:)

Beautiful Music
THAT 70's SHOW
by Jennifer Ryan
06/03/07

:)

War is over

I'm not really sure what's happening at first, for some reason I keep falling down. My surroundings spin out of control and every time I try to rise, someone pushes me down into the snow. It's frustrating and hard to understand until her tennis shoe connects with my stomach. She screams, "You stupid dick, do you think this is funny!" and hits me again.

I'm not sure why she's mad, but I wish I'd worn a jacket. It is freezing out here. The next time she knocks me down, I stay down to conserve my energy. I don't know who she's talking to, but hands are all over me, puling me up by my flannel shirt and holding me steady. I see Bob and laugh, thinking to myself G-D DAMN, LOOK AT THAT HAIR! I almost go down again, but Red pulls me up hard and looks as if he's about to pop a blood vessel. Bob is rambling on about Christmas tradition being ruined and I suddenly notice the Vista Cruiser parked atop what were once his life-sized singing and jiggling plastic snowmen.

"Ah, jeez. Every year Midgey and I would dress 'em up to look like Tony Orlando and Dawn."

Red demands he tie a yellow ribbon around it and drags me home by the collar. Man, wait till Forman sees what some asshole did to that boat he calls an automobile. Kitty is waiting for us at the kitchen door and giggles nervously as she admits those snowmen were an eye sore.

"Of course they were, Kitty. But that doesn't mean you get drunk and launch a car into them." Under his breath, he decides that a respectable man would have smashed them with a hammer a long time ago.

Kitty places a mug of hot coffee on the table and Red pushes me down on a chair in front of it. "And you, dumb ass; what the hell was that? If you ever so much as think about driving drunk with my son in your car, I will put my foot so far up your ass that it will have to be surgically removed." Kitty gestures for him to slow down, but he's on an angry roll and says, "better yet, Steven, if you ever endanger my kid with such irresponsible, stupid behavior, you will not live in the same house with him."

I know my eyes are red rimmed and blood shot and that 90 proof courses in shots through my veins, so I don't respond. Everything is slow and a little difficult to process, but I can smile and laugh, so I do. And man, Red turns red.

Poor Kitty is so patient as he rehashes their life history. First up is the night job he took to pay for a second unexpected baby, followed by the humiliation of his father telling him to lay in the bed he made himself. Next is the tiny apartment where the two lived, cramped and miserable with a toddler, a newborn and a teen aged Uncle Marty. I only laugh harder when Kitty has to drag him back and lead him out of the room. I hear him hit the stairs and he's yelling at the top of his lungs, "I didn't bust my ass for eighteen years so my kid could end up road kill!"

I know its not funny at all, it's actually quite sad, but I laugh and cannot stop. I could blame it on the fact that when Edna was pregnant with me she smoked grass nonstop, but I don't really know if that's true. I'm just a dick sometimes, or as Kitty prefers to think, not in touch with my feelings.

I reach for the coffee mug and my hand passes through it. In slow motion, it shatters at my feet and the liquid spreads across the floor in several directions. I'm on my hands and knees still trying to figure out how to clean it up when some napkins fall in front of me and I see Eric's feet. I crawl toward him and cover his scrawny naked legs with kisses that he doesn't appear to appreciate, proving to me once and for all that the fine art of seduction is dead as a fucking doornail. I look up at him and grin. Man, he's tall, taller than I ever noticed. And he doesn't look mad.

It dawns on me that anytime I had a couple of drinks, Jackie would be pissed - red hot mad that I'd done something that she wasn't involved in or couldn't control. And boy was she short, short and angry all the time. Not like Forman, a giant happy beanstalk who loves me unconditionally and who practically begs to be scaled.

I grab a fist full of his boxer shorts to pull myself up, warning him I plan to climb all the way to the top. He tugs back on them so they don't pull off and that's when his mother walks in.

"Honey, take Steven to bed." She flushes at the incidental possibilities and corrects herself. "I mean, get him out of sight for a little while. He hit your father's sore spot and it is going to take a while for me to calm him down. I'll clean up this mess."

Eric leads me to the basement, slowly, supporting my weight as I paw him more roughly than is my intention. I don't know why I'm so shaky. Drinking rarely effects me in any noticeable way, but tonight I maybe lost count, that's all.

I fall across the couch and enjoy of few minutes of sweet silence. I feel Eric pull off my shoes, carefully, like he's trying not to disturb me. He undoes my belt and unzips my jeans, not letting me help. Once they're off, I pull him on top of me and tell him all about how I know what he's doing, but he wiggles away and plays hard to get. I grab at him clumsily, not meaning to, but he yells that I hurt him and pulls away. I try to understand what's happening, because he has never not let me touch him.

Now he reminds me of Jackie, always punishing and humiliating me, always demanding that I beg. "Is that what this is, Forman?" He's seems bewildered, but I'm on to him now. I tell him I know exactly what he's doing. But he doesn't seem to understand, just like Bud and Edna, just like Jackie. "I bet you even thought you'd be the one to make me cry, didn't you, Forman?"

"Hyde, what are you talking about?"

"You pulled me in. You wanted me to feel safe so you could slam me, just like everybody else I was stupid enough to try to love. I tried to tell myself you were playing some kind of game with me, but I didn't want to believe it. Well, don't worry. If you don't want me to touch you, then I won't do it ever again."

"That's what this ..." he stammers. "You hurt me when you grabbed me, dumb ass. I didn't say never touch me again." He looks away in disappointment and begins taking off my socks. "Why are you drunk again? You never used to drink without me." The hurt and confusion I hear seem so genuine that I'm really starting to feel like a bastard. "Just tell me how I screwed up this time, because I know it's me. It's always me. Why are you so unhappy with me anymore?"

He sits on the end of the sofa, letting my feet rest on his lap, but staring straight ahead. My drunken, paranoid mind tells me he can't stand to look at me, but the me underneath that is sensible and sane can see he's insecure and afraid. I try to tell him, though it comes out as little more than a whisper, "I'm not unhappy with you. I love you."

"Do you regret sending me to school? Hyde, I don't want you to pay for me to go to school if you've changed your mind. Is it Donna? You don't want me to spend time with Donna."

I sigh and watch the ceiling swirl, unable to find words that will label my misery. How can I make him understand that the war I fight is with myself; that I hurt all the time. The words do exist, somewhere between Heaven and my heart, but I can't find them. I can only say, "you don't understand."

"I'm not going to school, Hyde. But I already paid for two of my books and I don't think I can return them." His statements are matter of fact, "Everything will be fine. I'll tell Roy I want to stay on full time at the hotel."

Damn it. I feel a single tear slide from the corner of my eye and I struggle like I'm drowning, frustrated that I can't make myself understood. It's bad enough that I feel so broken hearted, but if I don't try to explain, he'll blame himself. Finally, I force myself to speak and it all tumbles out in a incoherent rush.

"I'm sick of living in a tiny factory town in retarded Wisconsin. You know who lives in Wisconsin, Forman? Those stupid kids from Happy Days. It's like The Fonz is the coolest guy in the middle of nowhere, and that's me. I'm the Fonz. I'm going to end up at the Hub, using the john for my office and scaring the shit out of junior high kids."

He exhales in what I perceive to be relief, so I close my eyes before I can lose my nerve, determined to keep going. "I went to the bar again. And I can't find them, Forman. I've looked at least ten times and I just can't find them." He asks who I mean, obviously confused and probably afraid for my sanity. "Those polish whores. I dream they hurt you and it's my fault. I wasn't watching out for you and I'm supposed to fucking watch out for you. And it could have been a lot worse. Every night I see it and it's so much worse."

My breath comes in short, ragged pants, because I'm drunk, sick and dizzy. Eric reminds me so much of his mother when things get bad. He waits, watches and listens patiently. There's no judgement or retaliation; not when it's serious. The same fifteen year old boy who shoved a half-eaten popsicle down the back of my jeans for bragging that I'd nail Donna first is now the eighteen year old guy who undresses me slowly and keeps the room dark so I don't realize how badly I need to throw up.

The gangly brat who told me that deep down my mother really loved me, she just loved prostitution more, is the same boy who drove me past the Henderson farm on midnight cow tipping missions, acted as a look out when little Kelso and I swiped hot wheels and cans of beer from the corner store, and brought me home with him and gave me a family.

He asks me questions I don't know how to answer, like what would I do to the Polish girls if I ever found them. He offers to assist me in any revenge that involves crazy glue, egging their cars or spray painting a cuss word on something they own. He takes it lightly because I don't think he understands that something really bad may have happened. I try to tell him that there were men there and who knows what they did and who knows where they are now. I see them around every corner; always in wait. But in my dreams it's not me they want, and that's why I can't sleep.

I stop rambling so I can catch my breath, knowing well that I'm making no sense. He tells me that no one did anything to him, says he thinks he would know, and demands to know what the did to me. Other than totally fucking up my mind, I don't have any idea.

He rolls up my t-shirt and begs to check for hickeys and bruises, moving slow and talking quiet. He lays his head on my belly and we talk a long while about nonsensical things I probably won't remember in the morning and suddenly I stop hearing. I retreat into my mind, as if in a waking dream, and think about how fortunate I am. I live with you and love you. You guard my secrets and know all of my dreams. You teach me to be stronger and better, to let go of the anger that torments me. You're deceptively fragile, yet unfazed by ever-threatening skies. As friends, we were loyal to one another and committed, as we are now, but covered by this one unidentifiable feeling and unnameable thing. What started as a flicker, an erratic flame, has blossomed into a complete loss of equilibrium. Only now am I able to understand that this is love, genuine and unconditional.

I open my eyes and see Red standing over us. A sobering jolt of terror and humiliation rips through me at the thought that he may have heard our conversation, but he gives no indication that he has. Looking uncomfortable, he clears his throat and apologizes for losing his temper with me, further explaining it's much too cold for us to sleep in the basement tonight. He and Eric help me get up the stairs without falling on my face and the next thing I know I'm tucked in my warm little bed.

According to the alarm clock, I'm out less than an hour when I feel the mattress dip. Eric is next to me, drinking hot tea and reading a text book, reminding me of the terribly square and responsible adult he's becoming. He notices I'm watching and explains it's the book for his psychology class. "I'm reading about craziness and I think I've diagnosed you with a specific kind," he says tenderly. "Unfortunately, it's not one of the cool axe murder kinds of insanity that I know you appreciate; it's one of the lame, toned down versions."

I smile, glad just to be considered nuts in any capacity. "So what's it called?"

"Depression. And I'm sorry to tell you that it doesn't make you a public menace."

"Just a private one, huh?" I wiggle free of my blanket cocoon and apologize for unleashing my insecurities on him. He hands me his mug and says if I'd spilled every thing sooner, Bob's holiday ornaments would have survived. He reminds me that the Christmas season is the hardest one for the snow people's kind, so I vow to keep them in my prayers. I assure him that I can't wait for him to start school; that I'm more than happy to be the one to pay, because one day he'll be a career man and buy me a hot car in trade. That's been the plan since day one.

He's unsure, but I promise him it's not his fault that I feel left behind. Eric and Donna have plans, as do Kelso and Fez and even Laurie. I feel like I'm the only one who can't get my shit together and I don't know what to do about it. I mean, I figured it would take everyone longer to put together a plan and I was positive Kelso would be the last.

We live in Wisconsin, that's just how it is. Our friends and family are here; this is where our life is. You are Richie Cunningham and I am the Fonz, and maybe that's how it's really meant to be. I'll be the coolest guy in the middle of nowhere, and you'll be the light of my life.

Eric stretches and yawns. I try to coax him into the shower with me to no avail, but he promises I've got ten minutes before he turns off the light. I scrub the smell of stale cigarettes from my hair as quickly as I can and when I return, Eric is holding the covers up for me. I let him be my pillow for once and as I get comfortable, Donna's voice comes through the radio, which is playing on low. She announces, no doubt working hard to maintain her composure, "This is Hot Donna on WFPP with a midnight request. A little John Lennon from 1971, going out to Stephanie from Eric. Happy Christmas, Point Place."

I chuckle into Eric's chest and know he's smiling as he tangles his hand in my hair and tells me that since it's midnight, it's technically Christmas Eve. I ask why I have to be Stephanie and he kisses me until I'm quiet. We fall asleep quickly as he sings to me for once, promising repeatedly the war is over, if I want it. I dream of building new snowmen for Bob and that Kelso gives one of them a giant snow dick. Man, I love Christmas.

And so this is Christmas, for weak and for strong, for rich and for poor ones, the road is so long.

A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Let's hope it's a good one, without any fear.

The war is over if you want it.

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to be continued

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For those illegally downloading the soundtrack

:) Happy Christmas (The War is Over) by John Lennon, 1971