Bonnie sat in the chair across the desk from her boss, feeling something like a twelve-year old in the principal's office... but with much more at stake than a few detentions.
"Bob, I don't know what to say..."
He rolled his eyes and slapped a hand on his desk, making her jump.
"Well for christsake don't say you're sorry... 'sorry' is getting to be a real drag." When Bonnie looked confused, he went on, "Everybody's sorry. Nesmith's sorry he grabbed ass like the old days, you're sorry you decked him for it, I'm sorry you decked him in the middle of a read-through, the network is sorry we have to delay the episode so we can shoot around a busted face, and that bimbo and her agent are very sorry they missed the fine print on the extras contract that said hands off the REAL cast or you don't get paid, and keep your mouth shut or you get sued. But they are learning real fast."
"But," Bonnie ventured timidly, "isn't it too late for her to shut up?"
"Too late for that dumbass interview but not too late for her to retract in order to save herself from a Custer's Last Stand full of lawyers." When Bonnie started to open her mouth he cut her off with, "And don't thank me either. I didn't do it for you."
Silence reigned for a minute or two, then Bob sighed and spoke more calmly.
"You remember what I said when I found out about you and Nesmith?"
Bonnie thought for a minute. "'It's your funeral'?"
He got up from his chair, and waved his hands toward the ceiling as if appealing to heaven, then sat down again and looked Bonnie in the eye. "No the other thing! That I didn't give a shit unless it started to interfere with the job, and the show."
She found it hard to look him in the eye, but she did. "Look, I know I crossed the line..."
The mad gesturing started up again. "Crossed the line? Babe, you broad jumped over it with both feet and a mean right hook!"
"I hope the other cast didn't quit or anything," she mumbled, mortified. There had just been the regulars, a one-line walk-on, and, well, the big guest star, Rose Marie, to witness her fireworks. Rose Marie had worked with them on another episode, and had been glad to come back for "Monkee Mother." That could all be over now, but Bob's derisive snort told her otherwise.
"Rosie told me she's seen worse than that in summer stock. But we'll have to find another walk-on." He stopped then, and huffed a huge breath.
He's gonna can me, Bonnie thought, who can blame him?
"Okay, if you want me gone I won't put up a fight. Just tell me when and how." She was surprised when he rolled his eyes and laughed
"Don't be so goddamned dramatic. I just wanted to make sure we were clear... that this kind of thing will not happen again, anywhere within ten miles of this place. If you and Nesmith wanna turn your lives into a low rent soap opera from hell, you do it on your own time and at your own place. I have already had this little chat with him. So do you get it?"
"Yeah. Bob, really, I'm..."
"I told you not to say it," he warned. "Nesmith managed not to say it... no surprise there. He could flip the bird to a bus full of nuns and not apologize. So... time to talk about what comes next."
Here was the opening she was waiting for. She'd been thinking... maybe a visit New York might help her clear her head. She hadn't spoken to Ari or Lulu yet, and knew they wouldn't call first. Before she and Mike had returned to LA after that big Phyllis mess, Ari had told her "If you need me you know I'm here... but you're a big girl now, so remember 'need' and 'want' are different." As for Lulu, she frequently reminded Bonnie, "I'm your best friend and I love you beyond all reason... but I'm no un-marriage counselor." Still, Bonnie thought maybe...
"I don't suppose I could take a few days... go East and see my friends?" To be honest she was only half-sure she wanted to... the other half was very afraid to walk away right now.
"You wreck my production schedule," Bob blurted, his eyes bugging out, "and you want time off? Whatever you're smoking, I wish you'd share it!" When he saw the look on Bonnie's face, equal parts shame and desperation, he shifted gears again. "Go East, huh. And do what? Hide out in the Village with a bunch of hippies and wait for divine inspiration to fix the mess you two have made? That's not gonna fix a damn thing. Hey, don't look at me like that, we've all been working together long enough for me to hear about 'mamadillo', and what it does. And doesn't do." Suddenly he looked caught out, as if he'd overplayed a secret hand, and the bluster returned.
"So you can forget about time off, I need you here. You can slam shut, or whatever it is you do when life gets gruesome, on your own time, too. You're gonna work with Frawley and re-do the shooting schedule to get as much shot as we can until Nesmith's face is back to normal."
Bonnie couldn't believe it was that bad... she'd just slapped him. Hard, yeah, but still... then again she knew nothing could make Bob change the production schedule... and delaying it? That would take an earthquake, the plague... or an unshootable star.
Bob interrupted her thoughts by barking, "Okay, I told you what, you go and figure out how, which as I recall is your job!" He pointed to the office door. "I need a whole new production schedule by tomorrow afternoon. Figure on about three days before we can shoot any Nesmith scenes. Go! And make sure he gets home without running into any press, we don't want any pictures right now. Don't look at me like that... it's still your job to wrangle the talent. Besides, you've had a little while to cool off. Try to keep it that way, okay? Both of you."
Well, that seemed to be that. "Uhm, okay, I'll call James and make sure Nesmith gets home. Where is he?" She didn't exactly feel solid enough to face him, and didn't know what to think about his odd late-night visit (and early morning disappearance). But obviously, she didn't have a choice.
"Recording Two, said he's working on some songs. Thank god he's still good for that."
A very few minutes after Bonnie departed Peter, Davy, and Micky sauntered in and sat down, as usual, wherever they pleased.
"So?" Micky asked.
"I hate to admit it, but you were right. She wanted to run back to New York, which would've screwed up everything even more. So I said no time off, and sent her back work. Like you said. But I gotta say this is a very weird scene..." and here he eyed the trio suspiciously, "you've never been very worried about the shooting schedule before."
"Well delays are a drag, Bob," Peter told him brightly.
"Besides," Davy added with a wave toward Micky, "you know at least two of us are professionals."
"Uh-huh..." He did not look convinced. "Professional con artists. Okay, clear out. We're gonna have a new schedule by tomorrow, first meeting at three pm."
Micky popped out of his chair and pranced around the room before curtsying in front of Bob's desk. "We'll be there with bells on!" His voice dropped to a manly growl as he faced Davy and Peter. "On, men!"
After they slammed the door behind them the only sound that followed was the thud of Bob's head when it dropped forward on the desk.
"I'm gonna die young," he moaned.
Bonnie slipped quietly into the control booth. On the long walk from Bob's office, past the sound stages, and to the section of the building devoted to music, she tried to come up with something to say besides "Bob sent me to take you home." In a way she was glad Bob denied her the time off... he was right. Nothing could get fixed that way at work or... the other stuff.
The lights were off in the booth, making the lit studio below look brighter than usual through the glass window. As usual the room was strewn with coiled cable and various instrument stands and rolling chairs and stools. The drums were still set up from the last session, and the mike rigs hung from the ceiling like the world's weirdest mobiles, the microphones themselves safely stored away.
Off to one side amid some music stands and other recording paraphernalia, sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of his many spiral notebooks beside him and "Blondie" in his lap, was Nesmith. He was facing the back wall, bent over the guitar, pausing now and then to write down the stuff Bonnie always thought of as magical code: the musical notations and snatches of lyrics that somehow managed to combine into the most amazing things. She slid the monitor to the lowest level and flipped the "in" switch, then had to bump the level up in order to hear the unplugged Gretsch. He was playing a Samba rhythm, but she recognized the tune immediately, and when she heard that sweet tenor come in it was so quiet she had to strain to hear.
I... saw when you walked by... the love light in-
The music cut off with a flat hand slapped onto the strings, and a single spoken word followed.
"Goddamn."
Bonnie flipped the switch to "in/out" and turned on the engineer's microphone.
"Okay if I come in?"
The dark head lifted, but he didn't turn around.
"Sure."
Bonnie killed the speakers, still not having a single idea in her head except how blindly, helplessly, irredeemably she loved Michael Nesmith. Whispering "I knew I must try..." under her breath, she went down the steps to the studio.
