"Problems?" Jody asked, as Mike sat down in one of the nearby mis-matched chairs. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed, looking at the floor.
Realizing that no one intended to provide an answer, Davy sighed, sitting down in front of the bandstand, and picked up the newspaper that Mike slammed onto the floor. He paged through it until he found the proper article. "Problems. There's another Letter to the Editor in here all about how the Monkees are just horrible people all around."
He stared at the letter, nestled amongst the other, more innocuous things, such as corrections by the newspaper and various praises for journalistic excellence. The latest vitriol seemed so out of place, and the wording was so very, very desperate. Something about it bothered Davy, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what that was. Sure, the entire thing screamed nothing but hatred, but beyond that, somewhere deep, nestled within the horrible words, something just looked wrong.
"You might as well read it," Micky said.
"You sure?" Davy asked. When Micky nodded, he shrugged, and began to read.
"What happened Wednesday?
"You started out so well. I heard the call for the Monkees to remove themselves from the stage starting in the voices of the crowd - I was among them, waiting to shout and scream until they left in a well-deserved state of shame. It could have been a wonderful victory for all of us, but instead, a horrible thing occurred. Something so terrible, that I have trouble speaking of it.
"You let them play.
"Can't you remember what they did? In case it's slipped your mind, let me refresh your memory. They plucked a sightless singer onto the stage, and pushed him to sing to an audience that he could not see. Imagine, readers, if you found yourself blind and in the dark, badgered into using your talent in order to garner sympathy from a very discerning panel of judges. Was Micky Dolenz promised money? Fame? I say again, he should have been protected, not displayed for the world to see!
"My initial ire burnt itself out long ago. I would have been perfectly content had the Monkees been disqualified, or even removed themselves from the competition entirely. Imagine the bile that rose in my throat when I saw that they had the audacity to return, minus the singer they'd previously exploited, with yet another tactic to beg for your favor!
"After a set which they should never have been allowed to perform, their guitar player, Michael Nesmith, spilled his guilt onto the audience in a mad tirade that blamed we, the people, for Dolenz's absense. I felt that surely, after such an impassioned bout of malarkey, the audience would demand his removal from the stage, but as his bandmates dragged him away, you cheered! You encouraged him! And I have no doubt in my mind that they will return for the final round, all because of you.
"Please, though, you must understand.
"The Monkees cannot redeem themselves. And I will tell you why.
"After exploiting their singer, whose beautiful voice moved even me to tears, they, instead of admitting their shame and withdrawing from the contest, decided to remove the very person that they considered a problem. I honestly thought that the Monkees couldn't stoop any lower than they had, but the proof is in front of us all, staring us in the face and mocking us. If only they /had been jeered off the stage! But they played on, and what's worse, they've made it past the second qualifying round!/"
Micky looked uncomfortable, hugging the guitar close to him. As Davy glanced at him, he said, very quietly, "You guys didn't kick me out. I just didn't want to go."
Davy continued reading. "But it's Dolenz I feel truly sorry for. The poor boy must be so confused. Surely he must be wondering what he did wrong to deserve the boot. Of course, we all know that it wasn't him at all, but the band who took him in, promising him a future, when the world knows full well that they would have just continued to take advantage of him had I not stepped in and said something."
"How could she even think we threw him out, after what Mike said?" Peter muttered. "The whole audience heard it."
Mike waved a hand. "That's not even the worst part," he said. "We're damned if we do, damned if we don't. Davy, go on, read the rest."
"'But surely,' you say, 'if the Monkees bring Dolenz back, they must be trying to do the right thing!' To this, I say for certain that they are not. If Dolenz reappears on the stage, I can say with absolute certainty that the Monkees are only doing what they believe must be done to keep themselves in the favor of the judges. They have no care at all for the people they use, or the people they've tread on to get to this particular point in the competition. They care not for the legitimate bands that may have more talent than they do. This controversy has enabled them to reach a point where they are in a position to take the rightful prize away from someone much more deserving.
"To the members of the Monkees: If you attempt in any way to return to the good graces of the audience, you will fail. We are all aware of what you are up to. We are not stupid.
"Since the KRIX will not disqualify you, there is only one thing left for you to do: Withdraw. Resign. Step off the public stage and back into your own world, and maybe, just maybe, you might start to regain the infinite amount of respect you're already lost."
Davy closed the paper, sighed, and stated, "It's signed 'Anonymous' again."
The others were silent. As Davy looked at each of them in turn, he could read the reactions on their faces almost as easily as he could pages in a book. Jody looked completely floored, but she would, considering that she never saw the first letter. Micky seemed somewhat disturbed, but otherwise resigned, while Mike still looked as angry as he did when he first noticed the letter. Peter fidgeted for a moment, worry clearly present in his eyes, before he said, "Guys, I think our only option is to resign."
Before Peter stopped speaking, though, Mike barked out an emphatic "NO!" and launched himself from his chair so powerfully that the thing tipped over backward. When it hit the floor, Micky jumped, dropping the guitar, which struck a step with a most horribly discordant agreement to Michael's exclamation.
"If we withdraw, we're sayin'— We're sayin' everything's… Well, that everything that guy wrote is all true. And I dunno 'bout you fellas, but if there's any respect to be earned, I say we need to go down fightin', not slinkin' off with our tails between our legs. I just… I can't abide that. I'd never be able to take a gig again if I just gave up. 'Specially 'cuz we all know what went down, and we all know that we'd never use each other just to win some silly competition."
"It's not silly," Davy griped. He picked up the guitar, checking to make sure it hadn't cracked or anything, before handing it back to Micky. "It's worth ten-thousand bucks if we win."
Mike paced. As he did so, Micky plucked the B string on his guitar, and Jody quickly began to tune the other one. Davy couldn't help noticing the faraway look in his friend's eyes as he fought to do something to occupy his mind. His expression looked hollow and patiently controlled, as if he might cry at any moment.
"Okay," Mike said. "Not silly. But in the scheme of things… Guys, if we resign now, I ain't gonna be able to take myself seriously anymore. I'm not gonna be able to call myself Michael Nesmith and mean it. All I'll be is a fraud, someone who let 'imself get all scared off by some scrawny little busybody he saw at an old, run-down diner."
"He didn't seem the type, Mike," Micky said, plucking the last string. Jody did likewise.
"Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't him. Whoever it was, though, has it in for us, and I ain't gonna stand by and let us be stepped all over. That ain't us. We've been through so much, that we should be able to weather this little thing. We get up on stage, we make a showin', and we go down fighting. All of us."
Davy stood, tucking the newspaper under his arm. Meeting Peter eyes, he asked the silent question that they both must have been pondering: Do we go through with it? Was it worth it to face the potential ridicule, to possibly look into the eyes of the mysterious letter-writer? As he thought about it, Davy found himself feeling angrier and angrier at the whole situation.
Then Peter smiled, inclining his head just a little in assent.
"You know," Davy said. "Mike's right, as usual. Who cares what's in the paper, eh?
Jody played a chord on the old, run-down acoustic guitar. Finally tuned, the beat-up instrument sounded just as good as any other.
Micky began plucking out the intro to something.
Davy talked over the music. "He's right. Why're we being singled out? We know who we are. We're the Monkees, and we have just as much right to finish this contest as anyone else does. Nothin's stopping us."
Jody seemed to recognize Micky's tune, and joined in, quietly playing a counter-melody.
"So," Davy went on, somewhat distracted by the fact that Micky was neither listening, nor smiling, or even really acknowledging that he was speaking, at all. "So, all four of us, up on stage…"
"No," Micky said.
Thrown, the only thing Davy could think of to say was, "No?"
Micky shook his head. "Guys, I'm the problem. That's the entire thing, right there. I'm the cause of all this. It doesn't matter if it's intentional or not. If I'm on stage, we're gonna get booed right off. Without me, you at least have a chance."
"Maybe no one'll read the paper," Peter suggested, as Micky continued to play.
"Yeah, maybe we're overestimating how many people are even gonna see this letter." Mike reached for the newspaper, waving it aloft, before tossing it unceremoniously to the side.
"You said they tried to boo you off the stage," Micky said, adding a chuckle that contained no humor. "Whoever's writin' that stuff, they're reaching an audience.
"You should at least go. Sit in the audience," Jody said. "I'll go with you."
Micky said nothing for quite some time, continuing to pluck at the guitar strings. Eventually, the curly-haired drummer said, "I'll think about it."
The vague aimlessness of the introductory measures finally coalesced into a recognizable tune. Micky glanced up at Jody and nodded, and began to sing, "When your dreams have died around you, she'll be there…"
—-
"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?" Jody asked.
As Davy tore the sheets off his bed, he offered a lop-sided smile and shook his head. "Nah. I mean, it's uncomfortable, and exposed to the elements and all. And by elements, I mean Micky, Peter, and Mike runnin' through the house at all hours. But no, I don't mind at all."
"Convincing," Jody said, chuckling.
"I thought so." As Davy unfolded a clean set of sheets, he asked, "So what have you been up to? I haven't seen you in a long time."
Jody took one end of the fitted sheet and tucked it under the mattress. "School. You know, I'm hoping to teach science eventually. Of course, college is kind of a boys' club. You gotta have really good grades just to keep up."
"Lemme guess. You're at a four-point-oh."
Jody sighed, shaking her head. "You know, sometimes I wish I would have stuck with music."
Davy allowed a moment for the harsh reality of Jody's situation to pass. "Well, don't let Micky hear you say that. He'll just say 'I told you so.'"
Jody remained silent, working on making the bed, instead.
"You do have a lot of talent, though," Davy went on, dragging the top of the sheet up to the headboard and tucking it under the mattress. "I mean, you were right on key the whole time you were singin' with Micky. When's the last time you sang that song?"
"I know I have talent," she said. "That's not the point, Davy. You know that. Look, I weighed my options. I'm not the type of female musician the world wants. And I have a much better chance of making a career out of teaching."
"The world be damned," Davy muttered.
Jody chuckled. "I think I argued about this enough with my brother."
Rolling his eyes, Davy smiled. "Yeah, sorry. I don't mean to side with him."
"You're best friends. Of course you would," Jody said. Once the sheet was in place, she sat at the foot of the bed. "And you gotta admit, Micky's got more of a passion than I ever did. You can hear it in his voice and all. The way he plays. He gave me chills out there. Every word he sings, he means it."
Davy sat down next to Jody, hugging a pillow to his chest. "He used to know that. Before he got hurt, I think 'e really believed it, too. Lately, I dunno. Anyway, maybe he needs to hear all that from you, Jody."
"How do you know he doesn't need to hear it from you?"
Davy considered, then leaned back on his hands, looking at the old posters and things hanging on all the walls. His eyes also fell upon the meticulously-crafted room setup, with everything situated into its own special place, so that Micky could find whatever he needed, without tripping on anything to get to it. Lately, he'd thrown his entire existence into making the pad safe for him to get around in independently, so Davy knew the passion was still there. "It's all mis-applied," Davy said. "He doesn't get it. And you can't really fault him for that, either. He lost his eyes and his ego took a hit, and he hasn't recovered."
"From what Peter said, he was doing all right, for a while," Jody said. "Then the letter showed up in the paper. The first one, I mean.
"Yeah. He didn't want anyone to know. I think that's what bothers him most of all. That people figured out he's blind."
Jody shook her head. "Vain little brat."
"He can be," Davy agreed. "Look, get him there, Jody. I got an idea, and Micky isn't gonna like it. I gotta talk to Mike and Peter about it, but I'm sure they'll be on board. Wear him down, okay? No matter what, just get him to agree to go."
"Pretty sure I can manage that," she said.
—-
With Mike, Davy, and Peter out in the garage figuring out their set list for the final push in the Santa Monica music competition, Jody sat at the kitchen table, watching with amazement as Micky found his way around the kitchen.
His blindness barely mattered. He found exactly what he searched for with a minimum of feeling around for it. Even things in the fridge, which seemed - to Jody, anyway - to have relatively random placement, Micky found with ease. Of course, the wasn't a lot in the fridge to start with, which was a little disturbing.
There were a few moments when Micky seemed lost for a little while, but he declined all offers of help. Even in those times, he eventually located what he needed with an amazing air of confidence about him. To Jody, he seemed exactly the same as she always knew him, albeit just a little slower on his feet. Even so, Micky hadn't let blindness slow him down, and soon, she found him proudly setting a sandwich down on the table in front of her, made exactly how he knew she liked it.
She applauded. Jody knew he was waiting for it. Micky, with a broad grin, took a bow.
Unfortunately, when he went to pull his own chair out, it wasn't where he expected it to be. Already committed to leaning forward, nothing stopped his forward fall, and his hands swept right past the table without contacting it. Jody found herself holding back a laugh at the completely confused, surprised expression he wore as he disappeared from her view.
Unable to say anything, lest she risk an escaping chuckle, she remained silent, hands over her mouth, until Micky said, "I meant to do that."
She slid off her chair and to the floor. Despite knowing full well how hard a time Micky was having with his injury, she still had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It made Jody feel insensitive; even so, such a tumble lay well within Micky's penchant for physical comedy. Maybe she was just conditioned to find it funny.
When she knelt next to him to help him up, he immediately reached for her face, and with a surprisingly gentle touch, traced the smile-lines around her mouth and cheeks. "I was beginning to wonder if you lost your sense of humor," Micky said with a smile.
"It's not supposed to be funny. C'mon." Jody tried to pull him off the floor, but he dead-weighted in her arms, rolling his eyes up at her like a wounded puppy. Eventually, she said, "Fine, stay there."
Her own mind alternated between the option of staying on the floor, or returning to her chair so she could eat. To that end, she moved each way a couple times, almost standing for one second, then almost sitting the next. Eventually, resigned, she flopped down on the floor next to Micky, pulling one knee up to her chest. "You're still a brat."
"Yeah, I know."
"Look, while we're sitting on the floor…" Jody began, "How 'bout if you tell me why you won't play anymore?"
Micky offered a tense smile and started to stand, but Jody grabbed onto his hair. "Micky."
"Aah, hey!" he complained, trying to untangle himself from her grasp. Unfortunately, she didn't seem inclined to let him escape. "What? What do you want to hear? There's no one reason. There's lots. I'll work it out."
"Those guys need you."
"Jo, it's not just as easy as saying, 'Okay! I'm done being a coward! Time to get back up on stage!' It doesn't work like that." He reached for her hand with both of his, so she let go, only to grab his hair with her other hand. He sighed, settling down and scowling at her.
"Don't give me that look."
He managed to squint his eyes even narrower, pushing out his jaw in indignation.
"C'mon, Mick."
"Fine. Just lemme go, huh?" He waved a hand at her, and rested his elbows on his knees. "I did it once - got up on stage, I mean. I think I was kinda kidding myself with thinkin' I could do it. I was scared, you know? Standing in the middle of nothing, knowing if you move the wrong way, you could trip, or knock over a microphone… And they'd see me. Hundreds of people would see that happen. And I wouldn't be able to see their faces when it did. I'd be staring out at them, and they'd be lookin' back at me, doing what? Laughing? That's what you did. I guess that's okay. It's… it's the other stuff that bugs me. This collective judgement. They'd all think it. Hey, he's blind. Look at how brave he is! I'm not Brave, Jo-Jo. I just… I just want people to see me."
"Micky. Peter an' Davy an' Mike, they're counting on you."
"…Yeah, I know." He looked away, pouting.
Jody could tell that he wasn't exactly happy about his decision, but in a way, she knew what he felt, and could relate. In a school where most of her classmates were male, Jody stood out as a curiosity, especially when she attended classes for such an academic subject. Sure, she had a couple female classmates, but the vast majority of the women at her particular school were attending classes for general teaching degrees. She wanted to spend her days in a lab, up to her ears in glorious science.
Leaning on her brother, she draped an arm around his shoulder. "Well, you're going to go," she said. "You can sit next to me and watch. I'm not letting you stay home and sulk while they go play to pay off your hospital bills."
He sighed, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. It hurt to see him staring like that, with almost all the personality drained from his formerly expressive gaze. It seemed dead. Dull. But Jody wondered if it had less to do with the actual blindness, and more to do with the fact that he forced himself to stop doing what he loved.
"All right," he muttered. "I'll go."