You Have to Ask?

Starsky and Hutch have a conversation to pass the time.

This dialogue-only story was co-written with my sister while on vacation. I love writing with you, Denise!

“Okay, blondie, here’s one. Grandparents’ names.”

“Whish side?”

“Uh, father’s. Then mother’s.”

“’S boring. John ‘n Mary.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope. Sorry. John and Mary Hush- Hushinson.”

“God. Let’s hope your mother’s people are more interesting.”

“Mm hmm. William ‘n Elizabeth. Better known as Bill ‘n Betty.”

“You make me sad.”

“Wha’s yours, then?”

“You’ll love this. Nicolai and Olga.”

“Oh, tha’s good. Very Old World.”

“Yeah. Nicolai. Nicky’s sort of named after him.”

“Ma’s side?”

“You’ll love this even more. Same names as a famous couple. Take a guess.”

“Hansel ‘n Gretl.”

“Very funny. No.”

“Napoleon ‘n Josephine. Sonny ‘n Cher. Sylvester ‘n Tweety.”

“No no no. Try again.”

“Starsk…”

“Okay, I’ll tell you. Donny and Marie.”

“You’re makin’ that up.”

“Nope. Scout’s honor. Donny and Marie Goldman.”

“Tha’s beautiful.”

“I know. Sweet people. Donny was a real funny guy. Marie’s still around.”

“Italian res’rant?”

“Yeah, that’s her. ‘Cept she lives with Uncle Morty now. Nicolai and Olga died when we were kids. They were nice, too. I think. We couldn’t understand what they were saying half the time.”

“Mm. Sound like Starskys to me.”

“You’re hilarious. What were John and Mary and Bill and Betty like?”

“Tall. Blond.”

“That all? C’mon, blintz. Gimme more.”

“Starsk.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fine, you’re doing great, Hutch. Hang in here with me. Let’s try another one.”

“Starsky…”

“Hey, you see the moon? Big orange moon? Reminds me of this time at Coney Island when I was ten. Nicky was just a little guy. Ma and Pop went on the Ferris wheel and left me in charge. First thing Nicky did was jump off the boardwalk and scrape the hell out of his knees. Blood everywhere. He was fine, but it freaked him out. Wouldn’t let me take him to the john to clean up. Just sat in my lap and cried on my shirt. Tried to distract him with the big orange moon, but it didn’t work.”

“Strangely similar to th’ current situation.”

“Nah, champ, you’re not cryin’ on me.”

“I could easily start.”

“Well, my shirt’s here if you need it. Only… Hutch, let’s shift you to my other shoulder. My arm isn’t… uh, yeah… easy….”

“Ah…ow. Oh jeez, Starsk, look at you… is ‘at my blood or yours?”

“There we go…. That’s better. Sorry, buddy, you doin’ okay? How’s your poor head?”

“Oh, throbbing. Hows’yr arm?”

“Not so hot. Your ankle?”

“Lousy. Knee?”

“Also lousy. Which brings me to my next topic. Lousiest summer job.”

“Starsky…”

“C’mon hang in there. You can keep your eyes closed if you want, but you gotta stay with me here. Lousiest job.”

“Mmm…mucking stalls.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Horse barn. Cleaning it.”

“Playing with ponies? That’s your bad job? That’s rich boy lousy.”

“Not ponies, clown. Quarterhorses.”

“Rich boy.”

“Shoveling shit is shoveling shit. Wha’s yours?”

“Fish market. Brooklyn. Summer. Beats your horse shit any day.”

“What’d you do?”

“Ah, I was 12, I did whatever they told me to. ‘Davey vel ton em!’ That’s Yiddish for ‘Davey will do it!’ All the most horrible jobs went to Davey.”

“Poor Davey.”

“You said it. Rough work. …Thank God I became a cop.”

“Ow. Ow, don’ make me laugh.”

“Sorry. Hey, here’s the next one: dream job.”

“Mmmm, dream. One where safe houses are safe.”

“Really.”

“No explosions.”

“No bombs, no bad guys. No getting blown off the side of a mountain. No nights spent in muddy ravines with a concussed partner who’s bleeding on me. How ya doin’, partner?”

“Fine.”

“You cold?”

“Nah. A little.”

“I can tell. Just a few more hours to go, huh? They’ll show up for the meet, find what’s left of the cabin, find us down here, and we’ll be home free.”

“Mmmm.”

“Hey, no sleeping now.”

“Mm not.”

“You’re trying to. Look, I need you to do something, okay? Sorry, man, you gotta sit up for a second.”

“Ngh.”

“Just… help get this shirt off. Pull on my sleeve, would ya? Uh. Aughhh… yeah. There. Thanks. You need some’a this for your head, okay? You’re still a mess. And I need… I need….”

“My God, Starsk. You—”

“Here, help me tear this. ‘Kay, now tie that on my arm, tight, tight – ohhh. That’s… good, that’s tight. Wow. Lay back down, buddy, that’s all I need. Okay. You okay? Just gonna mop you up a bit better now, ‘cause you’re… you got some stitches in your future, Goldilocks, another sexy scar, but your hair should hide it pretty good.”

“Starsky.”

“Yeah?”

“You need a doctor.”

“Nah. I got you, don’t I? You just stay awake and keep me company, and I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay awake.”

“Good boy. Now back to the important stuff. Tell me about… the best birthday you ever had.”

“Wha?”

“Birthday, blintz, birthday. Funnest birthday you ever had. Go.”

“Um. Fun? Eleventh. Went to the movies with my friend Bobby. First time there with no parents.”

“What’d you do, see a skin flick?”

“Starsky, we were 11. Monster movie marathon.”

“You willingly went to a monster movie marathon?”

“Yep. All day. Ate whatever we wanted.”

“Movie theatres in Duluth serve buckets of wheat germ?”

“Starsky, we were 11. We ate Cracker Jack. And candy ‘n hot dogs ‘n root beer.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“What makes Bobby so special he gets to do that with you?”

“Huh?”

“You ever wanna relive your eleventh birthday, pal, I’m your man.”

“We’re not 11, Starsk.”

“Maybe you’re not. I’m 11 whenever I want.”

“I know you are. ‘S why I gotta be an adult.”

“Knock it off. You don’t either.”

“Buddy, if we were both 11, what would happen?”

“Well, Hutch, I’ll tell you. We’d go to monster movies and eat great food. No adults allowed. Stay out late as we want and eat Cracker Jack ‘til we’re sick.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Why wouldn’t we do that?”

“You have a point.”

“Damn straight, I do. When we get hauled outta here, blondie, we’re gonna celebrate your eleventh birthday – about five months and 22 years late.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Your plan sounds fun.”

“My plans are always fun, dummy. You just like to pretend they’re not.”

“…Right. ‘Kay, what’s your story?”

“Ninth birthday. Dad took me camping.”

“Wait. You willingly went camping?”

“Yeah, sure, sort of. Pop borrowed a tent and set it up in the backyard. Ma stayed in the house with Nicky, so it was just him and me. We had a lantern and sleeping bags, and Ma gave us enough food for three days even though we only stayed out there overnight.”

“Fun.”

“Yeah. Pop made a big deal out of letting me stay up ‘til midnight, so I could watch myself turn nine. All we did was eat sandwiches and talk, but… even though our yard was the size of a stamp, and we could hear all the usual noise – voices and traffic and sirens – it was like we were the only two people in the world, you know?”

“Good dad.”

‘Yeah. He was a good guy. Wasn’t very often we were alone together, just us, so that night was real special. Felt sorta like I was his buddy and not just a dumb kid.”

“So, did ya turn nine at midnight?”

“Yep. And Pop gave me a wristwatch, my first one. Handed it over and let me set the dial for 12:01.”

“Aw, Starsk.”

“I know. Nice, huh?”

“Wish I coulda met him.”

“Me too. He’da liked you.”

“Mm.”

“You fallin’ asleep?”

“Mmm mm.”

“Better not be.”

“Mm not.”

“Good, ‘cause it’s time to take inventory. What’s your name?”

“Ah, jeez. Donny.”

“What’s my name?”

“Marie.”

“How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“One. An’ same to you.”

“What day is today?”

“Gotta be Friday the 13th.”

“Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Harol’ C. Dobey.”

“Works for me. Which is better, creamy or chunky?”

“Creamy.”

“Wrong. Chunky. Damn, and you were doing so well. Better lemme see your eyes.”

“’M keepin’ ‘em shut.”

“Okay, blintz, you do that. I think you can sleep for a while, Hutch. I know how bad you want to, and your poor bruised brain seems lucent enough.”

“Lucid.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Right.”

“So go ahead and sleep a little. I’ll watch out for wolves and bears and wild boars and whatever else they got crawlin’ around here.”

“Nah.”

“Huh?”

“’M not leavin’ you alone.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Starsk, you’re hurt worse ‘n I am.”

“Nah.”

“Saw your arm ‘n it’s bad. Knee’s so swollen your jeans’ll split.”

“You think they’ll split? God, I wish they would. Like the Incredible Hulk. ‘Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’”

“Starsk—”

“Yeah. It hurts. But it’s no big deal. Go on an’ sleep.”

“Your arm looks terrible, it’s ripped up an’ filthy.”

“Hutch, what’re you doin’, ya tryin’ to make me cry? Shut up. Unless ya got any goddamn climbing gear in your back pocket I don’t know about, we’re stuck down here until help comes.”

“Maybe I can make it up there, try ‘n—”

“Hutch, you have a concussion. You’re so dizzy and tired you can’t even keep your eyes open, and your ankle’s as big as my knee. Quit bein’ stupid.”

“Well, maybe we—”

“Would you shut up? I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re doin’ all we can do right now, which is stick together and stay in one piece ‘til morning.”

“If one of us could—”

“Hutch! I already tried, okay? When you were out cold and I couldn’t wake you, I tried to get up there, I tried and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t goddamn do it. It’s too steep, it’s too muddy, my arm’s useless, and my knee is killing me. So shut up, goddammit. New topic. Tell me about… your dream vacation. Where would ya go?”

“…Thought I was s’posed to shut up.”

“You be quiet. Just answer the question.”

“Starsk…”

“Do it.”

“I dunno. I’d go to a mountain.”

“We’re on a mountain, dummy.”

“No, a snowy mountain. Like a Rocky. Or an Alp.”

“You wanna be somewhere cold, wet and steep. Congratulations. You’re on vacation.”

“You asked.”

“What would you do on this mountain of yours?”

“Ski. Read. Breathe. Sit by the fireplace ‘n drink good wine.”

“Huh. Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

“Thanks. Wanna come?”

“Nah, I’m goin’ to Stonehenge.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I wanna go see Stonehenge. Did you know it’s older than the pyramids? And no one knows who built it or how, and the Druids did crazy stuff there, and it might be a big clock? Or some kinda ancient calendar?”

“You’re weird.”

“Lotsa people like Stonehenge, Hutch. You gotta open up your mind about stuff.”

“Right.”

“I hope it’s haunted.”

“Oh, ‘m sure it is.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Bet it’s crawling with ghosts ‘n werewolves. And space aliens.”

“…You’re a jerk.”

“I know.”

“Stonehenge’d be neat to see, you know.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t make fun of your stupid mountain.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Only ‘cause it’s cold and wet.”

“So’s England.”

“Who’s going to England?”

“You are, dummy. Stonehenge is in England.”

“…Oh, yeah. It’s in England.”

“Yep.”

“I knew that. Will ya quit? Stop pokin’ at my arm, it’s not gonna fall off. Unless you keep messin’ with it.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you ever go to Norway?”

“Wait. What?”

“Norway. Isn’t that where they grow Norwegians? Did you ever go and see the old Viking homestead of your great-great-great grandpa or somethin’ like that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Starsky, you’re making my head spin. Why are we talking about Norway?”

“Were Bill and Betty Norwegians, too?”

“What? Yeah.”

“So you’re like a purebred. I’m not. The Starsky side is Polish Ukrainian, except for some Romany that snuck in there. Nicolai and Olga told us about that, but they said we shouldn’t mention it to anyone, which seemed weird to us little kids. We thought gypsies were cool. The Goldman side is hilarious. They’re a crazy mix of Hungarians and Germans and Czechs and Poles, with some Italian and Greek ladies thrown in there somewhere, and one Swede. Named Swede. God, I’m hot. Are you getting hot?”

“No, I’m still kinda cold. But I’m getting warmer because my pillow is radiating heat. You have a fever, buddy.”

“Terrific.”

“Yeah.”

“Well – at least I’ll keep you cozy, huh?”

“You’re a bright-side-looker, aren’t you?”

“I try. Sometimes I fail.”

“You’re doing great. You’re a ray of sunshine on a cold, dark night.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I meant that, actually. If I have to be stranded all night on a mountainside with a head injury and a busted-up ankle, I’m so glad it’s with you.”

“Don’t make fun.”

“Aw, Starsk. You never believe me when I’m sincere.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re usually yankin’ my chain.”

“True.”

“You know, it could be worse.”

“What could, Mr. Bright Side?”

“This. We coulda been in the house when it blew instead of outside. We coulda met a fiery end instead of getting tossed on our asses. Instead, here we are. We’re still breathin’. We can still testify.”

“And won’t they be surprised.”

“Heh heh. C-can’t wait to see the bastard’s face in court. Almost makes this all worth it.”

“Almost.”

“Starsky, you’re starting to shiver. Why don’t you lean on me for a while? Maybe you’ll be warmer that way.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“C’mere. Let’s just—”

“Oh God, please don’t m-make me move. I don’t—”

“Okay, buddy, we’ll just stay put.”

“Oh God, Hutch….”

“Easy now, we’re okay. You just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

“I c-could use a beer. And some aspirin.”

“How ‘bout a hug?”

“Ngh, sounds painful.”

“A pat on the cheek?”

“…Yes, please.”

“There you go, dear.”

“Thank you, s-sweetie. You’re the best.”

“I know.”

“Man, I’m cold. I – I think I got the chills.”

“I know, you’re shivering.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. I just told you a minute ago.”

“Okay.”

“I’m tryin’ to be your blanket here, but I don’t think it’s working.”

“Quit m-movin’ your head around, Hutch. You look like you wanna puke. I don’t w-wanna get puked on.”

“Mmh. Fair enough.”

“Just lie still and t-tell me something.”

“Whaddaya wanna know, Starsk?”

“How’s your head?”

“It fucking hurts. How’s your arm?”

“Fuckin’ hurts. But my f-fuckin’ knee hurts worse. How’s your ankle?”

“The fucker hurts.”

“Ow, gahh.”

“God, augh….”

“Laughing f-fucking hurts, Hutch.”

“Sure as fuck does.”

“We gotta stop bein’ so g-goddamn hilarious.”

“Yeah, we should sober up.”

“Okay. But it s-sucks to sober up when you haven’t even gotten d-drunk first.”

“Starsky, your shivering is hurting my head.”

“My sh-shivering is hurting everything.”

“Wish you could stop.”

“Me too. If we’re lucky, my f-fever’ll skyrocket and make me really hot again.”

“That’d be good.”

“Yeah, we’ll k-keep our fingers crossed. Hey, what’re you doin’? Lea’me alone.”

“’M tryin’ to see what time it is.”

“Don’t bother. My watch broke. Stop it, stop t-twisting.”

“Sorry, buddy. How much longer ‘til dawn, do ya suppose?”

“You’re the n-nature boy, you tell me.”

“Well… how long was I unconscious?”

“Forever.”

“Aw, Starsk.”

“Scared the sh-shit outta me. Thought you’d never wake up.”

“I know. I hate it when you’re out, too.”

“How c-come you get knocked out so much? Way more than m-me.”

“You sure? I thought you were the champ.”

“No contest, pal. This con- concussion routine’s getting old.”

“You’re telling me. Who’s the president? What day is it? What’s my damn name? You need new material, partner.”

“Whaddaya th-think I been doin’ all night, with the grandmas and the b-birthdays and the lousy jobs? Evaluating your s-stupid cognitive functions.”

“Well, I’ll be. I thought you were just being annoying.”

“Annoying, hell. And I learned a l-lot about you, blintz. Gotta lotta new ammunition, you shit-shoveling, Cracker-Jack-eating, purebred N-nordic rich boy.”

“Ah, you’re suffering from fever and blood-loss. You’ll forget it all.”

“Don’t c-count on it.”

“I have ammo, too, you fish-cleaning, Stonehenge-obsessed Ukrainian Swedish Gypsy.”

“I told you about the g-gypsies? Oy. Grandma would kill me.”

“You were delirious. Doesn’t count.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go to monster movies and eat Cracker Jack when we get out of here.”

“Hey, you’ll r-really do that with me? You’re not gonna pretend to forget?”

“No, I want to do that.”

“Man, me too.”

“We can do your birthday, too, if you want. Set up a tent, sleep outside.”

“Not in the wild, Hutch. I don’t w-wanna camp in the wild.”

“That’s fine, buddy. We’re getting enough wilderness tonight, anyway. How about I set us up a tent in my greenhouse. Get a lantern, pack some food. Maybe I’ll give you a new watch at midnight, replace the one that just broke.”

“…oh.”

“You okay? We don’t have to, Starsk. Maybe it’s not—”

“No, it’s good. That’s just… that’s nice of you.”

“Well… I’m a nice guy.”

“Yeah, I guess so… I just… I r-really had no idea. Ouch. Don’t punch me.”

“Sorry. My fist slipped.”

“Uh huh. That’s okay, blintz. I know that ya love me.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“How ‘bout that. …Hey, Starsk.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, but I think it’s nearly dawn.”

“You mean it?”

“We’re nearly there, pal.”

“How much t-time we got?”

“At a guess, maybe an hour.”

“Then let’s make the m-most of it. Tell me stuff. …Whaddaya like better, Hutch, s-singing or listening?”

“Depends on who’s listening when I’m singing.”

“Me. I’m listening.”

“Then, singing. Which do you like best, falling asleep or waking up?”

“Well, th-that depends. Who’m I naked with?”

“Forget I asked, sleezeball.”

“I like wakin’ up. Who’s c-cooler, Batman or Superman?”

“Superman.”

“Wrong. Batman. B-but I get where you’re coming from.”

“Okay, Starsk: gin or vodka?”

“Mmm, vodka.”

“Me, too.”

“Got any on ya, blondie?”

“Nope.”

“Damn. Big Band or jazz?”

“Jazz.”

“Big band for me. Rock or disco?”

“Jazz.”