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Chapter Four




The cameras were waiting at the stables, and crew members were standing there open-mouthed at the sight of the Monkeemobile with all four of them in it pulling up.

“All right, you boys have fun and no roughhousing!” Mike teased as he drove off.

“Yes, Daddy!” Micky called after him.

Peter joined Micky and Davy as they lined up for horses, each giving his preference—Davy desiring a “nice rough one.” Peter, as a middling rider who hadn’t been on a horse in years, chose a calm, sedate-looking brown. He swung up on his and couldn’t resist. “Are you aware you have a Monkee on your back?”

Davy’s horse was dancing back and forth—something that wasn’t bothering the Englishman a bit. Micky came walking up, sitting on a gray horse and looking every bit the competent rider . . . except for the fact he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Peter shook his head. “You are gonna be feeling that.”

“I want to ride bareback,” Micky groused, taking the reins in his hand. “They won’t let me take the saddle off.”

“But barefoot?” Peter chuckled.

Micky shrugged. “I’ll be okay.” He patted his horse’s shaggy neck. “This boy looks pretty tame.”

“So does this one,” Peter grinned. “What do you think of the long-haired style these day?” he asked his horse. “My goodness . . . your hair’s as long as mine! Are you a boy or a girl? I don’t want to say you’re a horse, but you’re no deer, dear . . . ”

They followed their police escort out of the courtyard and out onto the trail, Micky and Davy—the most experienced riders—immediately shifting into a fast canter that kicked up clouds of dust. Peter followed at a trot, smiling as he watched them.

As their ride came to an end, Micky groused, “Well, here we are back again—the same spot!”

Peter smiled, pulling his legs up Indian-style on top of the saddle. “How’re your feet, Micky?” Micky glared at him. Peter held up his hands, still grinning. “Hey, man . . . don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Micky dismounted and headed off to put Band-Aids on his blisters. Peter hopped down from his horse, patting the animal on the neck and thanking it for a gentle ride. He and Davy waited for their footsore companion.

At last, Micky limped over. “You’re a horse talker now, Peter?”

“No. Just sensitive to the thoughts of others. Even if they’re not human.”

Micky frowned. “That some’a that Stranger from a Strange Land mumbo jumbo?”

Peter just shrugged, a cryptic grin on his face. If it was easier for Micky to see him that way, he wasn’t going to discourage him.

Bob smiled at them. “Off to meet Mike at the radio station now!”

Peter swallowed a surge of excitement as they piled into yet another car—this one far less distinct than the GTO—and drove back into the city, where they were quickly hustled into a brick building and up several flights of stairs to the station, where Mike was waiting.

“How was your downtime?” Peter asked him softly.

Mike smiled. “Pretty good. Me an’ some of the roadies went out drivin’ . . . we stopped at a mall and wandered around a bit—I confused the hell outta some poor guy on the escalator—went shootin’ . . . usual guy stuff,” he added with a dismissive shrug.

Peter squeezed his shoulder. “Bob, mind if I sit back here with the camera guy?” he asked as he eyed the food. “Stomach’s telling me it’s hungry.”

“Sure, Peter,” Bob replied. “I’m sure these three can make up for it.”

Peter smiled and sat down, helping himself to a hamburger. He laughed as Mike went into his farm report routine; afterwards they brought a girl in from the street and asked her that if she found out they couldn’t carry “a tune in a bucket” (to use Mike’s words) would she hate them? She replied “no,” something that seemed to genuinely surprise Mike because he immediately asked her why.

“Well, because . . . you’re putting people on pretty good if you don’t.”

Peter frowned at this. “Hold on . . . what’s this about? We’re going on in six hours . . . ”

Micky leaned over. “Press has been hounding us. Saying we don’t play our instruments—which we didn’t at first.” Peter’s eyes telegraphed his disbelieving shock. “I’ve been taking lessons double time,” Micky continued. “I’m worried—I’ve been shaky the last couple dates and I think Mike’s pissed off.”

“Micky . . . you’re a great drummer.”

Micky smiled. “Thanks. And once I can stop looking at Mike’s foot I think I’ll start believing it for myself.”

That made Peter frown again, and he whispered, “Just feel the beat, Micky. That’s what you’ve always done, and you’ve never lost it.”

Bob motioned to Micky. “Your turn, Mick.”

“Turn for what?”

Bob rolled his eyes. “For the candid clip we’re going to put in the episode?”

Micky sighed and closed his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever pops into your head,” Peter replied before Bob could even open his mouth. “Reflections on life on the road . . . concerts, being famous. Improvise.”

Micky nodded and began to tell of his dream to build something that would outlast him. “S’funny, man . . . went to this house a man had built all by himself, and I really got hung up on it, ‘cause, uh . . . when I was a kid I used to build a lot of things, and I know I’ve got a lot going for me with the music and the show and everything, but . . . but still . . . someday I’d like to make something—something that’ll last. Something important. Something I can say is my own.” When he finished, he opened his eyes and looked hopefully at Bob.

“That was groovy, Micky. Perfect.” He looked at Peter. “Your turn, man.”

“Life on the road . . . ” Peter pulled up his memories of the last few concerts they’d played—small venues, compared to what was facing him tonight, but he’d been right next to the amplifiers. “After a concert, my ears are ringing for about twelve hours. And, after a number of days of this kind of thing, you . . . you really need some absolute quiet for while . . . and . . . it’s not fun to avoid people all the time . . . spend all your time running from . . . that’s nowhere. So, you walk. Just . . . a little green . . . and a little quiet . . . you hope, if you can find it any place.” He smiled as he opened his eyes. “Helps if you can.”

Everyone was silent, even Mike, who’d been talking with the girl. He gave Peter a reserved, respectful smile. Peter returned the smile, bowing his head respectfully to Mike, knowing that he was the only one who knew.

Bob glanced at his watch. “Shit, we’re gonna be late.” He glanced around, noting Davy’s absence. “We’ll find Davy and record his on the spot, and Mike—we’ll do yours in the car.” Mike nodded and stood up.

They found Davy outside, smoking a cigarette on a sunny part of the sidewalk.

“Davy, think fast!” Micky said, startling him.

Davy gasped, the cigarette falling to his feet.

“Sorry,” Micky said with a cocky grin that proved he wasn’t.

Davy growled at him. “What is it?”

“We have five minutes to record your clip, Davy,” Bob said. “Talk about anything you want.”

“Anything I want?” Davy ranted. “I just wanna know what bloody day it is! I can’t tell one day from another anymore! You know what I was doing this morning? I was playing tag with a bloomin’ swan! I’m tired, man. I’m really tired.”

“It’s Friday,” Peter said.

Davy smiled at him. “Thank you, man. Friday—the last day of the freakin’ tour!” He looked at the camera. “Some days I lose track of time. I couldn’t tell you what day it was today. Like, at home you’ve got everything worked out, from hour to hour, minute to minute. Here, you don’t know what you’re doing to do, like, uh . . . I got up this morning at eleven o’clock and I went over there and played with the swan for an hour.”

“You played with what? Why’d you play with the swan?”

“I don’t know. It looked lonely,” Davy replied, giving Bob a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Bob said, looking at his watch. “Now please—or we’ll be late to the concert and the villagers really will be coming with their torches.”

They got in the car and as they drove, Bob asked, “Micky, what do you think about us splicing your comments over the footage of you looking at the stone palace?”

“Sounds fine,” Micky said.

“Hey, when’s it Mike’s turn?” Davy asked.

“In the car,” Bob said. “Come on—we gotta roll.”

Mike was thoughtful as he leaned back in the seat, trying to think of something to say. Bob turned in the front seat, aiming the handheld camera at him. “How about some reflections from before you were famous, Mike?”



Mike chuckled. Eyes on Peter, he couldn’t resist the huge grin as he said, “I used to cut class and take a chair, and go and sit on the middle of this stage, and look out at this empty house. And just play, like it was full of people screamin’. And, uh . . . I kept thinkin’ to myself—someday, man . . . someday. But it’s still the same flash. Instead of thinking I’ve made it, I keep thinking ‘someday, man . . . someday’!” He chuckled again, shaking his head at himself.

Peter sat back as the car headed for the arena. Somewhere in the distance—a distance that seemed like miles—Peter could hear Mike speaking with the distorted, slightly fuzzy sound of a radio.

“ . . . We’d like to thank everybody for making it a wonderful stay. We’d like to thank the Rolling Stones for being a great group. We’d like to thank the Mamas and the Papas for making it good. We’d like to thank the Loving Spoonful for making it happy. But most of all, we’d like to thank the Beatles, for starting it all up for us.”

Peter only half-listened—his mind was still reeling after the events of the day, and he knew—with the prospect of performing before a crowd larger than any he’d ever faced—that the mind-bending was just beginning.

“You okay?” Mike asked suddenly.

“I hope so,” Peter replied honestly. In a whisper that Micky and Davy couldn’t hear, he added, “I’ve never played before more than two hundred people before.”

Matching his tone, Mike whispered, “We can’t see more’n two hundred at a time, the lights’re too dim. Just picture it as a small place with a LOT of amplification.”

Peter swallowed as the looming hulk of the arena swallowed the car whole. “I’ll keep that in mind.”



On to Chapter Five
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