"Nesmith?" Bonnie called out as she walked in the door. "Nes? You here? Door's unlocked..."
The rage and frustration that had driven her out the door had burnt away over the past few hours. Things had to change, some inside and some outside, so she'd thought hard about the first and had done something about the second.
During her getaway Bonnie finally admitted to herself that it wasn't Bob and Nesmith that kept her standing between them as they duked it out. It was her own damn fault, she was the one who stood in the middle of every pissing contest and wondered why she was the only one who got wet. It was time to get real. Bob knew the artistic riff, and Nes and the guys knew the business riff. Everyone already understood, they just didn't like it, and for some insane reason Bonnie had believed that she should try to change that. Well today was a lesson in Stupid, for sure. Bob hated what they had to do, but Bonnie was determined to act like she didn't. Determined to be Professional. So determined that she treated Nesmith like shit just because he got it wrong and figured she'd been bulldozed by Bob and the PTB. She should have just told him simply what had happened in Bob's office, because he would have believed her. She wanted to tell Nes how hard it was to feel robbed like this after all this time because she knew he understood what it was like working so hard and still feeling like you're on the outside. The honest truth was, she'd been afraid if she started talking about it she'd just break down and start bawling like a little kid. So she did what she was best at... she blew into full raging Mamadillo mode and rolled up hard and fast, and once again Nes was caught in the slamming armor plate.
Okay, so he'd been right awhile back, they'd never be the "easy type" together. But she didn't care, she wanted this, and wanted him, and hated how they let the wrong things get in the way sometimes. It was time to get real. That was change number one.
Now, change number two... the external. Time to stop acting like she was still writing promo back in the Village for the love of the music and Benny. That was another part of getting real, and it meant growing up and knowing who she was now. She wasn't a fan or a groupie or a hanger on. If she wanted to be taken seriously by people out in the world it was time to show them she was serious. She was the associate producer of the most successful show on television and she was through being afraid of it and through being mistaken for a soft centered hippie and not the harder edged exec she had to be. She loved her job, and was good at it, and it was time to get real and show that face to the world.
When nobody answered her call, Bonnie figured she'd find Nesmith in the music room, headphones on and tuned out of the world. He wasn't there, but she found one of his notebooks left carelessly open on the sofa. That wasn't like him at all, he never wanted anyone to look at anything that wasn't fully formed. She'd never tried to get around that, but this time just leaned a little closer to see the words he was breaking down and building on.
try to live and love with a heart that won't be broken / it's like tryin to see the truth / with eyes that won't be opened
yeah we both got our damage / we picked up along the way / so if you love me do it gently / I'll try to do the same
/-/-/-/-
we might be oil and water / this could be a bad mistake / we could burn like gasoline and fire /that's the chance I'll have to take
All the rambling clumsy thoughts that had stumbled through her head for the past four hours were right there in front of her, and she knew realer than real she'd rather have it difficult and messy with Nesmith than easy and neat and tidy with anybody else. Suddenly she knew where he'd be.
The garage that had come with the house was good enough to hold a couple of cars, but a couple of cars weren't good enough for Mike Nesmith. So he'd had a proper working garage built, two lifts, air compressors, rolling towering cabinets of tools that would do an Indy pit crew proud. And attached to that, another space big enough to hold his growing collection of vehicles both vintage and modern. The whole auto-shop/parking barn combo nearly dwarfed the house. Bonnie had even teased Nes once about a possible Freudian substitution of machinery for groupies.
"I don't think that's what they mean by auto-erotica," he'd drawled in reply, "besides... I don't want these gone in the morning."
Now she walked by the Pontiac where she'd left it in the parking area next to the house (Nes being the house valet-parking expert), and saw the light on in one of the work bays. Entering through the side door, she saw Nes, visible from only the shoulders down, standing under the front end of the Buick that he had halfway up on the lift. The front tires were leaning against the wall, and the drop light made a weird bright pool on the concrete floor.
"Hey," she ventured, not wanting to startle him. "Didn't expect to find you out here..."
"Well I didn't want to make things harder for you," came the muffled reply. There was no sarcastic edge.
Oh God. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I know you'd never... look I'm thinking we need to talk, not argue or debate or philosophize, just talk, okay?"
His hand extended from behind the wheel bearing. "Hand me the air wrench, will ya?" She did, and for a moment that's all that could be heard. He handed it back to her, still standing under the car. "Look, I've been thinkin' too, and I think maybe we should just rewind a little, okay? I shoulda kept my damn mouth shut, and you shoulda kept your temper, and we both shoulda just left all that shit back at the studio and been a little nicer to each other, you know, just be us like we are when we're not on the job..."
She was about to agree, Yes, exactly, when he ducked out from under the car.
"Su-weet mother o' pearl, who are you and what have you done with my Morris?" he exclaimed, whipping off his safety goggles.
"I thought it was time for a change." Bonnie ran a hand through her hair. Her brand new hair, or less of it anyway. The long braid was gone, replaced by a sleek fifty-dollar Sassoon bob. "One of the things I was thinking, was that part of the reason it's so easy for a schmuck like Kirshner, and some others, to write me off is because I look more like a fan, or worse, a groupie, than what I am. Which is... production, professional, you know? Laugh if you wanna, but the look has as much to do with my job as the sound does to yours."
Mike shook himself out of his bug-eyed stare. "Believe me, mama, I am not laughin'." She looked smoother, more together, even in the same jeans and t-shirt she'd been wearing when she screamed out of the house earlier. She looked like... "You look like a chick on a mission, baby." He wiped his hands on his coveralls and stepped up for a closer look. "Well looky here, you have got quite a neck on ya..." He ran light fingers under her ear and under the satin edge of her hair as if he'd never seen her before.
"Michael, were you listening?"
He stepped back and offered a smile. "Yeah, I was listening. I am listening. So, talk."
She grabbed the front of his coveralls and looked up urgently into his eyes. "I'm so sorry, I was being such a jerk, I wanted to act like it was all groovy because I wanna be so goddamn professional, you know, and that means taking it all with a smile, but I was wrong, yeah we gotta take it but we don't have to smile, but it sucks so bad and hurts so bad I didn't wanna talk about it so I wanted you to shut up..."
It was all coming out in a continuous rush of words, and the only thing that could stop it was the only thing that did, when Mike wrapped both hands around Bonnie's head and silenced her with a kiss.
"Y'know," he told her earnestly when he let her go, "sometimes you just talk too damn much. And so do I. So how about right now you just be my old lady -no offense - and I'll try to be your old man. So... how'd your day go at the office, dear?" Maybe someday he'd tell her where he got the inspiration... but not today.
She felt her breath hitch as she'd feared it would, but didn't care. "It kinda sucked, the boss he did his best, but it really kinda sucks. I wanna go so bad, and be there with all of you, it just sucks." She let him pull her into his arms, and the way he stroked her head and pressed it to his shoulder felt new, and somehow closer than all the times before.
When they got back to the house Mike cleaned up and found Bonnie on the deck outside the bedroom.
She looked up at him, shamefaced, and confessed, "I can't believe I said that to you. The only way you could make anything worse is if you weren't here."
He sat next to her on the Mission love-seat and pulled her into his lap. "Well I'll do my best to stick around, then."
She heaved a shaky sigh. "Finally we all got some payoff, y'know, and I know you might think it's just a PTB thing, awards and all, but it's the one time we'd all be in together on the same side, not debating, not killing ourselves to get it right, and I won't be there for it, and who knows if we'll ever get the chance again. I just feel so... ripped off."
When she started to cry Mike pummeled back his urge to rage against what happened (even as he believed Bob probably did think it sucked) and instead hugged Bonnie tight. "I know, baby. Sometimes 'sucks' is a part of the job, yours 'n' mine both. Lemme see if a little sugar and some poor-babyin' can take some of the hurt off."
Suddenly Bonnie raised her head from Mike's shoulder and looked him in the eye.
"This'll never be a mistake," she told him.
He gave her a kiss and followed with a wry smile, running his fingers through her short, soft hair. "Saw that, did ya. Well y'know..."
"Not for me, not for anybody. But I'm telling you Michael, now it's your turn to be wrong. Like you told me in New York when I was afraid we wouldn't work. It's your turn to be wrong now."
"Mm-hm," he mused and pulled her head to his shoulder again. "Nice to have somethin' else in common... now you think you can handle a little more sugar and poor-babyin'? I'm new to it, but I think I'm getting the hang..."
Back at Peter's place, the party had been interrupted by a call from Bob. As the girls waited in varying states of boredom and frustration with Chip as their sole entertainment, Micky Peter and Davy got on separate extensions.
"Okay, guys I just got off the phone with Pam Saunders. We got a fix that'll get Bonnie into the Emmy's. Ann Moses is giving Pam an extra press pass for the magazine, so Bonnie can sit in the press section. Sixteen has the front row, so she'll be pretty close by. Best I could do."
Davy offered immediate approval, "Niiice, Bob, you are a proper sneaky bastard when the chips are down."
"Yeah," Micky added, "Davy was afraid Bonnie had no talents to exploit. He forgot how she makes him taller in the press releases."
"Ha, ha, mate, he's a bloody liar, Bob."
"Yeah, well you kids can settle that among yourselves. She's gonna ride with us in the limo, but part company at the carpet. I'll go over it with her tomorrow. And hey guys... have you seen her? She seemed a little too cool, y'know?"
"It's okay, Bob," Peter broke in, "she doesn't blame you. I mean, we're all pissed off y'know? But at Kirshner. She'll be okay."
"Wait, don't hang up!" Micky almost shouted. "I have another idea. Y'know, just in case the TV Academy smoked that Mexican I sent them, and vote our way." There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. "Kidding Bob, don't freak out! I mean it's great you got her in the door, but I gotta plan to get her all the way if we win. Just depends on the element of surprise."
Three eager ears remained glued to three receivers as he outlined the plan.
"So, whaddaya think?"
Davy and Peter were impressed, but it took a moment for Bob to answer.
"Pretty clever, but I dunno... it sounds a little, ah, a little too Nesmith, y'know?"
"BOB!" the other three shouted in unison.
"Okay, okay. I like it. It'll work. And it'll give that little rat Kirshner a proper adios. Agreed, then?"
"AGREED."
The guys rejoined their guests, filled in Chip, and re-commenced to party.
"Oi, wait just thought of something!" Davy announced before firing up the hookah. "What if Bob was drunk, like he said he'd be, and only sounded like he meant it?"
Peter snorted, then giggled, then told the rest of them before breaking up completely, "Outtasight! He won't remember what he said!" He stood then and raised his beer mug to the company.
"Men... and ladies... I propose a toast. To the defeat of Don Kirshner, and another triumph for the MONKEE MEN!"
Davy, Micky, and Chip rose. "To the MONKEE MEN!"
Micky finished by warning everyone, "And not a word to Bonnie about that last part."
"Right you are, she'd bleedin' kill us all," Davy agreed, then turned to the girls. "Now, me lovelies, where were we?"
A/N: The lyrics Bonnie finds in the music room do not belong to Michael Nesmith, I excerpted and (slightly) adapted them from "Glass" written by Ross Cooperman, recorded by Thompson Square. Because I thought they fit, and they are not entirely unlike something he might write. And for trivia fans, I confess I know that Ann Moses was a contributing editor of Tiger Beat, not 16 Magazine. Literary license, la-la-la!