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 song "Price of Admission," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
CHAPTER 18
EXSANGUINATION
August 29, 1994
Foster City, California
Foster City Library
...
A pile of books on Scottish clans and history towered in front of Jackie. Her small table, tucked into a quiet aisle of the the Foster City Library, could barely hold them all. The librarian had been helpful, maybe overly helpful. He'd even given her a book on Scottish Gaelic poetry, but she wasn't trying to get a master's degree. She was researching Degenerate Matter's lyricist O. MacNeil.
She'd brought three gifts home with her from Chicago. The first was a copy of the band's fan club newsletter, the one with O. MacNeil's interview. She'd read it on the plane back to San Francisco. Ro Skirving's questions were teasing and provocative. O. MacNeil's answers and overall attitude were both sarcastic and endearing, and they intrigued Jackie almost as much as his lyrics did.
He hadn't revealed any personal information, but his personality was on display. Ro had asked, "What's the inspiration behind your lyrics?" and he'd answered, "You don't actually want to know." After that question, the interview transformed into a strangely intimate discussion:
Ro: Not generally, but our fans do. And sometimes I do, too.
MacNeil: When?
Ro: While I'm singing.
MacNeil: Bullshit.
Ro: Your lyrics hurt.
MacNeil: You like them that way.
Ro: Bet they'd hurt more if I knew the stories behind them.
MacNeil: Maybe they'd hurt me less if you did know. But since when do you care about stories? Emotions are all that matter to you.
From there, Ro reasserted herself as his interviewer. She and O. MacNeil clearly had a close relationship, but whether they were siblings, old friends, or lovers, Jackie couldn't tell. Her research on their last names had created only more curiosity.
MacNeil, according to the book on Scottish clans, was both an Irish and a Scottish name. The original MacNeils had emigrated from Ireland to Scotland. Skirving was a common surname in East Lothian, Scotland. Jackie didn't doubt Ro's family origin. The Degenerate Matter concerts Betsy had dubbed for her provided that certainty. During one particular lyrical improv, Ro had sung in Scottish Gaelic.
"That's a collection of words I gleaned from my gran and her Hebridean friends," Ro said after her improv. "I won't translate them except for one. Pòg mo thòin means kiss my ass. So if you ever want to confuse someone you're pissed at, use that one."
She also used the term gorm-shùil in some of her lyrics, but it sounded like gurrum-hool when sung. If it hadn't been spelled out in the band's album inserts, Jackie never would've found it in the Scottish Gaelic poetry book. She'd thought of asking her housekeeper to translate. Patricia was from Scotland herself, where she'd run a bed and breakfast for years before moving to the states. But she spoke only English and Scots.
In the book, the original poetry was printed on the left-hand pages. The translations were printed on the right-hand pages, and gorm-shùil translated as blue eyes. Whoever Ro was inspired by lyrically, he or she likely had blue eyes.
By contrast, O. MacNeil used no Scottish Gaelic in his own lyrics, except for the one song he sang himself: "Spark". In the middle of it, he repeated the word sradag softly. Jackie had learned the spelling on the band's official message board online, and it translated—not surprisingly—as spark. But in the Scottish Gaelic poetry book, poets often called their lovers sradag or spark. So O. MacNeil could've been singing to a lover.
For all Jackie knew, he and Ro were secretly married. It was none of her business, but she'd made it her business. The heap of books on her table was proof, and she didn't deny her interest in O. MacNeil's life. His lyrics had reconnected her to a vital part of herself.
The second gift she'd gotten in Chicago was the promise of tickets to Saturday Night Live. Specifically, Degenerate Matter's upcoming appearance. She'd heard the band's concerts many times on tape. But actually seeing Degenerate Matter perform, the prospect made her both giddy and nervous.
Being in Ro, Lee, Sherry, and Nate's physical presence might transform her more fully. Fix the malfunctioning organ at the center of her chest. It was an imaginative fantasy, but watching Degenerative Matter perform live was also unlikely to do any damage. The third gift from Chicago, though, was potentially dangerous: a burgeoning friendship with Steven Hyde.
She wasn't sure she wanted it or could handle it. His last words to her fifteen years ago had laid out her path: "I can't love you anymore." He wasn't responsible for her decisions, but his current presence in her life highlighted fifteen years of mistakes.
The River Clyde graced The History of Scotland's cover. It reminded her of whom Steven had become. Far beyond his physical appearance, he was nothing like she'd expected. His patience used to be forced, with an edge slicing the surface. But he seemed to have learned true patience, as smooth and calm as the surface of the River Clyde appeared to be.
More significantly, although his level of emotiveness hadn't increased much, what he did express stemmed from a deep and genuine place, as if he were no longer afraid to be vulnerable. Or hurt.
She laughed bitterly. He'd lacked emotional courage during their relationship. But after their final breakup, or because of it, he'd learned bravery.
August 29, 1994
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Hyde and Ro's House
...
Hyde and Ro were lounging upstairs in their jam room, where they kept guitars and other musical equipment. The room had the best view in the house, overlooking the Mississippi River. They were sitting on opposite ends of the faux-leather sofa. His feet were propped up on the coffee table. She was hunched over her lyric notebook, and cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog.
The scribbling of a pen on paper, pages turning, and the exhalation of cigarette smoke—these were the only sounds in the room. Dry and itchy sounds, but Hyde wasn't bothered by them. In his hands was a book of poetry by the Zen monk Ryōkan Taigu. Uncle Chet had given it to him once Chet got out of the slammer. Ryōkan was a wanderer who'd found enlightenment on his own terms, not in a monastery. His peace was in nature and in living simply.
Hyde had read through the book many times the last twelve years. It helped him get sober after Chet died. One poem in particular was stitched into his being, and his gaze fell upon it now. It spoke of searching for truth inside oneself rather than the outside world.
"Damn it!" Ro shouted, thrusting him from the poem. She tossed down her pen. "This is shit!"
His impulse was to laugh, but he stifled it with a pull off his cigarette. He was used to Ro's lyrical frustration. She held herself to a high standard, and if she couldn't dredge up the right emotion, the words wouldn't come.
He gestured to her notebook. "Dámelo, por favor," he said, one of the only Spanish phrases he'd retained from high school. Give it to me, please.
She passed the notebook to him and went to the room's wide window. It was open, and she blew cigarette smoke outside. Even though Degenerate Matter was still promoting its third album, the band had begun working on the fourth. They'd use the east coast tour to try out new riffs. Ro would experiment with lyrics, hers and his, learning how they felt on her tongue.
This process put tremendous pressure on her. He'd witnessed it twice over, and this was the third time. She fought hard to remain authentic, and he looked over her lyrics. Most were scratched out, but he managed to read them. Her intention was clear, but the execution needed work.
He reached over the coffee table and grabbed her pen. He began writing, and the words flowed out of him without thought. "Whatever's for you won't speed past you," he wrote, "but the tickets ain't free. Your soul's not the price of admission, just who you choose to be."
"Ro," he said, and she turned from the window. "Check it out." He slid the notebook over the coffee table.
"You got something from that crap?" She sat beside him, read what he wrote, and her expression brightened like a star. "That's dead brilliant!" She slapped his thigh. "You're getting a gobble for that one."
He let himself laugh now. A gobble meant blowjob. "Looking forward to it, but see if what I did ignites the rest of the song."
"Being self-sacrificing, are you?" She cupped his shoulder and pressed a kiss into his neck. Usually, this move led to a lot more, but it brought forth a truth he'd been harboring.
"I'm gonna try."
She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. "Try what, love?"
"Reaching Jackie."
"Oh." She scooted away from him on the sofa.
He pulled the pewter guitar charm from underneath his shirt collar. She needed to understand the depth of what he meant, and he grasped her wrist. His thumb traced a scar etched in her skin. It stopped just before the kill-zone, her radial and ulnar arteries. She didn't glance down at what he was doing, but the significance of his touch had to be clear.
October 6, 1990
Toronto, Canada—En Route to Lowell, Massachusetts
Degenerate Matter's Tour Bus
...
Hyde and Ro were ensconced at the back of Degenerate Matter's tour bus. The band had christened the area the boner lounge, despite that none of the members were into groupies. The rear bunk had earned its name two weeks ago, when Ro invited Hyde to join her after a show. Their sexual relationship had begun then, and he'd felt something for her beyond his dick.
For over a month, she'd broken his overwhelming guilt into smaller pieces. He coughed it out like mucus caught in his lungs, expelling his trauma bit-by-bit. It started in Milwaukee, when she'd made him walk her to the hotel. She was his expectorant. How she fucked him—how she challenged him when they weren't fucking—cleared enough of his viscous history that he could breathe again.
Tonight, their screw was raucous. Fortunately, the band kept on music while sleeping, so he and Ro probably didn't wake anyone. Most of their clothes stayed on, but having sex with her exposed him more than being naked ever could. His forehead was pressed into her shoulder, and she whispered in his ear, provoking him, drawing out his pain.
Afterward, they sat quietly in the rear bunk together. Her denim-clad legs were draped over his, and her fingers played with the guitar charm dangling over her chest. He'd skulk off to his own bunk soon, and hopefully Lee wouldn't give him shit in the morning—or be fucking her when Hyde woke up.
Hyde and Ro weren't exclusive, and he didn't care who she nailed. But that didn't mean he liked watching her screw another guy.
"I almost offed myself," she whispered now, and he strained to hear her. The music pumping through the bus's speakers was damn loud. "I was nineteen."
He looked at her, but it was like staring at a shadow. The bus was dark except for barest ambient light coming through its tinted windows.
"That's where 'Punchline' came from," she said. "Was home from college for summer break. Had the TV on in the background, a razor blade in my hand. I'd already cut my arm to pieces. Nothing new, but I was done. Saw nothing worth staying for. Didn't even write a goodbye note for my da."
Hyde's pulse ticked wildly. He didn't want her to quit talking. He needed her to share this part of herself. She'd found a reason to stay. He was still searching.
"I put the blade to my skin, ready to bleed out the rest of my unwanted life," she continued, "but something on the TV caught my eye. A Three's Company rerun. Jack Tripper was performing this lame childhood song with his da where he blew raspberries—and I cracked up. Yeah, I was already cracked. Had to be in order to find that funny, but I did.
"Then the truth struck me: I didn't want to leave. I wanted my life not to be shit. I wanted it to be good, to feel good. Like it should feel. Like I deserved."
One of his arms rested on her thigh. His instinct was to rub her leg tenderly, to show support, but those gestures didn't go over well with her. He'd learned that lesson two weeks ago, so he kept his arm still.
"That's when I put down the razor," she said, "washed myself clean, and bandaged myself up. I could always give up tomorrow. That's what I told myself every morning until it was no longer necessary."
She withdrew from his lap and sat flush against him on the bunk. Her physical presence was comforting, though he ached to slide his arms around her back. To hold her.
"I bought this the day after I almost took my exit." She removed the chain from around her neck, the one with the guitar charm. She dropped it into his palm and closed his fingers around it. "It was my promise to myself, a covenant. I had to live my life my way, not anyone else's. Because it's my life, regardless of who gave it to me."
Her fingertips glided over his wrist, its soft underside. "I stapled flyers all over campus the next semester at college. They said I was looking to form a band. That's how I met Lee, and we created the Fuck Offs."
"Laughter saved you, huh?" Hyde's voice was hoarse, and his tongue felt dry. All his invisible scars were burning. Created from his goddamn mistakes.
Ro's grip on his wrist became tight. "We're here to enjoy ourselves, however we want—as long it doesn't steal that same right from someone else. Pillaging a village, for instance, would not be the best option."
"Pillaging?" A chuckle escaped him, eventually becoming a flood of laughter, and—shit, did it feel good.
"So why not think of life this way: good exists in the universe." She let go of him and tapped his fist, the one holding her guitar pendant. "If we were meant to suffer, we wouldn't be capable of laughter. Rock wouldn't kick so much ass. Orgasms wouldn't be part of our biology."
He was smiling now, hard enough that his cheeks hurt, but dark clouds rolled in over the light. "All those things can be used to hurt."
"And that's where free will comes in. Choices, love. Too many people are assholes."
"Maybe all the good's just a fuckin' tease, like those tortures in Hades."
"Tartarus," she said. "Hades is the Greek underworld with different sections."
"Whatever. Don't flaunt your fancy book-learnin' at me. I skipped college."
"I'm gonna beat that negative world-view out of you, metaphorically speaking … mostly metaphorically. Genuinely happy people are out there."
"You one of 'em?"
"Wouldn't have given you my necklace if I weren't."
He flipped the the pewter guitar charm over in his palm. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but its weighty significance sunk into his hand. "Why?" he said. "Why … me?"
"Your soul comes through your eyes. I see what you could be, and, selfishly, I want it." She pulled his arm around her shoulders, the same way Jackie had so many years ago. "But even if I don't get to share in it, you should get back what's rightfully yours."
"And what's that?"
Her breath warmed his hand, and she kissed the back of his fingers. "Your life."
August 29, 1994
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Hyde and Ro's House
...
Hyde released Ro's wrist. Jackie's name was curling between them like cigarette smoke. It permeated their clothes, the walls, the air they breathed.
"How do you know she's reachable?" Ro said.
"I made her laugh."
She crawled closer to him on the sofa. She knelt on the cushions, and her knees butted up against his thigh. "That's a good sign."
"Thought so."
"You still in love with her?"
His hand slid over her cheek. "I'm so far away from that it's not even quantifiable.
"Then you'll do your best." She grasped his shirt collar and pulled him into rough kiss. The sensation, combined with her emotional support, sent electric ripples through his body. "But if I see it's making you worse, not better—"
"Tell me, and I'll change my approach." .
"Or drop it altogether."
"Or that." He returned her kiss with a gentler one. He loved her viscerally, in his guts. She'd grounded him in the present, after he'd become insubstantial and untethered by his past. But Jackie was almost incorporeal now. An apparition, roaming the world and his subconscious. He had to help her if he could, just as Ro had helped him. He had to help her regain her life.