Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Exsanguination," "Massless Particles," "Nobody's Dog" and the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
CHAPTER 6
UNSPOKEN
June 4, 1994
San Francisco, California
Wintry Wonderland Fundraiser
...
Three Wintry Hotels populated San Francisco. Each had its own, luxurious charm according to Ann-Marie, but the Wintry Business Suites stood tall in the city's Financial District. Holding a fundraiser among San Francisco's banks and richest corporations was sound business acumen. Jackie's father would have approved.
Tinsel and fake snow decorated the hotel's Crescent Banquet Hall. Sparkling diamond chandeliers added to the winter-in-summer theme. It counted as upper-class tacky, but the motif allowed Jackie to wear a long-sleeved dress. Hers was navy-blue, which complimented the event's color scheme without getting lost in it. Sometimes blending in too much made a person more noticeable.
Potential donors packed the banquet hall, including the Blonde Brigade and its significant others. June brought her husband, Trevor, who played for the San Francisco Giants. He was a starting pitcher, and he'd donated a signed baseball to the charity auction. He was deep in conversation with Deborah's husband, who'd donated a stock-portfolio consultation.
Brie, however, had donated what would likely bring the most money to the auction: a restored 1965 Chevy C10. The car was gift from her ex-husband, Drew Copeland, a famed—and infamous—restorer of old cars and motorcycles. He apparently fell in love with each project he worked on. It was the main reason Brie divorced him, and she probably got a kick that one of his "babies" would no longer be available for him to visit.
Jackie was hoping to spend the evening with her, hidden at a corner table. Drinking until they were too drunk to get home, renting rooms at the hotel to sleep it off. But Brie had brought a date, tall and muscular Antonio. He was June and Trevor's friend, the Giants' shortstop. That was probably better for Jackie anyway, considering she'd already taken some Valium. Her pills made alcohol's effect stronger, even deadly, if both of enough were ingested together.
Ann-Marie, meanwhile, was in charge of this event with her husband. She stood on a dais, microphone in hand, as people bid on items. Currently on the auction block was a pair of VIP passes for a Negative Ions concert. The package included front row seats and a meet-and-greet with the band. Jackie scoffed quietly. According to Betsy, the Negative Ions were "a bunch of posers" who blatantly copied good bands' music without any integrity. Naturally, those would be the tickets Jackie's stepfather had donated to the charity.
Anders Eliassen worked at Red Slate Records as vice president of A&R. He was nice enough, but fatherly didn't describe him. Especially because he believed he was Jackie's brother-in-law.
He and her mother stood next to the dais as Ann-Marie closed the bidding. The Negative Ions tickets went for five-thousand dollars. Not terrible, not great, and he adjusted the signet ring on his right hand as if disappointed. Jackie's mother, though, gave him a self-satisfied grin and congratulatory kiss.
Jackie would've bid a fortune had the tickets been for Degenerate Matter. In her few days of listening to the band's albums, she'd become wholly enamored. So much so, that she'd called up her local rock station and asked if Degenerate Matter would tour any time soon. Turned out, the band was already on tour in Europe, and its last show was tomorrow. In Scotland of all places.
"Jacqueline Corin, please come to the dais." Ann-Marie's voice rang through the banquet hall's P.A. system, and Jackie's shoulders hiked to her ears. "Jacqueline Corin," Ann-Marie repeated as her hawkish gaze searched the hall, "come to the dais."
Jackie grasped her Chanel, half-moon purse with sweaty palms. She felt like she was back in middle school, being called to the principal's office. All she wanted to do was run for the exit, but she moved through the crowd and stepped onto the dais.
"Jacqueline is a world-class astrologer," Ann-Marie said, and Jackie fought not to cringe. She was on display for two-thousand of California's richest to scrutinize. "She's done the charts of celebrities such as C.C. Deville of Poison, Lita Ford, and our very own Trevor and June Halliday. She's offering both an individual chart and a chart matching you and your partner." Ann-Marie's lips lifted into a not-quite smile. "Shall we start the bidding for the individual chart at five-hundred dollars?"
Deborah waved her hand, and Ann-Marie acknowledged her bid. The bids went up from there, all the way to twenty-five hundred dollars. To Jackie's surprise, the couples' chart went for almost three times as much: seven-thousand dollars.
Brie had gotten into a bidding war with two other attendees for it, but the chart was ultimately won by an older woman. Wrinkles covered her pale face. She was probably looking for her fifth husband. Then again, she could've been younger than she appeared.
Ann-Marie had only a year on Jackie in age but acted twenty years older, as if being rich had desiccated her youth. Or maybe marrying a man twenty years older had done it. Either way, she commanded authority wherever she went, even in small gatherings with friends. If God and Jackie's free will hadn't intervened, Jackie might've become the same kind of control freak.
"Off you go," Ann-Marie said. She ushered Jackie from the dais without so much as a thank-you, and Jackie pressed her purse to her stomach. She needed a place to hide, to work out the rage Ann-Marie had set off in her. The woman was infuriatingly obtuse to other people's feelings, unless they served her in some way.
The first offense: calling Jackie by her ex-husband's last name. Jackie had dropped it after the divorce. Ann-Marie knew this fact, yet she continued to remind the world Jackie had once been married.
The second offense: offering two charts on Jackie's behalf instead of the one she'd agreed to. She didn't practice astrology regularly anymore. It had been a hobby in the first place, encouraged by her ex to change it into a paid-for gig. She was far more interested in stargazing than starcasting, even though she hadn't taken out her telescope since her father's death years ago.
But the deed was done. Jackie would have to stomach making the charts, especially the couples' compatibility chart. They'd raised almost ten-thousand dollars for charity, and that was a worthy cause.
The auction continued, but she pushed her way toward the banquet hall's double doors. The ladies' room was beyond them, down a corridor, but a hand clamped around her wrist. She recoiled. The exit was still too far away. Her heart pounded wildly, and she was prepared to fight for her life. To kick and claw, but her mother's voice reached her first: "Jackie, dear, it's just me."
The rest of her mother's body emerged from behind a plump couple, and her grip loosened on Jackie's wrist. "Jackie—"
"Mo—Pam, let go."
"Oh, fine." Pam released her. Unlike Ann-Marie, she appeared twenty years younger than she was. Plastic surgery did wonders nowadays, enough that Pam got away with posing as Jackie's older sister in public. "Honey..." She brushed some of Jackie's hair away from her face, and Jackie shrank back. "I didn't realized you were doing astrology again."
"I'm not."
"But you're making charts for the people who—"
"That's for charity." .
"I see." Pam frowned. "Anders is trying to sign a band that's into psychics. They're very now, and they heard about you through Gabe."
She had to mean Gabriel Wilde, lead singer of the defunct band Wildebeest, and a chill pierced Jackie's skin. The need to flee had grown primal, and her gaze fixed on the banquet hall's double doors.
"I'll do their charts," Jackie said, hoping to escape, but her mom swallowed her in an unwanted hug.
"Thank you, Jackie. Thank you." She tightened the embrace, suffocating Jackie with her breasts and perfume. "Anders will pay you, but he needs the charts ASAP." She let Jackie go, but the emotional choke-hold remained. "I'll fax the band's birth information to you. You need the location as well as the date and time, right?"
"Right."
Jackie retreated into the corridor, and Pam didn't follow. The ladies' room was around a corner, and she slipped inside. Several women were washing their hands and reapplying their makeup. Jackie didn't bother with niceties. She checked the bottom of the bathroom stalls, desperately searching for an empty one. They were all occupied.
All damn ten.
The ladies' room was slightly humid, and the odor of human waste mixed with floral air freshener. The combination was sickening, and she covered her nose while waiting for a stall. The tightness in her shoulders crept to her neck, but it eased at the first toilet flush. The woman didn't take long to leave the stall, and Jackie darted inside.
At long last, she had some relative privacy. She removed a red marker from her purse, closed the toilet lid, and sat on it fully clothed. No one could discover what she was about to do. She rolled up the left sleeve of her dress, exposing her arm. Her right fist clenched the marker. Her teeth tore off its cap, and she began to write.
The first words that appeared on her skin didn't surprise her. I HATE YOU and Fuck off! were usual regurgitations. She also wrote NO! with heavy strokes and drew an X on the underside of her wrist. But she was careful not to get any ink on her palm. By the end of it, she was dragging the marker up and down her arm, covering her skin in red.
Trembling, she put the cap back on the marker. She blotted excess ink off her arm with toilet paper and rolled down her sleeve. Knowing what lay under the fabric made her feel both strong and pathetic. She'd acknowledged her rage and given it expression; but unlike the ink on her arm, it wouldn't wash off.
June 5, 1994
Edinburgh, Scotland
Usher Hall
…
Usher Hall was an impressive venue to end a tour. It seemed more appropriate for an orchestra than a rock band, but its curved walls provided sharp acoustics and reduced extraneous echoing. Ro would have to hold back a little, though. The place was too classy for most of her antics. Management understandably hadn't let the road crew tear out the floor seats. Ro couldn't crowd surf, but the lighting truss was ready if she wanted to climb.
Load-in was done, and Hyde took a necessary load-off. He sat on the edge of the stage, dripping with sweat. His eyes stung with it. His mouth tasted like salt, but Lee's guitar tech brought him a cold Gatorade and a hand towel. Scotty was a good guy to have on the road. Made the long days of traveling between shows feel shorter.
"Thanks," Hyde said and mopped sweat off his face and neck. His shirt was a lost cause. It was soaked through, a consequence of his work. If he stank, Scotty didn't appear to notice or care.
"Last gig of the tour," Scotty said and plunked down next to him.
"Yup."
"Gonna miss being on the road."
Hyde held the bottle of Gatorade to his overheated forehead. "You'll be back before you know it."
"Mm." Scotty drank from his own Gatorade. Like Hyde, he never touched booze. "Glad I got back on it at all."
"So's Lee. He's renewing your contract if you want it."
Scotty's eyebrows rose. "Yeah? All right."
Hyde opened his Gatorade and downed half the bottle. He hoped Scotty would sign up again. The two had become fast friends this tour, an unexpected outcome. Back in the '80s, Scotty was part of L.A.'s hair metal scene, which Hyde reviled. Straight male rockers dressing up like chicks in order to attract chicks? It made no damn sense to him. Dudes could present themselves however they wanted. It was the inauthenticity of hair metal that pissed him off, but those crappy, hollow bands used to get as much groupie-action as Led Zeppelin had.
Scotty Roxx was among the elite of cross-dressing rockstars. Not anymore, but back then he had long, teased hair and wore full-on, feminine makeup. Hyde used to give him shit for it, but a two-day stop in Minneapolis—Degenerate Matter's home town—shut Hyde up.
Before the band's soundcheck at the Target Center, Scotty had indulged himself. He'd strapped on Lee's Gibson Flying V and shredded the hell out it. His fretboard attack rattled Hyde's rib cage, and the speed of his fingers had Hyde gaping. Scotty should've put his skills to better use than a groupie-fucking hair band. Maybe he wouldn't have ended up a so-called fallen star.
"Wildebeest was nothing like Degenerate Matter," Scotty said now and wiped his mouth of Gatorade. "Gigs were all fluff and nonsense. We paid a buttload of money for elaborate pyro to distract from our soulless music." He laughed, peering up at Usher Hall's balconies. "But Lee, man—when he plays, he really means it. He and the band are the pyro. It's a real fucking honor being his tech."
Hyde hid his grin behind the hand towel. Scotty didn't view the move from lead guitarist to guitar tech as a downgrade. He saw it as an opportunity to grow, and that was why Hyde liked the guy.
June 5, 1994
Foster City, California
Jackie's House
...
Jackie sat at the computer in her home office, procrastinating. Her mother had faxed over the birth information of the band Anders was trying to sign. Jackie needed to input the data into her astrological program, which would calculate the planets' positions when the band members were born. That was the easy part. The analyses she'd have to write herself.
The band was called Ecliptic, named for the sun's apparent path through the stars. Anders had to be jumping on Degenerate Matter's popularity. Ro Skirving and O. MacNeil's songs used a lot of astronomical imagery, but they did so in reference to gritty human experiences. Ecliptic's lyrics were probably more spacey than involving space.
Jackie cracked her knuckles and quit stalling. Degenerate Matter played in the background as she typed up Ecliptic's star charts. Her eyes regularly glanced up at her cork board. It hung on the wall behind the computer monitor, high enough so she could see it. Pictures of Betsy and Isabelle were tacked to the cork, along with a happy one of Jackie and her dad when she was barely four. Notes to herself lined the board's borders, but the photos at the center remained unobscured.
Two hours later, the keyboard bounced with every keystroke. Three of five of the analyses were complete, but her fingers had gone from moving fluidly to smashing information into the computer. This wasn't how she wanted to spend her time, for money or charity, but she had nothing else to do.
She wasn't an actress-model like June or a fashion editor like Brie. She didn't own a thriving business like Ann-Marie. Deborah might've been a lay-about socialite, but she also had two children to dote on and a husband to drape herself around.
Jackie stopped abusing the keyboard and sat back in her chair. Astrology had helped her once. It was a good distraction while she scrabbled out of the darkness. But now it served as a painful reminder of where she'd been and what she still carried with her.
"Can't do it," Ro's voice sang from the stereo. "Can't do it, can't do it. Don't have enough blood. You say you're hungry, but you don't mind if I starve in your place."
Jackie's middle finger pressed on the keyboard, and a string of Os filled her computer screen. They blended together in one, long caterpillar as Ro continued to sing.
"Survival instinct, self-sacrifice. Won't sacrifice myself anymore. Won't jump into your volcano. You get my overflow. Can't be fuel to make yours."
Nonsensical Os crawled all over Jackie's monitor. She shut off the screen and snatched the CD booklet of WIMPs and MACHOs from her desk. She flipped it to the current song, "Exsanguination," whose lyrics were credited to O. MacNeil.
No shock there. O. MacNeil, whoever he was, seemed tapped into her mind.
She turned off the stereo but brought the CD booklet downstairs with her. Her office had gotten too cramped, piled high with her mother's expectations. She needed space, and the living room suited her purposes. It was one of her favorite parts of the house. She'd completely redecorated it after the divorce, selling off Ralph's extravagant leather furniture for more cozy comforts.
The room was two-thirds the length of the house and split into two parts: one for company and one for company she trusted. She sat in the more intimate space. It was close to the foyer and consisted of two plush sofas, a coffee table, and a big-screen TV.
She clicked the TV's remote. MTV flashed onto the screen, and anxiety licked at her ribs. She hadn't watched that channel in ages, but the show 120 Minutes was on, where the host interviewed modern rock artists and played their videos.
"We've got some Soul Asylum, Gin Blossoms, and an interview with Flea coming up," the host, Lewis Largent, said. "And, later, we'll show Degenerate Matter's latest, 'Massless Particles'".
Jackie's thumb twitched on the remote, and her mouth dried out, but she didn't switch channels. She'd seen Degenerate Matter in still pictures but never in motion. Watching its music video would make the band seem more real. It could make herself feel more real.
Several magazines rested on her coffee table, including the latest issue of Cosette. 120 Minutes acted as background noise as she read through fashion articles—until Lewis Largent drew her attention.
"Degenerate Matter's tour ends today in Edinburgh, Scotland," he said. "But no worries, Ro Skirving fans. Rumors are the band might be a late addition to Woodstock '94 this August." He stepped forward on the sparse, rock-themed set and spoke directly to the camera. "And, Ro, if you ever break your interview embargo, we've got a comfortable couch for you to sit on right here. Or to destroy. Your choice."
Jackie put down her magazine. Interview embargo? She'd have to ask Betsy about it.
Lewis Largent rubbed his knuckles together. "Now, the video for 'Massless Particles'."
Footage of a Degenerate Matter concert possessed Jackie's TV. Ro stood out in front, strumming her guitar. Her shirt was stitched up with kitchen twine, but she sang as if her chest had been torn apart and sewn back together.
The focus was clearly on her, but the rest of the band performed just as intensely. Lee Turnbull, the lead guitarist, was less scary in the video than in photos. He didn't sneer but seemed fully entranced by the music. In contrast, Sherry Chambers hopped around the stage as she played her bass. She was the epitome of joy, whereas Nate Stack was the band's explosive, percussive foundation.
"They shove perfection down our throats," Ro sang as the video cut to images of emaciated girls. They pulled sleeves over arms as skeletal as Kimberly Kelso's. "Force us to swallow 'til we can't swallow no more, but that ain't perfection. Ain't no such thing. Your perfection is death."
The video cut to Degenerate Matter again, and Jackie sat forward on her sofa, enthralled. Ro leapt onto Lee's back, but he continued to play guitar. He carried her around the stage, piggy-back style, like it was a normal event.
She eventually jumped off him. They shared a quick laugh, and a yearning dug through Jackie's stomach. Ro was free. The people around her appreciated her existence. Her bandmates. Her friends.
But Jackie wasn't free and hadn't been in fifteen years. She might never be again.
Degenerate Matter ripped into "Nobody's Dog". The fast-tempo rocker would close out the first encore, but the energy pulsing through the crowd had reached an apex. Usher Hall could barely contain it, and Hyde was on guard. Fans in the first ten rows spilled out of their seats. They pushed up against the metal barricade separating them from the stage, but the band's security didn't interfere. It only stood watch.
Ro had given the okay for the crowd to be this close, and after the second chorus, she revealed why. With a shout, she leapt into the audience. It caught her with some give, and Hyde rubbed a hand over his face. His chick was certifiable, crowd-surfing in a venue like this.
She pumped her fist in the air as one group of fans threw her to another. That group hurled her forward, but she disappeared into an undertow of bodies.
"Whoa," Scotty said by Hyde's ear. They were standing sidestage, hidden from the audience, and Hyde's blood sparked with adrenaline. Ro hadn't surfaced yet, and security waded into the crowd.
The band kept playing. This wasn't the first time Ro had vanished during a stunt, but security wasn't moving fast enough. Hyde jumped onto the stage and surveyed the crowd. He spotted Ro near the front. Fans had twisted their fists in her shirt, and he shouted orders to security.
Two of the bigger guards grabbed hold of her. They dragged her toward the stage, but the fans' grip was too strong. Her shirt tore off her body, exposing her breasts, as the guards yanked her free.
Hyde stretched out his arms to receive her, and the guards thrust her against his body. Her chest pressed into him. His arms closed protectively around her bare back. He intended to pull her backstage, but she whispered, "The mic. Get me to the mic."
He knew better than to argue. The woman was undeniably insane. He brought her to the mic stand, and she sang the third chorus while he served as her shirt.
The band extended the end jam, probably to fuck with both him and Ro. The crowd cheered at his back. Ro wouldn't leave until the song finished, which meant he had to stay, too. But at Nate's last symbol hit, Hyde rushed her to the green room.
He pulled off his shirt for her to wear. She put it on herself inside-out and gazed at his body. Her eyes reflected his own dirty thoughts, but he couldn't indulge them. The band had only five minutes until the last encore.
Needles of lust pricked his stomach as she stepped closer. Her finger traced the silver chain around his neck, down to its pewter guitar charm, and an impish smirk glided over her lips. "Dare you to stay like this during the last encore."
"Dare you to wear a bra next tour," he said, and a soft, thin object hit the back of his head. He turned around. A Degenerate Matter T-shirt was lying by his feet, tossed by Lee.
"Pete got that to me," Lee said. "From the merch booth."
Hyde picked the shirt up and offered it to Ro. "Wanna switch?"
"Can't wear my own band's shirt."
Hyde shrugged and put the shirt on himself. It was a large, so it fit.
Sherry and Nate pushed past Lee to the green room couch. Sherry clasped Ro's shoulder on the way and said, "You scared me for a second."
"Scared myself," Ro said. "Never happened to me before during a stage dive."
Hyde snatched a bottle of water from a cooler and passed it to her. "People are getting hungrier for you."
"Too fucking bad."
"Hope no one took pictures," Nate said, gesturing for a drink. Hyde tossed him a Dr. Pepper, and Nate rested the can on his knee. He drummed his fingers over the top before opening it, which kept pop from exploding in his face. He'd fallen victim a few too many times to Hyde's pop tosses.
"Saw a few flashes go off," Lee said and joined Sherry and Nate on the couch. He was smiling, which meant one of two things: either he was bullshitting, or he was happy Hyde and Ro might get some trouble.
Hyde blew out a breath. "Great."
"No need to be paranoid, love." Ro drank some of her water and patted his cheek. "I've got it covered."
Degenerate Matter had taken the stage again for the last encore. Ro usually addressed the crowd during this part of the set, and Lee, Sherry, and Nate kept their instruments silent.
"How about some love for the roadie you fuckers turned into my shirt?" Ro said. The crowd responded with cheers and applause, and she glanced sidestage at Hyde. "Yeah, I'm giving you a raise after the show."
The crowd cheered louder, and Hyde shut his eyes. Sexual innuendo. Someone was bound to get the subtext, maybe even write it up. Rumors about Ro in the tabloids tended to be nasty. Media was ticked off the band never gave interviews. Magazines constantly published conflicting stories. One said Ro was secretly married to Lee. Another claimed Ro was a dominatrix who'd brought the whole band into the "S&M underworld," whatever the hell that was.
He hoped tonight's incident would only be discussion fodder on the band's website. But if a tabloid did plan on making money off what happened, he and Ro would deal. They'd gotten through worse.