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Beautiful Music
THAT 70's SHOW
by Jennifer Ryan
02/21/06

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Teenage Diplomat

I don't look forward to breakfast anymore, there are too many topics I hope to avoid. Red ignores us over his newspaper and coffee, gracing us with silent disinterest, because that's what a real man does. Rarely does he deviate from his routine, even when Eric and I discuss Laurie's whoring and try to calculate how much money it fetches her. The only subject known to rouse him from the sports page is Mrs. Forman's insistence that he pay us boys mind.

He'll glare over the edge of the periodical to make a brief statement or query, such as I see you boys are still living here rent free. Got jobs yet? Are you two drunk again? If we are truly fortunate, he'll glorify the military and offer to sign us up. Today he doesn't bother, because I know he can tell something is wrong. Even Kitty is quieter than usual; a little careful and almost formal. It's not tension exactly, but it's not comfortable.

Kitty pours me a glass of orange juice and tells Red she found some interesting pictures in the mail this morning. My heart pounds hard and quick and I feel the blood rushing to my head, which is rapidly intoxicating. She says it naturally, in a manner so nonchalant that it provokes every insecurity I've ever had. Red pushes aside his reading in anticipation and I try to speak, but can't remember how. I'm sure I'm about to pass out when she hands him school yearbook pictures of Eric's cousins in Florida. The backs are labeled Judith Victoria at age thirteen and Jennifer Anne at ten. Mrs. Forman makes some fond remark about one of the girls getting her period and I draw in a deep breath and tear off a piece of my waffle, feeling stupid.

Kitty focuses on solely on me, at least that's how it feels, and asks if I am well. "You and Eric both ... are you boys sleeping alright?"

Still shaken, I look up from my mangled breakfast with no idea what to say. I try to move my mouth but no words will come, and though it's unfair, I can't help but to think that if she really loved me, she would just know.

I can't do this, man. I will never be able to do this. I'd planned to spend this summer telling Eric all about how much I love him, but I was waiting for him to stop smarting over Donna and now I've waited too long. Even if he wanted to listen, I've ruined everything by dragging him off to that filthy, damn bar. I only wanted to get him out of the house and have a little fun, get him drunk and have him all to myself, not pull him down with me and cover him in the shame I've spent my entire life drowning in. What kind of boyfriend could I be to him now, other than a worthless one who allows him to be hurt? I hate myself for such failure and am crushed by the realization that the happy forever that once stretched out before me isn't so long as I once thought it would be.

Pushing away from the table as quietly and carefully as I'm able, I excuse myself with a mumble that only garners the attention I've been trying to avoid. I exit the kitchen, leaving the sliding glass door open behind me. When I get behind the wheel of my car, I notice my hands are shaking and that my entire body trembles in sad anticipation of the coming storm. All of my sweet and wonderful one magical day plans are trash like I am, and every bit as far gone. Eric and his mother watch me from the kitchen door, bewildered by my behavior. I pull out of the driveway, realizing they probably didn't know anything was wrong until I lost my cool. It begins to sprinkle a cold, dreary rain that only makes me feel worse.

Every thing that Leo told me is right, it must be. Those hookers did things to us and they're going to want money - soon. Nothing I can do will ever stop them; nothing short of murder. I drive aimlessly at first, then return to the scene of the crime, anxious to find out what these people want before they show up on our doorstep and destroy our lives.

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Revved Up Like A Deuce

It's well passed late when I sneak in, but Eric's in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal with milk. I was positive he'd be in bed - so sure I could avoid any potentially uncomfortable conversation. I'm standing in the doorway with no idea what to say to him when he looks up at me, quiet at first and then acknowledges me with a simple hi. I manage a grin, my heart warm to know that I can always count on my sweet one to throw me a life saver made of lead should it be apparent that I'm drowning. Sighing, I sit beside him and ask what he's eating. He tells me it's krispie puffs mixed with honey, which I watch him pour directly on his spoon.

Though we're not arguing, it's obvious there's something sad or unsaid looming over us. Eric has spent the last several days sick with what his mother suspects is the flu. She brings him chicken soup and carbonated soda, convinced he needs only to sleep until the germ is gone. She feels my forehead, too, ready to spring into action at the slightest sniffle or cough. But I ignore her attention, too focused on my role as the guardian of secrets. If those people really gave him drugs of some kind, surely they are out of his system by now. I'm not so stupid as to think this will all blow over us with no consequences, I'm just childish enough to hope it will.

I yawn and remind him it's late, a fact of which he's well aware since he's spent the last several days sleeping until nightfall. He notices that I smell like an ashtray, his way of reminding me to wash my clothes before his mother finds them. I'm sure he can figure out I've been sitting at the bar most of the night.

"Fez came by looking for you. He wanted to apologize for something."

I become still and wait, but he adds nothing. "Did Fez say what he was sorry about?"

"He said you would know. Maybe it had something to do with the other night." I lose my breath for a moment, making an idiot of myself by asking what he could possibly mean. I damn how my own stupidity is constantly failing me. Eric knows I don't like talking about shit; knows damn well the words are not inside of me.

"Those hookers did more than rob us and you know it. They hurt us, they did something ... are you going to make me say it?"

I kneel in front of him and shake my head slowly, taking his face in my hands. The silence is terrifying and intense, like the still that precedes a thunderstorm, and he demands to know if I would have ever told him. I draw in a long unsteady breath and shake my head again. He looks like he wants to cry but doesn't, because he's stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He's stronger than I am; better in every way. Instead he slugs me and he leaves the room.

I sit in the middle of the kitchen floor wondering what to do now, other than to wash the dishes he's used. Dishes and laundry all in one night. Crap.

If Eric and I are ever going to be together I need to accept that, in lieu of conversation, he may occasionally need to slap the hell out of me. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if it means we don't have to analyze our feelings. I've never really grasped the feminine need to dwell on things that are simple. It seems the problem with women is that either their feelings always change or they always want them to change, which surely involves hormones or some other strange and far-out thing I can't possibly understand.

Jackie's feelings changed continually, as if they were something she hadn't the ability to control. She wasted so much time trying to change our relationship, when it would have been easier to work at maintaining it. I was a fool to think that Jackie and I could ever last long or be happy together, because no matter how much I cared for her, she needed more all the time. As soon as I met one demand, another would arise and I know she didn't always do it on purpose, but it didn't matter.

She had as many problems as I, and as they began to mount I pictured her in my mother's place. After all, even Edna had to start somewhere. She was just a young, unhappy girl when I was born and only a few years older than Jackie. Would Jackie drink like Edna did? Would she spiral downward in a desperate gambit to mask the multiple disappointments of every day life?

I knew I would never be able to please her and give her the things she needed to have, like the stability and devotion that had not only to be lavished, but showcased.

I don't understand why feelings should be in a constant state of evolution. Love is love. I say what I feel and I've only to say it one time. I love you. You're my whole world and that will never change, not as long as I'm alive.

I wonder if my understanding of love is really so different from that of other people. If you love someone, you bust your ass to make their life better and they do the same for you. You provide for their stability and safety and are rewarded in kind. You don't shop around for other things to feel and you don't grow apart. Maybe that's what is wrong with this whole messed up world - too many waste time dreaming about finding someone better than they do treasuring the one they've chosen already.

Eric doesn't push me; not like Jackie did with her constant demands. I'm grateful for how much she taught me about love and what I don't want, because it helped me to recognize the things that are my heart's desire.

I want someone who is kind to me and let's me be kind in return, someone who loves me unconditionally so that I can still fuck up badly on a regular basis - at least once a week. I dream about a person I can take care of without a big presentation and who wants to have sex at least five times a day. I want Eric, who doesn't judge me and only makes fun of me when it's completely necessary. I want my partner in crime, my soul mate and idiot beloved, who always notices my feelings, recognizes the insecurities in my heart, and knows exactly what I want without requiring that I beg.

Eric and I can't get married, but he is mine and one way or another, I will spend the rest of my life with him. I'll do what is necessary to ensure his happiness and he'll love me like in my dreams. Our fantasies will revolve around what kind of car we are going to buy or how drunk we'll get on our big vacation. Important Hyde and Eric stuff; events of earth shattering importance.

I leave the dishes dirty and trudge up the stairs to his bedroom, dropping my denim jacket on the floor somewhere along the way, because I'm kind of drunk and it's kind of hot in here. I can't believe it's almost October and it's so damn hot all the time, though it's probably just the fifteen beers warming me. My shoes make too much noise so I lose them, one by one, as quietly as I can, which is not that quiet since I feel a little clumsy. I stand at Eric's half open door and drink in the sight of my sweet one curled into a ball under a field of flannel plaid blankets and spiderman sheets.

Princess Leia greets me from high atop her shelf and I take her tiny plastic body in my hands, gracing the crown of her tiny head with butterfly kisses.

"I don't want to talk to you, Hyde. Go fuck off and die ... or something equivalent."

"I'm not Hyde," I say as I stumble toward him. "I'm Darth Vader and I've got your girlfriend."

His arm appears from under the blanket, reaching out to take her away, and I promise that she didn't just surrender to me. "Don't be mad. She fought like hell." He hits me repeatedly as I crawl over his body to lie down behind him in the bed, looking both amused and disgusted - something I know I can work with. His sweet Princess covers him in butterfly kisses and I warn that the Rebel Alliance will fall tonight. He grabs her by the head and flings her across the room.

"You did the right thing. She's fucking your GI JOE." I hear his breath catch, like he doesn't know whether to be angry or laugh. I reach across and under him so that he's wrapped in my arms and leaning into me, relieved when he doesn't appear surprised. I tell him she was just a gold digger with little interest other than the fashion accessories that are any doll's desire. "She wanted Barbie's pink car and her stupid Afghan hound, but you wouldn't give it to her. You held out, because you knew there was someone better."

"I suppose you're drunken ass is going to tell me that you would be better."

"I'm not that drunk, Forman."

"Then quit blowing in my damn eye, Fonzie."

I feel my entire body flush with embarrassment and laugh so I can't catch my breath, thrilled when he does the same. I search for and find his ear, blow lightly, and tell him "I love you. You're my whole world and that will never change, not as long as I'm alive."

He turns to see me, still allowing me to hold him, and says seriously that if I'm going to sleep with him in the big boy bed, I need to shut up and close my eyes. I vow to behave, squeezing him to me as tightly as he'll permit, and notice that he smells like honey. Maybe I'll tell him that one day.

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Blinded by The Light

I don't do shit Thursday nights except watch Barney Miller and Welcome Back Kotter. Everyone in this house knows that. Used to be either Donna or Jackie would bust in with one of her stupid, self-created dramas and piss me off, but that's not a problem anymore.

It's really quiet in the basement these days, almost to a frightening degree. If Red's not working, he closes himself off from the world by reading in his den. Mrs. Forman plays bridge at Cindy Mailer's house and if Fez whines enough, he gets to go with her. I used to think it was hilarious the way he'd trail after her, begging for attention, until he told me his mom died when he was five.

I also know his real name is Fernando Eduardo - or Eduardo Fernando - and when he was a little boy the Peace Corp brought water lines to his village and taught English there. His father had been an engineer, a young Dutchman who lived and worked in Argentina and Venezuela and had been disinherited for taking a wife his family found unacceptable. He died before Fez was born, so his mother took what little the family had left, which was mainly each other, back to Venezuela. She married Mr. Zayas so her children would not be orphans, then a few years later she died, too.

Eventually, an uncle from Amsterdam tracked them down and Fez and his sisters went to their family in the Netherlands. From what he told me, I don't think he was happy to be separated from his step-father, the only father he ever knew. Though in Europe he had a large family, people with some serious status and money, he seems to have absolutely no interest in either.

I don't think he's ever told anyone else that stuff. Funny how those around us only notice what we want them to see. Sad how we hide so much that's important.

Eric comes down the stairs and I urge him to be quick. "I think this is the episode where Wojo gets an STD."

He flops down on the couch next to me, promising that he can't wait. For the first time since Donna left he seems animated - maybe even happy. I'm not sure if he was upstairs masturbating or playing with his action figures, but I guess it doesn't matter if it makes him feel better. He wipes the sleepy stuff out of his eyes and claims he's sorry that he hit me. I blow it off with a shrug and tell himthat I'm sorry Kitty found us in bed together.

"And?"

"And I'm sorry I manhandled the princess."

"And?"

"And I'm sorry I didn't call you honey sooner." He seems taken aback, which shouldn't surprise me. It's hard for me to say these things seriously. I've been damaged and humiliated and he knows that better than anyone.

The thing about Eric is he has always made every allowance for me and never fails to find a way to accommodate my bullshit. I've always taken that to mean he loves me, too.

"We've danced around this subject for years, Forman. Did you think I was just being a smart ass? You know I love you best, don't you?"

He doesn't really say anything, but lays his head against my shoulder and hugs my arm. I like this kind of stuff a lot, maybe because I've never had it before and it's my heart's singular desire.

I wonder where Edna is right now, not that it really matters. I hope she's happy and that she found a man to fulfill her and even a friend or two. The realization is like a light blinding me; I couldn't care less if I ever see her again in my life. I'm exactly where I want to be; not just with someone who I love, but with someone who does love me back.

"And?"

"And what, Forman? What!"

"Did you mean the things you said to me last night or was it drunk talk?"

I assure him it was both and that that will never change. He smiles, hugging my arm even harder, and lets me kiss the tip of his nose. I find the nerve to ask why he's not freaking out about any of this. Smiling, he announces that he spent most of the day pretending to sleep and the last forty minutes playing with himself in the shower. I chuckle and he admits he was stalling until Barney Miller was over so we could talk.

He notices my frown and clarifies that he can talk and all I have to do is nod yes or no, which is one of the reasons I love him so much. I smooch him just once, but real good, and point to the tube. We relax together a while, listening to Mr. Kotter's idiotic uncle joke of the week.

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to be continued

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For those illegally downloading the soundtrack

:) Blinded by the Light by Bruce Springsteen or Manfred Mann's Earth Band (M.M.'s cover kicks WAY more ass)