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One night before dinner, Richie approached his father. He was in his favorite armchair, cozily reading the Journal Sentinel.
“Dad?”
“Son...?”
Richie took a seat on the green ottoman. “I have a question.”
“I have an answer.” He flipped a page.
“What would you do if you thought your friend was dealing drugs?”
He almost dropped his newspaper. “Potsie’s dealing drugs?!”
Richie scoffed. “I have more than one friend, you know.”
“Is it Ralph?”
“Look, Dad, this is just a hypothetical situation. We learned about drugs in school today.”
“Well, uh” — he removed his reading glasses — “if it’s a hypothetical situation, I suppose I’d call the police.”
Richie crossed his arms. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“No...”
“What if you’re not even sure that he’s doing it?”
“Then you’d ask if he’s selling. And if he’s a good salesman, he’ll offer you a sample. Then you’ll catch him in the act.”
Richie pointed, excited: “Like a sting operation!”
“Like a hypothetical sting operation.” He gave Richie a glaring stink-eye. “Don’t you go trying anything like that.”
“Oh, no, no, I won’t!” he promised. “And — um, if I do, I’ll try it carefully.”
“Uh-huh.” Howard replaced his glasses. “Just keep your nose clean, kid. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail again.”
“You won’t, Dad! Thanks a lot!” Richie happily grabbed a Fats Domino album and ran upstairs.
Meanwhile, Marion unlatched the door and entered, holding two bagfuls of groceries.
“Marion!” blurted Howard, standing up. “Guess what! Potsie’s dealing drugs!”
“Oh, how good for him!”
Her husband gaped at her, horrified.
Marion laughed: “Joking! I’m joking!” She kissed him on the cheek. “Goodness, dear. Everyone always takes me so seriously.”
Richie had begun suspecting something on Saturday. That morning, the junior was sitting at Schneider’s Drugstore’s soda fountain. He was enjoying a bottle of Black Bear and the latest issue of Life with Archie.
He chuckled as he flipped through the comic, enjoying the redhead’s silly adventures with his pals. Gee, if only Richie’s life was so funny! He wondered who was the Archie of his gang?
Soon, the door jangled open, and Milwaukee’s coolest greaser strolled up to the bar. He sized up the place, noticed Richie, then drummed a knuckle on the bar to get the pharmacist’s attention.
“Ah, Mr. Fonzarelli! Right on time.” Dr. Schneider came up to the counter with a large cardboard box, labelled CIBA INJECTABLES. “Just got your shipment in this morning.”
“Heyy.” The mechanic traded him for a hoagie-sized stack of cash.
The Fonz took up the heavy box, but before walking off, he smirked and gave Richie Cunningham a familiar nudge with his elbow.
The redhead jerked up, surprised. “Oh — hi, Fonz! Didn’t see you there.”
With vague amusement, Fonzie slid his gaze to the comic in his hands.
“Oh! What — this?” Richie quickly folded it aside. “Aw, it’s just for my sister. Her birthday’s coming up, hehe.”
Fonzie rolled his eyes. “Take care, Cunningham,” he mused, shrugging up the box and walking away.
“You too, Fonzie. Bye!”
Fonzie kicked the door open and left.
Once the door jangled shut, the redhead couldn’t help but wonder: why would a healthy young man need such a hefty box of medicine?
Later that week, Richie headed to the boy’s room at Arnold’s while on a first date.
On the way in, he bumped into a particular leather jacket.
“Oop, pardon me!”
“Whoaaa!” Fonzie gave Richie a familiar smack on the shoulder, then slipped past him to go play pinball.
As Richie washed his hands, he noticed a new poem etched into the wall in black ink:
DONT BE CRULE
BE COOL
He shook his head with a chuckle. Oh Fonzie.
But then — oh, no! — he saw a syringe in the trash can. This was really upsetting.
Given what he knew now, the next step was to confront his friend. He had to, for Fonzie’s own good! He’d learned in Hal Kopel's Drug Addiction that many innocent teenagers fell victim to drug abuse, and it was up to Richie to keep his friends safe. He didn’t want anybody to have to suffer alone.
So, later that week, Richie and Potsie were coming out of Jefferson High. Richie held his backpack strap in one hand and held a paper bag in the other.
“So, you’ll come with me to see The Blob next week?” asked Potsie, excited.
“Sure, I guess.”
"Remember, bring pen and paper," Potsie reminded him. "We need to mark down the best time to neck girls. It's usually after the scary stuff...but not too close after."
“’Eyyy, Cunningham!”
Richie looked around, squinting. After a moment, he spotted the Italian standing under the shade of a fir tree. The Fonz had his arm slung around Rebecca Mory, one of Jefferson High’s famous cheerleaders.
“Hey, you’ve been summoned,” joked Potsie.
“Yeah. See you later, Pots.”
“Later!”
Richie walked up to the couple. “Hi!” he began, but Fonzie cut him off:
“Rebecca, this is Cunningham. Cunningham — Rebecca.”
“Hi, Richie!”
“Hey, Rebecca! Oh, we actually know each other,” Richie happily informed him. “She sits behind me in Lab.”
“Yeah she sits behind me on my TR5,” teased Fonzie, playing with a lock of Rebecca’s hair. She giggled, and one thing led to another, and soon they were passionately making out right in front of Richie Cunningham.
The redhead stood there awkwardly, not quite sure what to make of this. But also not quite sure why he didn’t just walk away.
Eventually, Rebecca swooned out of the kiss with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Fonzie...can’t we go for a ride tonight?”
“Maybe...”
She rubbed his arm. “Oh, please? It’s been soooo long!”
“Eh, y'know, I’ll think about it.”
She quickly untied her neckscarf and handed it to him.
Fonzie took her scarf, confused.
“To help you think!” she explained.
The greaser offered an ironic smile in response, stuffing it into his jacket pocket.
She kissed him one last time, before saying goodbye to both boys and running to catch up with her friends.
Once she was out of sight, Fonzie stuck his thumbs in his jean pockets and leaned against the tree.
“Gee, she must really like you!” remarked Richie, walking up beside him. “I’ve never seen her without that scarf before.”
Fonzie shrugged. Then he looked at the paper bag in his hand. “Lunch?”
“Oh, no, this is from Shop. We’re supposed to build our own raised seed-beds.” He grinned dorkily, lifting the bag of seeds. “I chose corn!”
Fonzie snorted, smiling at his boots: “He chose corn.”
“Say, uh, Fonzie? Could I talk to you a minute?”
Fonzie glanced around, then at him, as if to say, Well?
The A-student placed his bag of seeds on a nearby bench. “Look, Fonz," he began, serious. "I noticed you’ve been getting into some inappropriate behavior lately. I don't know whether you’re selling or buying, but I wanted you to stop it before you hurt yourself.”
Fonzie stared at him, perplexed, as if he’d just been spit on.
“Nevermind, heh! Um, forget it.” Richie cleared his throat, then casually asked: “Say...got any drugs?”
Fonzie almost lost his cool. “WHAT?”
“I’ve just — I've been meaning to try ’em,” he said plainly, nodding at a cloud in the sky.
The biker was not amused. “Where’d a nice kid like you get a stupid idea like that?”
“Well, you know. Hollywood. And I happened to see that you’re, uh...” — he lowered his voice to a whisper — “...harboring illegal drugs.”
The Fonz thumbed at himself. “Me?”
“Well, yeah,” gulped Richie, a little worried. “Um, there was that big box you were holding, and...the syringe at Arnold’s...and I just figured, you know?” He attempted to smile. He really didn’t want to get beat up.
Fonzie realized what had happened. He chuckled to himself, then slung an arm around the taller boy’s shoulders. “Alright, let me set this straight here,” he began, walking him towards the empty basketball court.
Richie warned, “Uh, the grass says ‘Keep Off’...”
“Look,” he said, as they crossed the lawn, “what you saw was not drugs, O.K.? It’s medication.”
“Medication?” doubted the redhead.
“Yeah. Think of it like a...tune-up. Like a Miracle-Gro.”
Richie looked even more skeptical. “Miracle-Gro?”
Fonzarelli circled an abstract hand in the air: “See, I’m kind of a self-made man, if you know what I mean?”
“Sure!” he agreed, adjusting his backpack. “You pay your own rent and everything.”
Fonzie made a syringe motion with his hand. “Testosteroni,” he enunciated.
Richie blinked, surprised. “Testosterone? Well, why would you need that? You’re already the toughest guy I know.”
He smiled deeply. “Heyy.”
“So, why take extra? I mean, your body makes it anyway.”
Fonzie gave him a look.
“What?”
“Listen, Cunningham.” He smacked his shoulder and walked him to the courtside picnic table. “Remember the time I took apart that, uh...old jalopy?”
“Which one?”
“The one, y’know. For the race.”
“Oh, of course! When I won? How could I forget!”
“See?” stressed Fonzie. “That’s what I mean. Anything can be cool. It just matters what you do with it. How you fix it up. Ya gotta modify. Dig?”
“Sure!” encouraged Richie.
Fonzie hopped up, sitting on the table. “So even an old hooptie can become a hot-rod, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah!”
“So let’s just say, uh...” He smiled handsomely, leaning back on the table. “I haven’t always been Arthur Fonzarelli...if you receeeeeive my drift.”
“Yeah.” Richie blinked, smiling. Then he paused. “Uh...wait a minute.”
Fonzie sat up. He didn’t want to beat up Richie Cunningham. But if he had to, he would.
Richie’s mouth fell open, and his mild expression changed to one of shock. But before he could say a word, Fonzie put up his hand:
“Hey," the biker said sharply. "Spill this, and you are finito, do you read me?"
“Of course, I — I promise I’ll keep it to myself, but — oh, wow!” Richie beamed, as if he’d just gotten a Christmas present. “I don’t even know what to say!”
“Then zip it.”
Richie took a seat below him at the table. “No, no — I don’t have a problem with it! I’m just surprised!”
Fonzie softened a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!" he agreed. “In fact, it’s kind of admirable, really. You’ve always been the most authentic guy I know, and now you’re telling me you came all this way just to be the man you are! I’m glad you followed your heart and became the Fonz you were always meant to be!”
He smirked. "Cool it. I don’t need a eulogy here.”
“Sorry," laughed Richie, a little embarrassed. He shrugged. "I just think it’s...y’know. Cool!”
Fonzie smiled, picking at the motor oil under his fingernails.
They sat alone in the basketball courts for a while, hearing the songbirds and the chime of the distant schoolbell.
When Richie looked back at his friend, he expected to see a smile on his face. But instead, he saw Fonzie squint at his hands, with some type of distant sorrow in his eyes. Richie didn't quite know what to say, but he knew he wanted to help and show he cared enough to listen.
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” he offered.
Fonzie scoffed. “Easy,” he mocked, rubbing Valvoline off his knuckle. “Yeah, easy. It’s a breeze. My folks are just wild about it."
Richie got quiet.
“Why do you think I live alone?” he asked bitterly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why do you think I got this crummy job? And I keep havin’ to pay off cops? They could arrest me just for sitting here, Cunningham. Yeah. Because it’s so easy.”
“I’m sorry, Fonzie.”
Fonzie just swatted the air, disgusted. When the pink scarf slipped out of Fonzie’s pocket, he angrily stuffed it back in.
Richie brightened up a little. “Gee,” he began with a toothy smile, “at least the girls don’t seem to mind!”
"Heyyyyyyyyy..." Fonzie grinned and gave a double-thumbs up.
Richie burst out laughing, covering his face. Somehow that wordless response was almost obscene in its detail! Now Richie felt very curious about what Fonzie was like in...um, in a particular kind of situation. But he didn't dare say another word!
Though he wasn't sure why, it was always very awkward and nerve-wracking for Richie to talk about sex, especially with other boys. But he never knew how to change the subject without being called a chicken, or a square, so he just sat there quietly, hoping Fonzie wouldn't say anything else. And thankfully, he didn't.
It was almost the end of his lunch hour, so Fonzie hopped off the table. Richie took up his backpack and followed.
As they walked back, Richie wondered why his face still felt so hot! And why couldn’t he stop smiling? He bit his lip, looking down. Why did he feel all feverish all of a sudden? He felt more excited about Fonzie than usual! Not like sexually excited, of course — no, like, in a friend way of course. In a curious caring way. Fonzie was just the most interesting young man he’d ever met, that was all.
“Hey, Cunningham, what’s wrong with your face?” He slugged his shoulder. “Can’t even see the freckles.”
“Oh, um — !” laughed Richie, covering his smile.
“You tryin’ to get in my pants, Cunningham?”
He panicked a little: “NO!”
“Yeah, let’s keep it that way,” he teased, smacking Richie on the butt pocket.
The taller boy gasped, “Fonzie!” before bursting into incredulous laughter (and praying he would do that again)!
“Hey,” schmoozed the Fonz, hooking his arm around his shoulders. “Why don’t you, uh, stop by Inspiration Point sometime? When I’m with a chick?”
“...um, what for?”
Fonzie’s smile and nod made it very clear.
Richie drew in a huge breath, too surprised to speak. Was Fonzie seriously inviting him to...?! The three of them?!
But before the redhead could react, he spotted his paper bag getting attacked by a small crowd of pigeons.
“OH, NO!” cried Richie, sprinting to the bench, “MY CORN!”
