Author's Note: The original idea for this story came from a scene in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, one of those "fake death" scenes. (You'll see what I mean when you read the story. :-))
"Hey, Mick, what're you doing?" the Texan demanded.
"I'm preparing to give myself a home perm," Micky replied.
"Home perm?" Davy repeated, coming into the room, followed by Peter.
"You're not going to try that again, are you?" Mike said in disbelief. "Haven't you learned your lesson? Home perm kits mean trouble!"
"Yeah, Micky," Peter chimed in. "Don't you remember last time? The thing malfunctioned and you almost got killed!" The blonde Monkee shuddered at the remembrance.
"Well, it shouldn't happen again," Micky replied defensively.
Mike rolled his eyes. "Why take a chance?" He picked up the box and looked at it. "Isn't this even the same brand you used the last time?"
Micky shrugged. "Might be. I don't quite remember."
"‘ell, Micky," Davy said, "I ‘ope you won't wind up with some disaster again."
"Yeah," Mike agreed. "You might actually get killed this time!" Shaking his head, the Texan went back into the kitchen.
"Don't worry, guys," Micky assured them. "I'll be careful. I promise nothing will happen this time!"
With a worried glance back at Micky, who was setting up the equipment, Peter followed Mike into the kitchen, saying, "Hey, Mike, you know it's my turn to fix dinner tonight!"
Davy went upstairs to get ready for an upcoming date that evening.
Micky plugged in the curler. "There! Everything should work just fine," he said to himself.
Everything did, too, for the first few minutes. Suddenly, the curler started making a strange sound. Micky brought the curler down out of his hair and stared at it. "Funny. I've never heard a curler make that sound before."
The sound stopped, and Micky was about to resume the perm, when, suddenly, quite out of the blue, he heard a loud BOOM!, which ricocheted all around the room. "What happened?" Micky exclaimed. Then he collapsed to the floor and heard no more.
Micky was in the Monkees' pad's living room, opening the new Home Perm kit he'd ordered, which had just arrived in the mail. Mike came in and saw him.
"Guys? Where are you?" Micky called from the stairs.
Just then he heard the front door open. He slid down the balcony to greet the other Monkees. They all looked sad, and Peter was crying.
"There, there, Petah," Davy said, trying to comfort him.
"I . . . I . . . I just can't believe he's . . . he's . . . gone," Peter choked out.
"Gone?" Micky repeated, sliding to a stop at the foot of the stairs. "Who's gone?"
They went on talking as if Micky wasn't there.
"I told him he shouldn't have used that home perm kit," Mike said grimly. Micky thought he noticed a tear in Mike's eye, but he turned away quickly, and when he turned back, it wasn't there anymore. "It's my fault he's dead! I should've stayed here while he was using the kit!"
Micky suddenly realized that he must be the topic of conversation. "Guys, come on, I'm not dead!" he exclaimed, running up to them. "I'm right here!"
"Sometimes, I think I can still hear him," Peter said sadly, breaking into new tears.
"You can, Peter! I'm here, I said!" Micky walked right up to Peter and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, then gasped as it went right through.
"Gosharooney!" he exclaimed. "What's going on here?" A terrifying thought came to him. "Maybe I am dead!"
"It's my fault," Peter bawled. "I shouldn't have followed Mike into the kitchen! I should've stayed with Micky!"
Davy's eyes glistened and he said, "It's my fault. I shouldn't have been so worried to get ready for my date!"
"Guys . . . It's nobody's fault!" Micky cried out. "If I am dead—and I sure hope I'm not—it's only my fault!"
"Let's try to pull ourselves together here," Mike said. "Micky's gone, and we'll all miss him a lot, but we need to go on." He turned away again, attempting to wipe away some more of his own tears. Abruptly the Texan turned and walked into the kitchen. "I'll fix dinner."
Peter didn't object, even though it was his turn. He sank to the floor, looking around glumly.
Davy wandered over to the remains of the home perm kit and picked up the curler. "Poor Micky," he said quietly. "Killed by a maniac ‘ome perm kit."
"Davy!" Micky called. "I'm standing right here!"
"I almost can ‘ear ‘im," Davy said with a sniffle. He set the curler down and slowly walked upstairs.
Micky didn't know what to do.
Suddenly he saw Peter walk up to the bandstand and run his hand gently over Micky's drums. "You were a great drummer, Micky," Peter whispered. "The best I'd ever met! One of the best friends, too." He picked up a drumstick and tapped it on the drum lightly. "I'll never forget you, Micky."
Micky was touched and at the same time horrified by this. "Am I really dead?" he exclaimed. He slowly sank to the floor. He picked up the curler and looked at it. "Did this thing really kill me?" He remembered hearing a big explosion. "Yipe! It must've! It must've exploded and rendered me . . . dead!" He choked out the last word. "No! No! Oh, no!" he cried. "I don't wanna be dead! I wanna live! I'm too young to die! Oh, if I just had the chance to do it over, I would!" He collapsed on the floor in grief.
"Micky?"
"Micky?"
The familiar voices of Mike, Peter, and Davy were all around him.
He slowly opened his eyes. He was laying on the couch in the Pad. Mike, Davy, and Peter were looking down at him worriedly.
"He's awake!" Peter exclaimed.
Micky looked at up Peter joyfully. "You mean you can see me? And I'm not dead?"
They looked at each other. "Not sure what you meant by that first part," Mike said, "but, no, you're not dead."
"‘e must ‘ave nine lives," Davy declared. "That's the second time ‘e's made it out alive!"
Micky slowly came up on one hand and looked around the Pad. "I'm not dead," he whispered. Then he looked back at the other Monkees, puzzled. "But I don't understand. I was dead—and a ghost—and I couldn't get you guys to hear me!"
"That must've been some nightmare you had," Mike said. "You got a good electric shock when that fuse blew out."
"So that's what the ‘boom' was," Micky mused. He ran a hand through his hair. "I still didn't get that perm." Upon seeing the Monkees' strange looks, he laughed and added, "But no more home perms, guys. I'll go to a hair dresser. I've learned my lesson about home perms—unless you wanna wind up dead, there's no use bothering with them!"
The Monkees all laughed in relief.
