The Underwear Drawer

Hutch finds a letter from Starsky.

Hutch made his way straight through Starsky’s living room and into the bedroom. He was a man on a mission. Starsky needed underwear. Not just any underwear, mind you, but the soft cotton boxer shorts his mother had gotten him for Christmas about five years ago. The blue ones, not the stiff white ones he’d only had for a year or so. Those were too rough. Hadn’t been washed enough, apparently. And if Starsky wanted old blue boxer shorts, he was going to have old blue boxer shorts. At this point, if his partner had sent Hutch out to wrestle an alligator and bring it back to him, he would have done so without even flinching.

It had been just under a month since Starsky had been shot. Hutch had watched as Starsky took his first breath without the help of a machine, said his first words after days of drug-induced silence, sat up and had taken his first steps. And just two days ago another milestone had been reached. The catheter had been removed and Starsky was once again able to go to the bathroom on his own, or at least with the help of a nurse and a walker.

But going to the bathroom meant Starsky needed underwear. His usual briefs were too uncomfortable, the waistband too tight on his still healing scars. Hutch had volunteered to go shopping, but Starsky requested his special underwear. So here he was rummaging through his partner’s dresser in search of the perfect boxers.

The top drawer of the dresser could only be described as organized chaos. There were undershirts, mismatched socks, rolled up balls of white gym socks, colored bikini briefs, standard white cotton briefs and boxers with funny designs on them. Hutch combed through the sorted fare of undergarments until he found the simple blue material he was looking for lurking in the back of the drawer.

While grabbing the handful of shorts, he accidentally pulled the top off an old Whitman’s sampler box that was buried under the clothes. The box was filled with old photographs. Hutch smiled as he recognized a picture of him and Starsk back in their academy days. They looked so young, so innocent. Hutch laid the underwear on top of the dresser and pulled the box out of the drawer. Sitting down on the edge of Starsky’s bed, he began rifling through the pictures.

There were more pictures of him and Starsky throughout the years-at parties, at the station, with Huggy–a brand new shiny Torino with a 10-day plate in the back window, a young Starsky with his mother and brother and dad. Hutch chuckled softly at the memories each picture of the two of them brought and how happy and proud the curly topped boy looked posing with his equally as happy and proud looking father, Starsky’s father was wearing his police uniform in the majority of the pictures, and Hutch marveled at how much Starsky looked like his dad.

“He would have been proud of you, buddy,” he said out loud as he gathered the pictures to put them back. As he did so, he noticed an envelope in the bottom of the box. He immediately recognized the left-handed scrawl and one simple word: HUTCH.

Hutch picked up the envelope and wondered if he should open it. It had not been sealed, the flap simply tucked inside. Obviously, whatever it was, Starsky had decided not to give it to him. But he had held on to it, so it must have been something important. Deciding his curiosity far outweighed the guilt he’d feel for reading whatever was inside, he unfolded the four pages and began reading.

October 2, 1978

Dear Hutch:

Well, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I’m gone. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but I mean I’m sorry for just up and leaving like I did. I know if you did that to me, I’d be mad as hell and probably wouldn’t want to ever speak to you again. So I can’t blame you.

Hutch, I can’t take it anymore. Too much has happened for me to go on being a cop. Do you remember the first time I shot someone? We weren’t partners then, but you knew it happened and you came over and we talked. You knew it would bother me, and it did. The guy was going to kill me first, so I had to pull the trigger. I had no choice then, but, Hutch, all these years later and I still see his face in my dreams. It’s part of the job, they say. Well, that’s a part I’ve never gotten used to, you know?

I know you know. I know you think about it, too, but you handle it so much better than I do. I used to think I was the one born to be a cop, not you, but I don’t know anymore, Hutch. You always keep it together. And I try to keep it together, but this time, Hutch, I can’t. I’ve ruined that girl’s life, and that’s more than I can handle. Guess I’m not as tough as you thought I was, huh?

I’m sorry I was mean to you when you came over. And I’m sorry I didn’t answer all those times you called. But I knew what you were going to say. You were going to tell me it was an accident, that it could have happened to anyone. Well, it didn’t happen to just anyone, Hutch, it happened to ME. And I can’t live with it. I just can’t.

God, I sound suicidal, don’t I? Well, I’m not, so don’t worry. I’m not planning on killing myself or anything. I’m just going somewhere else, that’s all. Running away, I guess. Never thought I’d ever do that. But I don’t see where I have a choice. I’ve tried to make it up to Emily. I’ve done everything I can think of. But you were right when you said it was pathetic, the two of us running around together. It is pathetic. Do you know she doesn’t even know I’m the one who shot her? I can’t even get up enough courage to tell her that. She’s going to have to know sooner or later, and I don’t want to stick around for that. She thinks I’m something special right now, and it will kill me when she finds out that I’m just a big fat liar, the stinking cop who ruined her life.

Hutch, I promise that I’ll contact you when I get where I’m going. I don’t know where that is right now, but I’ll know when I get there. I’m not taking much with me, just some clothes and a few boxes of stuff. You can sell my furniture if you want and keep the money or send it to my mom. My rent is paid up for two months, so you should have plenty of time to get rid of it before it has to be moved. If you don’t want to be bothered with it, then fine. My landlord can keep it and rent it as a furnished apartment. Or it can all be hauled to the dump. At this point, I really don’t care.

And just think, Hutch, you won’t have to ride around in the Torino anymore. That ought to make you happy, at least. You won’t have to listen to me talk about stuff you don’t like or eat the food I eat. When you think about it, Hutch, you’ll be better off, too. You won’t have me to keep you down anymore. You said yourself you were the brains of the operation, and I finally realized you’re right. It’s too bad for Emily it took me so long to realize it. Too bad for Emily, too bad for Lonny Craig, Terry, probably about a half a dozen other people. They all would have been better off without me, and you’ll be better off, too. You’ll see.

I won’t ever forget you, Hutch. You’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had, ever. And don’t go putting yourself on one of your famous Hutchinson guilt trips. There’s nothing you could do this time. I’m too far gone for even you to help. You wouldn’t even be able to grab me and shove me back out on the street right now. I’m just plain tired, Hutch. I’m tired of being scared all the time. Scared that something’s going to happen-to you or to me or to some innocent bystander like Emily. Well, it finally happened, just like I knew it would. Who’s next? You? I know damn well I couldn’t live with that.

So I guess that’s pretty much it. There’s not much more I can say. I hope you forgive me one day. You will always be my best friend, even if I never see you again. The thought of that, Hutch, makes me sick to my stomach. But I don’t see any other way out. I’m going over to Emily’s for one last time, and then I’m leaving. Take my badge, do whatever you want with it. Keep it, throw it in the ocean, give it back to Dobey-I don’t care. They’ll make you return my gun, though.

I promise I’ll call, just to let you know I’m OK. You’re a good friend, Hutch, and you were a great partner. Take care of yourself.

Your Friend Always,
Starsk

Hutch looked up from the letter and blinked away the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. “Oh, Starsk,” he breathed as he read back through his partner’s heartbreak. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, refolding the blue stationery and putting it back in the envelope. Turning it over in his hands, he thought back to the time when Starsky had accidentally shot the young college girl. So much had happened since then, he rarely gave the incident much thought. Everything Starsky worried about had come true. Hutch himself had been shot by that young girl, Starsky found out his little brother was dealing dope back home, then Lionel was killed. They both gave up and threw their badges in the ocean over that one. Hutch had chalked up Starsky’s finding him on the beach that day to the mental connection they’d always shared. Now he realized that maybe it was just coincidence they were both there at the same time.

A chill suddenly ran through Hutch. He found Starsky at Emily’s apartment that same day and actually had grabbed him and literally shoved him back out on the street. He knew Starsky felt guilty over the shooting, but he had no idea as to the extent of the guilt. He never could figure out why his usually open partner had just shut him out completely, and, truth be told, he was always a little resentful of it. He figured Starsky had contemplated quitting the force then, but never suspected he’d want to leave altogether. “I’m sorry, Starsk,” he said out loud. “I should have known.”

Hutch closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Should he let Starsky know he’d found the letter? What good would it do? Starsky had enough to deal with, with his recovery, and his return to the force was at the moment questionable. Bringing up old demons from the past would not help the situation any. He suddenly found himself feeling bitter toward Emily. All the guilt Starsky carried around for that girl, and she had really been involved in the situation that caused her to be shot in the first place. Where was she now that Starsky’s life hung in the balance? Hutch shook the thought out of his head. Emily had nothing to do with Starsky’s shooting.

Hutch stood up and placed the letter in the box, along with the photographs. He put it back in the bottom of Starsky’s underwear drawer and arranged the tangled garments over it. Starsky would be home in a few weeks, and if the right time presented itself, he’d sit down and have a serious discussion with him then. Right now Hutch was just thankful his best friend was alive.

He walked through Starsky’s apartment, underwear tucked under his arm, and checked the plants. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was 6:30 already. He was going to have to hurry. He still hadn’t gone to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for the stuffed veal he’d planned on surprising Starsky with tonight. He looked around the apartment one last time before closing the door. ‘Maybe a bottle of Jim Beam won’t hurt either,’ he thought as he made his way down the steps.

THE END