"There we go, partner. There we are. Comfy?"
Starsky nodded, eyes trying to close, but he was fighting the pull of the pain killers they'd given him at the hospital.
"Want anything to drink? Any food?" Hutch asked.
"No, I'm fine. Hey...just, sit down. Enjoy the view with me."
The cabin they had planned to bring themselves and their girlfriends to had instead become a place for Starsky's recuperation. Fresh air, gentle exercise in the tidal pool, salt water, and plenty of sun had been the doctor's recommendation.
After a moment of thought Hutch finally sat in a reclining deck chair next to his partner.
"I want you to tell me something." Starsky slurred. "And I want you to be completely honest with me."
"Well I wouldn't lie to you, Starsk."
"I'm not saying you would."
"I should hope not."
"Will you let me ask my question?"
"Go ahead."
"Why...of all the cars, on all the roads, in all the world...why did you love that car?"
Hutch gave a sigh, mind reeling back to the beautiful tan Ford with a sandstone hood, cloth seats, and a horn that activated on its own once the doors were opened. That car had been blown to smithereens. Starsky had almost been blown to smithereens and Hutch came away from the explosion with a headache and minus one car.
"It's...it's plain."
"Is that a nice way of saying 'ugly'?"
"I'm not a flashy man, Starsky."
"I know that."
"You know, when I was little I had an uncle. He drove this lovely tan and wood stain, 4-door Ford Deluxe Stationwagon."
"A station wagon!?"
"It may have been the ugliest car on the block but I thought it was a chariot. It had all that room in the back, the front dash was stained wood. And the seats always smelled new. My uncle was the coolest guy I knew. Leather jacket, hair combed back, the car always looked good, and he always had the crooners on the radio."
"Crooners?"
"Yeah, Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme, Bing Crosby, Dino. Every Saturday night, without fail, he would come pick me up and we would cruise."
"Cruise.." Starsky chuckled. "In a station wagon."
Hutch shrugged and stared out at the setting sun. "He was proud of that car. Always kept it in prime condition. Even when it got a nick or scratch he managed to make the car seem all the better. War wounds, he called them. Now, the first time I ever drove a car of my own, I wanted a station wagon just like my uncle had. Same color, same year, make, model."
"And?"
"And I found one. In a scrap yard."
"And?"
"And I worked for a year getting that baby put back together."
Starsky gave his partner a look that said, 'quit stalling already'.
"I crashed it."
"You what!?"
"I-I crashed it, straight into a tree."
"So you're punishing yourself by buying horrible Fords?"
"Starsky…"
"Has a car ever survived you?"
"Starsk-"
"What year was the station wagon?"
"Nevermind."
"Hey wait a minute. Where are you going?"
"Gettin' a beer."
"We don't have any beer. Hey, do you still have my keys?"
Starsky squirmed in the chair, not really able to get out of it on his own. "Hutch?"
An engine started, racing loudly before the car was put in reverse.
"That's my Torino. He's taking my-HUUUUUUUTCH!"