"You're up early," Davy said.
Standing next to the table, Peter set a bowl down in front of him and poured a good helping of Corn Flakes into it, then tried to decide if he was awake enough to trek all the way to the fridge for the milk. It was so far away!
Eventually, he sat down and just stared at the dry cereal.
"That bad, eh?" Davy asked. "Trust me, I know. Mike was up — "
"All night," Peter finished.
"And Micky slept like a baby," Davy chuckled. "Nothin' like passin' out dead to the world, eh? We'll be lucky if we can make it through setup, let alone our set list."
Peter grunted, picking at the cereal. Without any sugar or milk, it tasted kind of bland, but he still couldn't seem to will power into his legs to travel the four feet across the kitchen to the refrigerator. That meant he didn't have the inclination to get himself a cup of coffee, either. "We're all just nervous, I bet. It'll go fine. We're worried for nothing."
"Nothin'? You call Micky runnin' around blind nothin'? I've never seen him run that fast when he can see." Davy put his head down on the table, sighing. "All night, Mike tuning that old acoustic guitar. I thought it sounded fine, but I think he just needed somethin' to do, so he kept tweakin' it. I gave up sleepin' sometime just before the sun came up and moved the amps to the car. Needed somethin' to do."
"I was just worried about Micky. You know, he tried to call his sister the other day." Peter pushed the cereal around in his bowl, took a handful, and let it trickle out of his fingers. Pop, pop, plip, pop. A few flakes landed on the table, and one or two even skittered their way onto the floor. "Sure wish I had some milk."
Reluctantly standing, Davy turned toward the fridge and hauled the door open. A moment later, he set the carton down in the center of the table. Peter stared at it.
"Yeah? Did he talk to 'er?"
"Nah, he couldn't reach her."
Staring at the carton, Peter wiggled his fingers at it, trying to concentrate hard enough to move it with his mind so it would pour itself. Eventually, he reasoned that with as sleepy as his mind was, telekinesis would just never work, and was an endeavor doomed to failure. Relenting, he dragged the carton close enough so that he could manually pour it, and while little droplets of milk splashed everywhere, he still managed to accomplish the task. Now he just had to figure out how to raise the spoon from the bowl to his face. Why did breakfast require so much effort!?
"Well, I'm not surprised," Davy said. "Not after their fight."
"Fight?"
"Oh yeah. Few years back, she decided to give up singin' to go to school. I never seen Micky so crushed." Davy pulled the carton back over toward himself, peered inside it, then raised it to his lips. "Don't tell Mike I'm drinkin' from the box, eh? He'd have my head."
"So that's why Micky is a Monkee? That's why he moved down here?"
"Nah, he prob'ly woulda ended up here anyway. But I don't think he and Jody parted on very good terms. He never even talks about her anymore."
"I've noticed," Peter said, digging into his now-soggy cereal. He couldn't wrap his mind around why Micky would say his sister had run off to become a hippie. Though Peter sensed right from the start that Micky's tale contained a whole lot of half-truths, it now appeared that he'd almost completely switched their stories. Living in the beach house and playing in a struggling rock-and-roll band didn't exactly make Micky a hippie, but it looked like he'd been the one to run off, not the other way around.
"The worst part is," Davy said, yawning, "She was mad at him for not thinkin' about school and such. Micky's smart, you know. Real smart. He could think circles around any of us. Y'know, strictly speakin', I'm not supposed to be tellin' you any of this. So don't tell him I told you, okay?"
"Oh, I won't," Peter said. He had no reason to, after all, since Davy kind of helped fit a few pieces of the puzzle together. His thoughts strayed to that phone number he'd taken from Micky's call list… If he and his sister fought so long ago, perhaps Micky wouldn't be inclined to take the easiest route to contact her. Despite all his intelligence, their drummer did like to make things a little more difficult than they had to be on occasion. What if that phone number was a direct link?
"Davy, do you think— " Peter started, but when he looked across the table, he saw that Davy was sound asleep, his head turned to one side, a thin trickle of drool trailing down to the table. Thinking it better to just let the English boy sleep, Peter bit his lip, pushed the bowl of cereal aside, and reached for the telephone.
—-
"Mick? Hey, Micky?" Mike poked the drummer's shoulder, then backed up a step. He was reluctant to wake the poor guy after the anxiety-ridden night out at at the Flanahan auditorium. Even so, it was getting close to mid-morning, and they all had work to do, starting with getting an answer as to whether or not Micky would be performing at their elimination trial.
That happened to be Michael's responsibility.
Lacking the desire to awaken his friend using any of the more conventional methods, Mike threw common sense to the wind, hopped up on the bed, and started jumping up and down on it as if it were a trampoline. It didn't take long for Micky to yelp and grab for the covers - either to throw them off or pull them back on, Mike couldn't be sure - and sit up, leaning against his headboard. "What the hell is going on?" Micky gasped, blinking. Mike couldn't help checking to see if maybe the curly-haired young man was actually focusing again, but Micky's stare suggested a negative answer to the question.
Too bad.
Still standing on the foot of the bed, Mike exclaimed, "Good morning!"
Confused, Micky tilted his head up toward the voice and said, "What are you, on the ceiling or something?" before rubbing at his face. "Geez, don't think I'll ever get used to opening my eyes and seeing nothing. It's like someone throwing cold water on my face."
"Or jumping on your bed to wake you up," Mike said, hopping down to the floor.
"That, too. You could have just shook my shoulder or somethin'. Didn't have to give me a heart attack!"
Yawning, Mike sat down next to Micky. "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night. So you'll have to excuse the unpredictable judgment calls I'm bound to make today."
"Didja make me breakfast in bed? 'Cuz I can forgive everything, if— "
"Nope. Sorry."
Closing his eyes again, Micky leaned back, hand over his chest. His breathing slowly returned to normal; after a while, he even chuckled. "Didn't get much sleep, eh? Have some company, then?" he opened his eyes just long enough to wink, then closed them.
"Nothin' like that," Mike muttered, somewhat abashed. "I had to come up with a back-up plan, in case…"
He trailed off, but Micky didn't respond to the implication. For a moment, Mike worried that the other young man would take the out he'd just been offered and tell the others to go on without him. Honestly, Mike never saw anyone react to anything quite the way Micky reacted the previous night, so he couldn't help preparing for the worst.
"Why d'you do that, Mike?" Micky asked. "Write an escape clause into my contract, I mean. It's not like I'm gonna use it. Tempting? Sure. But I'll be all right. I think I can do it. Really. And if I can't, I'll let you guys know long enough ahead of time. Okay? I can do this."
"There's just one problem," Mike replied.
"Problem?"
"Yeah. We don't have a contract. We're kinda playin' it by ear ninety percent of the time, if you'll pardon the expression."
Micky smiled, shaking his head. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, and slid his bare toes across the floor. A look of concentration crossed his face as he re-acquainted himself with the area rug. "Seriously, though. I wouldn't leave you guys out to dry."
Finding it difficult to put into words exactly what he wanted to say, Mike wrung his hands. He didn't want to draw attention to Micky's running out of the auditorium last night, but he still had to know, "What happened last night, anyway?"
"I dunno, Mike, it was weird. I don't even know if I can…" He sighed, looking down at his hands. Or, he would be looking down at his hands, Mike supposed, if he could see them. "I can't talk about it, okay? Just… I'll be all right for tonight. We'll be okay. I'll be okay."
—-
"Two hours."
"Two? That's it?" Davy asked. "Where'd the time go?"
Mike shrugged, gesturing randomly in a few different directions, before he shrugged and headed back into the house to make sure they'd gotten everything packed up in the car. Davy found the aimless flailing of hands to be a fairly accurate assessment, actually. It didn't seem as if they possessed enough time to finish everything they needed to finish. After breakfast, they rushed through their setup and takedown routines, getting their time down to a record low at just under the designated limit.
They ran through their songs, too. Odd, how their first setlist of only two pieces could have everyone so on edge - the guys barely spoke to each other, not because they were necessarily angry or irritated, but because their minds were all focused on their impending performance. No one had time to spare for joking around, not even Micky, who often did so in times of stress.
The deadline neared, too. It loomed only a couple hours away, and, like the previous night, the Monkees wanted to get to the Flanahan Auditorium early, so they could get Micky inside without too much of a fuss.
As Mike disappeared inside, Micky appeared at the door, wearing his all-black ensemble, head turning side to side. After a moment, he called, "Davy? You out here?"
With a deep sigh, Davy returned to the house, laying a hand on Micky's arm. "How you feelin'?"
"Okay. Little headache. Can you help me get to the car?"
Micky placed his hand on Davy's shoulder, and the shorter man led him forward, careful to avoid any obstacles in their path. "Headache? Like from where you got hit?"
Micky snorted. "Nah, not this time. Just too much goin' on. Nerves and all. And I know what you're thinkin' — Micky Dolenz? Nervous? Say it ain't so!"
Davy laughed. "Well, I still think you should get back to the doctor. Get a follow-up check or whatever they do."
When they reached the car, Davy peered through the window, squinting at the gear that took up most of the space. "Me and Peter'll sit back there. You should sit up front, I think."
"Yeah, about that follow-up checkup. It's not gonna happen, Davy."
Kind of stunned, Davy gave Micky a look, as if he thought the drummer's brain had leaked out his ears. It was one of his better expressions, actually, and a complete shame that it couldn't be appreciated. "You're crazy. That's crazy."
"Well, considering how much a brain scan costs," Micky said, "I'm doin' all of us a favor, not adding onto the bill. It's not like hospitals keep a running tab. Go on, pull the seat back. I think I can make it."
Not knowing what else to say, Davy complied, moving the seat out of the way, and then helped Micky hop into the car. Sure, he seemed to be doing so much better than he had been with getting around and using other senses in place of his vision, but the fact remained that his sight hadn't returned. Davy thought maybe that warranted a trip back to the doctor, just to check up on things. Unfortunately, Micky did have a point. The expense of something like that might far outweigh the benefit, especially if nothing changed. Frowning, Davy ducked into the back seat, sitting next to Micky.
"Don't feel too bad," Micky went on. "I'll get there someday. When we win this competition, I'll be able to pay my bills, then I promise I'll go back for a second check."
"When," Davy said.
"Definitely when," Micky agreed. He leaned his head back against the seat, raising the sunglasses and perching them atop his head, where they got lost in his hair. "And I just wanted to say, thanks for all the help, Davy."
Shifting uncomfortably, Davy smiled. "It's the least I could do, after I was a complete berk to you at first."
"Nah," Micky said. "What you're doin' is above and beyond the call of duty. It's hard to let you guys help, you know? Stupid little things, I mean. Stuff I should be able to do, like find my socks, or shave my own face. I'm just… I'm glad you came around." He paused, smiling. "Of course, I guess I'm taking a chance, letting you near my sideburns. They'd better still be even, Jones."
Davy gave him a shove as Peter slid into the front passenger's seat. A moment later, Mike joined them behind the wheel. He looked into the back seat, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, y'all. Here goes nothin'."
—-
The day felt as if it consisted of little tiny snapshots of their lives. It moved so quickly that Mike had trouble keeping track of the time, even though he was keenly aware of their looming deadline. The hour hand on the clock always seemed to move faster than it ought, eventually leading them to this very moment, when they stood backstage at the auditorium, their gear scattered all around them in barely-organized chaos.
"We're next," Peter said. "We're next, you guys."
"You keep sayin'," Mike drawled, voice as cheerful as he could make it under the circumstances. What Peter meant, of course, was that they'd be admitted to the third partition of the stage in just a few short minutes for their setup.
The seconds ticked by. Micky, dressed in his black suit, Fedora atop his head and sunglasses on his face, wrung his hands. Davy paced nearby, oblivious to the other bands who were also waiting for their turn.
"We're next," Peter said again.
Mike felt like he was going to lose it. The calm exterior, which he always tried to show the world no matter what came his way, started cracking earlier in the morning when he decided that jumping on Micky's bed was a good idea. It continued to shatter, bit by bit, until this very moment.
He giggled, "We're next."
The others looked at him. Even Micky, who had no ability to actually see him, turned to stare, raising his sunglasses so that Mike could get the best look at his incredulity.
"Best night ever!" Mike went on, relief dripping from every word he said. It didn't matter how they did at this point, because they'd done everything to ensure they had the best possible chance. If they screwed something up, it was because fate decided against them. Hah! "Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna stop worryin', and just play. And God save anyone who gets in our way."
"Who's gettin' in our way?" Davy asked.
"That's not the question!" Mike said.
"He's completely barmy," Davy whispered, his voice full of wonder.
Their confused expressions turned to awe, just as the resident stagehand told them, "Okay, you guys are on for setup. Go," and walked off without so much as a passing glance.
"'Go,' he said!" Mike exclaimed. "All right. We're on. We're next! C'mon, let's do it!"
He liked to believe that maybe, just maybe, his enthusiasm affected the others to a point where their nervousness evaporated into the darkness of the auditorium, but his brain was so busy racing that he couldn't spare a thought for their states of mind. Mike was so exhausted that he simply started running on autopilot, setting up around the others as they'd practiced so many times before. Davy placed the instruments while Micky ran cords for the amps, perfectly within his element in the darkness. Peter set out their music, just in case, since their cover was unfamiliar to them. Quickly, as the band right next to them played a Beatles song in the brightness of the beaming stagelights, Micky and Davy assembled the drumkit in an amazingly short span of time.
It didn't have to be perfect. It just had to work.
And then, just as the applause rose for the band who'd just played, Michael turned and guided Micky to the microphone, before hurrying to his place and picking up the electric guitar.
Too quickly. His mind was too full. Thoughts raced through his head - would Davy be able to hold his own behind the drums? Was Micky going to panic again?
The cheering died down, and a voice said, "One more round of applause for Midnight in December!"
Michael heard a thud as the spotlights switched off, then immediately on again. Only this time, the audience would be looking at the Monkees.
A sea of faces appeared before him. In the bright lights, Michael could see the others, their eyes wide and excited, smiles on their faces. Never before had they played to a crowd this size, and it would be glorious.
Micky took a step back.
"WOO! ALL RIGHT!" Mike called into his microphone. "Man, what an audience, eh? In this auditorium here, that's definitely not anything like a baseball diamond or nothin'."
The non-sequitur made the audience chuckle a little. More importantly, Micky relaxed a little.
"I suppose that detached voice that's been yappin' at you all night is supposed to tell y'all who we are," Mike went on, giving Micky the opportunity to settle down a bit. Honestly, Mike didn't know how the curly-haired man was faring, but he could guess. "I'm gonna do that for him. We're the Monkees, and we got somethin' to say."
He hoped the tiny snippet of lyrics would bring Micky fully back around. Davy and Peter were staring, concerned, until Micky smiled, turned toward them, and nodded.
Having used up a precious couple of minutes, they had no time for their sound check. Maybe it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway; in the end, Mike just had to hope, as he hopped across the stage like a lunatic and drew attention away from their blind lead singer, that their rendition of "California Dreamin'" appealed enough to the sea of faces out there in the audience. He made a fool of himself. He drew laughs at rather inappropriate times.
The music sounded superb. Amazing. And Micky's voice was spot on.
They were all on their game.
Of course, Mike couldn't help noticing how nervous Micky looked, or how he never got to a point where he actually appeared like he was having fun. The look suited him, though, as, straight-faced, he launched immediately into "She" when they completed their cover. They couldn't have planned it any better, really. Micky looked as if he'd always been the all-business member of their band, while Mike, who hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours, took to clowning around on stage as if he'd been born to it.
And then it was over.
Reverting back to autopilot, Mike waved to the crowd as they applauded, but as soon as the lights went down, he tore through their setup like a tornado, pulling it off the stage as quickly as possible, completely in tandem with the other guys. He lifted up a bundle of wire just as Peter dashed under it. Micky hauled the amps to the stage door, where Davy quickly removed them. Mike grabbed the bass and his guitar, while Davy quickly broke down the drum kit, handing the individual pieces to Micky, who passed them to a stage hand.
As they finished, another group was already pushing past them to get on with their own setup routine, and Michael, thoroughly exhausted and drained of adrenaline, collapsed to his knees on the backstage floor.
—-
Voices crept into his consciousness.
"You think we should wake him up?" one of them asked.
"Well, yeah. We're gonna have to leave eventually. I think I should drive, though."
"I wanna drive!"
"You can't drive! You can't see!"
"Oh, right."
Mike opened his eyes, grunting softly. The overhead lights seemed awfully bright, and they made his temples throb painfully. "Guys?" he asked.
Davy's face appeared above his, smirking. "Ah! Sleeping beauty awakens! Good, we were gettin' worried that we'd have to carry your sorry arse to the car."
"Are we in? Did we make it?"
"'Did we make it,' he says," Micky laughed. "Of course we did, Mike. Look, see this red ticket here?"
Mike squinted at the laminated pass in Micky's hand. "That ain't red. It's yellow." Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, trying to determine whether or not he was dreaming. "So we're really through to round two?"
"Really and truly," Peter said. He crouched down next to Mike, and helped the tall Texan back to his feet. "We're gonna celebrate. I know we still got a long road ahead of us, but…"
"It was a fifty-fifty chance," Davy said.
Mike's head was still swimming. The little dose of sleep was just enough to put him out of sorts. Still, it didn't take much for him to process the fact that they'd actually done well enough to make it through to round two - and all this with an exhausted band and a lead singer who couldn't even see that their round two pass was yellow. He smiled, laughing. "And I slept through the announcements."
"Figured we oughtta let you get at least an hour," Micky said. "If it wasn't for you, I think I mighta bolted. You deserved some sleep."
Mike sighed. "And I think I'm going back to sleep, too. Davy, you all right to drive?"
"Like you even had to ask," the shorter man said, spinning the keys to the Monkeemobile around one finger.