The answers to what strange things happen in
one writer’s modest apartment and why it really takes me so long to
write my little fan poems. This snippet was written as a last-minute entry for
the 2007 Cabrillo Con 'zine.
Disclaimer:
I do not own any of the characters from “Starsky and Hutch.” I do occasionally
borrow them, but never with fraudulent intent or with an eye to monetary gain.
THE REASON
BEHIND THE RHYME
By e-pony?
At two o’clock on a
Wednesday morning, the residents of a small Midwestern town are all fast
asleep, drifting far from the workaday world into dreams of the upcoming
weekend. But in a two-bedroom apartment just off the main street, a solitary
light still gleams through the living room window.
If you listen carefully,
you can hear the slow, uneven click of a keyboard punctuating the drowsy
silence – tap, tap, tap – followed by the low murmur of a solemn
recitation….
“When I’m weary of the
beat,
And my eyes have seen
too much,
He makes me laugh with
just one word
Or calms me with a
touch.
My best friend in the
world –
That’s Hutch.”
“When my back’s
against the wall
And there’s danger on
the street,
When I think I’ve lost
it all
And I’m about to claim
defeat,
The answer to my call
–
That’s… Starsky?”
Silence.
“STARSK!”
“What?”
“This isn’t working.”
“What do you mean, it
ain’t working?”
“Well, for one thing,
buddy, ‘Starsky’ doesn’t exactly rhyme with ‘defeat.’”
“I know that, dummy.”
A pensive frown. “Uh, try this: ‘The answer to my call… comes on blue-Adidased
feet.’”
“Hey, thanks. That
works.”
“Nope.”
“Sure it does. See –”
“Nah, I mean the whole
thing don’t work. Look here. Your first and third lines rhyme and so do your
second and fourth ones –”
“But only your second
and fourth lines do. You’re right, partner; it’s all wrong.”
“So, what’re we gonna
do, Hutch?”
“I don’t know. But I
think you’d better have another word with the writer.”
“Hey! Heeeey!! That’s
a good idea.” A pause. “Pony? Hey, e-pony!”
“Uh, Starsky? Starsk!”
“Yeah?”
“I meant in the
morning. I think she went to bed an hour ago. Said something about having a
double-strength headache. Whatever that means. ”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, that’s terrific.
What now, bright boy?”
“Call Dobey?”
“And say what? Cap’n,
please send backup right way, ’cause we’re having a poetry-deadline emergency?”
“Okay, okay. Not an
attractive option, unless we wanna be permanently transferred to Traffic.”
Fingertips drum lightly on the edge of the keyboard. “Got it! Huggy! He’s
good at rhyming.”
“Nah, he’s just good
with street jive. This is poetry we’re writin’, pal – fine art.”
“I don’t know about
that, Gordo….”
“Well, all right,
maybe not. But it’s for a con ’zine – the big time!”
“I know that, mush
brain. But we’re never gonna finish this on time without help. Maybe we should
just drink up our beers and call it a night. There’s always Cabrillo Con 2009.”
“But, Huuuutch, that’s
two years away!” Pleading blue eyes meet a resigned stare. “’Sides, I
got this really terrific ending.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A sigh of suurender.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“When justice
sometimes bites the dust
And criminals walk
free,
When we fail to make a
bust
And good folks pay the
fee,
I still know where to
place my trust:
Like always, me and
thee!”
A long silence, followed
by a warm smile. “That’s perfect, Starsk, just perfect.”
“Really?”
“Hey, buddy. Would
your partner lie to you?”
“Nah. ’Course not.”
“Good. Then, should we
take it once more from the top?”
An enthusiastic nod. “Well,
here we go again: ‘When I’m weary of the beat….’”
The end?