Dreamland
By Emma Redmer
Rated G
Set during “Monkee Mother,” after the “Sometime In the Morning” video.
Disclaimer: The Monkees TV show and Millie belong to Rhino Records and Columbia/Screen Gems productions. Song “Dreamland” by Dave Gruisin and Alan and Marilyn Bergman, from the 1994 movie “For the Boys.”
PS: I think “Dreamland” was written for “For the Boys,” but it does sound like something that would have been performed in the 1940s, and it inspired this quiet scene between Millie and the guys.

I smiled after the end of the song the four young men played. “You boys really are talented,” I insisted. “You beat some of the acts I’ve seen on The Ed Sullivan Show, that’s for sure.” I privately wondered why Joe Babbitt, the owner of our beach house, derided these guys as lazy, longhaired idiots. They weren’t rich, but they weren’t stupid, either, and they at least knew how to make music together.

“Aw, Millie,” drawled Mike, the tallest and second oldest of the group of boys I now lived with. “We ain’t that good.”

“No, really, I’m impressed.”

“You really think we’re good?” asked the little British kid, Davy.

“I’m no expert,” I explained, “but I know what I like. I think you boys have something there.”

“Groovy!” exclaimed Micky, the drummer who couldn’t stop bouncing around.

Peter, the big blonde and the oldest of the four, yawned. “I think it’s time for four boys to go to bed. You’ve had a busy day.” I put my knitting aside. “I could use some shut-eye myself.”

Mike frowned. “Millie, we’re not five-year-olds.”

“Yeah,” Davy added. “We make our own schedules.”

I shrugged and shook my knitting. “Suit yourselves.” I started the next row. “I happen to be a bit of a singer. I’m not a professional, but my sister Bessie and I used to sing and dance in prologues, and we both did our part for the boys during World War Two and Korea.”

The four boys exchanged looks. “Prologues?” Peter asked, his hazel eyes widening.

“You used to sing?” added Mike, getting down on his long legs and smiling. My heart leaped. Mike looked so much like my late husband Herman when he smiled that it was almost painful to gaze into his chocolate eyes.

“Bessie?” Davy frowned. “Bessie Kowalski?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Black sheep of the family, you might say. She ran away from home to get a singing career, but it never materialized, something I could have told her years ago. She ended up marrying a gangster instead.” The boys exchanged looks again, but none of them spoke.

“Hey, Millie,” Micky called, “what are prologues?”

I smiled. “I forgot you guys are baby boomers. Prologues were musical numbers performed before and between movies in big theaters during the Depression. Bessie and I used to sing and dance with a group of local kids at the Fox Theater in San Francisco every Saturday.”

I put down my knitting and leaned dreamily on the side of the couch, remembering. Mike and Davy joined me. “We got to dress up in nice costumes and sing whatever the big hit that week was. It wasn’t like what you boys do, but it was fun.”

Peter leaned against the piano. “I wish they still did that. That would be a great gig!”

Davy got off the couch and settled next to his tambourine on the bandstand. “It would be fun to play in one of those old-fashioned movie theaters. Grandfather took me to one of the biggest movie palace in Manchester once when I was about ten. The staircase alone was the size of this house, and the movie screen could have dwarfed Malibu Beach.”

Peter frowned. “Most of the big movie theaters in Connecticut were torn down or made into smaller ones or regular live theaters when I was a kid.”

Mike shook his head. “I didn’t go to the movies much. There was never any money for stuff like that.”

Micky grinned. “My little sisters beg Mom to take them to a double feature every Saturday. There’s never anything live during the show, though. Just cartoons and newsreels.”

Mike groaned. “Who you kiddin’, shotgun? You STILL go to the double feature every Saturday, and you go for the cartoons!”

“Hey!” Micky squawked from behind his drums. “Someone has to watch my sisters!”

“Micky, you’re the only adult I know who comes home from the movies talking about Daffy Duck and Speedy Gonzales instead of Julie Christie and Omar Shariff,” Davy teased. Micky rewarded him with a smack on the head with his drumsticks. Micky barely avoided Davy swatting him with a maraca.

I laughed. “Now, now, no horseplay, boys. It’s getting late.” Mike returned to his much-loved black guitar. “I have to admit, it’s nice having a family again. I haven’t laughed this much since Herman died.”

“Do you have any kids, Millie?” Micky asked. “You’re sure good with them!”

“Yeah,” Peter said with one of his sunny smiles, “you handle these guys better than anyone I know.”

“Thanks, honey,” I nodded at the quietest and most sensitive of the four. “No, Herman and I never had any kids. We talked it over, but we didn’t have a lot of money, and by the time he finished college on the GI bill and I worked for the telephone company, we didn’t have the time.”

Mike gently plunked a tune on his guitar. I settled back in the couch. “It’s been a while since I’ve felt like making music. I didn’t think I had a reason to after Herman died.” Micky quietly tapped a beat on his drum, and Davy settled on the bandstand, laying his head in his hands.

The plunking of Mike’s guitar reminded me of a song I used to perform for the soldiers on the USO tours. It made me miss Bessie, and Herman, and soliders, and San Francisco. Without thinking, I started to sing.

“There’s a place
Way up high
Starry bright and far up in the sky.
Close your eyes, let your wishes fly.
You’ll be in Dreamland by and by.”

"Dimpled and drowsy
Off you will go
Over the tree tops
Sliding down a rainbow.
Sleepy head
Curl up in your bed
And feel the sunset rise and shine
Sleep warm in Dreamland, baby mine.”

Davy’s eyes were already half-closed. Peter played the piano, Mike following on the guitar. Micky smiled dreamily, his exotic almond-shaped eyes far away.

“There’s a place
Worlds away
Time has wings there,
Dream with springs there.
Smiles and songs
Grow on every tree
Only in Dreamland
Just wait and see.”

Davy picked up his tambourine, rubbing it absently. Micky leaned on one arm on his drum set and sighed. Peter smiled his wistful, innocent smile.

“Deep down in side, there’s a child still there
Wishing for Dreamland
Knowing that it’s somewhere.

Though it may seem
Oh so far away
If you believe that dreams come true
You’ll find a Dreamland
Waiting for you.”

I put down my knitting as Mike and Peter finished the song. Davy snored lightly, his tambourine cradled lovingly in his lap. Micky almost fell off his arm, his eyes fluttering tiredly. “Ok, fellas,” I said, “I think it’s really time to go to bed.” Mike finally let his guitar go and shook Davy, who opened his eyes long enough to trudge upstairs. Micky followed. Peter reluctantly left his piano, even as he let out another jaw-dislocating yawn.

“Millie?” Mike said quietly, turning to face me as he started up the spiral staircase after Peter.

I felt that painful squeeze on my heart again. “Yes, Mike?”

“You’re really good. That was a really purty song.”

I couldn’t help blushing. “Aw, go on.”

“No, I mean it. You sang it really nice.”

I grinned as the tears welled in my eyes. “I had a great back-up band.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Millie, I know we may not seem grateful, but thanks for everything you’ve done for us these past few days.” He put his hand on his thin stomach. “I can’t remember the last time we had something like a complete meal that wasn’t one of Peter’s edible experiments.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The next time he makes that cream of root beer soup, bury it. I wouldn’t feed it to a horse.”

“We did try that once.” He grinned, and my heart nearly melted. “Nearly killed the horse.”

I wasn’t going to ask how they got a horse in the beach house, not to mention how cranky Joe Babbitt handled it. “Well, you go along to sleep. I’ve got relatives coming down tomorrow, and I seem to remember some boys mentioning a job they had.”

Mike finally went upstairs, and I went to the big window behind the bandstand, humming “Dreamland.”

“You know, Herman,” I said, more to myself than anything else, “I hadn’t thought of that song in years. It used to have that effect on the boys overseas, too.” I put my arms around my chest. “I miss you, Herman, but these are nice boys. I don’t know what Babbitt has against them. They’ve all been perfect gentlemen to me.”

I sighed and hummed the song again, looking towards the upstairs bedroom where the four nicest young men I’d ever known slept and dreamed about music and stardom.

“Though it may seem
Oh so far away
If you believe that dreams come true
You’ll find a Dreamland
Waiting for you.”

The End