Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. "I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do" (C) ABBA; 1993 Polydor / Umgd.

CHAPTER 2
THEY DON'T WANT ME TO KNOW

Chicago. It wasn't a place Hyde thought he'd come back to in such a hurry, but he'd made good time on the interstate and arrived just before 11:30 A.M. Jackie was staying in the upscale Drake Hotel courtesy of her new job. Apparently, that TV producer really wanted her—and he could have her. All he needed was to find out the date. The real date, not this September 8th bullshit.

He parked the Camino on the street to avoid dealing with the valet. Then he stepped into the Drake's showy lobby. Its thick carpeting, wood-paneled walls, and giant gleaming chandelier gave him the same, out-of-place feeling as two days ago. It wasn't his scene, man. Despite how rich his real father turned out to be, it never would be.

A bank of cream-colored elevators lay beyond the front desk. Hyde strode toward them, and one of the concierges called out, "Excuse me! Excuse me!"

"It's cool," Hyde said, glancing behind him. The concierge was a tanned lanky guy with the cheekbones of a chick. "I was here two ni—" Hyde interrupted himself. "I mean, last ni—I, uh... my girlfr—damn it." He gave up and walked to the front desk. "Look, my friend Jackie Burkhart's in room 7-D."

The concierge tilted his head. "Oh, you mean the bossy brunette who was here with Tall-and-Handsome? Yeah, they checked out early this morning."

"Checked out?" Hyde's muscles tensed as a dozen possibilities shot through his mind: Jackie bamboozled Kelso into a quickie-wedding, the hotel wasn't snooty enough for her, or—the worst possibility—they had gotten to her. "Did she say where she was going?".

"Well, I'm not one to gossip," the concierge said in a mock-hush, "and I can't remember what was said word-for-word, but Tall-and-Handsome was complaining about how they could've gotten some 'happy-fun time in,' if you know what I mean..."

Hyde nodded, and the concierge continued. "But the bossy one said, 'No, Michael. The only happy-fun time you're gonna have is driving me home. Now.'" The concierge looked down at his tie and straightened it. "I can't understand why she turned him down. I would've let that Michael do whatever he wanted."

"Uh-huh..." Hyde exhaled slowly to shore up his Zen. "This place got a payphone?"

The concierge pointed down a wide hall. "Across from the restrooms."

11:38 A.M.

No one else was at the row of payphones, and that was good. Hyde wanted some privacy. He had five dimes left, enough for two phone calls. Jackie should've been back in Point Place by now, but where the hell would she have gone? Not the Formans', and she never went to Kelso's even when she was dating him. It was a toss-up between Donna's and her own house. He dropped two dimes into a phone and tried the Burkhart Mansion.

After three rings, Pam Burkhart's melodic voice slurred through the receiver. "Hellooo?"

She sounded plastered, and Hyde kept his answer short. "Is Jackie there?"

"She was, but she left a little while ago," Pam said. "You know, I haven't seen my little girl cry that much since Jack—her father—didn't show up for her seventh birthday... or was it her tenth? They all blend in together. Do you have any idea why she's so upset?"

"No." His grip on the receiver tightened. Pam had never been the most perceptive person, drunk or sober.

"Oh, well..." She let out a heavy breath. "Wait, who am I talking to?"

"No one," he said and hung up.

Only one place left to try. He dialed the Pinciottis', and Donna answered: "Hello?"

"Hey."

"Hyde? Oh, my God." A muffled sound hit his ear, as if she were covering the phone. Then, seconds later, she said, "Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter. Is Jackie there? And make it quick, man. These are my last dimes."

Another muffled sound crackled through the receiver, followed by a staticy swoosh, followed by... "Steven?"

Jackie. Her voice sounded thick, as if she'd been crying.

"Yeah," he said. "Kick Donna out of the room."

"What? Why?"

"I wanna talk to you in private. Kick her out."

"Oh... okay." The phone rattled a bit, and then Jackie sounded far away. "You gotta leave for a minute, Donna."

"I have to... what?" Donna's voice. "Its my ro—quit shoving me, you—"

A loud bang vibrated through the receiver, like a door being shut.

"Okay, Steven. She's gone," Jackie said. "But before you say anything, I need you to know that I'm—"

"What day is it?" he said.

"What?"

He didn't—or couldn't—disguise his fear. "The day, man. The day."

"Uh, uh... Saturday! It's Saturday. Why? Steven, what's going o—"

He slammed the phone onto the hook. Fuck. They'd gotten to Jackie, too.

1:22 P.M.

Hyde was standing outside William Barnett's mansion, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He'd driven north to Milwaukee, not knowing where else to go. His dad had given him the key little less than a year ago, a sign trust and a symbol of acceptance.

He let himself inside the house, which was as big as the Burkhart Mansion but way cooler. The living room was well-lit and decorated with music posters, little sculptures of African figures, and a tapestry of a baobab tree. Pictures of W.B.'s family also hung on the walls, including his dead wife Eunice, his parents Thomas and Pearl, and Hyde, too.

At the center of the room was a long leather couch, and his sister Angie was sitting on it—swapping spit with someone Hyde didn't recognize. The guy looked decent enough, but Hyde let the front door bang shut, which sent Angie flying to the opposite end of the couch.

"Steven," she said and sat up straight, "I didn't expect to see you."

"Whatever. Is W.B. here?"

She smoothed down her gray top, combed fingers through her mussed hair. "You think I'd be making out in the middle of the living room if he were? No. He's at the country club."

"When's he gonna be back?" Hyde said.

"I don't know. Around dinner time?"

She scooted back next to her make-out guy, who had a 'fro like Hyde's only black. He was dressed like a college preppy—polo shirt and khakis—but his face showed none of the contempt Hyde usually encountered with preppies.

"This is Russel," Angie said, and her voice melted into girly goo. "He's an Engineering major, and his father's a professor of Architecture at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. And, best of all," she snaked her arm around his waist and squeezed, "he's my boyfriend."

Russel's shoulders raised, and his eyes flicked to the floor as if he were embarrassed. Hyde could relate. Jackie used to introduce him to people similarly, but Russel recovered and stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Babe, this is my brother," Angie said.

"Oh, right!" Russel grinned, a mixture of amusement and recognition. "Nice to meet you, Steven."

Hyde said nothing but gave Russel's hand a brief shake. He understood the amused reaction; Russel was black, Angie was black—and who the hell expected her to have a bi-racial brother who passed for white? But he wasn't in the mood to give a shit about it right now, and he started for the kitchen.

"Steven, what are you doing here?" Angie called after him. "It's not like you to just show up."

"Just visiting our dad, man," he said.

"Hey," she ran to the hallway and caught his elbow, "is everything okay? You're looking whiter than usual."

He pulled away from her. "I'm fine."

"Did you and Jackie have another fight?"

"Uh... yeah," he said and escaped her questioning stare by fleeing down the hall. Her concern couldn't help him. Only learning the truth would, and he didn't want to involve her. Plus, they might have gotten to her already.

1:27 P.M.

W.B.'s kitchen was at least twice-the-size of Mrs. Forman's, with granite counters and dark cherry cabinets. It took Hyde a moment, but he managed to find some bread and made himself a ham sandwich. Then be grabbed a beer from the fridge and carried his lunch to the pantry.

Sitting at a square, wooden table were Ilsa and Filomena, the live-in cook and the maid. They were playing Gin Rummy and watching a small black-and-white TV. Hyde greeted them with a nod, sat down, and began to eat.

"Mr. Hyde," Ilsa said and put down her cards, "let me make you a proper lunch."

He shook his head. "No, thanks. The sandwich is cool." It was all he had the stomach to eat anyway.

1:43 P.M.

The beer had gone down easily, but the sandwich he crammed into his mouth to keep Ilsa and Filomena from commenting on his sucky appetite. He left them to their card game and climbed the mansion's back stairs to the guest room. The sand-colored walls and abstract paintings of nature weren't his style, but they didn't disturb him—unlike everything else had today. He was exhausted from all the driving and the thinking, and he had to regroup.

He locked the door and lay down on the bed fully-clothed, including his boots. If he needed to bolt, at least he'd be prepared.

6:36 P.M.

A loud knock yanked him from sleep. He sprang from the bed, pressed his back flush against the wall by the door. "Who is it?" he said and slipped on his shades.

"It's W.B. Steven, are you all right?"

With a steadying breath, Hyde unlocked and opened the door. W.B. was standing in front of him, dressed casually in a silk shirt and slacks. It was the first calming sight all day.

"Glad you're here, man," Hyde whispered and pulled him inside. The room could've been bugged, but he shut and locked the door anyway.

W.B. was watching him with a frown. "What's wrong, son? You look terrible."

Hyde moved to the center of the room, as far away from the walls and furniture as possible. "You know how The Man always tries new ways to suppress the masses?"

"Uh-huh..."

"I think they're fucking with me. Don't know why the hell they're doing it..." Hyde lowered his voice even more, "but I freakin' swear I did this day already."

The concern on W.B.'s face deepened, and he stepped closer to Hyde. "What do you mean?"

"Saturday, September 8th." Hyde took off his shades and hooked them on his shirt collar. "I was in Kenosha, man. I... well, it doesn't matter what I did. But I did it, and then I woke up, and it was the eighth again! Same newspaper and everything. And every damn person I ask says it's Saturday."

W.B.'s expression softened. He sat on the bed and rested his hands on his knees. "You know, that happened to me once."

"It did?"

"Oh, yeah. Right around the time I met your mother. I went on a real... it doesn't matter what I did. But, like you, I did it. I woke up in a strange bed the next day, thinking it was Thursday. But it was only Wednesday. And even now—" W.B. was laughing, "I have no idea how the hell that happened, and I can't remember those twelve hours for shit."

Hyde sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly—along with some of his tension. He'd made the right choice in coming here, and he sat down next to W.B. "But how do you explain the paper? All the articles were the same."

W.B smiled at him. "Maybe you're psychic."

Hyde suppressed his own smile. "Come on..."

"If you got as messed up as I'm thinking you did," W.B. said, "then maybe you didn't really read that paper yesterday. Maybe you only think you read that paper yesterday."

"Maybe..."

"Listen, why don't you stay here tonight? You look like you could use a good meal. Then tomorrow—which, according to my calender, should be Sunday—"W.B. arched an eyebrow for emphasis, same as Hyde often did himself, "we can talk about whyyou did what you did yesterday. Because I'm sure you don't want to talk about it today."

Hyde finally let himself smile. "Yeah, that would a firm 'no'. But maybe tomorrow."

"Good." W.B. clasped Hyde's shoulder and stood from the bed. "Dinner's at seven—and Ilsa's food's been known to knock the sanity right back into a man. "

"Thanks." Hyde let out a small chuckle. "Really... thank you."

7:03 P.M.

After another shower and change of clothes, Hyde joined everyone in the dining room. Ilsa had prepared a meal of beef brisket, mashed potatoes, and collard greens. The hearty smell of it brought back Hyde's appetite, and he ate silently while the others spoke. Evidently, this was W.B.'s and Russel's first meeting, but Hyde only half-listened to the conversation. His thoughts were back in Chicago, in that hotel room.

"Don't you think that would be great, Steven?" Angie said as Hyde cut himself a slice of peach cobbler.

"Sure," he said.

"See, Daddy? He's not even listening." Angie glanced at Hyde scornfully. "I said the Brewers lost their last two games, and we can watch them lose tonight, too. It's called sarcasm, Steven. How would watching our team lose be 'great'?"

Hyde dug into his cobbler and didn't answer. Normally, he and Angie did well talking about baseball. They'd even gone to a few games together, but he couldn't care less right now.

"You need to relax, son," W.B. said, miming a pull from a joint.

"Yeah, I got some stuff in my bag," Hyde said.

W.B. smirked. "I bet my stuff's better."

8:16 P.M.

Hyde's lips were grinning wide. W.B.'s stuff was way better than his.

"You won that bet, man," Hyde said. Then he passed the potent-as-hell joint to Russel. Everyone was sitting on the floor of W.B.'s study, enjoying a circle only the rich or the very lucky got to have.

Laughter exploded from Russel's throat with a cloud of smoke. The preppy was clearly an amateur. "Your family—your family's some cool cats, Ange!"

"Man, you're lucky Angie wasn't in love with anyone before she met you," Hyde said. "Otherwise, the second you turn your back, she'd be nailin' her ex."

"I was in love before," Angie said, prompting Hyde to glare at her. "Well, maybe it doesn't count. We were seven. His name was Darryl Narcisse." She smiled dreamily. "I liked his bike."

Hyde got the joint back from W.B. and took a deep drag. "Long as it wasn't fuckin' Kelso."

"Kelso?" Angie burst into laughter, and it turned into a cough. "K-Kelso?"

Hyde's grin reappeared. At least something was right with the damn world.

11:21 P.M.

The rest of the evening consisted of television in the living room, watching the Milwaukee Brewers lose 2-3 to the California Angels, and munching on potato chips. Even with that five-hour nap, Hyde was tired. He wouldn't make it to Saturday Night Live, so he bid everyone a good night.

"Hold on a sec," W.B. said and followed him upstairs to the guest room. "Tomorrow we'll talk about it, all right? I know Jackie means a lot to you."

"Not anymore. Only thing that matters now is I wake up tomorrow, not today."

W.B. nodded. "I hear ya. Good night, son."

"Night."

Hyde closed the door and locked it, made sure the windows were shut and locked, too. Then he pushed the pine dresser in front of the door. No way was anyone getting into the room tonight without waking him up.

For extra-added security, he checked the closet and underneath the bed. They were clear, which meant it was finally safe to change into his gray sweatpants and white undershirt. It felt nice to be out of his jeans, nice to be at W.B.'s house instead of a cheap motel. The room had a clock radio, but this one was housed in silver metal, not plastic. He set the alarm for 9:00 A.M. and the radio to WFPP, The Sound—all rock, no crap. ABBA would definitely not be his wake-up call tomorrow.

He fluffed the bed's pillows then slid into the sheets. Maybe a full night's sleep was all he needed.

Hyde awoke with a start.

"Oh, I've been dreaming through my lonely past."

"No..."

"Now I just made it. I found you at last."

"No!"

"So come on. Now let's try it. I love you. Can't deny it 'cause it's true."

"FUCK!" He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. No longer was he surrounded by the sand-colored walls of W.B.'s guest room but pressed in by the pitted ceiling of the Shooting Star Motel—and that damn ABBA song.

"I do, I do, I do, I do, I do."

He angled his head slowly to the right. The plastic-encased clock radio was staring at him, and he stared right back as the time turned to 8:01 A.M.