The Long and Winding Road
"You say "Goodbye", I say "Hello"... "

* * * * *

~ ~ Friday, September 28th, 2001 ~ ~

Micky and Davy flew in at 8pm on the dot mere days before. They had needed special permission to make the flight, but after Mike had called the airlines and explained what they were planning to put together, they had been granted clearance almost immediately.

Over two weeks had passed since September 11th, and the genesis of the idea that all involved were now calling "Come Together and Listen to the Band: A WTC Rescue Relief Concert" had mutated into a full blown concert. Paul had come up with the name- merging a Beatles tune with a Monkees tune, since that was exactly what the evening would involve. Micky, Peter, Davy, Mike, Paul, and Ringo were slated to perform a two and a half hour concert, with proceeds going to the rescue work at both ground zero in New York and the Pentagon in Washington.

George wouldn't perform, it was agreed by all... except George. Paul worried for George's health, and the others knew that the strain of 150 minutes of music was more than likely, too much for the man to handle. George grumbled about not being able to play, ("Yah're not gonna treat me like a damn invalid, Macca!" he'd protested fiercely), but worked behind the scenes anyway, setting everything up. Venue, ticket sales... whatever the others needed him to do.

Security was top priority for the event scheduled, roughly, two weeks from Saturday. It was a risk, playing in a public place so soon after such a terrible attack, but they were all willing. Just seeing how much the country had already united under one banner and one spirit of freedom gave them the courage to go on.

Mike was putting everyone up at his place until the concert for convenience as much for anything else. If they were all together, they could plan the music selections as well as the timing on each set. Each man would get his own solo song, then break into groups- Beatles, Monkees- and, for a finale, bring everyone together. What they would sing was still being selected. Would it be strictly Monkees and Beatles tunes?

That was the question Peter was working on as he sat up late that evening. It was still technically Friday, but Saturday was just a hair's breadth away... it was 11:50pm to be exact.

"Still up?" George walked in behind Peter and sat down in one of Mike's overstuffed chairs.

Peter turned in surprise. "I didn't expect that anyone would still be up. Least of all, you, George. Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Can't sleep. S'the meds, Ah suppose."

Peter nodded. George had been undergoing more and more aggressive treatment over the past few months. It had taken a toll on his body, to be certain. Yet the man's mind was still as sharp as it ever was, if Peter was any judge. They'd had a couple conversations since everyone had come together at Mike's place, but never one-on-one. Now that they were alone, Peter felt the urge to ask so many questions that he'd never gotten the chance to before-- How did you play the sitar so well? What did it feel like to be able to have a solo career outside of the famous 60's band? And, then, a plethora of questions about his spirituality. Not to pick it apart, but in reverence and respect of it. He had experimented with the Hari Krishna religion when he was younger, and lately had been thinking about going back to it. The Middle Eastern philosophy was so calming and comforting that he wanted---

George looked about ready to fall asleep.

"Sorry if I'm not the most talkative company in the world."

"Quite alright. Ah'm not really up for a long chat anyway. Just thinkin'."

Smiling, Peter turned back to a couple emails Mike had printed out for him earlier. "I hear that. Never seems to be enough time to do that these days."

The 58 year old nodded and leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.

He's in pain. Peter felt a great sadness with the realization. It hurt to see someone so close to his age knocking on death's door. But he wants to do this thing, so the least I can do is put all I've got left into making everything work out. Who knows how much longer we'll have him around? This might be the last--- Peter swallowed hard and forced his thoughts away from the morbid place they had settled into. "You alright?" He asked, feeling like an idiot. Of course he wasn't 'all right'.

"Yeah. Like Ah said, Ah'm just thinkin'... 'bout those people again." George could see the burning ruins in his mind's eye so clearly that it made him sick. Well, sicker. "Yah know, man, there are no words tah describe that. Ya feel so powerless an' full of rage that yah just want to burst."

The blonde guitarist broke off listening to George. Something that he had just said clicked in Peter's brain. It was... a poem.. or something that he had read, not too long ago. "... no words..." He grabbed for a stack of papers he had plowed through aimlessly that afternoon, finally digging out a half sheet message stapled to a packet of music.

"What's that?"

"Something I received a few days back." He pulled out the staple which bound the pages together and spread each page out before him. Sliding the strap of his guitar onto his shoulder, Peter began to play slowly. It was just the melody, but that was enough to make George sit forward, attention piqued.

The music which ushered forth was somber, respectful, and yet full of hope. It was like the mood of everyone now, weeks past the tragedy.... mourning, but starting to turn towards the future. While it was uncertain, one could always find comfort in the hope for a brighter tomorrow.

"I was thinking of using that for the end when everyone's onstage together." Peter said after he finished.

George nodded enthusiastically. "Ya aren't gonna get any arguments 'ere. An' now that ya've given me a sample of the songs ya'll be playin', Ah'm not takin' no for an answer about joinin' everyone on stage." He tried to look as stern as possible. "An' let that be an end to it."

Peter laughed. What could he say? "Alright George. The others will want to kill me, but... I can't stop you, now can I?"

"I'll tear ya limb from limb with my bear 'ands, ya try it."

Both were laughing hard as the clock struck twelve.

* * * * *

~ ~ Thursday, October 11th, 2001 ~ ~

It was late. Mike knew he should get to bed if he wanted to resemble a conscious man for the next day's flight to New York, but sleep was eluding him. He'd tried every trick in the book -- warm milk, sheep counting, listening to his tape of the ocean waves lapping the shore -- but nothing helped. The milk had seemed a good idea, but tasted downright awful, his imagination was simply not in the mood to conjure up sheep, and the waves... well, the waves made him realize just how badly he had to go to the bathroom.

Sitting at the small varnished mahogany desk in his room, reading and revising the manuscript of his next book, Mike began to experience the one thing that he dreaded most of all -- doubt. Who was he fooling anyway? He'd given up being a musician years ago; three to be precise. Now, tomorrow he was going to get up there on stage with six other guys who had actually stayed in the music industry and kept in practice, and make a complete fool of himself.

You're a real idiot sometimes, Nez. He chastised himself. Carryin' on like you're still 20 years old, not a care in the world... The idea had sounded good at the time too. Self-doubt always seemed to overtake him at the most inconvenient times.

Without completely realizing he had done so, Mike got up out of bed, exited his room, headed down the basement stairs, and crossed the musty, mildew-ridden expanse towards a pile of boxes, trunks, and other long forgotten items.

It was like stepping back in a decade or two. Boxes, various odds and ends, and old beaten guitar case that he had retired years ago all showed, through coats of dust, how long they had sat here. The last time Mike had been down in this corner of his basement was... well, frankly, he couldn't recall. What drew him here now was mystifying and yet, at the same time, strangely clear. It was like he had been called to the most secluded spot in the house, and was now rooting through an old box specifically in search of---

The candle. It was old, still in perfect condition and never once burned. The wax work's style was pure 1960's psychadellia
influenced with many different colors that swirled through each other in a stout, log-shaped cylinder. He righted the candle and set it on the ground, catching a whiff of incense in his nostrils as he did so. Striking a match and igniting the wick, Mike noted the scent grew even stronger, seeming to almost immediately fill the room from end to end with it's rich, heady fragrance. Vaguely he could remember Peter having several of these placed around his dressing room back in the days of "The Monkees" TV show. If he recalled it correctly, Pete had picked up a candle set while the group was in London. He strained to recall who had given him the candle.... not Tork.

Memories of the evening the Beatles had thrown a party for the Monkees flew back to mind. Mingling had occurred much in the same way it was today with Davy and Paul finding common ground as the "cute" members of their respective groups and commiserating over the rabid fans, insane working hours, as well as the constant demands on their time for interviews and such. Topics such as these would keep the two going into the wee hours of the morning. In fact, just two days ago, Mike had heard them come back in after a late night chat over coffee at some trendy spot a few counties over. Peter, not surprisingly, was spending as much time as possible with George. Mike could only imagine the topics those two could discuss in depth-- both true musicians, and both into the mystical eastern philosophies. The last pair was Ringo and Micky. They were both drummers, and had associated through business deals once or twice. However, that was where the similarities ended. Outwardly as dissimilar as you could get, they still had found common ground upon coming to New Mexico and playing music together in one of the more soundproof rooms of the house.

So where did that leave Mike? He was the loner in the situation, the "seventh wheel", staying out of the way, locked in his office for the most part. John would have probably been the one he could talk to, but the brown-haired, bespectacled guitarist had been dead for over 20 years.

Somewhere in the fog of his conscious mind, Mike became aware that another person was in the room with him. Maybe Davy or Micky had heard him banging around down here? But he had been trying very hard to keep quiet so everyone could sleep. It didn't add up.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." Mike called out.

"S'ahlright." The person replied quietly.

Who the devil? He squinted in the dim light, barely making out a dark silhouette mere feet in front of him. It isn't Peter.. or Davy... or Micky. Maybe George? Pete said he wasn't sleepin' well the past few nights.

The figure moved a bit so that he was now standing in profile. Not Harrison. He's shorter, and he has a slimmer frame. Plus, George had cut his long hair a while ago, hadn't he? The tips of this person's hair sat comfortably on the shoulders.. and wore glasses. Hell.

Mike shuddered to think that he had an intruder in the house. Some crazed idiot romping around the house was all he needed right now. The man headed towards one of the basement windows, covered by hanging curtains. Bending down and grabbing a heavy doorstop from the floor, Mike prepared himself to conk, whoever this guy was, right over the head. It wasn't a preferable weapon, but the heft would be enough to incapacitate his midnight guest.

The man reached for the pull cord on the window's curtains. Mike tensed. Now or never.

Nez raised the cast iron stop, shaped like a heart, over his head, fingers gripped tight.

However, at the same time, the man pulled the cord, parting the curtains and spilling a shaft of white moonlight into the darkness. Mike blinked, momentarily blinded by the brilliant burst of illumination. He scrambled to recover and take the offensive... and stopped dead in his tracks. There, features glowing in the ethereal light of midnight stood ----

"Lennon!" Mike Nesmith's mouth hung down in an almost comical gape.

John smiled. "Guilty as chah'ged." The basement had changed from a drab, dark chasm into an airy, pure white room in nearly the blink of an eye. The rug, marble floor beneath, walls, piano... all white. "Would ya care ta sit down? Take a load off yer---"

Mike dropped the doorstop square on his foot, hand-to-eye coordination seeming to have flown away the moment John spoke.

"--- feet." John cringed, somewhere between laughter and concern over the pain Mike was in.

"Damnit!" Mike cursed and limped over to the couch. "S-sorry." He apologized as he eased himself into a sitting position, then propping his foot up gingerly.

"Quite alright. S'alot ta take in, Ah know."

Mike was still at a loss for words. "I-is this--?"

"'Eaven? Well, not exactly. This is yer mind's creation of a nice, calm place, though." Lennon glanced around. "An' may Ah say you 'ave impeccable taste, mate."

"Thanks." Mike almost said as more of a question. What was he supposed to say?

"Ah'd guess ya've been 'ere before."

"Well... not that I can remember." Confusion colored Mike's voice. What's he getting at?

"Not even durin' tha rough times? Ya know, when things weren't goin' so good an' ya just wanted tah get away from it all for a while."

Well, he had conjured up a quiet place in his mind, but never in physical form. It never seemed this tangible... and
concentrating on such a spot was difficult for the man who's mind was always racing around at a million miles an hour. There was always so much to do that quiet reflection was completely unheard of.

"Durin' your last Monkees tour in '96?"

Mike's head shot up. He knows where the tender spots are... the old bastard. If this is supposed to be some 'guardian angel' thin' of whatever, I can't say that I'm feelin' too comforted right now.

"Ease up a bit there." It was almost as if John had heard his thoughts. "Ah'm just around because ya're cryin' out for some 'elp 'ere."

Chuckling, Mike couldn't help but spontaneously hear a few bars of the Lennon/McCartney song. "Help!... I need somebody!... HELP!... Not just anybody..."

"Regular comedian." It appeared that John really could hear Mike's thoughts.

So why am I even botherin' to speak in the first place?

"Because it's more comfortable. Real, Ah s'pose."

Yeah. "You've got me there." Mike took a deep breath. Since his thoughts were on broadcast stereo, there was no sense in trying to conceal what he was feeling inside. "I.. I can't do this, John." Mike stood, doing his best to ignore the lingering throb in badly bruised toes.

John shook his head. "Ya can."

"I can't! I don't even know what made me think of somethin' this stupid in the first place. A concert!"

This time, John stayed perfectly silent.

"YOU?!" Mike spat, louder than was intended.

John shrugged. "You 'ad the idea. Ah just pushed ya ta voice it. Anyone evah tell ya that ya keep too much ta yerself?"

The anger Mike was feeling slowly slipped away. Something knew that John was right. "Even so... it's been too long. I'm too far out of practice to be anythin' but a bumblin' shadow of what I used to be onstage." A guitar sat on the piano which, Mike could only assume, belonged to John. It sounded silly, but he could almost feel the beautiful instrument mocking him, daring him to pick it up and show just what a has-been he really was.

"Ya never loose the music." John followed Nez's gaze to the piano and walked over to pick up the object of the man's attention. "Ya can try ta walk away, but it's always there for ya. My friend, all ya gotta do is be willin' ta try again.

John settled down, cross-legged, cradling the guitar. Strumming carefully and deliberately the opening chords of "Imagine". Pausing, he handed the guitar over.

Mike felt horribly awkward taking the instrument up in his hands. All he could think of was how he'd mess up and embarrass himself in front of---

"No. Ya can't think like that. Remembah? Ya just let the music come. Shut out everythin' else..."

* * * * *

~ ~ Friday, October 12th, 2001 ~ ~

Mike started awake suddenly, laying on the couch against the far wall of the basement. What a dream! But it was incredibly vivid. Most dreams would fade away moments after awakening, yet this one had seemed so real that it refused to slip from his mind.

"Imagine all the people... sharing all the world..."

He saw the candle sitting across the room, burned down from hour upon hour of use, Mike assumed. He blew it out and returned it to the box. Closing the paperboard flaps, his old guitar case once more caught his eye as it had the night before. Only this time----

"Yo-ou... you may say I'm a dreamer..."

He set it down on the ground, unsure of what had possessed him to pull it out again. The thing had been empty for years. During the grueling Monkees tours of the late 60's, the case had pretty much fallen apart.

"But I'm not the only one..."

One clasp. Two clasps. He pulled back the lid gently to accommodate the weak, rusted, and bent hinges. His breath caught sharply in his throat at what he saw. What the heck?

"I hope some day you'll join us..."

A shining, white guitar stared up at Mike from within his old weathered case. Lifting it up, unable to believe what he was holding in his hands, Mike's eyes shone.

"And the world will live as one."

Glancing down, he saw a sticky note that had been nestled under the instrument. There, in scrawled handwriting were words that made confirmed what he had experienced was certainly no dream.

'Michael- Remember.... IMAGINE'

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!