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Beautiful Music
THAT 70's SHOW
by Jennifer Ryan
06/22/08

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Some dance to remember

A week ago the Kenosha P.D. appeared on our doorstep and reigned hell not only on my first free weekend in forever, but on my entire life. These last several months, Hyde has been an unhappy handful; I'm not so deluded a fool I'd deny that. Red, mom, Donna, all my teachers and even Kelso have noticed he's not right or that at least he's not right for Hyde. My increasingly frustrating inability to cope with his mood swings led me to seek help from my academic adviser and my psychology professor, Drs. Jackson DeWitt and Jonathan Newberry, respectively.

I went to school that afternoon to turn in my psychology paper, which is really just fancy code for meeting with the professors. Dr. Newberry is my abnormal psychology instructor and we confer every Friday to discuss my case study, which is further fancy code for the free therapy I receive under the guise of a friendly chat.

We talk about my insane boyfriend in the most clinical and theoretical fashion possible, then my anthropology professor, Dr. DeWitt, joins us for a spot of tea. Dr. DeWitt is a Brit, the only in all of Wisconsin, and likes to expose the staff to culture by making them drink Earl Grey and eat weird cookies that taste like baking soda. He's practically adopted Professor Newberry and seems to harbor ideas about molding him into someone with whom he can talk about old people stuff.

Anyway, that afternoon Dr. Newberry pushed me hard, attempting to mine information with which he's sure I've not yet come to grips. He says I'm avoiding an unpleasant reality, pretending my relationship with Hyde is right on and together when in fact it is slowly falling unglued.

He baited me at every turn, demanded to know what I was so afraid of and told me to start acting like a responsible adult. He forced me to be brutally honest for the first time in months and admit that Hyde can't eat a pizza or watch TV without drinking. We don't go out together unless he has a beer in his hand, he doesn't talk to me without grabbing one and whenever we pass Western Avenue, he stops in front of the A & P for a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was an eye opening slap in the face that I'd tried to gloss over, because nine times out of ten, who put the beer in his hand and who passed him the roach clip.

I tried to explain that Hyde has had a hard life, that his mother was an abusive addict and that her boyfriends used to hit him or yell at him or lock him out of the house or any number of crappy, hurtful things. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, looked into my eyes like he cared and told me that has nothing to do with why Hyde can't even come to bed with me sober. He warned me that if I continued to assist Hyde in being the best alcoholic he can be, I'll be helping him kill himself and that if I refuse to acknowledge the problem, we will both be lost.

I stood and left then, and as I walked out the door I heard Dr. DeWitt reprimand young Jonathan for being so harsh. I didn't stick around to hear his defense, because I was anxious to jump in my car and beat my head against the steering wheel. I wanted to smack the hell out of myself and then run home and smack the hell out of Steven Gregory. Instead I went home to find the veins and arteries in my dad's head swollen to near epic proportions and Hyde counting floor tiles while police officers showed me mug shots.

Red was light years beyond pissed, Mom exhibited nervous tremors and Hyde sat in a hard backed kitchen chair with arms crossed defensively, appearing both expressionless and unseeing. What could I do but spill the dirty secret that has eaten at him for the better part of a year.

I could have attempted to lie, though I'm sure it would have been little more than an abysmal failure. Had they not informed me some teenage girl was missing, I might have given it a shot. How was I to know she wasn't kidnapped or murdered, but on her honeymoon in Toronto with world class dickweed Lucas Bertrand, as the police would soon discover.

I told them every detail I could recall, each word a relief that fell from me like a lead weight. This was my big chance - or so I thought - to have the situation resolved, out and done with, behind us and forgotten forever. Fat chance.

The more I said, the angrier Hyde became and once he finally snapped, so did I. People might think I'm a pussy and that they can slap me around without a fight, but I can damn well give as good as get, especially after an entire afternoon of being told I'm enabling an alcoholic.

Red yelled at Hyde and me all night long; his temper not so much a force of nature as an unnatural disaster. To compare my father to Three Mile Island would be unfair, as the power generating station suffered only a partial meltdown and "Reginald the Terrible" would never condescend to do anything half way.

He was actually talking to himself through most of it, making constant mental notes about stupid damn kids, stupid damn hormones, that G-d damn bar we're never to go near again and the fact that he kept his boxer shorts firmly in place for two different wars. Hyde's comment about how easy it must have been to do so on a boat full of men wasn't allowed to slide - Dad pointed out that heterosexuality just comes naturally to some. Before Hyde could mount a respectable defense, Red veered off on a tangent about Laurie getting pregnant.

When I tried to egg him on, he immediately snapped back to reality and told us not to change the damn subject. He told me this was the last straw, stormed into the bedroom Hyde and I share and began dumping Steven Gregory's clothes into a duffel bag. Mom played defense, countering his every move and carefully returning each stitch to the dresser while complaining that wrinkling freshly laundered clothes only makes a bad situation worse. When Red pulled open the final drawer, a baggie of pre-rolled joints I'd taped to its bottom tumbled to the floor. Hyde and I stared down at it for what seemed like an eternity, both overflowing with the urge to deny ownership. Red was more disappointed than surprised, I think, and told Hyde to take his G-d damn drugs with him on his way out.

Hyde showed as little emotion as possible until he was pulling out of the driveway and realized that he'd forgotten to throw me into his bag. We drove around the corner and parked the El Camino in front of old Mrs. Surridge's place, then snuk back to the basement to figure shit out. That's when things went from worse to unbearable.

The first thing he did when we got there was grab a beer and sit in his favorite chair in front of the TV. When I reached out to take it away from him, he pulled back, claiming he needed it to help him think through the heavy shit and that he's pretty sure it gives him super powers. I told him that was a lame excuse, so he offered me a romantic circle for two in its place.

I begged him to talk to me. He got defensive.
I asked him why he drinks every day. He explained he doesn't.
I promised that I love him. He claimed he doubted it.
I told him to go spend the night at Leo's house until my dad cooled off. He said I'm gone.

Then he grabbed a case of beer and a pair of sleep pants from the back storage and he was. He didn't return and when I called Leo's house the next day, one of them faked a Chinese accent badly before hanging up the phone. Now not only is my boyfriend a drunk, he's probably honing his craft in some titty bar.

Instead of calling every hospital in the tri-county area, I invited Donna over for a circle of our own. No matter our differences, Donna has always helped me put things in perspective, and right now I am in desperate need of a single reason to put up with anymore of Hyde's self centered behavior. The fact that I love his inebriated ass may not be enough anymore.

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Some dance to forget

The path to hell is a slow wound spiral cloaked tightly in the shadow of darkest night. Sadly, few of us have what it takes to avoid landing here - or once ensnared - the ability to understand why.

Oddly enough, my personal hell is a room at the Hotel California, or as the locals call it, The Holiday Hotel. On Wednesday evenings after my shift, Eric and I meet in room 307 to screw each other retarded, but he doesn't love me anymore, so I smoke weed with Roy and Jesse instead. The legend of room 307 extends far beyond the idiot teenage cousins who shot each other over a heroin stash back in '71. Some say others have fallen here, died or gone quite insane for one mysterious reason or another, as if anything so interesting could ever happen this close to Pointless Place.

A few years back an elderly guest died a few rooms down - slipped away quietly in the night - but over the years the story transformed, becoming urban legend. The elderly woman became a beautiful maiden who leapt to her death after losing her true love to another after a Simon and Garfunkle concert. Her unhappy spirit haunts this very room, never to have a moments peace, mainly because room 307 is shared among the employees and their rowdy fuck buddies slash partners in crime.

And tonight our partners in crime are the ladies from housekeeping. Our impromptu gathering progresses quickly into a raucous bash when passersby stream in, merging with our six, multiplying to twenty and before we know it there are too many half naked drunks to count.

I don't know how many bottles of beer I downed before I had to lose my flannel shirt and - for some reason - my right shoe, but it must have been considerable. I'd lose the damn t-shirt, too, was it not the one Eric and Kelso got me from the Molly Hatchet concert. I pull it up to fan myself, an act which leads a strange girl to pinch my nipple and stick her tongue in my ear. I only kissed her back for a minute before I had to take a seat in the middle of the floor, feeling friendly, fearless, hilariously uncoordinated and on the brink of nausea.

My sudden disappearance seems to confuse the girl and she stumbles off in search of the next big adventure, leaving me dusted in potato chip crumbs and marinating in Schlitz.

Though my vision is blurry and my surroundings crowded, I focus on the hearth where my Eric and I used to play with each other. It was the first time either of us purposely touched another guys kelbosa, so we christened it our special place - a shrine to our hilarious youthful ineptitudes and lighthearted perversions. I've fond memories of the first time I deep throated him, how he gasped in shock as I took him, then wiggled silently beneath me as if afraid to make a wrong sound.

We were embarrassingly awkward that time and I was not near as experienced as I pretended to be, or even fast enough to save myself from his accidentally releasing in my hair. I hadn't the heart to relish the look of terror that settled over him, kissing him softly instead, as a gentle reminder that I'm not Donna. She would have kicked his ass. We showered together, laughing wildly, and then Eric feigned the hiccups for the rest of the evening, half-heartedly apologizing that he couldn't pay me back. I remember his proud, sneaky smile as he fell asleep curled beside me, sure he'd gotten away with something big. The stupid look on his face the next morning when I reminded him that I was still waiting was equally priceless.

I showed Eric how much I loved him in front of this fireplace. I showed him on the bed, against the corner desk, on the balcony and in the shower and now I'm surrounded by reminders that it wasn't meant to be. Before I can protest, a drunken Roy and Dave appear before me and attempt to cheer me by pissing out the flames, leaving in their wake the sad ember and ash of a dying fire. Depressing.

The thing is, Forman never once said, "quit drinking or I'll leave you." I fully expected it, was waiting for it, dreading it and almost wishing for it at the same time. I realize he shouldn't have had to, but I took this as a sign that everything was going to be all right. I didn't know he was so worried that a good portion of his time was spent silently seething as he poured over his psychology texts, looking for some way to rescue me from my own worst enemy - myself.

Unable to transform my heart and mind with subtle manipulations, he enlisted his eight hundred year old anthropology teacher and academic adviser, Professor DeWitt. At first I was worried the man was queer, but to my great relief Donna assured me he was not gay but British, and very happily married with twelve grandchildren.

This much older man had become a good friend to Eric over the last several months and a mentor, I suppose. Many hours were spent in deep conversation about culture, mental illness, addiction and - as I later found - me. I should be grateful he had someone to turn to, a sympathetic ear on which to chew, because he could never confide in Red without being judged or ridiculed, and the mans answer to every situation involves body parts jammed inside other body parts; hardly a reliable or useful solution to any problem.

Jessica's voice looms over me, badly distorted in its tone and tumbles from her mouth in strange slow motion. "This is my cousin, Alice."

Alice isn't so cute as Jessie, but is short as a pygmy and thin as a rail as she. Something I can't identify seems uncomfortably familiar and almost fake, compelling me to reach forward and touch her to be sure she is real. I restrain myself, convinced I miss Eric so badly that I look for him everywhere. Alice's eyes are large and round like his, but not so happy or as wide and trusting. Eric's eyes rindle with the soft beauty and sweet mischief of one thousand harebrained schemes yet to be formed. Hers are eyes that seek out trouble with an eagerness that is not far from unhinged and it's obvious she's the kind of friend who would push you out of a window just to see how hard you'd fall or if you'd cry. Her hair boasts hues of red and is as straight as sticks of straw, but unlike Eric's cinnamon and honey toned threads of fine silk, hers is brassy, greasy and unkempt. I've suddenly no desire to lay my hands on it or any part of her body and I can't believe I put my tongue in her mouth a few minutes ago. I'd swear something in the beer is making everyone crazy, were I not unbalanced already.

"Are you Steven? Oh, wow, I know you. We almost had sex a few minutes ago." She and Jessie reach down to help me stand and I'm able, though unsteady, as her voice cuts through the room like a foghorn. "I'm so mind blown right now, man. Is this your first trip?"

I try to blink the glaze from my eyes as she bounces excitedly and announces to anyone within hearing range that I am a virgin. I laugh at that or try to, but Jessica frowns with concern, demanding to know what's wrong.

"Eric called me a dumb ass." Her jaw dropping shock tickles and incites me, and I rejoice that FINALLY someone sees things from my point of view. I nod my head, anxious to state my case to the world. "He called me an alcoholic. ME. He said I'm a selfish fucking drunk just like my mother!"

"Holy shit! For real?"

"Well ... maybe not in so many words, but that's what he meant." I know damn well what Eric was telling me. He likes to wrap harsh sentiments within the folds of gentle words, translation: mind fuck. I can't believe the bulk of my paychecks go toward sending him to school so he can earn a degree in mind fucking to use against me. I love you, Hyde. Blah blah blah ... WAM! But I won't lie; not even for you.

I understand all too well he's saying sorry that I'm not worth it. And it's time for me to face the unfortunate fact that while my fair Eric is moving up in the world, I am most definitely moving down. I should have seen the writing on the wall when he started having tea and biscuits with Dr. DeWitt. The two of them probably wear monocles and top hats and make fun of me in a British accent.

Alice gestures for me to boost her up, so I help her atop the table without getting too friendly. She wobbles and laughs as she calls for the rooms attention while Jessica puts an LP on the turntable. "Every one lucky enough to be drinking a bottled Schlitz can come to the middle of the floor, because you've got the button!" Six strangers, including Jesse, surround me, stomping and clapping to the rhythm of Eric Clapton and I suddenly realize that I've got the button. My entire body flushes in alarm, because I know exactly what that means. Everyone sings except me.

If you wanna hang out, you've got to take her out. Cocaine.

Jessica slides her arm around my waist, oblivious to my worry and smiles up at me with the same old shy, misplaced affection that used to drive Eric nuts. I ask if there is cocaine in my beer bottle and she snorts, telling me to relax, because cocaine doesn't dissolve in liquid. My relief is short-lived when she announces the button is LSD. The girls slow dance with me as the crowd sings in unison, If you wanna get down, down on the ground. Cocaine.

I feel the frown pulling heavily at my face, but no one seems to notice or care. Time passes immeasurable, because the world and everything in it spins in slow motion and I can feel it, taste it and smell it and I wonder, how is it possible for people to live out their entire existences never understanding all this?

Every question that has ever been is now answered somehow; there are so many things I just know without understanding why. My surroundings have been transformed as if by magic and my mind is so fucking far beyond blown I can't articulate it. Last night this room was nothing special - just somewhere to take a smoke break and hang out a while. But tonight it's as if I've stepped into an alternate dimension with sounds I can touch and colors I can taste and feel.

"It's going to be all right, Steven. Alice and I will babysit you. Don't be scared of the trip, man, just ride it." Jessica pushes me backwards and I fall onto the sofa, straddled by Alice whose syrupy voice promises to take care of me good. Her touch makes me cringe, sickens me to the singed and calloused edges of my soul, but my body is numbed far beyond the command of my mind. How I could ever compare this monster to my idiotic beloved is a testament to the depth of my insanity.

I always swore I'd never be one of those spineless imbeciles who allows a woman to tune him in to hardcore shit for the novelty of it. It's not just that I hate feeling so pathetic and weak, but it's the kind of horrible thing my mother would do to someone.

When Bud was too drunk to hold his glass steady, Edna was always there to pour him the next shot. The same mother who couldn't fix me a bowl of stove top macaroni and cheese had no problem hacking into pound after pound of kerosene soaked coca leaves with a weed shredder to help her piece of shit boyfriend, Earl, make cocaine powder. Hell, they even let Bud join in, if he could stand up straight. At so young an age it struck me as sadly hilarious and utterly terrifying that Bud - and every other man she met - was her willing victim, her witless and eager prey.

My mother is and was an unrelenting predator, the seemingly souless guardian of all the sin and desperation that is eternal night. She plowed through other people with a sickening ease and every unfortunate being who crossed her was slowly and painfully drawn into the unforgiving void of poisoned darkness that was her greatest achievement as well as her inescapable prison.

I have embellished her crimes in no way, if anything I am too forgiving when I tell you the black magic that was Edna's specialty set a gold standard to be aspired to by all dark creatures. Her victims found little hope of rescue and no reason to expect mercy. And now, neither will mine.

I will take her place in the world, sucking the life and sanity from those around me and draining them of the ability to trust or love me. Behavior my loved ones used to find paranoid yet charming will continue to evolve into the fatalistic self-destruction that is as unattractive a trait as it is a pathetic one.

And though I love and hate my mother with everything I am, I tremble with the knowledge that when the flame of her life is extinguished, the memory of her will never be. Edna haunts and drives me, though I've lived every day determined to prove that she doesn't. I couldn't save her no matter how much I wanted to or how hard I tried and I only just survived her by moving through my life as a shadow, heart encased in ice to render it unbreakable. And even now my unhappiness knows no end because my pain hasn't washed away with time, only my hope has.

Alice continues to rub and wiggle in a desperate attempt to fuck me through my jeans, but I hardly notice, because now I want to die. It's the right thing to do. I've no idea how to salvage the wreckage my existence has become, but I can still protect Eric from the me who is slowly emerging. I struggle to reason that not even death can erase the bitterness I would leave behind. Instead of providing an escape from the never ending emptiness and isolation that torment me, I somehow know that I will earn neither silence nor sleep. There is not enough grass or dirt in the world to bury me and all my troubles in the earth and I will never, ever be alone enough.

The chilling vibration of thunder rocks the room, as unexpected as it is electrifying and the bitter bite of cold chains envelops me; chains of my own sick design, tying me to this unending hell. I roll from the sofa, dumping Alice into the lap of her madly giggling cousin and am nearly felled by a pizza box as I hobble to the balcony. The swirl of too cool winds rustling leaves lulls me forward and into the distant crack of electric light.

I climb the iron railing, so anxious to become one with the early spring storm that I don't notice I have company. Franklin stands on his hind legs and whines miserably, as if trying to talk sense into me. I smile, flattered he would join me here of all places, and he seems to smile back, panting with his tongue lolling from the side of his muzzle.

I reach down to pat his head, but he intercepts my hand, holding it so firmly between his teeth that I can't pry it away. Franklin pulls me from the ledge and I stumble to the ground, landing too hard on my knees and one free Hand. Before I can yell at him for invading my space, he begins to growl viciously, reminding me that he is a cop dog down to his doughnut eating core.

I lean back on the railing and softly promise him that he's a good doggie, which appears to quell his anger, and a quiet staring contest ensues. I move to stand slowly, causing him to growl and snap until I relent. Then he lay his head in my lap, blocking any possible route of escape. Since it seems I'm trapped here indefinitely, I pat myself down in search of cigarettes and smoke the one and only I have left, softly singing to myself "... you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."

I don't know how long I stare into the sky, lost in my own mind and heart broken that a creature as wonderful as a star can only shine brightly in the darkest of night, its beauty unseen for most of its life. The pouring rain slows to a drizzle and falls in large cold drops that I pray will wash away the memory of my failures and all my anger, too. A short while ago I felt like I could reach G-d, but the moment was fleeting and now I'm emptier than ever before, like something hollowed out my soul.

A bolt of lightening strikes nearby and Franklin jumps to attention, ready to guard me, but I'm drawn to the ledge where I examine the ground for scorch marks. A large burnt patch of earth is plainly visible and beckons me as if X marks the spot. I could end it all quickly, make good and damn sure I forget and am forgotten. The saturated ground would be pliant beneath me, swallowing both my shell and my soul and allowing me to revert to the free and unfeeling dust I was meant to be. I breathe a sigh of relief at the thought of my swan song, convinced that eternal isolation might be just as close to peace as I will ever have.

With the hateful and liberating sting of alcohol on my breath and in my blood, I feel invincible and only the sorry fact that I'm out of my mind insulates me. Before I can lose my nerve, I fling myself from the third floor balcony, blacking out before I hit the ground.

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To be continued ...

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For those illegally downloading the soundtrack

:) Cocaine by Eric Clapton
:) Hotel California by The Eagles