"No? Are you sure?" Micky paused, listening into the phone for a moment. "Well, of course you would be. I'm just— Okay. Okay, 'bye."
Reaching out, Micky felt for the receiver, and set the phone down. "Two answering services, and one wrong number," Micky sighed. "Are there anymore on the list?"
Peter looked down the numbers he'd already crossed out on the paper in front of him. After working on this little project all morning, the selection was slowly dwindling to nothing. Most of the numbers led to nowhere, and the ones where Micky could get an answer were universally dead-ends, as well. Instead of answering the question, Peter asked, "Mick, why is she so hard to find?"
"How many times are you gonna ask me that?" Micky replied with a chuckle.
Peter whined, "why can't you just tell me?"
"I'm afraid my parents would hear."
Micky's parents lived upstate a couple hours. Confused, Peter tilted his head, and Micky said, "You're trying to puzzle that out, aren't you?"
"It's not very nice if you're making fun of me, Micky," Peter pouted. He still couldn't quite imagine how Micky's parents would possibly hear them. Perhaps it had something to do with the flow of energies between one person and another. If someone talked about someone else, the other person might sense the conversation and react accordingly. That's what Madame Rosalia from the television said, anyway. Madame Rosalia went off the air a few months ago for 'defrauding' people, though, so Peter wasn't sure he could believe anything she said, which meant he wasn't sure Micky should, either. He was about to say as much, when Micky said, "Look, we'll try one more. If it isn't her, I'll tell you. Promise."
"Uh, okay. This one says 'Wilson Cosgrove, Nebraska.' And the area code's 4-0-3." Encouraged by the prospect that he'd finally discover one of Micky's secrets, Peter rattled off the number, forgetting, for a moment, that Micky couldn't actually see the numbers he was dialing.
Still, the curly-haired drummer seemed to keep the individual digits in his mind, slowly turning the phone dial, until he'd achieved all ten.
He waited.
And waited.
Finally, he hung up, shaking his head. "It just rang. No answering service or anything. Just circle that one and I'll try it again later."
"Long distance, though," Peter argued. When Micky shrugged, he did, too, and circled the number.
When he saw the defeated look on Micky's face, despite the fact that he really wanted to ask again why they were calling all these numbers, he said, "One more?"
Micky looked up, his eyes seeming oddly focused for a moment. Peter's heart jumped - perhaps his friend's vision had returned! But then the focus vanished, or perhaps it hadn't ever been there at all. The others said that Peter sometimes had too many dreams in his head. Too much wishful thinking. Still, the look seemed so deliberate… "Nah, Pete. I promised. Anyway, my sister's a hippie. I think my parents think she's going to school. I mean, that's what she tells them, 'cuz she's never home, you know? And I don't tell 'em any different. And I'm not gonna call 'em 'cuz everyone's supposed to think she's in school."
The answer was too quick. Too much of a blanket statement. Anyone else would have bought it, but Peter found himself doubting. The worst thing was, he could feel the tiny be of truth in the statement that made the lie so easy to tell. "I don't see how being a hippie is any worse than being in a band that doesn't make any money," Peter grumbled.
Micky ignored the comparison. "Jody could always make me feel better, though. And I kinda need her right now."
Something in his voice moved the blond away from his irritation and closer to tears. The tone carried sadness and dashed hopes, with just a touch of desperation and failure. Since Peter knew him, Micky always had the strangest, most uncanny ability to get what he wanted, whether it be something simple, like control of the television, or something major, like the cute little brunet who worked at the ice cream store. He could sweet-talk his way into or out of almost any situation, but still, here he sat, blind, and without the ability to contact someone who really mattered to him.
But moreover, there seemed be be an almost sinister inaccuracy in Micky's words. Something didn't make sense or add up quite right - Peter couldn't be sure what it was, and the attempt to reason it out deductively was starting to give him a headache. Looking at the list, he narrowed his eyes.
At that precise moment, the front door flew open, which shattered the silence and caused Peter to jump so violently that he tipped over his chair. As he picked himself up off the floor, he peeked over the table, only to see Michael hurrying in their direction. "Guys! Guys, I got the details for the contest! Peter, what're you doin' on the floor? Sit proper. C'mon, now, where's Davy?"
The first-floor bedroom door opened, and Davy wandered out, rubbing his eyes. "Davy's sleepin'. Last time I checked, that wasn't a crime."
Hastily, Micky grabbed the phone and stuffed it under his chair. As Mike skipped over to grab Davy's wrist and drag him over to the table, Micky struggled to find the sheet of paper with the phone numbers on it, eventually hissing to Peter, "hide the list!"
Realizing the other guys would be pretty angry if they saw that Micky had been dialing so many long distance numbers, Peter folded up the paper and stuffed it in a pocket, just in time for Mike and Davy to reach the table.
"Okay, look, I got our info," Mike said. He sat in one of the empty chairs, while Davy moved the stuffed chimpanzee out of the other, and also took a seat, his head drooping.
"What time is it?" the Brit asked.
"Nine. Why?" Mike replied.
"What're Micky and Peter doin' out of bed at nine in the bloody mornin'?"
"Um…" Peter muttered. "I had my clock set to Florida time. It's noon in Florida." He hated lying - really hated lying - and usually, he wasn't great at it. But with Davy so sleepy, and Mike so distracted, he hoped they'd buy it.
"Oh," Davy said after a moment, and Micky offered Peter a relieved, grateful smile.
"So," Mike said, forging ahead, apparently oblivious to the little mini-drama between Micky and Peter, "I went to the radio station today to pick up our packet for the first round. Turns out, there's fourty-five qualifying groups, so they're gonna do the first elimination round over three days. We play on day two. Which is great, 'cuz we'll get to check out some of our competition before we go on.
"Wait, 'qualifying?'" Micky asked. "I thought whoever wanted to play could play."
"Well, there's no entry fee, if that's what you mean," Mike said. When everyone continued looking at him, he rubbed the back of his neck. "That's not what you mean. Of course it's not. Um, look. It's not too bad, I just left a couple things out when I was telling you about the thing, that's all."
"Mike." Davy, suddenly much more awake then he had been before, punctuated the name with an irritated click of his teeth.
"It's not like you all couldn't have read the flier," Mike said.
"Well, we're in it now," Micky remarked. "Just tell us."
Mike said nothing for a moment, then sighed, conceding. "Okay, I told you it was sponsored, but… KRIX is really going all out for this thing. So much so that they got a pretty decent grant from the medical school at UCLA for the whole thing. It's part of a study on music, kinda."
"That's not too bad," Davy mumbled cautiously.
"It's. Well…" Michael continued, wringing his hands. "In order to qualify, you had to provide proof that you'd received payment for at least five gigs, and provide ten references. You can't just be any band off the street, you know? They, um. They wanted professional and semi-professional bands playing this thing. They're selling tickets. There's going to be a lot of people attending each round." He let that sink in for a moment.
Even Peter, who wasn't really fond of processing information like that, found himself pondering the implications. He'd already given himself a headache that morning attempting critical thinking, after all, and his mind seemed inclined to continue along that route, until it prompted him to say, "What's the difference between a band like us, who gets minimum wage to play, and a band that charges hundreds per gig?"
Mike confessed, "There is none." After allowing the others a few seconds to gasp and mutter, he added, "We'll be playing alongside groups like the Gargoyles and Flower Child."
Peter knew them. They were both local, of course. They played more prestigious gigs - ones that the Monkees would give anything to attend. People who could afford them, though, did, which left other groups scrounging for lower-paying affairs.
Mike cleared his throat, saying cautiously, "The silver lining is that you can't have any sort of recording contract as a group. I mean, I sold a song that one time. I disclosed it. They asked if you guys had anything to do with it, though, and I told 'em you hadn't. They said that was okay."
"Not much of a silver lining," Davy said. "As far as bands go, we're kinda the bottom of the barrel."
"Hey, that's not true!" Micky said. He sat up a little taller, looking at each of them with an expression that never quite met anyone else's eyes. "We're good. We can't help it if Hollywood is Music Central. I mean, we can play, and we can sing. Maybe this thing is gonna be our big break. Just 'cuz we don't get paid as much doesn't make us the worst out there."
"And we qualified," Peter said. "I mean, that must mean something. People have paid to get us to play for 'em."
Davy seemed like he was about to say something else, but instead, he looked around at the others. Peter did his best to try to look as hopeful as possible, and finally, Davy smiled. "All right. All right, you win, Mick. I just hope we don't embarrass ourselves."
"I wouldn'ta entered us if I didn't think we could do it, Tiny," Mike said.
"Now, if we could get Micky to play the drums again…" Davy interjected quickly.
Surprisingly, it was Mike who answered. "No. We've been over this already. We're not changing the setup now."
Peter couldn't help a glance at Micky who seemed - if it was possible - almost too impassive.
"You guys wanna hear the rules or not? 'cuz there's rules," Mike said. "Important stuff." He waited to make sure everyone was being quiet, then continued. "It's gonna be at the F. Fitzgerald Flanahan Auditorium in Santa Monica. The stage there is pretty big, and it's gonna be split in three. While one group is playing, one group breaks their gear down, and another group sets up, so there's no break in music. At least, that's the plan. There's a couple minutes for tuning, but that's all we get. Then we play a set of two songs. One has to be original, and one has to be a cover. And the cover's gotta be of a group who's had airtime."
"It's not like we'd cover the Gargoyles," Davy said. "Still, it's kind of a weird rule."
"Makes sense, if it's a study," Micky said. "I mean, maybe it's some kind of experiment to see if people are better at creating their own sounds, or mimicking someone else's. Or crowd reaction. Or…"
"Hey," Mike snapped. "I ain't about to ask why. All I know is, we gotta pick a cover and learn it in the next few days, so everyone start thinkin' on that. Lastly, for the first elimination round, everything is timed, and each group gets ten minutes total to play." He gave each of them a severe look. "That means we get ten minutes in the dark for setup. When the lights come on, we gotta quickly make sure we're tuned. And then we have ten minutes for teardown. Now, with four of us, it usually takes longer than ten minutes to set up. With Micky not able to help…"
"Hey, I can help!" Micky argued.
"With Micky being slightly impaired," Mike amended, "We need to practice set up and breakdown, too. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and we have to get it all down to a science. But like I said, I wouldn't take us if I didn't think we could all do it."
It all seemed scary. They'd been in competitions before, but nothing quite like this. There would also be so many people there that the pressure to get it right was severely crushing. But hearing Mike's encouragement made Peter smile. He always knew there was a reason they'd kind of all collectively decided that Mike was their leader.
—-
"Again," Mike said. Even as he demanded another round of set-up-and-take-down, he flopped down on the couch, lying his head in his hands. "One more time and we'll have it. I know it."
They'd been at it since early morning. Not only had they decided on a Mamas & the Papas cover, but they'd been trying to perfect their setup and takedown. Invariably, something would go wrong, but surprisingly, the error usually didn't involve Micky, who'd become such a strange savant at feeling his way around the stage, that Mike actually gave him more responsibility.
Still, none of them were used to moving so quickly. And even though they'd managed their setup a couple times within the limit, it wasn't consistent. And so, between rehearsing their cover piece, they'd attempt the impossible over and over again.
Their current average hovered around fourteen minutes.
Mike, flipping over and lying down, groaned. "Okay, I changed my mind. Take an hour, then we'll start over. I need to shut my eyes for awhile."
"And I need lunch," Micky droned. "Davy, you mind helping me?"
"I'm all for that," Davy replied, and the two hurried off to the kitchen, as if Michael would change his mind if they didn't retreat in a rush.
Peter, meanwhile, pulled Micky's list of phone numbers out of his pocket. Turning his back to the others, he unfolded it and gave it a once-over. While many of the numbers had been crossed out, there were quite a few - all scrawled in crayon from memory by Micky himself - that hadn't been called yet… And one in particular that was even crossed out before Micky the list to Peter.
"Hmn," Peter wondered. Glancing behind him and finding the other three still distracted, he pulled a blank sheet music template out of Mike's guitar case, and scrawled the pre-rejected number onto it. Tearing it off and putting the phone number in his pocket, he shoved the rest of the ripped paper back among the other things in the case, and turned his attention back to the existing list of numbers.
He found it amazing how Micky had adapted, even writing numbers and names with enough legibility so they could be read. Sure, it looked like a child had gotten hold of a set of crayons and done it, but there was a method to the widely-set, scrawled numbers and letters. For one thing, Micky had chosen to write in crayon because he could easily feel the waxy texture, which meant he could tell which part of the paper he'd already covered.
For another, Micky stated that when he could see again, he wanted to see all the things he had written, and admire all the pretty colors.
Smiling, Peter shook his head.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned and watched as Micky gingerly made his way out of the kitchen, with sandwich in hand. "Peter?" he asked.
"Over here, Mick."
The blinded drummer changed course, delicately picking his way up the steps onto the bandstand. He stretched out his hand, and Peter took it, guiding him forward. "You still have the list?" Micky asked, leaning close.
"Yeah," Peter muttered, folding it up again and pressing it into Micky's hand.
"Good. Gonna throw this into a bonfire on the beach or something, before Davy or Mike — Uh. Look. Just keep this between us, okay?"
Peter nodded, then said, for Micky's benefit, "Okay, Micky."
Micky smiled, took a bite of his sandwich, and pocketed the paper. Slowly, he descended the stairs and headed back into the kitchen, where he sat down next to Davy.
He sure was doing well getting around, Peter thought again. He reached into his pocket to touch the number he'd written there, making sure he actually had it. Despite all Micky's progress, he got the distinct feeling that he wasn't actually trying very hard to find his sister, whether he needed her or not.