand over his face and smothers a yawn.

“You all right?” He’s repeating himself. This could be a good sign.

“Sure, just some indigestion.” I try a beguiling look from under my eyelashes…gets him every time.

“What’d you eat that you shouldn’t have?”

He knows I’m a terrible liar, so I don’t even try.

“Burrito.” I mumble. I’m caught. I’m 43 and I feel like I did when I was 8 and Ma found out I’d stolen a nickel candy bar at the grocers.

“With extra onions and hot sauce no doubt…well, I guess you’ve suffered enough, so I’m not going to say a word. Nope, not a word.”

Now, don’t be fooled, I’m saying to myself. This is not a reprieve. This is Presbyterian white bread guilting at it’s finest.

“I’m sorry.” I try a contrite look. People say I do that well. “I’m gonna take a shower, and I’ll be fine…don’t worry about me. I’ve learned my lesson, Hutch. That was my last burrito.”

The burrito has other ideas, though as it tries to make a break for it one more time.

You know, there a few things that only people who really love you will do for you. Watching you puke is one of them. Rubbing your back instead of swearing at you makes you a particularly nice person. Hutch is a particularly nice person. He even gets me cool water in a little paper cup to rinse out my mouth, then another one to drink. He doesn’t even wrinkle his nose much when he closes the lid and flushes. I think not for the first time what a great nurse he’d make. Even looks good in white.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

We’re playing it cool…but he’s worried. Oh, not worried like when I was mostly dead. But worried. He’s back to standing in the doorway, watching me the way a wolf watches a dying moose.

“I need to brush my teeth.” I really do and besides, it gives me something to do besides sit there feeling stupid. I get up with a tiny groan that I’m not faking. My insides feel like I’ve been gargling with battery acid.

“Don’t use my toothbrush,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorway. “I got new ones, yours is the blue one. Mine’s green.”

“Thanks for that important bulletin.” I grab the blue toothbrush, and opening the cabinet, find the right tube. I get after it, brushing my teeth like it’s my favorite thing in the world to do at…3:41 a.m.

“Don’t forget to rinse out the sink.” Finally satisfied that I won’t die from burritoitis, Hutch shuffles back off to bed.

“Yes Mother. Coming Mother.” I call out as I use the paper cup for one drink before I shut out the light and follow him back to bed.

He snorts and puts his arm under his head, watching me get into bed in the dim light of the bedside lamp. I still feel like shit, but I’ve felt worse. I’ll live.

He turns down the corners of his mouth and gives me what people call a “rueful smile”.

“I don’t like finding you gone when I wake up in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll try to schedule my upchucking for mid-afternoon from now on. Sorry.”

Okay, that wasn’t the nicest thing to say. I admit it.

Hutch sighs. “Yeah, me too…sorry, I mean.”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry, Kid.” My Bogart impression works every time.

Hutch groans, “Starsky, you’ve been trying to do Bogart since the day I met you, and you still can’t do it right.”

“But, you know its Bogart, don’tcha?”

“I know it’s not Bette Davis! And besides, Bogart didn’t say that. It’s from “Love Story,” you moron.”

“I’m improvising!”

“You’re annoying!”

“Not half as annoying as you!”

“I don’t do impressions.”

“I’ll say, your John Wayne stinks!”

“Starsky, what are we arguing about?”

I close my mouth. Hutch is up on one elbow now, looking distraught. He pulls a hand over his face. I almost snicker…if he knew how weird his hair looked right now…like a mad scientist or somethin’…a very sexy mad scientist.

“I dunno…Movies?”

Hutch groans. “Go to sleep, Starsky. Just…go to sleep.” My dumb act works every time. He rolls over and puts a pillow over his head, still making little groaning noises.

I realize that my stomach feels good again and I rub it in appreciation. “Hutch, my stomach is better.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, all better.” An imp possesses me. “Wanna feel?”

“What?” He pulls the pillow off his face and rolls over to face me.

“I asked you if you wanna feel, which was hopefully going to lead to something more interesting and possibly naughty.” I do this thing with my eyebrows.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Starsky. It’s 4 a. m., go to sleep!” He growls it at me. Man, that’s sexy.

I pout a little. “I thought our love was timeless.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Have you been watching Mexican soap operas again?”

“No, and besides, I was only watching them to learn more Spanish.”

“Sure you were. Now, go to sleep. We have to get up in 3 hours.” He settles back and closes his eyes.

“Huutch?’

“What?” He opens one eye.

“Does this mean the honeymoon is over?”

He throws his pillow at me and pounces. Starsky’s Law; talk a little, win a lot. I still got it.

The End