Stuck in the Sixties
Prologue: Selling Out
"Would you guys just listen to me for a second, please?" Jim pleaded. "Our company will be great for you. A well-known label, a staff whose job it is to get you places, the works. We'll make you stars."
Peter, Davy, Micky and Mike looked across the table at their friend. They had heard his spiel many times and they had always given him the same answer:
"No," they said in unison. Jim was clearly exasperated at another firm denial.
"Why not?" He asked his usual follow-up question.
"Look man," Mike said, leaning forward on his elbows. "It's the same reason we said no before. Your father's company, its management style…it's just not us, man."
The rest of the group nodded firmly.
"We've talked about it lots of times," Davy added. "We all wanna make it big, of course – "
"—But we want to stay true to who we are," Peter finished.
"And we're not sell outs," added Micky. This made Jim's face flush.
"Sell outs?! I'm your friend, I'm not asking you to – "
"Jim, please," Mike said again. "I'm not trying to shut you down, but you already know how this conversation is going to end. Can't you let it go?"
"I'm trying to do you a favor – I'm helping you out!"
Mike sighed. "We respectfully decline. We appreciate what you do for others, but we don't want it for ourselves."
Jim fell silent. The story always went the same old way. Darling Management had a lengthy list of restrictions and control over musicians that they signed, and the Monkees were always scared off by it. No amount of compromise on either end (and no amount of "future success" that was promised) had ever been enough for them to give. Normally, Jim would quiet down about it for a few months and then try again, but this time he was getting desperate. He needed to prove to his father that he could take over management of the company eventually, and Jim Senior loved the Monkees. He had high hopes that they would be successful and, if they were under his family's label, he would be successful. And Jim Senior had designated the task of recruiting the Monkees to his son. And Jim had failed. Again.
After a very long silence during which the band exchanged uncomfortable shrugs and Jim brooded, Micky spoke:
"Look Jim, we're sorry – "
"No."
"What?"
"You're going to regret this." His voice was very quiet, little more than a growl.
All four band mates' eyes were glued to Jim. They had never seen him this angry. Jim was about to explode.
"I'm not going to lose my company because of a group of Monkees!" He exclaimed, standing up and slamming his hands on the table.
"Lose your company?" Peter asked. "What are you talking about, Jim?"
Jim rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I'm so insistent? I need you to sign away your future success – that my father just knows you're going to have – or else he won't pass on ownership of Darling Management to me after he retires."
Davy stood up. "So this was all a ploy to get us to sign our lives away? I thought we were friends!"
"Not quite." Jim sneered. "But it doesn't matter. I'll figure out a way to get you."
Mike silently shook his head as he stood up. "No you won't. This bites, man, but it's time to call it quits."
Jim shot them one more glare and then stormed out.
After the door slammed shut behind him, the Monkees looked at each other.
Peter looked sad. "I can't believe he lied about being our pal."
Davy patted him on the shoulder. "Sometimes people aren't always who you think they are."
"Should we be nervous?" Micky asked, scratching his head.
"Nah," Mike replied, adjusting his hat and walking to the fridge. "What can he do except brood about it?"
In his office on Main Street, Jim was sulking. He was also avoiding the phone call he knew he had to make to his father, because he did not want to break the news that, this time, it looked as though he had finally failed once and for all.
He rose from his desk chair and walked over to pour himself a shot of whiskey that he kept in the cupboard for days like today. When he sat back down, glass in hand, he noticed that there was a sealed envelop on his desk that had certainly not been there a moment ago.
He glanced around his office. There was only one door, which he had been facing as he poured his drink. Nobody had entered. Where had the letter come from?
Perplexed, he opened the envelope. Goosebumps shivering across his arms, he saw, in his own handwriting:
Jim,
Don't give up yet. You're going to get the Monkees. I have a plan.
-Jim
November 9th, 2016.
Tune in next chapter to see how failing chemistry can actually get you into a time machine.