Chapter Text
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
May 1983. After an impromptu courthouse wedding in the Big Apple, Eric and Donna exchange buckets of chicken. Fluffy fluff sequel to New York State of Mind.
*****
"A love like ours, could never die. As long as I have you near me..." The Beatles, 1964
Chapter 1: My Wife (And I Love Her)
Wednesday, May 25, 1983
New York, New York
7:00 pm
"All right, this establishment will fail to meet up to Mom's famous fried chicken, but it'll be pretty finger lickin' good, if I do say so myself." He awkwardly laughs, opening the door for his lawfully wedded wife. Lawfully wedded wife. "We're so dead meat."
It's hard to believe, but on a loving, whimsical impulse, they tied the knot. Sans gold wedding bands, with merely her engagement ring quietly glittering on her left ring finger.
Without a care in the world, some might posit. Where's the beef, Wendy or Dave might ask, as the happy couple flounces into the nearest KFC. Hungry like the wolf, and for each other.
Holding the door for his dearly beloved, they're gathered here today. Considering the seriousness of their loving predicament, they're here to make a point. A beefy...well, a chicken-y, point.
Her scarlet hair as bright as the torch on the Statue of Liberty, Donna lovingly chuckles. With a considerable nudge, almost knocking him off his small feet.
"My Dad has always wanted to hit someone with a banjo."
"Why not me, right?" She's strong, resilient. With a care for the world, grounded in reality. While somehow frolicking with idealism, hoping to make the world a better place. And him? He's along for the ride, in total awe. Out of all the men in the world, she somehow chose me. Me. "I, for one, think it would make an unpleasant and unnecessary tune."
Instead, they're greeted with the grating sound of Dexy's Midnight Runners. A banjo, a fiddle, an accordion. Like a bygone episode of Little House on the Prairie, when life was simple.
But the music of those bygone days? It was downright terrible, particularly to contemporary ears.
Especially with a frightening '80s twist, as Donna winces. "It'd still sound better than Come On Eileen."
"You have so many cousins. Are any of them named Eileen?" Eric boldly asks, she pushes him again, with a hearty, wholesome laugh. "It's hard to keep track."
"No, but there's an Ella. And she's four." She sympathizes with his apparent plight, playfully pulling him close, wrapping her arms around his waist. Before reluctantly withdrawing, leading him down a largely empty maze. Of seemingly endless steel barriers. "I get the confusion. I have, like, twenty cousins."
"Like, twenty cousins?" He posits, proving yet another point. "You don't know either, do you?"
"I counted them for our first wedding, but there have been some...additions since then." Donna rolls her eyes, in complete and utter shame. "Uncle John doesn't know how to keep it in his pants. Or wrap it up."
"Like a present, reserved for when one is ready for the gift of life? Somewhere down the road, for you and me."
He cringes at the thought, having a kid so young. Like his in-laws...that's an odd moniker now, is it not? They certainly dodged a bullet way back when, but what if they didn't? Then, since everyone knew, they couldn't just nip it in the bud. And live and learn.
Instead, they would've had to face the music. The terrible, grating music. Like Come On Eileen, but a hundred times worse. With a bunch of offtune fiddles, a broken accordion, and a banjo to the gut.
But his in-laws didn't dodge that bullet, and chose to face the music. And they were even younger. Seventeen and eighteen, respectively, when a scarlet-haired torch entered their world. A beacon of hope, but hell, that torch could burn their house down. Leaving them to wander amongst the scorched ruins.
Those scorched ruins were left in New Jersey, though, and in Wisconsin, they found that beacon of hope. The American dream, despite its numerous bumps in the road.
"Yeah, right," She proclaims, with an affirming nod, "A few years down the road. When we really start to settle down."
"Ah, to get all our ducks in a row. Before we have little ducks of our own," He passionately affirms, swiftly moving through the murky waters, kissing her temple, "But not for 'ol Uncle John. He's the one that's three months younger than you, right?"
But even with that beacon of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel? For his scarlet-haired torch, of love, life, and liberty, that awkward intersection of two generations has plagued her since the beginning of time. With an uncle who is three months her junior, and a few aunts and uncles who are only a few years her senior.
"Yes." She shakes her head in shame, likely envisioning an intricate web, also known as the Pinciotti family tree. Like Charlotte's Web, but for morons. "I'm..."
A zit-faced, pasty white kid loudly clears his throat, breaking up their seemingly lovely little nothings. "You're holding up the line."
Reluctantly relinquishing him from her iron grip, Donna's quick to make some noise. Into the barren wasteland. "What line?"
With a heaping dose of New York hospitality, as murky as the East or the Hudson, the kid dumps his toxic waste. "Just order."
Donna groans, and dutifully does the honors. "Um, two buckets of chicken."
"What kind of chicken?"
"The kind to exchange between a lawfully wedded husband and wife." The unenthusiastic teen is still confused, so Eric loudly clears his throat. Wrapping his arms around his wife, grinning from ear to ear. "The classic, the tried and true..."
The troubled teen looks at the elated couple, like they're crazier than the Wall Street goons that usually swamp the place, in their power suits and probably while as high as Cheech and Chong.
But nay, they're just a bunch of regular 'ol goons. Some vaguely confused tourists, who are simply high on life. And maybe, just maybe, they'll be as high as Cheech and Chong later. With Ring Pops on their fingers, and a heaping plate of onion rings...
"Speaking of which, we don't have any rings. Does KFC have onion rings?"
"No." Squinting at the name tag, the troubled teen's name is Glenn. "Go to Burger King."
"Ah, I don't think it's a great idea, to boost the competition..."
"We have mashed potatoes. And biscuits. And finger lickin' good sauce." For another second, Glenn glares in relative apathy, until he looks his lawfully wedded wife up and down. Like she's a marble statue to gawk at, instead of a human being. "How did a guy like you get a finger lickin' good wife like her?"
Ah, the 'ol tried and true. As Donna's elated grin turns into a typical, defiant frown. She tires of having to defend herself, for snagging an awkward little catch like him, but she's made a list in her head. A long, long time ago, and she's more than willing to recite it.
Again, and again. Verbatim, and with a typical, defiant roll of the eyes. "He's nice, smart, and he has a sense of humor. And he's not an asshole, like you."
With a proud smirk, he slings his willowy arm around her sturdy shoulders. "And with that, we'd like two buckets of chicken, some mashed potatoes and gravy, some mac and cheese, biscuits, and a bunch of finger lickin' good sauce!"
With another irritated groan, Glenn blows off some steam. With a sigh, as dirty thoughts likely rattle through his fried brain. Like a defiant little snake. "That'll be 14.89."
Shoveling out a Hamilton and a Lincoln with his free hand, digging through the depths of his pockets, Eric defiantly slams them on the counter. "Keep the change, buddy. Because you don't need to spare me a dime."
In turn, Glenn feigns apathy. With a miserable moan, and a dismissive wave of the hand. "Whatever."
And as Glenn disappears into the darkness, Eric can't help but smirk. Or foolishly chuckle. "See? That could've been my future at Fatso Burger."
Donna simply nods, pulling him close. "But our futures are going to be way better than that. Together, right?"
Kissing her temple, his smirk inevitably transforms, into a wholly satisfied, hopeful smile. "Yeah, together."