Two Minutes

An afternoon drive down the I-5 from San Francisco turns into anything but ordinary for Starsky and Hutch.

Originally posted on the StarskyHutch911 live journal site on 11/21/15, this scenario is based on a true story. Starsky is me, Hutch is my friend, Betsy. She was in the passenger seat of my Ford Windstar as we drove from San Francisco to L.A. It happened in 1998.

“If all law enforcement conferences were that interesting, I wouldn’t mind going once in a while,” I say, wondering if Hutch is asleep.

I feel his agreement and spare a glance from the heavy traffic; yep, he’s awake. He’s relaxed in the passenger seat, his blond head back against the headrest, his eyes almost closed. It’s been a long two days and we still have a four-hour drive back to Bay City.

“Makes me want to hang around longer than we thought we might,” he says, musingly. “Just to see how much of what they laid out for us comes true.”

“I know they were serious about the technology, but I can’t see it happening while we’re still on the job.”

Hutch turns his head and his eyes light up. “You never know, Starsk. DNA testing, ballistic matches, information on similar crimes, all within hours, or maybe even minutes, instead of months. Or never.”

“In my dreams, partner.”

“I love your dreams, Starsk.” He reaches over and puts a hand lightly on my thigh. “I live for your dreams.”

My heart beats faster and my blood pressure spikes. His simple touch can still do that to me. “Don’t distract me,” I beg. “This traffic is insane! Where are all these people going?”

“Home.” Hutch takes his hand back. “A weekend in San Francisco is popular. Everybody has to go home afterwards though.”

“Yeah. But why do they all have to go home now?”

“Why do we?”

“So we can investigate my dreams.” I spare a look toward the dashboard clock. “It’s four fifteen, no, four sixteen, now. If we hurry, we can stop at that new seafood and salad place you like so much, before they close.”

“Sounds good to me, Starsk.” He casts me a sly smile. “I’m in the mood for a big serving of Oysters Rockefeller.”

“Oysters, hummm?” I leave no room for doubt as to my line of fantasizing and add ‘wicked’ to my smile. Out the window behind him, I notice something I’ve never, ever seen before and it drives thoughts of tonight right out of my head. “What is that?”

My tone catches his attention and he turns quickly, following my stare. “Oh shit! Floor it, Starsk!”

“What is it?” I ask, accelerating over the 80 mph the Torino’s speedometer already shows.

“Tumbleweed stampede.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was.” I can tell from his tone of voice that he really did wish he was. “Go faster, partner, we have to get ahead of it.”

“There’s a fence, Hutch,” I point out, trying to keep the unreasoning fear out of my voice. This is beginning to feel like something out of a Twilight Zone episode. “That’ll stop ’em, won’t it?”

“The first ones, maybe. But all those behind will probably go right over.”

I look quickly and am almost sorry. Hundreds of huge balls of tan sticks and dry shrubbery are rolling down the sear hillside on our right. No, they’re not merely rolling, they’re racing! They almost appear to be on a mission, coming at an angle toward the freeway.

“I’ve seen tumbleweeds in movies and on TV,” I say, trying to sound calm, which I’m not. Four lanes of almost bumper-to-bumper speeding traffic is in the way of what sounds like a joke, yet seems likely to become anything but: a tumbleweed stampede. “Nothing like these though. They’re huge!”

“I’ve never seen any this big, either,” Hutch admits, his voice strained.

I glance down at the speedometer, then quickly back out the side window. “I’m doing ninety, Hutch, and they’re catching us!”

“It’s the wind. It must whip through these valleys and hills and herd them like wildfire.”

I really can’t afford to pay attention to anything right now except the traffic. Drivers appear to be realizing the danger they’re in and are speeding up, weaving in and out of the packed cars, very nearly causing havoc.

“Tell me what’s happening, Hutch.” I grip the steering wheel in white-knuckled tension. “With all these cars around, I can’t look.”

Hutch’s voice almost sounds like a news commentator, it’s so unhurried and level. “The first ones are at the fence. They’re caught.” Then his voice drops. “That’s what I was afraid of. It’s not holding the ones behind.”

I spare a glance. A monstrous weed bounces onto the freeway, directly in front of a dark blue Mercury Marquis to our right. Time slows to a crawl as the big, heavy car hits the piece of shrubbery head on. In textbook slow motion, I see the hood buckle backward and the radiator explode. The cap blows off and steaming liquid spews everywhere. The Merc skids in its bodily fluids as the driver tries, unsuccessfully, to keep the vehicle straight. He slams on the brakes and I lose sight of what happens after that, as I press harder on the accelerator and urge the Torino to go faster.

“What are these things?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Dead bushes. Creosote, pigweed, Russian thistle, probably others. They die, and the wind shears them off. It blows them along and they accumulate into balls. Not usually this big, though… Starsk!”

“I see it.” One of the monsters, as tall as the Torino’s hood, is coming across the interstate on a collision course. I tap the brakes and ease the wheel to the right, moving into the thankfully unoccupied center lane. ‘Not my striped tomato, you dead thing,’ I curse in my mind. The ball passes, only inches in front of the grill, headed toward the north-bound lanes. ‘Good luck over there,’ I send silently.

“Another one!” Hutch warns.

An even larger sphere impacts the side of a panel van in front of us in Lane Two. The vehicle is slammed onto its left side and slides toward the median. I tap the brakes again and move into his lane, avoiding the metal-screeching van. In my rear view mirror I see it fetch up against the center barrier.

This is utterly surreal. Time is still slowed – it never ceases to amaze me when that happens – and I can see individual sticks and thorns in the balls that continue to bounce over the freeway fence. I have time to notice the worn tread on the left side tires of the maroon Impala just ahead and to the right, as the driver sees a tumbleweed in his path and swerves to avoid it. The Chevy runs over the lethal object. I hear tires blow as I coax the Torino back into the center lane.

In my peripheral vision, I see the Impala barrel roll, tangled with its killer, toward the right hand ditch.

I suck in a much needed breath. “How many more?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hutch look out his window, then into his rearview mirror, then turn and look out the back. He unclenches his fist from the door handle. “That looks like the end of them, Starsk.”

Out the windshield, the cars that managed to avoid the incident, speed south, their drivers either oblivious or just glad they hadn’t been thirty seconds later passing that particular hillside. I tap the brakes again and begin to slow. I check all my mirrors. Behind us, the I-5 is completely blocked, no cars are following us. “We have to go back.”

Hutch reaches for the radio mic. “Yeah, we do.” He keys the mic and speaks into it, his voice perfectly smooth and controlled. “This is BCPD Zebra Three, calling any unit on this frequency.”

I marvel at his aplomb and find I’m actually just a little bit jealous. I know I wouldn’t be that cool. But that’s my Blintz.

“There’s been a major accident on Interstate Five, south of…” He un-keys the mic and looks at me questioningly. “Where are we, Starsk?”

I shake my head. “No idea. About fifteen miles below where we came across from Frisco.” I spin the wheel and hit the gas, burning a one-eighty, and head back toward the carnage.

“Zebra Three,” the radio squawks. “This is CHP dispatch. We are aware of the situation. One of our helicopters saw it happen. Help’s on the way. Do what you can, please.”

“Roger, CHP,” Hutch replies.

As he hangs up the mic, I glance at the clock above his hand. It reads four nineteen. I’m stunned. “How long do you think it’s been since I started to slow down, Hutch?”

“No more than sixty seconds.” He checks the clock, too.

“Two minutes then.” I take a deep breath. “From the time I first saw those things, ’til it was all over. Only two minutes.”

“Seemed like a lifetime, didn’t it, babe?”

I look in his still blazing blue eyes and give him my heart and soul. Again. His come back to me in his unblinking gaze.

I drive the Torino north in the middle of the south-bound lanes of I-5. Ahead, the entire highway, including both shoulders and roadside ditch, are blocked with crashed vehicles and shattered tumbleweeds. A CHP chopper is landing in the middle of the empty lanes.

No oysters for Hutch and me tonight.

“I swear, Starsk…” Hutch’s hand is back on my thigh, squeezing gently. It’s trembling a little. “I’ll never say another unkind word about this car, or your driving, again.”

I send him all my love and gratitude in what’s probably a pretty wan smile. “You’re welcome.”

END