The Jacket
Ken rarely saw his father in anything other than a suit and tie. It was the uniform of success, his father would say. Only after dinner and as he held a Scotch in his hand would his tie - and words - loosen.
"It's all about appearances, boy. Don't forget that."
It was a confusing theory since what Ken Hutchinson looked like on the outside never seemed to match how he felt on the inside. He knew people liked his looks well enough, but inside he felt like a toy that had been assembled all wrong.
Even so, it had been easy to blend in in prep school. With everyone dressed in matching navy blazers and tan pants, no one could tell the rich boys from everyone else. But blending in didn't necessarily mean fitting in.
Ken discovered one way he could sort people out was by their feet. Well-heeled young men like Ken always had shiny new shoes, but the shoes of the scholarship boys were often worn out. One classmate even walked with a slight limp from the pinch of his ill-fitting Oxfords until Ken slid his own extra pair under the other's bed. He would have liked to be friends but the boy left the following semester.
In college his uniform was bell bottom jeans and a sweatshirt. A backpack slung casually over his shoulder and a slight lean hid Hutch's true height. He grew his hair long enough to obscure his eyes. As long as he cared enough to look like he didn't care, it was easy to go unnoticed. Yet he caught Vanessa's eye, then was trapped.
Later, Ken's police uniform gave him an uncomfortable illusion of authority. In his blues he wasn't Ken Hutchinson, he was a "cop" or "the man." People would step aside as he walked down the street as if afraid they might touch. Even his cruiser grabbed attention, causing other cars on the road to carefully steer away. He couldn't wait to move on to plain clothes and a simpler car, so he could finally just be himself. The trouble was, he wasn't sure who that was.
Starsky's jaw dropped on their first day as detectives when Ken walked into the squad room dressed in gray slacks, a white button down shirt and tie.
"What the hell are you doing with this?" He lifted the tie from Ken's chest and sputtered.
"What's wrong with it?" Ken knocked Starsky's hand away and took in his partner's t-shirt, too-tight jeans and rumpled windbreaker. Good thing his well-worn Adidas promised running rather than limping. Yet Mr. Hutchinson would hardly have considered it the look of success.
"We're workin' the streets, Hutch. Not an accounting firm."
He liked it when Starsky called him "Hutch." Not "Hutchinson" or even "Ken." Like he'd discovered a whole new person who'd been hidden away, just waiting for Starsky to come along and let him out.
"Van thought I looked fine," he reasoned. "She picked out the tie."
"Figures." Starsky looked Hutch up and down again and shook his head.
"We godda stop ta make before we check out the pawn shop on Third." Starsky hustled Hutch into his car and drove to a thrift store not three blocks away from the Odyssey Jewelry and Loan.
"What are we doing here?" Hutch asked.
"Getting' you some new threads. No one in this neighbahood's gonna wanna to talk to ya dressed like that."
Maybe Starsky had a point but Hutch had never bought anything from a thrift store before. His family would be appalled. Hutch watched his partner prance from one aisle to the other as he sorted through the racks of haphazardly arranged clothes. Life stories told in fabric.
"Ya know, my Aunt Louise once found a hundred dollar bill sewn into the hem of a dress she bought at one of these places."
"Really?" Hutch approached a row of shirts and lifted a sleeve of blue chambray, then let it fall. He hoped the previous owner had gone on to better things.
"Wow! Check out this number!" Starsky gave a little whistle and Hutch looked to see him holding a red sequined dress up to his chin. A cross between Halloween and hooker chic.
"I think blue would go better with your eyes, darling." He grinned and caught Starsky grinning back. A crazy, lopsided curve. His partner could add an element of fun to even the most mundane task.
A few minutes later Hutch found a pair of not-too-faded corduroys in his size and a pale blue shirt with a guitar embroidered on the back. He was certain the shirt would horrify Van but Starsky loved it. It was perfect.
While Starsky busied himself with a pile of sweaters, Hutch came across a white and forest green varsity jacket and stopped, mesmerized. The colors were the same as those of the public high school in his home town. The one his parents had thought was beneath them.
'Hey Hutch. Getta load a this." Starsky called out. He had put on an enormous wool cardigan with some type of Mexican design running across the front. It even had a belt.
"Christ, Starsk. It looks like you were swallowed by a sick llama then spit back out."
"I know. Isn't it great?" He strutted over to a mirror to admire himself as he wrapped the belt around him. "They don't make sweaters like this anymore."
"There's a reason for that."
Hutch looked back to the jacket he held in his hands, then tentatively slipped it on. It felt just right. He could almost believe he had frayed the edges himself over the years. He imagined the faint aroma of cigarettes wafting up from beneath the bleachers at the Friday night game. In his mind's eye he saw a gang of boys push one another back and forth in a magical display of camaraderie. The ones he'd only watched from the street.
"Watcha got there, Hutch?"
"Just some old jacket. It would probably work to cover my holster."
But there was a look on his face that Starsky didn't miss. Like Hutch had discovered something he thought he'd lost.
Starsky came over to him and straightened the collar, his thumb lightly brushing Hutch's cheek in the process.
"It's definitely you."