Chapter 1-I Don't Feel So Well
Mike groaned and rubbed his temples with his fingers. The headache he had all week had morphed into a throbbing migraine and his throat hurt as if he had swallowed nails and live coals at the same time. Shivering under his blankets, he wondered how on earth he became so sick. He guessed it started with Davy. Davy caught a cold from Linda, or was it Barbara? Anna maybe... anyway he caught it from her and he then passed it onto Micky and Peter, each of them adding a new symptom or two. It was only a matter of time until it would get to Mike, and had it had become the cold he now had. Sighing, he turned to look at the clock and moaned again. It was five O'clock at night and they had to play a gig at some new dance club that was opening. The manager wanted them to get there early so he could get them something to eat as part of the payment deal; they would get supper and seventy five dollars each. A gentle knock came from outside the bedroom door.
"Mike are you decent?" Micky asked, opening the door just a crack to peek in, then flung it open and flipped the light on and walked in to see that Mike was still in bed.
"Yeah Mick, come on in." Mike whispered dryly, pulling the covers up over his head as Micky walked over to his bed.
"Are you alright?" Micky questioned, trying to tug the blankets off of Mike.
"Go away and let me sleep." Mike snapped, trying to roll away from Micky's prying fingers.
"Mike as much as I'd love to let you sleep and get over this cold, we need to play this gig tonight. You said so yourself we need the money." Micky said, still trying to pull the covers of his band member. "Plus we ran out of food last night when Peter got that can of soup for you." Micky heard a small sigh coming from under the three blankets that he had put on his bed the night before hopping to stay warm.
"You look awful." Micky said, sitting down on the bed next to Mike.
"It looks worse than it really is." Mike whispered, sitting up gently, hopping his stomach wouldn't decide that it would be a good time to show him what partly digested soup looked like.
"Are you sure you'll be able to sing tonight? We can go without you so you can get some rest." Micky offered, looking at Mike with worry etched in his voice.
"No. Like I said, I look worse then I feel, really. I'm just going to take a quick shower and get dressed, then we can go." Mike said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He got up and would have fallen back down if Micky hadn't caught him.
"Mike, are you sure you're up to singing tonight? I'm sure the owner would understand if you stayed back." Micky said worriedly.
"Micky, I'm fine, really. A shower is just what I need. I'll be ready." Mike said as he made his way on shaky legs to the bedroom door. Clinging onto the doorframe he paused to catch his breath before making his way slowly down the spiral staircase, passing Davy and Peter, making his way to the bathroom and shutting the door with a click.
"He doesn't look too good." Davy commented as Micky made his way down the stairs.
"Maybe he should stay home." Peter suggested, looking at the bathroom door as the water turned on.
"That's what I said, but you know Mike… stubborn as a mule." Micky said, sitting down on the couch to wait for Mike to get out of the bathroom.
"Yeah, he won't admit he's sick until he ends up in the hospital." Davy agreed, going into the kitchen and putting some water on to boil.
"What are you doing?" Peter asked.
"Whenever I was feeling poorly my grandfather made me a cup of tea." Davy said, grabbing a cup and looking for a tea bag. "Maybe Mike would drink some."
"Great idea, but we have no tea. We don't have anything." Micky said, "That's why we need this job. Not only do we money to pay the rent from last month, but we need food."
"Oh, yeah." Davy said sighing as he took the water off the stove and poured it down the drain and went to sit down on the couch next to Micky.
"Guys, what if Mike is really sick?" Peter asked biting his lip with worry.
"Don't worry Pete, we'll get him back to his old self in no time… as soon as we get done playing this gig and get some food. Come on, let's pack up the interments so we're not letting Mike try to do it on his own while we try to find last minute stuff." Micky said, offering a small smile to the blond. Peter and Davy nodded and went over to the bandstand to start putting their instruments into the cases and hauling them out to the car.
Mike, meanwhile, was in the shower, letting the hot water pound down on his sore muscles. He didn't know how the cold that Davy brought home had become the monstrosity that he had. Quickly shampooing his hair and washing his body, he rinsed off and shut off the water. He stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist. He made for the door to head up to the bedroom when a wave of nausea hit him. Going over to the toilet he started dry heaving until he threw up. Sighing, he stood shakily and flushed. Turning the cold water on in the sink he cupped his hand and rinsed out his mouth. Grabbing a new towel from the closet, he put it around himself, tossing the old one into the dirty laundry hamper and leaving the room. The house was empty.
"Please be gentle with that, Mike would kill us if anything happened to his guitar." He heard Micky saying from outside.
"We do know how to load up a car Mick," Davy's voice said, "We've only been doing it for three years." Hurrying upstairs Mike slipped into the bedroom and shut the door. Walking over to his chest of drawers he rummaged around until he found what he was looking for and tossed it onto the bed. He then went to the closet and grabbed his black button down shirt and blue jeans as an afterthought he put the shirt back and grabbed the turtle neck instead.
"When did it become so cold in California?" Mike thought as his teeth chattered. Finally grabbing his green hat and putting it on his head he hung up the towel and made his way down stairs to where Peter, Davy and Micky were waiting.
"We packed while you were taking a shower so we're ready to go." Davy said.
"Hmm, Ok." Mike said, screwing his eyes up as his head throbbed again.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay home?" Peter asked.
"Peter, I'm fine. Let me get something for this headache and we'll head out." Mike said.
"Mike, not to sound like I'm pointing out the obvious here, but you're wearing a turtleneck in summer." Micky explained, looking at Mike.
"Yeah, well, I'm cold." Mike snapped.
"How can you be cold? It's 85 degrees out!" Peter said.
"I just am." Mike said, turning to go into the kitchen to grab an aspirin and a glass of water, hopping that it would ease the migraine he had. He didn't see the worried looks his bandmates shot each other.
"Where's the aspirin?" Mike asked as he looked in the cabinet where they kept the spices.
"Might help if you looked in the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink." Davy said, now really worried. It wasn't like Mike to be this out of it.
"Oh." Mike said looking a little confused. He turned around and looked at his friends, his eyes glazed and his face covered in sweat. "Guys." Mike said "I don't feel so good." That was the last thing he remembered saying. His hands suddenly went lax and the glass fell from his hand and he collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor.
"Mike!" all three of his bandmates shouted running over to him.
"Mike, are you ok?" Peter asked as Davy tapped Mike's face, trying to wake him up. Mike groaned, but didn't wake up.
"Of course he's not, dummy, he just passed out!" Micky snapped, his worry for Mike making his words harsh. Peter looked at Micky with his hurt, blue eyes. "I'm sorry Pete." Micky quickly apologized.
"I think he's got a fever." Davy said putting his hand to Mike's forehead. "Micky, can you and Peter get him to bed while I grab the thermometer?"
"Yeah, come on Pete, let's see if we can wake him up a little bit." Micky said, taking Davy's place as Davy hurried into the bathroom to get the thermometer. "Mike, can you hear me?" Micky asked, gently tapping Mike's face. Mike moaned a little and turned his head away "Go away, I'm sleeping." Mike slurred.
"Yeah, well maybe you'd like to sleep on a bed instead of the kitchen floor?" Micky suggested.
"No. It's cool down here, up there it's hot. Heat rises." Mike mumbled. Micky looked at Peter.
"Come on, wake up." Peter said shaking his shoulder. Mike groaned a little louder and opened his eyes. Slowly he looked at Peter, then at Micky, then slowly closed them again. By that time Davy had come out of the bathroom with the thermometer.
"Did he wake up?" Davy asked worriedly.
"A little bit." The drummer answered as he stepped aside for the shorter man to see what Mike's temperature was.
"Mike, can you wake up a little bit for me? I want to get your temperature and get you more comfortable." Davy said, kneeling down beside Mike. Mike opened one eye again as Davy prodded the thermometer through his lips and under his tongue. While they waited, Peter called the club to tell them what happened as Micky went to get the instruments out of the car.
"A Thuk A goin' tho up." Mike mumbled opening his eyes and looking at Davy worriedly.
"What was that Mike?" Davy asked.
"A thunk A goin' tho up." Mike repeated, more urgently as he tried to sit up.
"He said 'I think I'm going to throw up.'" Peter said, coming back with Davy's maracas and tambourine.
"Oh." Davy said. Mike's eyes got wide and he nodded fiercely. "Oh!" Davy said as it finally sank in on what Peter said. "Come on, let's get you to the bathroom. Peter can you help me?" Davy asked as he took one of Mike's arms and pulled him into a sitting position. Peter took Mike's other arm and quickly, but gently, they got him up to his feet and helped him hobble to the bathroom. Before they could get there, Mike opened his mouth, the thermometer fell with a clatter, and he threw up all over the floor.
"I'm sorry." Mike whispered "I'll clean it up." He started to say as he make to turn around but Peter grabbed him and shook his head.
"No. Micky and Davy will clean this up. Let's get you into the bathroom and clean you up and get you into some pajamas and into bed, alright?"
"Hmm." Mike nodded. It was a true testament to how sick he really was as Mike allowed Peter and Micky to guide him back upstairs and into the bedroom to change out of his cloths. Once they got him settled back in bed the two descended the stairs quietly.
"He's sleeping again." Peter whispered as he grabbed a sponge from under the sink and started to mop up the sick.
"Poor guy." Davy whispered, glancing up at the closed bedroom door.
"Yeah, but he'll be better in no time." Micky said as he rinsed out his rag "It's the stomach flu, just like we all had. How bad can it be?" He soon came to regret those words.