Two days had passed and Micky was in hell. He'd hated to say all those things to one of his best friends, but Peter had left him with no alternative. The truth was, he had made promises to people. A lot of people. Major deals were in the works, and had hinged on the availability of all three Monkees. Now, all of his plans were on the line.

It wasn't just the money, though. Dollars and cents be damned, as far as he was concerned. What was hardest was the principal of the thing. If The Monkees didn't meet certain commitments, he could be sued for breech of contract! Peter spoke about his word, but Micky's also was in danger now. He'd given it to several people. He broke now, he was a liar.

"What am I gonna do?" Micky dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, Pete! WHY? You've left me with no options!"

A small movement out of the corner of his eye made Micky look up suddenly. "Yah're wrong, Micky. There's one more option yah ain't thought of yet. Ah'm not fond of it... but..."

"What?"

Davy swallowed hard. "Takin' 'im tah court."

A sharp breath was the only sound for several minutes. Davy tensed. "I... I can't do it, Davy. Pete's hung us out to dry, but... no. I won't let it happen. That would kill any semblance of friendship any of us ever had."

Darkness seemed to consume the room. No more words were spoken for hours. Even when Davy finally got up to leave, he did so soundlessly.

Their bond of friendship couldn't be broken forever, could it?

* * * * *

~ ~ September 2nd, 2001 ~ ~

The news came across the wires--- PETER TORK FIRED FROM MONKEES TOUR. Fans all over the web, and the world, were shocked. Things had seemed to be going so well this time around too! So, Mike wasn't around. That was pretty much a fact of life now. Mike would never join the others again, but at least there was Micky, Peter, and Davy to turn to on a bad day. What kid hadn't heard "Daydream Believer" or "Last Train to Clarksville" and not fallen instantly in love with the simplistic message of fun and freedom?

The Monkees were from a different era of peace, love and understanding-- a message that the world seemed to need now more than ever. Racial hate crimes, mob lynching, religious intolerance... it left deep wounds. Not that three musicians could change the world, but maybe, in their own small way, they could improve it a little. No revolution, but seeds planted through which such a thing could begin.

It was an awful day for friends, fans... and the performers themselves.

Peter Tork sat alone in his room, staring at a computer monitor. The room was dark, save for the glow from the monitor. He typed slowly, "I guess I'd be on stage by myself, playing 'Last Train To Clarksville' in another key and saying, 'Now this is where Micky usually sings 'I'm A Believer'," in regards to the claims that, if he showed up to the last two tour dates, neither Micky or Davy would perform. They would refuse. That was probably what hurt most of all. They didn't want him. Micky had told him to never come back but... Mick always blew off steam like that. Well, usually he did. Peter hit send and then quickly shut the monitor off. He needed sleep.

Davy Jones sat alone in his hotel room. He and Micky had two more dates ahead of them before a taking much needed time off from touring-- September 7th and September 8th. After that he would take a few days to himself. Do some sightseeing, check in with his official website....

Micky Dolenz shook his head as he read a printed version of the press release that he had sent out earlier that day. How could it have come to this? They were four grown men who couldn't get along. That was the only reason they weren't still together as a foursome. Frankly, he reflected bitterly, they were lucky to all be alive at all. Their contemporaries hadn't been so lucky. Jimmi Hendrix had OD-ed.... John Lennon had been killed by a psychopath... George Harrison was deathly ill with cancer... The four Monkees were physically able to tour together. Ego, not death was the one and only thing that prevented it.

One question went up from so many Monkees fans that night--- Why?

* * * * *

~ ~ September 11th, 2001 ~ ~

One question went up from everyone around the world--- WHY?!

In a high school, teenagers were passing to third period when "it" happened. But they didn't know what was going on. Life was moving as it always had-- kids stalling as much as possible before trudging into class and admitting that, no, their homework wasn't done; a gaggle of girls were gossiping about how hot the Varsity quarterback was; others preparing to hand in a large project they had worked on all summer...

As the bell rang and the teacher walked in, everyone opened their books to the eighteenth chapter of their American History book titled, "The Vietnam War". Soon, an aid came in and called the teacher away with an urgent memo. The kids sat in confusion. What could possibly be so important?

"Miss? What's that all about?"

"Oh. Haven't you heard? Someone flew a plane into the World Trade Center."

No one could believe their ears. Literally. It was impossible. Some sick joke.

The bell rang. Everyone moved on to their next class after forty minutes of confusion. In the next room, there was a TV tuned to CNN. There, plain as day was the image of two twin mountains of steel--- ablaze. Hollywood itself hadn't conjured up such a thing in it's long history because the premise would have been simply too unbelievable. It couldn't happen in real life.

But there it was.

A girlfriend ran over to her boyfriend and they held to each other tightly for several minutes.

People dashed to the phones. Checking up on loved ones was the biggest priority at this moment. Class work be damned.

"Be there... be there..." a silent prayer came up from a girl hanging on to the pay phone for dear life. She wore old, faded jeans, a black sleeveless T-shirt with the words "Nobody's Baby" across the front in jagged letters. One ring... two rings... three rings....

"Hello?"

"Thank God you're there. I was so worried... Daddy..." her cool exterior crumbled, "I'm scared." She, like thousands of others across the country, broke down into uncontrollable sobs.

* * * * *

"Damnit." Micky slammed his cell phone on to the hotel room mattress. "I still can't get through."

"Well, 'ave you tried 'is other lines? Maybe someone's 'eard from 'im." Davy fought the panic that was creeping into his voice as well. "Pete might not 'ave gone ta New York aftah all."

The TV's volume was off, but the images continued to play across the screen. News anchors imparted one tragic bit of information after another from silent lips.

"There are phone numbers to call if we need to... need to..." The slightly balding drummer shuddered and walked over to the open window. He couldn't say it.

Davy continued soberly. "If we want tah find out who's accounted for..." A beat passed before he finished, "An' who isn't."

Voice strangled with the obvious effort to keep it controlled, Micky picked up the phone and spoke into it. "Operator? Any progress in getting through to New York?"

Davy couldn't hear the response, but he didn't have to. The look on Micky's face said enough. No change.

The phone booped off.

"'Ave you tried 'is agent? Maybe they knows where Petah is."

Micky laughed bitterly. "They won't take my calls, Davy. Last time I spoke with Peter's representatives, I told them, in no uncertain terms, that you and I wanted nothing to do with their client ever again."

"Why'd you do that?" Davy stared in disbelief after taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

"I don't know!" Micky's hand flew to his forehead. "I was mad. I... I was hurt." He turned away in shame. "And I certainly didn't know this was going to happen!"

Davy averted his eyes as well and reached for the remote control. The little green graphic display popped on, a neon bar sliding across the screen to indicate that the volume was being restored. "My God!"

Micky whirled. His eyes couldn't believe... brain couldn't process... the sight before him. As if watching a tape on half speed, the first tower began to crumble.... a dust cloud flew up into the heavens. "No." Clenching his fist, Micky walked off into the bathroom. He closed the door and stared full into the mirror before him... and cried.

* * * * *

Across the country, in a comfortable home in New Mexico, Michael Nesmith was watching the same horrific scene unfold on the big screen before him. He'd just pulled an all-nighter with reps from his online business, Video Ranch, and was already exhausted beyond words. In fact, so tired was he, that part of his brain couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. It didn't sync up with what his brain told him could happen in the real world.

In short, this had to be a dream. He must have fallen asleep on his desk, in front of his computer screen.

Still....

"Come out here." He called into the dark guest room down the hall. "Somethin's happened."

"What could possibly be so important that you'd call me from a midmorning siesta for--- Merciful God!"

Peter Tork stood in the shadowy doorway and reached out for something to support him. His legs had suddenly gone to jelly on him. "Mike... tell me that's some kind of damn movie."

"I wish it were. At least then we could hit stop and eject the tape. This is the real thing."

The guitarist looked as if he was going to be sick. "I need to make a few phone calls....."

"Of course." Mike got up and walked out to his kitchen where he grabbed the cordless. Peter took it gratefully and ran through in his mind all the people that he needed to get in touch with. Kids, friends, family, coworkers--

Mike disappeared into his room to get dressed. He could tell it was going to be a horribly long day. When he walked back out, Peter seemed to be deep in thought. Well, the man had been thinking a lot since he dropped in, unannounced, over a week ago, but this was different. It was as if he were trying to make a decision about something. "Should we call.."

"Micky and Davy." Mike knew what Peter was getting at. "It's up to you, Pete. You know what they'd say to me."

Peter knew alright. He knew too well. Up until a week ago, he would have had their same reaction. If Michael had called him while touring this summer, he would have, most likely, hung up the phone right then and there. However, since being "fired", he'd done some thinking and wanted to make amends with the other estranged member of the group. He and Mike finally had something in common again.

"They're fine." Peter bit his lip. "If they really cared about what happened to either of us, they'd be the ones to call."

The acidity of Peter's response was shocking, but not unexpected. He hadn't walked away, like Mike had. He'd been kicked out... told he didn't count any longer. "Alright. So... how are your friends?"

Peter smiled. "Thankfully, they're alright."

Return to The Monkees Page

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Hefty Disclaimer:
Alright, I'm taking MAJOR liberties here, I know it. I know diddly about these guys and their real lives, and even less about how they interact with one another. However, I did want to write a piece about the events of September 11th, 2001 from a different standpoint. I could have written a poem... a lengthy essay about Islam and Bin Laden. Instead, I picked a medium that I know... music, and the people who make it. Music really is the universal language. It sounds corny, but it can lift you up in your darkest moments, and put a smile on your face.

Okay, now for the general disclaimer. The Beatles are themselves, I don't own 'em. The Monkees are themselves too, and I don't own them either. Frankly, I don't own much except an excessively busy brain that cranks out stuff like this.

Oh yeah. And if this offends anyone too much... I will remove it. I mean it. This piece has everything to do with how I deal with a major trajedy and how I imagine others would. However, I don't want to cause more pain by publishing it.

With all of this said.... read away!