December 2nd: It Was the Third of September by Kath Moonshine

From very far away I hear a tiny voice mumble, “Hutch.” Sweet, syrupy darkness surrounds me. I’m happy. I want to stay deeply asleep, but I have responsibilities. It’s been a year since Gunther. Since everything changed. Everything.

“Mmm?” I answer, my left hand already gently patting Starky down, unconsciously looking for wounds, finding only beautiful, life-affirming scars.

“Hutch. That’s my nose. And that’s my dick.”

“Sorry,” I slur around a huge yawn. Now I’m awake enough to crack open my left eye, the right still buried in the pillow. I spy the clock on Starsky’s nightstand. It’s 3 a.m. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Starsky says, then immediately reverses. “Yeah. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.”

I roll off my stomach, onto my back, then scooch to the headboard so I can sit up properly and deal with whatever’s bothering my partner. My lover. My life.

“Is your back spasming again?” I ask, remembering all the nights he’d rocked through the pain, determined not to become dependent on what he called ‘legal dope.’ “I can get the liniment—”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Starsk assures me, wriggling up the bed to lay his head on my shoulder and wrap his right arm around my waist.

Must be a nightmare.

My partner has always dreamed a lot, always talked in his sleep. Even on long stakeouts, when we would switch off, one of us napping in the backseat, it was like listening to a puppet show, Starsk would get so animated. No need to leave talk radio on for company when you’ve got Starsky.

But ever since Gunther, Starsky’s dreams have changed. To be fair, not always for the worst. But not good, either.

“Bad dream?” I ask, combing my fingers through his curls.

“No,” Starsky says. Then he giggles, mouth pressed to my right nipple, a silly hee-hee-hee-hee like Precious Pup that I haven’t heard for months.

Part of me wants to get sore at being woke up for something funny, but I catch it back. Time was I would give anything to hear Starsky laugh again. It was only when he laughed in the hospital — when Cap and Huggy helped me smuggle in a tureen of “real food, not hospital food” — that I really knew he was going to make it. “So, what’s so funny?”

“This crazy dream I had.”

“Oh?”

“You were in it.”

“And that makes it crazy?” I ask, making no effort to hide my droll tone.

“No!” Starsky lightly bites my nipple, no doubt in retribution, but I don’t mind. If feels nice. We couldn’t make it for months while Starsky recovered and I’m still a little starved for touch. Even now, Starsky is still working with a physical therapist to strengthen his back and increase the range of motion in his left arm. It’s hard work, but Starsky is determined not to be medicated out of the only job he’s ever loved. My job is to support his goals. Help him get where he needs to be.

“Then what made it crazy?” I asked.

“Everyone was in it: A bunch of old hoods we’ve busted, the police commissioner. But the funniest part? We were looking for Huggy, but nobody called him Huggy — they called him Superfly.”

Now it was my turn to snort with laughter. “Superfly?”

“And you’ll never guess who Dobey was….”

The fiery red Torino fishtailing to a stop aside, Starsky could be a good storyteller when the mood was on him. I let my eyes drift closed and allowed my lover’s dream to play out on the screen of my mind.

CLICK HERE TO SEE STARSKY’S DREAM

Then come back to finish the story and answer a short quiz for a chance to win a $10 gift card for Amazon, Michael’s Crafts, or Barnes & Noble.

“Wow,” I said around my laughter. “That dream’s one for the books.” I bend and kiss the top of Starsk’s head. “You’d better get your dream diary out and write this one down for your therapist.”

“Yeah!” Starsky said enthusiastically, rolling off my chest and reaching for his case book and the pen he keeps on the nightstand just for this purpose. “My pis-psycho-animalist will want to know all about this one.”

“She’s a therapist who does the mandatory evaluations of officers involved in shootings prior to giving them the okay to go back on the street,” I corrected, not for the first time.

“Pis-psycho-animalist sounds better.”

At first, Starsky had been reluctant to see a shrink. It was a new program the Bay City PD was trying, paid for by government grants. It seems like a pretty good idea to me, unless you’re the one who must spill your guts week after week. But once Starsky realized he had a captive audience for his weird ramblings, he’d come to love therapy. He’d already passed his psych eval but chose to keep going to see “Doc Be-a-tricks, Pis-psycho-animalist,” who wasn’t a doctor, whose name was Beatrix, and was an LPC — Licensed Professional Counselor — not a Loony Toon’s character. You know what? Sometimes, Starsky needs to channel his inner Bugs Bunny. The only thing you can do when this happens is pick a fight and hurt his feelings or just get out of his way and let him roll merrily along.

Which means I roll right along with him. Yeah, I’m an enabler, Starsky had earnestly informed me after a particularly enlightening therapy session, but one who knows when to pick his battles. Besides, Dobey will knock him into line. I can hear the captain now, “What’s wrong with you, Starsky? This report reads like a Warner Brothers cartoon. Skip the kiddy stuff and get to the facts!”

I could see that sleep was tugging on the corners of Starsky’s mind as he scrawled his dream “report” for Doc Be-a-tricks — damnit! He’s got me doing it.

With a final flourish, Starsky sets aside his case book, and maneuvers me with nudges and kisses into the little spoon position. I like the feel of his chest pressed to my back. His arm heavy around my waist. Starsky’s already snoring softly before I can wish him a second good night. That’s all right. Sleep is pulling me back under too. Now, if I can just get deep enough before the puppet show starts….

Starsky has left some blanks in his dream report. Help him out by filling in the blanks and emailing your answers to: CKRUGGERI@GMAIL.COM  For a chance to win a $10 gift certificate to Amazon, Michael’s Crafts, or Barnes & Noble — your choice!

THE FINE PRINT

One entry per fan; emailed quiz with correct answers must be received by 11:59 p.m. EST on  20 December 2023; should there be multiple correct quizzes received, names will be placed in a Santa hat and drawn at random.

Winner will receive an email and instructions on how to claim the prize.

POSTSCRIPT

Here’s a big honking “THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH” to HardBoiledBaby for allowing me to play in her sandbox. Your wonderful video inspired me!

STARSKY’S DREAM QUIZ

Fill in the blanks below. For example: The vidder’s name is Hardboiledbaby.

1. Huggy’s name in the dream was__________.
2. Dobey’s name in the dream was __________.
3. The date the action took place was the ____ of September.
4. Who was the last person to see Superfly? Mrs._________.
5. The commissioner played the part of the U.S. ___________ in Starsky’s dream.
6. One witness said, “________ dead. That’sa what I said.” (Oh, well.)
7. What is the phone number to call if you have information regarding Superfly? 555-_____.
8. What were the president and Shaft doing behind closed doors at the White
   House? Holding _______.
9. When Starsky asks the question, “Mr. President, what seems to be the problem?” the answer is, “I got _____ in my pants and I need to _______!”
10. When Hutch asks the president what was he doing, holding hands with Shaft, the answer is, “Could it be I’m _________ love?

Congrats to Tina for winning the prize. Answers are below:

1. Superfly
2. Shaft
3. 3rd
4. Jones
5. President
6. Freddie
7. 4598
8. Hands
9. Ants, dance
10. Falling in love