"Stardom"

(Author’s Note: For the sake of my sanity, let’s pretend that the song Micky sings--that isn’t a Monkees song--had not already been recorded & released by another group. ;-)

* * * * *

The Vincent Van Go-Go. The place was alive with teenagers en masse. But the teens weren’t the only members of the audience.

The Monkees were having an especially good night. Yet, Micky couldn’t help but notice that, again, a certain pair of eyes remained on him as he finished the song...

Mike accepted the responsibility of thanking the crowd (for not throwing things at them).

As they left the stage, Micky kept his drumsticks in his hands, twirling them absently as he fell in step next to Mike.

"Mike, I got a strange feeling."

"That could just be dinner," Mike retorted easily.

"No, man. I saw this woman in the audience staring at me. Freaked me out!" Micky told him.

Mike stopped him. "A woman? Micky, you need to get your head examined."

Micky shook his head wildly. "I mean she was staring. Scary kind of staring. Stalker type staring."

Mike’s brow lifted in concern. "Is she still out there?"

Micky glanced out, then turned back to Mike. "I don’t see her now." He sighed. "Maybe I’m just freaking myself out." He went to turn around and continue walking, but practically ran into someone. "I’m sorry, miss--" His eyes went wide.

"Well, hello, there," she spoke, ignoring the surprised look on his face. "You’re just the fella I wanted to see."

Micky swallowed hard, but calmed a little feeling Mike’s hand rest on his shoulder.

"Would you mind if I ask why you want to see him?" Mike asked, now genuinely curious.

The woman smiled. "We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Mary Fenner. I’m an agent for Rembrandt Records."

"Hey, fellas? What’s the hold up?" Davy called out as he and Peter joined Mike and Micky. "And who’s this lovely lady?"

Mary smiled at Davy. "Flatterer." She turned her attention back. "I liked what I heard on that stage."

Micky’s jaw dropped, while Mike pulled himself together enough to speak, "You like us?"

Her smile faded enough to be noticeable. "I didn’t say that. I said I liked what I heard and what I heard was his voice." Mary pointed at Micky.

This snapped the others out of their hazes and Peter moved to close Micky’s slack jaw, which only dropped again after Peter removed his hand from his chin. He gave up.

Despite the slack jaw, Micky did manage to point at himself.

Mary thought it humorous and gave a small laugh. "Yes, I liked your voice. It’s strong, yet versatile. Very marketable. I’m prepared to offer you a contract right here and now."

"Hold on a minute," Mike interrupted the admiration society, "we’re a band."

"I’m sorry," she said, shaking her head, "but I’m only interested in his voice. There’s already more than enough bands putting out records as is." Mary reached into a pocket, pulled out a card, and offered it to Micky. "When you’ve reached a decision--and I hope you do soon--please give me a call." She smiled once more and turned on her heel, walking away proudly.

Micky remained statue still, but began babbling incoherently.

"Look what she did to ‘im," Davy commented.

"Yeah, Mr. Schneider has been more verbal than him," Peter added.

"Micky!" Mike said, loudly, snapping his fingers in front of the drummer’s face.

"Huh?" Micky finally snapped out of it. "Did that just really happen?" He looked down at the card held tightly in his palm. "Wow," he breathed.

"Micky, you aren’t seriously going to consider this, are you?" Davy asked.

"I--" Micky glanced at the looks on their faces, then back down at the card.

* * * * *

Late that night, Micky sat in front of the bay windows, twiddling the business card between his fingers and singing verses of various songs in no particular order.

The downstairs bedroom door opened and Peter came out, dressed in orange night shirt and matching cap. He walked toward the windows, staggering tiredly. "Micky..."

Micky about jumped at the sound of his voice. "Don’t do that!" he hissed.

"Man, I’m sorry, but I could hear you singing," Peter said, sitting on the wooden bench next to the psychiatrist’s couch. At Micky’s confused look, he added, "I couldn’t sleep and I heard you out here."

Micky looked at the card again, continuing to twirl it. "I don’t know what to do, Pete. This could be my big break..." He looked up, "...but we’re a band. It isn’t supposed to be just one of us, it’s supposed to be all of us. If I took it, we could finally start eating three meals a day like every one else and pay our rent on time for a change."

"I can’t tell you what to do, Mick, you know that," Peter said, and Micky’s head sagged. "Do what you think is best and we’ll back you completely." He sighed. "Listen, Mary wasn’t just bullshitting us." Micky’s head lifted again at Peter’s choice of words. Peter smirked. "She’s right, man. You’ve got a great voice. Right now, it’s just being wasted."

"What would you do, Peter?" Micky asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

"I don’t know," he replied, then paused. "Try to get some sleep." Peter stood and headed back to the shared bedroom.

Micky sighed, his eyes rolling to the ceiling.

* * * * *

After breakfast, Micky decided to make his announcement: "Guys, I’ve thought it over, man, have I thought this over, but I’m gonna call Mary and talk to her about the contract." Three sets of eyes looked on, waiting for his actual decision. He felt like he was looking into the eyes of Judge, Jury, and Executioner. "I’m leaning towards accepting the contract."

Peter bowed his head. Davy’s jaw dropped. And Mike looked pissed off.

Micky thought fast. "We could have more than a box of Corn Flakes in the cabinet!"

Mike stood and headed up the tornado staircase to the upstairs bedroom.

Davy shook his head and got up, headed for the veranda.

"Peter?" Micky had one glimmer of hope left that he was making the right decision.

Peter looked up and shrugged. "It’s your life."

Micky sighed. "Maybe I’ll just go talk to Mary now." He turned and headed for the door.

* * * * *

The offices of Rembrandt Records were buzzing with anticipation over the possible signing of a new singer. Naturally, Mary Frenner had started the buzz and only she actually knew what was going on.

As the secretary outside her office typed away, the hall door opened slowly and Micky stepped in, looking very uneasy. He walked up to the desk. "Um, excuse me?"

The secretary glanced up. "May I help you?"

"I, uh, was wondering if I could speak with Mary Frenner."

The secretary looked him up and down. "Who, may I ask, is inquiring?"

His brow arched. "Micky Dolenz."

"One moment." The secretary hit the buzzer and seconds later, Mary’s voice was heard.

"Yes?"

"There’s a Micky Dolenz to see you, Mary."

"Send him in!"

The secretary motioned to the door. "You heard her."

Micky shrugged and went to the door, which flew open just as he reached it.

"I’m so glad to see you, Micky!" Mary motioned him in and to sit. "Have you made a decision?"

"Well, not completely..."

"I see I’ll have to let you in on what you can obtain through this record deal. For making the album alone, you’ll be paid $50,000." She gave a shadow of a smirk watching his jaw drop. "If it goes Platinum, you receive another $25,000, and so on. This doesn’t include royalties. You get to choose the songs to be used for the album--"

"Who performs the music?" Micky interjected, finding his voice.

"We have excellent studio musicians," Mary replied, knowing full-well what he meant by that question, and watched a small frown cross his face. "There’s a new wardrobe, living quarters, possible touring, guest spots on TV shows... and so much more." She pulled two stapled sheets of paper out of her desk and laid them in front of him with a pen. "What do you say?"

Micky glanced at the papers with a look that wondered if the papers might bite him. After a few moments, the expression softened, and he reached for the pen. He picked it up, hovered it over the signature line... and signed it while holding his breath.

* * * * *

The door to the pad opened and Micky came in. He looked around and spotted the guys out on the veranda. He headed out and knocked on the door frame before stepping out.

They turned expectant looks towards him. "Well?" Mike asked.

"I--" He paused. "I signed the contract."

Mike brushed past him, almost taking his arm with him.

Micky followed him in, with Peter and Davy following. "Mike!" He stopped at the bottom of the stairs while Mike disappeared into their shared room. Micky waited several minutes before Mike reappeared carrying a duffle bag. "Mike? Are-- are you moving out?"

Mike reached the bottom of the stairs and dropped the bag at Micky’s feet. "I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one who’s leaving."

"But, Mike--" Micky tried.

Mike folded his arms over his chest. "I’m sorry you made that decision, Micky."

Micky looked down at the duffle bag, then picked it up, slinging it over his right shoulder. "I’m sorry, fellas. For some reason, I thought this would go better than it is." He directed a pointed look at Peter, who broke eye contact almost immediately. He glanced at Davy, who shook his head slightly. With one final glance at Mike, he turned and left the beach house for the last time.

* * * * *

The recording studio was busy, what with its newest singer already placing vocals to his first single.

The last note rang out beautifully as Micky finished the song, his voice stronger than ever. He puffed out his cheeks and gave a wary smile, clearly he hadn’t truly known the range of his own voice.

It was the song that did it. As soon as he heard the demo, Micky knew he had to atleast give it a try. He also got it on the first take.

Mary stood and applauded from the sound boards. Of course, Micky could only see her applaud as the intercom hadn’t been switched on. Finally, he saw the little red light come on. "That was fantastic, Micky!"

He still wasn’t used to the compliments. "Thanks," he replied, blushing slightly.

"We’ll get your vocal mixed with the backing track and have the completed song by this afternoon. Say, two hours?"

"Sounds okay," Micky agreed.

"Great. Go get something to eat, or whatever, you’ve earned it."

The little red light went off, followed by the buzzer on the door, signaling that is was safe to open the sound proof door.

Micky left the little sound room, walking through, past the sound boards and several members of the production crew, who applauded him.

Everything felt foreign to him. Yet, despite the uneasyness, he enjoyed the singing and the appreciation. The latter of the two being what was missing when he was part of the band...

Micky frowned, thinking about what he had done to The Monkees. A small voice in his mind wondered if they’d already replaced him. He was almost tempted to pick up a newspaper to check the ads for a "Singer/Drummer Wanted" ad.

He sighed, atleast he’d been able to talk Mary and the production crew into letting him play the drums on some of the songs he’d be recording in the next several days.

It’d only been a week since he’d left the beach house, or rather had been kicked out of the beach house. Micky hoped it had only been Mike’s temper talking. If it had been, it had talked atleast once more, he was sure, when he had to send a lackey to retrieve the rest of his belongings. He noticed how quickly the lackey had arrived, dropped off his things, and left again, never making eye contact.

Maybe a walk would do him some good, maybe clear his head...

* * * * *

The neighborhood was amazing quiet for a beautiful summer afternoon. Micky knew he should be happy, but his level of cheerfulness was no where near what it could’ve been, judging from the weather alone. He let out a sigh just before turning a corner around a building. He stopped abruptly.

It was one of the last clubs he and the guys had played at. Micky saw Peter sitting on the steps going into the club. He didn’t offer a smile, but kept eye contact.

Micky checked his watch. He had plenty of time to stop. He took in a breath and walked over. "Hey, Peter."

"Hi, Mick," Peter greeted. "Wanna sit?" He moved over.

"Thanks." Micky sat next to him. "So..."

"So..." Peter echoed, "how’s the recording going?"

"Good, they’re, uh, actually mixing my first single right now."

Peter did a double take. "You’re kidding."

Micky shook his head. "I got it in one take. Great song. It’ll probably be released to radio stations in two weeks. The 45s ought to be out in a month."

"Must be nice," Peter said, then paused. "What happened with your hair?"

Subconsciously, Micky ran a hand through his tamed curls. "Uh, they sicced a hair stylist on me, trying to straighten it out. I told her she wasn’t doing it right, but she kept insisting she knew what she was doing."

Peter nodded. "It only took you three hours at a time per week doing it yourself."

"Is Mike still pissed?" Micky asked, abruptly, ignoring the hair comment.

"Yes." Peter sighed. "I wanted so badly to be happy for you, I just can’t do it around Mike. It’s like he’s jealous about it, but I don’t think he really is. He wanted all of us to get that ‘big break’."

"How about Davy?"

"He’s with me. He’s confided that he can’t handle singing most of the leads. It’s too much for him. He’s already had one bad sore throat, he nearly lost his voice. We had to revamp an entire show to use mostly Mike’s songs, while I took a couple of yours. We didn’t even touch Davy’s songs that night."

"Man, I need to talk to Mike," Micky said.

"I might suggest waiting, Mick," Peter warned.

He nodded, then checked his watch again. "I’m sorry, Pete, I gotta get back to the studio. They wanted me back to listen to the final mix." He stood.

"Okay. Hey, Mick?" Peter looked up at him as he turned.

"Yeah?"

"Good luck, man." He gave him a small smile.

Micky copied it. "Thanks, Peter, that means alot." He started back the way he came as Peter watched until he rounded the corner of the building.

Peter let out a forced breath, shaking his head.

* * * * *

That evening, Micky collapsed on the couch in his new apartment. He’d ended up laying down some backing vocals for the finished product. Now, he was just worn out. He remained face-down on the couch for several minutes, then finally rolled over and sat up again.

The apartment was huge. He’d heard someone say ‘condo’, or something to that effect. It was also well furnished and stocked with a new wardrobe. The new clothes hung in his walk-in closet, while his things were put into drawers. He stood and walked over to the bureau.

Micky opened one of the drawers and pulled out something that resembled a table cloth, with the exception of the hole in the center. He held it up in front of himself and turned to the mirror. He sighed, remembering how he couldn’t persuade Mary and the production crew to let him record one of his own compositions, namely "Randy Scouse Git."

He dropped the one-time table cloth back in the drawer and dug around some more. His fingers brushed over some buttons and he paused, then dug for the item. Micky pulled out a blue eight-button shirt, followed by a red version, and a pale gold version. He was curious about why Mike stuffed the shirts in his bag. Maybe he thought they wouldn’t be able to find someone skinny enough to wear them. He set his jaw at that thought. It figured that would be the first thing he thought of.

Micky dropped the shirts back in the drawer and closed it. He turned and glanced over the apartment. The spread of it was about the equivalent of the beach house. The only difference being that he felt very alone in the apartment. And why not, he was alone after all.

His shoulders slumped and he trudged his way into the bedroom and, yet again, flopped down face-first. This time, Micky remained where he landed and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep wouldn’t take too long in finding him.

* * * * *

At the beach house, a very shaky version of Mary, Mary could be heard.

"Fellas, I’m never going to get this rhythm down," Davy complained, from his seat behind the drums.

"I’m sorry, Davy, but we need a drummer," Mike said, trying to keep his temper in check. He had been doing better the last few days.

"Maybe we should all take a break," Peter suggested.

"Good idea," Davy agreed, headed for the fridge. He grabbed a soda for himself and for the others.

They sat at the table, while Peter stood. "I saw Micky today."

"Really?" Mike asked, sounding concerned. When he spoke again, it was sarcasm, "He remember your name?"

Peter gave Mike a pained expression. He was getting tired of the mood swings. "Yes, he did. His first single will be on the radio in two weeks."

"What’s the song?" Davy asked.

"Oh," Peter began, "I forgot to ask."

Mike snorted, but didn’t say anything.

"Mike..." Davy began.

"Michael, why do you have such a problem with Micky’s decision?" Peter asked, sitting next to the Texan.

"We should’ve made it as a band--" he began to argue.

"Micky got his contract because of his singing voice, Mike. Did you ever pay attention to his voice? He’s got a wonderful voice, but he hardly ever really used it."

"Peter, he sang most of the leads."

"That isn’t what I meant," Peter corrected.

"I’ve heard it," Davy spoke up. "Didn’t you ever hear him sing Since I Fell For You?"

Mike sighed. He obviously wasn’t going to win this battle. "I just wish all of us could’ve gotten that contract. We’ve all worked hard. I’ll admit that I was jealous when I told him to leave. I wish I hadn’t, but he’s probably got his own place by now. He’s probably got girls coming and going..."

"You get his address, Peter?" Davy asked, giving them a small smirk, earning a swat from Mike.

* * * * *

It was a little after midnight, but it didn’t matter. The apartment, amazingly enough, didn’t have an outside balcony, but did have a very good window seat. Micky had set himself up so he was resting his back and head on the seat itself, while his legs leaned against the wall. Every once in a while, he turned his head to glance out the window, then would return his attention to the notebook propped against his legs.

He scribbled something in the notebook, paused, scratched something out, and scribble again. He frowned at the messy handwriting he was using, but let it go. Micky had had an idea for a song and wanted to get the ideas down before he lost them. So far, though, all he had was the title, It’s My Life, and a few verses. The original idea had hit the night Mary Frenner introduced herself and offered the chance to have a recording contract. That was about a week ago. It was harder now to write in the vein he could’ve had then.

Micky sighed audibly and turned his gaze out the window again. It had started raining just that quickly. It seemed to fit the current mood he was in. He thought about being back at the pad, bouncing around, goofing on the guys, and just having fun. So far, the only fun he’d had was singing. Everything else was either a bore... or depressing. He’d never considered himself as someone who could get depressed, but without Mike, Davy, and Peter around...

His eyes closed tightly, then he draped his arms over his face. This wasn’t turning out the way he had hoped. All Micky wanted to do was earn a living as a singer, and even as a drummer if he could. Sure, he was singing, but it seemed to cost him more than money could pay for.

He remained that way the rest of the night, with a quiet sob escaping every once in a while.

* * * * *

Mike came downstairs the next morning to find Peter had already parked himself at the table, munching dazedly on his bowl of cereal. "Pete, what’s the matter?"

Peter shrugged. "I couldn’t sleep last night. I just-- I had this bad feeling. My stomach kind of knotted itself up. I thought maybe I was just hungry." He glanced down at the partially eaten bowl of cereal. "That was part of it."

"You’re worried about Micky."

"Yes, I am."

"I am, too," Mike admitted. "I thought for certain he would’ve been back by now, even if he does think I’m gonna kill him. He’s stood up for himself and gotten me to back down before." He paused. "Micky knows that was just my anger talking when I made him leave, doesn’t he?"

"I thought he did," Peter replied.

"Thought who did what?" Davy asked, joining them. He yawned as he took up a chair. "Can’t a guy get a good night’s rest around here?"

"No," Peter answer bluntly.

Davy looked confused. "What did I miss?"

"We’re trying to figure out why Micky hasn’t atleast stopped by yet," Mike offered.

"Well, you did throw him out, Mike," Davy told him.

"I was mad!"

"I don’t know if he actually realizes that, Mike," Davy said, then shrugged.

"Guys," Peter spoke up, "what if we go over to the record company today. We can go see him instead of waiting for him to see us."

* * * * *

Micky yawned. He’d draped himself over the chair he’d asked to be placed in the sound booth. He felt dead, or atleast dead tired from not having slept at all the previous night.

He had managed to get through the vocals of one song and decided to hang around while they mixed it. His eyes had just closed when he heard to door open.

"Micky?"

He opened his eyes with effort and saw Mary leaning in the door. "Are you okay?"

Micky waved a hand. "Jus’ tired."

"Oh. Well, okay." Mary paused, then remembered something, "Security said there’s some guys out in the waiting room that want to see you."

It took a moment to register, but when it did, Micky jumped up, stumbled to the ground, then did all he could to leave the booth while standing. He opened the side door that lead to the waiting room and caught sight of a familiar green hat. "Guys!"

The three Monkees stood as their friend came running towards them. As soon as Micky reached them, he collapsed, causing them to catch him before he hit the floor.

* * * * *

"I do not understand how this is my fault?"

The voice cut through his head sharply, causing him to flinch.

"Micky collapsed! There’s obviously something wrong, since that never happened to him when he was with us!"

The second voice made him groan. The sound was just too loud.

"Hey, Mike, I think he’s coming around."

Finally, a soft voice.

Micky’s eyes cracked open and he saw Peter looking down at him. "Pete... wha’ happen’?"

"I think we should be asking you that question. You collapsed, man," Peter replied.

"You came running out to us like everything was good and down you went," Davy chimed in, looking down from the opposite side.

The guys had laid him across several of the chairs in the waiting room, which was where he remained. Micky watched Mike walk over.

"Mick, how did this happen?" Mike asked, sparing a gleaming look at Mary.

"I was pretty tired," he mumbled. "I haven’ slep’ very well las’ couple nigh’s."

Mike turned to Mary, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well?"

"Don’t look at me. He’s got plenty of time for rest, plenty of food and money--"

"What about friends? Doesn’t that matter in any of this?" Mike asked.

"I never said he couldn’t have friends!"

"Then how come we haven’t seen him in over a week?" Mike all but yelled.

Micky reached up to tug on Mike’s shirt. "Wasn’ her faul’."

Mike glanced down at him. "What?"

"You were mad..." he continued softly, "and I like the singin’. I knew you’d jus’ yell an’ argue about it."

Mike sighed. His eyes held rage, but he spoke calmly. "You didn’t want see us? We’re only your friends, Micky. Good friends are tough to come by, and we won’t wait for you to decide to call us friends." He watched a frown cross Micky’s face. "You can’t have all this and us, too. Can’t you see that? It’s because they don’t want us. So you have to decide." He ran a hand over his face. "I’m sorry, Mick." Mike headed for the door and left.

"Wow..." was all Peter could manage.

"I can’t believe that," Davy breathed out.

Micky groaned as his eyes closed again.

* * * * *

He woke up sometime later to find himself in his bed... his new bed, anyway.

Micky ran a hand over his face.

"Feeling any better?"

If there had been anything attached to the ceiling, Micky would’ve been hanging off it. He sat up with authority, pushing himself back. "Peter?"

Peter offered an apologetic smile. "I didn’t mean to scare you." He shifted to lean forward in the chair which sat off to the side.

Micky blinked and sunk down against the headboard. "I always wake up like that." He paused, then groaned. "Pete, I feel like shit. And... how did I get here?"

"I asked Mary where you were living. Davy and I brought you here."

He looked around. "Where’s Davy?"

"He went back to the pad. He wanted to try and talk some sense into Mike."

Micky sunk down even more. "Mike... I knew he was still mad."

"Micky, can I ask you something?"

He looked him in the eyes. "Sure, Pete, you can ask me anything."

"Are you happy?"

"Huh?" Micky’s brow lowered in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, living here, being a solo singer, not having your friends around--" Peter began.

"Not you, too..." he groaned.

"I’m asking if you’re happy with all the changes that’ve been made. Are you?"

"I love the singing, Pete," Micky replied, then looked down. "I hate everything else."

"I guess we have a problem, then." He paused. "That’s what Mike meant when he said you have to decide. It took me a moment to realize it, but he had a good point. Rembrandt Records doesn’t want The Monkees. They do want Micky Dolenz. The only problem is that Micky is a Monkee."

Micky frowned again and looked up. "I hate it when you talk about me like I’m not here."

Peter sighed. "Could you consider both sides of this? You’re obvious not doing well in your current state. Mick, all we want is for you to be happy. And I mean really happy. I don’t ever want to see this happen to you again. We were worried something was really wrong with you."

"I’ll think about it," he replied, looking anywhere except directly at Peter.

"That’s all I ask. I have to get back to the pad. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah. I think so. Give me time to think."

Peter stood and crossed to the door. "I’ll let myself out." He paused, waiting to see if Micky would look at him, but his head just dipped down. He stepped out the door, closing it after him. Peter stopped to look around the living room. He remembered what Micky’s half of his and Mike’s shared room looked like: covered with everything imaginable from posters to knick knacks. This room was spotless. No posters, no knick knacks. Just very... white.

Peter crossed the room, but something by the large window caught his eye. He went over and saw the notebook. He flipped it open and saw some song verses. They were good. Too good. He had a feeling that Micky was being suffocated in all this... plain-ness.

* * * * *

The sunlight shone through the window of the plain white room the next morning. The light came through the slits in the blinds, landing several beams right on his face. Without waking up, he slid farther under the blankets, leaving only his mop of curls showing.

This didn’t last. The light eventually became too bright and got through the blankets, finally waking him up. He peaked over the blankets towards the offending window, squinted his eyes, and growled at it.

The sunlight continued. Micky sighed and realized he had finally been able to sleep, but, unfortunately, it also left him with a headache. He pulled the blankets back over his head and tried to fall back asleep, only to be startled minutes later by the alarm clock. Peaking out again, he glared daggers at the annoying time piece and promised it a slow, painful death once his headache dissipated.

He reached for the clock to shut it off, then let his arm drop. He missed Mike’s grumbling in the morning and Peter running in to wake both of them. Micky even had to admit that he missed Davy hogging the bathroom to do his ‘primping’. He smirked, remembering once when Davy spent longer than he usually did, so he had grabbed a bar of soap and a towel.....

It wasn’t exactly a highlight in his life, nor was it funny at the time, but now it did seem a little funny. Or atleast the part that Davy had outsmarted him in a prank. To that day, as far as he knew, only himself and Davy knew about it. Atleast Davy hadn’t gloated to Mike and Peter.

Micky sighed. Despite not being a morning person, nor having anyone to wake him up, he had to get up. There was a recording session scheduled to start at 10am. And he liked the singing. It was everything else that got to him, just like he’d told Peter.

* * * * *

After a few days, the closer the production crew came to getting Micky’s record ready for release, the more restless--and annoying--he became.

A knock came at the door of Mary’s office. She sighed, knowing full well who was at her door. "It’s open, Micky."

The door opened and, sure enough, Micky entered. "Hey, Mary, you’re gettin’ good."

"Micky, I know you’re here to ask me to reconsider signing you friends. I’m sorry, but the company just isn’t looking for another group, no matter how good." She stopped abruptly, letting it slip that she did think they were good.

"It’s nice to hear that you think they’re worthy of being musicians."

Mary sat back, folding her arms across her chest. "What’s going on, Micky? You’re being a smart-ass for no reason."

"I have atleast one reason. Mary, I wouldn’t be in here bugging you all the time if you’d sign the guys. We’d come in, play our music, and leave happily. You’d probably never even see us!" He sat down and leaned forward on the end of her desk. "You wouldn’t even have to spend any more on the four of us than you’re already spending on me. Atleast think about it."

"Micky, they don’t want another group. What don’t you understand about that?" Mary asked.

He sat back. "I don’t know."

Mary sighed. "I’m not stopping you from seeing them, you know."

Micky nodded. "That’s fine, but do you know how hard it is to face my three best friends, who’ve worked at this for as long as I have, or longer, and see envy and maybe even jealousy in their eyes because I lucked out, and they’re still playing $30 gigs once every other week or so. Without a drummer or one of their lead singers, I might add." He closed his eyes. "I feel like I’m betraying them."

"I cannot help that." She paused, steeling herself. "Was there anything else?"

"No," he said, then opened his eyes. Just before he stood, Mary thought she saw tears forming in his eyes. Micky turned and left the office. He got out into the hall, then leaned his back against the wall. He ran the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes.

* * * * *

Micky returned to his apartment late that night. He’d spent most of the evening walking around. Subconsciously, he’d ended up on Beachwood Drive. Rather than walking past the pad, he opted for walking along the beach. He’d hoped maybe one of the fellas would be down there for some reason or other.

He wasn’t that lucky, though, as he was the only person on the beach. Micky had walked past the stairs leading up to the veranda, watching the bay windows and the light that spilled from them. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to go up there.

Micky clicked on one lone light in the living room, casting a dull yellow light over what it could reach, then he practically collapsed onto the couch face-first.

Just like being embarrassed, it took alot for him to cry, but now he did it freely. He wouldn’t be able to handle this situation much longer.

Micky considered changing his tactics in trying to talk Mary into signing the guys, but she was solid in her stance that the record label didn’t want another group. He didn’t know why they were so dead-set against it, and that made him angry. However, this new life, without Davy, Mike, and Peter, didn’t make him mad, it made him lonely. He couldn’t face them; he didn’t want to.

What he feared the most, was what the loneliness could lead to. Micky had heard and seen enough about how depression could cause someone to make irrational decisions. The worst part for him was he didn’t know how far off from being depressed he was. For that matter, he didn’t want to know, but it scared him just the same.

Eventually, the tears ran out, if merely from exhaustion, but it still took until early the next morning for him to fall into atleast a light sleep.

Micky was trapped.

* * * * *

It was six days removed from when he’d last seen the guys and the incident. He’d been in Mary’s office about two or three times a day. He pleaded his case a little differently every time he was in there. Sometimes he opted for the simple angry arguement, other times he tried to appeal to her emotions. The only conclusion that Micky came to was that she seemed to keep her emotions locked up tighter than Fort Knox

He was getting no where fast.

Currently, he sat in the waiting room where he had collapsed. Despite their differences, Mary wanted to be the one to show him his debut album. Micky didn’t even know what the cover looked like.

He kept glancing around the room, trying to not think about what his lack of sleep had done to him.

Finally, the hall door opened and Mary came out, holding two brown-paper wrapped packages. He knew what they were and stood up to greet her, although he wondered why she had two.

"Here it is, Micky." Mary handed him one of the packages.

Micky stared at it for a moment, first, before tearing the paper off. His jaw dropped. The crew had used a rather flattering, close-up picture for the cover. He flipped it over and took note of the candids. He looked up at Mary. "Where did you get these pictures?"

"I feel bad about not being able to offer the others anything. I got them from Mike. I’d called to offer a sort of... peace treaty."

Micky frowned slightly. "I’m surprised he didn’t think you just said it to get the pictures."

Mary smirked. "He did think that. I’m going to talk to the higher ups and see if there’s anything at all possible I can do to keep The Monkees together." She paused, glancing at the package still in her hand. "This one," she offered it to him, "I want you to give to the guys."

"Thanks, Mary, I’ll do that." And for the first time in about two weeks, Micky smiled.

* * * * *

The three remaining Monkees hadn’t seen or heard from Micky since the incident a week prior. If they’d been worried previously, now it was an understatement.

Mike paced across the living room. Peter sat at the table, watching Mike’s pacing.

Davy had considered making a crack that Mike would wear a rut into the floor, but choose not to verbalize it when he realized it was something Micky would say.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Mike, being the closest, went to open it. "Yes?" He stood and stared a moment, while Davy and Peter came up behind him.

"Hey, guys," Micky said, a wary smile crossing his face. He had a very flat, brown paper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. He was also dressed in his clothes.

"Micky..." It took a moment for Mike’s brain to turn over. "C’mon in, man." He closed the door after him.

"I’m glad you guys are talking to me," Micky said.

"What’s that under your arm?" Peter asked, the first to notice the package.

"Oh, um..." Micky regarded the package a moment. "I want you guys to open this after I leave."

"You aren’t here to stay?" Davy questioned.

"No, not yet atleast," Micky said. "The apartment I have is still paid for for another 6 weeks and I can’t get the money back." He paused. "I’ve been doing alot of thinking," he spared a glance at Mike, "I want you guys included in this. We’ve been together for too long."

"Mick, you don’t have to do that, not after the way I treated you," Mike said.

Micky gave a short laugh. "But, Mike, I can’t just not include all of you for something you did." He smirked. "And I can’t just not include you because we’d just be back where we started. When I’m through, it’ll be all of us or none of us." He sighed. "I’m on break while they mix my next single. I had to come see you guys. I’m sorry about all of this." He handed Mike the package. "I’ll see you guys later."

The others offered goodbyes and Mike closed the door after Micky. He turned back to Peter and Davy, looking at the package.

"It’s a record," Peter stated, simply judging from the size and shape.

"It’s his?" Davy asked.

"We’ll find out in a moment," Mike said, then tore the brown paper off to reveal exactly what Peter said it was. A record. With Micky’s picture on the cover... one of the pictures he’d sent to Mary. He flipped it over to look at the songs on it. "Take A Giant Step, Let’s Dance On, Saturday’s Child, Last Train To Clarksville, I Don’t Think You Know Me, Rosemarie, I’m A Believer, Cara Mia, She, Mary Mary, Steppin’ Stone, and Sometime In The Morning."

"He used our songs," Davy commented.

"Except Cara Mia. I wonder how that got in there?" Peter asked.

"I don’t know, but I think I heard that play on the radio. I only heard the very end," Mike said.

"Let’s play it," Davy urged.

They gathered around the turntable and Mike placed the record on it. He lifted the arm and set the needle gently on the outer ridge, then turned it on.

* * * * *

The next day brought a staggering meeting with the higher ups in the record company. Mary had insisted on pleading Micky’s case for him, so again, he waited outside. He did like that fact that he’d yet to even be on the fifth floor, which was where all of the offices were found.

He wasn’t even bored from waiting. He let his eyes wonder over everything. The first thing he took especial notice of was the leather furniture. The sofa he was currently seated on felt like a little bit of Heaven.

Micky glanced over the gold records gracing the walls. A flicker of wonder ran through his brain as to whether his record could ever be up there. No, I’d rather see a Monkees gold record.

The meeting had lasted well over an hour when Mary finally came out, looking worse for the wear. Micky stood as she walked over. "Don’t tell me..."

She shook her head. "They won’t budge at all."

His eyes closed and he let out a sigh.

* * * * *

Later that day, the fellas were packing up their instruments for a gig, when a knock came at the door. Davy ran over to answer it.

All three stopped and stared at Micky, standing in the doorway, a duffle bag over his shoulder and a record under his other arm. "Hey, guys." He offered a small smile as Peter and Mike joing Davy.

"You’re back for good?" Mike asked, trying not to sound too happy.

Micky smirked, but didn’t let on. "It didn’t work out. They wouldn’t even compromise. I told Mary I couldn’t take it anymore and that I was done. If they want me, they want all of us."

Despite all that Micky was carrying, Mike extended a hand, which Micky accepted in a handshake. "We missed you, shotgun," Mike said.

Micky dropped the bag and laid the record down on it and pulled Mike into a hug. "Dammit, I missed you guys."

"Hey, save some for us," Davy spoke up, then decided to just attach himself to the existing hug.

Peter shrugged. "Make room for one more!" He joined in also.

* * * * *

Despite the immediate success of Micky’s single Cara Mia, it was lost just as quickly in the shuffle among The Beatles, The Beach Boys... and Jay Black & The Americans who ended up with Cara Mia as their break through hit.

But it hadn’t surprised Micky. He’d had a sneaking suspicion that that song would end up being recorded by someone else since it was the only one not written by a member of The Monkees.

It didn’t matter. Micky was happy with the recognition he had, but was happier to be back as co-lead singer and drummer with The Monkees once again.

~The End~