Secrets of a Monkee
Summary: Micky meets his best friends during his darkest hour. Years later, his past comes back to haunt him. Can his friends help pull him back again?
Note: This is set in modern day, but the Monkees are still in their 20s. I just moved them forward in time because I cannot write 60's lingo or technology. With the exception of maybe cell phones, you may not notice though cause I don't use a lot of technology in here. This is also dark. As the summary says, the story starts with Micky's darkest hour. I am testing the waters here to see if anyone would be interested in reading this because I don't see any other real dark fics in this category. Please review to let me know if you want more. It does get lighter in the next chapter which I will also post.
Special thanks to my friends Miki and Emilio for input and proofreading.
Chapter 1: The bottom
Micky stood on the corner, not sure what to do next. He shoved the small brown paper bag with its contents in his pocket, so no one would see and question it. He checked his watch and realized he had to start his shift in 5 minutes. Luckily, the club he worked at was only up the street. He was 18 years old and had been on his own since graduating high school earlier that year. He had met the club's owner a year prior and had asked him for a job. The owner, Robert, had reluctantly agreed after Micky had impressed him with his ability to bus a table quickly and efficiently. It helped he seemed to also have endless amounts of energy, at least when he first got the job. He had moved here after high school, and also needed a place to stay, so Robert let him stay in the basement of the club in order to have Micky always at his beck-and-call and to have an excuse to reduce Micky's pay. He hated it, but it gave him a home and funds to buy food.
So there he was. Standing on the corner, not wanting to start his shift, but resigned to the fact he had to. He began to walk towards the club when he noticed a blonde man standing in front of it holding a guitar case and some papers. Two teenagers ran past him, either not paying attention to the man, or not caring he was there. When they collided into him, the man was bowled over, landing on his guitar case and sending his papers flying. The boys continued on and Micky dodged them expertly, used to these kinds of antics from the locals. It was then he noticed the man had gotten up and had started into the middle of the road, chasing after the papers. Micky knew that in addition to the children racing through the streets without paying attention, the cars also raced around the corners without paying attention. Sure enough, he heard the screeching of the tires approaching the blonde, who obviously hadn't heard the noise and raced to pick up the papers. Micky instinctively acted, diving off the curb towards the man, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back away from the car as it sped by without even slowing down. The two landed on the curb on their backsides with a heavy thud and pain shot through Micky's body.
"Whoa…." The man next to him breathed. "That…that car came outta nowhere!" The blonde now turned to face him directly. "You….you saved my life!"
"Yeah," Micky responded, getting up and rubbing his now sore butt. "This street is pretty brutal. Running out blindly like that is not a good idea anywhere, especially here." Micky stretched out his hand to help the man up who was still staring at him with a mixture of shock and admiration. Once the man was standing, he wrapped his arms around Micky with such force that Micky had to put one foot behind him to keep from falling over again.
"Thank you!" the man shouted.
"Ok, buddy. You're welcome. Just be more careful next time. I don't know what those papers are, but I'm sure they aren't worth dying for."
"Oh, it's my song!" The blonde man now seemed very excited as he showed Micky the fully recovered papers. Micky saw it was indeed a hand written music score. "I'm a musician and this song took me so long to perfect and this is my only copy of it. Losing it would be devastating."
"I'm sure, but still not worth your life."
"No, I guess not. Thank you again. Oh, my bass!" The man suddenly bent over to check on the case on the ground. After opening it and checking to see that the only damage was a dent in the case, relief once again washed over his face. "Oh thank goodness. It took me a year to save up for that." Micky smiled, glad the instrument had survived. It really was a nice bass and would have been a shame if it had been damaged.
"You're lucky. Kids do this kind of stuff all the time over here. You should try being a little more careful if you plan on sticking around any longer. Don't trust anyone around here to pay attention to you. No one gives a flying…."
"Dolenz!" shouted a voice cutting him off. Micky and the man both jumped at the sudden noise. Micky closed his eyes, awaiting the verbal onslaught he knew was about to come; he was supposed to be at work right now. "Dolenz, what are you doing out here?! I don't pay you to talk up the tourists! I pay you to work! Get in there and get my club ready for Billy's party!" Micky turned to face his boss, ready to grovel and apologize. Billy was Roberts's son who was having his sweet sixteen party that night. Micky opened his mouth to apologize, but the blonde man spoke up first.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I kept him from working. He saved my life, you see. I was careless and ran out into the street, where a car almost hit me…" but he was cut off, too.
"I don't care, young man. This man is paid to do a job."
"Yes, sir," Micky said before the blonde could say anything else. From the look on his face, he was taken aback at Robert's abrasiveness. "I'll start right now." Without another word, Robert walked into the club, with Micky right behind him. It wasn't until he was inside the club that Micky realized the blonde had followed him. Robert walked into his office, not noticing this.
"I hope you don't mind," the blonde said. "I am supposed to meet a couple people here in about 15 minutes. My friend set me up with them. They need a room-mate and I need a place to live. They said that they were performing on stage tonight and if I wanted to see them, to show up early." Micky just looked at the man. He really liked to ramble. At that moment, the bartender came out of the back room with her arms overloaded with boxes of beer. Micky quickly moved to grab as many of them as he could from her.
"Maria, how many times have I told you if you need help carrying these things, just yell at me!" Micky chided.
"Stop treating me like I'm an old woman!" Maria answered. She wasn't old at 35, but Micky still felt that he ought to help her lift heavy boxes. She was a beautiful, thin woman and he never understood how she could carry nearly 60 pounds on her own. She was also one of the kindest women he had ever met, so helping her was a pure pleasure to him.
"Oh come on, Maria. You're old and you know it." Micky teased, with a half-smile on his face. This was all he seemed to be able to muster lately. He set the boxes down for Maria, who had just noticed the blonde man with the guitar case. "Oh, I hope it's ok, but this guy is here to meet the band. I guess he's their new room-mate or something. I told him it was ok to wait here until the band gets here."
"You know I don't mind, but does Robert know?"
"No. But he'll be busy back there till the start of the show anyway." Micky turned to the man who was smiling now. "You can have a seat if you want."
"If you're sure you won't get in trouble," the man replied.
"Not as long as I get my job done, and you don't make a mess."
"Sure. By the way, I'm Peter Tork."
"I'm Micky Dolenz. This is Maria."
"Nice to meet you both." Peter pulled out a bar stool and sat down. Maria offered Peter a soda, which he gratefully accepted while Micky moved to assemble tables and chairs around the stage. When he had nearly finished setting the places on the tables for each of the invited guests, the doors opened again to reveal to more men. One was rather short with dark hair, the other was much taller with a wool hat loosely sitting on his own dark hair. They looked almost comical standing next to each other due to their vastly different heights. The taller man was carrying a guitar case, while the shorter man carried a small bag. Micky assumed these were the musicians Robert had hired for the party. Micky stood up and walked over to them.
"Gentleman, the stage is set for you already," Micky said. "The party technically begins in 5 minutes, but most of the guests won't arrive for another 10 or 15. Also, that man over there says he is supposed to be meeting you here."
"Thanks!" the short one said. Micky was surprised to hear an English accent, but brushed it off. He turned to go back to work, since he had 5 minutes to set up the decorations. Mustering the little amount of energy he had in him, he rushed around to finish. He heard the conversation between the three men while he worked.
"Hi," said the taller man, with a slight country accent; yet another stark contrast to his friend. "I'm Mike, and this is Davy. You must be Peter."
"Yeah," Peter responded. "Thanks for this. I don't really like sleeping on the street out here."
"No problem," Mike smiled. "My friend said you were a great guy and an excellent musician. We don't get many gigs as a two man group. Hopefully we'll get more now with a bass."
"Yeah," said Davy. "Now if only we could find a drummer, we'd sound perfect."
"I still think you should do the drums, Davy," Mike said. "You aren't that bad at it. With more practice, you could be really good."
"I'm too short," Davy replied. "No one will be able to see me." Peter and Mike both laughed at this. Micky stifled a short giggle, not wanting them to think he was eavesdropping. Maria, however, made herself well known.
"Oh, you need a drummer?!" She began. Micky knew where this was going, and as he had just put up the last balloon, he jumped down and ran over to her, quickly cutting her off.
"Maria! Can I get a Pepsi, please?" He shot her a look letting her know not to go any further. Maria rolled her eyes at him and grabbed a glass she had set aside specifically for him. She saved the nicer glasses for the customers.
"Micky," she whispered as she handed him the soda. "I really think you should talk to them. I've heard you play, you're amazing!"
"Maria, I've told you. I don't play anymore. I gave that stupid dream up months ago. I'm done with that. Stop trying to push it."
"But you were truly happy when you played, and the songs you wrote were marvelous. I haven't seen a real smile from you since you stopped playing."
"No. Now drop it." Micky walked away before she could say anything. His fist gripped the glass in his hand so tightly that were it one of the nice glass ones, he would have shattered it. This time he wasn't paying attention so he didn't see Billy walk in with his two best friends. When he finally realized it, Billy was standing right in front of him.
"Not bad, loser," Billy said, looking around at the decorations. Micky's grip got even tighter on his glass. "I suppose it'll do." Billy's friends laughed.
"Glad you like it," Micky said sarcastically. Billy turned around to inspect the stage, and took a step back. He knocked into Micky forcefully, and the soda spilled all over Micky's shirt. Billy and his friends laughed, and Micky felt the urge to punch Billy, knowing it was done on purpose.
"Oops, my bad!" Billy lied. Maria was about to say something from behind the bar when Robert walked out of his office.
"Billy!" Robert said, excited to see his son. "What do you think?"
"I like it, Dad," Billy lied again.
"Excellent! Dolenz, what is all over your shirt?" Micky was about to answer, when Robert waved him quiet. "Whatever, Dolenz, go downstairs and get changed. My waiter called out and I need you to fill in."
"Sir, I…" Micky began to argue, but was cut off again.
"And I expect you to treat all the guests tonight with respect." Robert now turned to the three men sitting by the bar. "Ah, boys. I'd like you to set up on stage now and start playing when the guests arrive. Who's this man?" He addressed Peter, not seeming to remember him from outside.
"Oh, this is Peter," Mike said, not knowing about the earlier incident. "He's our new room-mate. He's just going to watch tonight if that's ok."
"Sure, but he pays for all drinks." Robert turned back to Micky who was still standing in the same place. He was tired and wanted to be alone for the rest of the evening. "Dolenz, I mean it. Downstairs. Change. Now." He began to walk out and Micky started towards the stairs to the basement. "Oh, and Dolenz? I counted all the bottles of beer. If any of them turn up missing, you'll be out on the street by morning." Micky sighed and reluctantly continued to his room to get ready for the long night ahead of him. In the distance he heard Peter mutter something about what a horrible man Robert was.
The rest of the night was fairly uneventful. Micky did his job well, and got a few decent tips from Billy's friends, much to Micky's surprise. Micky didn't care though. Billy continued to verbally assault him throughout the night and abuse him. At one point, Billy made him go back to the kitchen to get a cheeseburger remade 10 times, laughing at Micky each time. Micky felt himself reach his breaking point about halfway through the night when Billy and his friends purposely tripped him while carrying a tray full of drinks and food for the 15th time. He turned on Billy and his friends, but stopped when he caught Robert's eye in the back. He couldn't do anything if he wanted to keep his job and his home. Technically he didn't want to, however. He made his way back to the bar to wipe himself off with a washcloth kept behind the bar and noticed Peter looking at him with pity.
"Why do you tolerate this?" Peter asked incredulously.
"It's my livelihood," Micky answered picking ice cubes out from inside his shirt.
"There are plenty of jobs in the world; surely you can find one that isn't this terrible."
"Not one that comes with a cozy little room down in the basement."
"You live here?"
"Yeah. Makes it easier for Robert to make me work at all hours of the day." Micky put the washcloth down and began to walk back to the floor to continue working.
"Let me help you at least." Peter stood up moving to do just that. Micky turned on him to stop him.
"No."
"It's the least I can do after you saved my life. I owe you!"
"No. You don't owe me. Anyone would have done it. I don't need you getting involved in any of this."
"I don't think just anyone would have jumped in front of a speeding car to save a stranger." Micky sighed. Peter was probably right, but he still couldn't let Peter deal with this stuff.
"Look, I don't wanna do this, but I have to. There's no way Robert is going to let you work. So please, sit back down and listen to your new friends. They sound pretty good." Micky wasn't lying. The two completely opposite men had a wonderful harmonic sound about them. Davy was shaking a tambourine in one hand and held 4 maracas in the other hand while crooning into the microphone. Mike strummed expertly on his guitar while singing background vocals. Without drums or a bass, it sounded very melodic with a percussive backdrop; very simple, which is what Billy liked, but Micky guessed that this was one of the few gigs the duo would land. Micky ran off before Peter could protest any further.
By the end of the night, Micky was exhausted. He walked over to the bar to sit for a moment. He had cleaned as the night went along, so there wasn't really anything left for him to do when the last guest left. He took the tip money out of his pocket and began counting it. He had made a good hundred dollars, which was more than he had made in any other night he waited tables. But he didn't have a chance to get excited about it.
"Dolenz," Robert yelled as he walked over to where Micky was sitting. Micky's head dropped as low as his stomach, fearing what was to come next. Clean-up was already done, there was nothing Robert could possibly make him do. "I counted the number of glasses you broke tonight: 22. Each glass cost me five bucks, so you owe me 110 bucks."
"I didn't break them, you're son…." Micky started, knowing it wouldn't matter and that the money in his hand would soon belong to Robert.
"I saw everything. Don't try and argue with me." Micky sighed, not caring enough about anything to argue anymore. He felt numb. And he suddenly remembered the little brown paper bag still stuffed into his pocket.
"I only made $100 tonight." Micky said handing over his entire tip money.
"Then I'll take the other 10 out of your pay." Robert took the money and left. Micky pushed himself up from the bar and made his way to his room, finally resigned to what he was about to do. He couldn't take any more. He was done fighting it. He barely registered the faces of Peter, Mike and Davy who had all seen the entire exchange with a kind of stupefied horror. He barely heard Peter muttering with his new friends Mike and Davy.
"Unbelievable!" Peter muttered.
"What a horrible man," Mike agreed. "We even saw from up here that stupid kid was tripping him on purpose the whole night."
"Why does he put up with that?" Davy asked. "If it were me, I'd have given him a piece of my mind AND foot!"
Micky slammed his door closed as he heard Peter tell the other two that Micky had no choice because he lived there too. He walked over to his bed and collapsed on it momentarily. He took the bag out of his pocket and held it in his hands for a moment before sitting back up to face his dresser. On top of it were his most prized possessions: a pair of drumsticks given to him by his mother, a guitar pick given to him by his father, and a framed picture of a beautiful woman. He stood up and crossed over to the dresser. He placed one hand on the drumsticks remembering the moment he had opened them. He was 9 and it was the best present he had ever been given. His parents couldn't afford the drums at that point, so he had taken to banging the drum sticks on any flat surface he could find, which drove his family insane until he had finally saved up enough allowance money to buy a cheap set of drums.
He picked up the guitar pick and held it between his fingers. It was a very simple guitar pick and it looked very unremarkable, but Micky loved it nonetheless. His father had given it to him a few years prior. His father had met George Harrison and had spoken to him about Micky's dream to become a musician. His father had apparently boasted about his talents on the drums and mentioned that Micky had begun learning to play the guitar as well. Harrison had given his father the guitar pick to give to Micky as a way of encouraging him to keep chasing his dreams. But Micky felt no drive anymore. The passion he once held for the music was gone. He briefly glanced over at a bookshelf in the corner where 5 binders sat neatly gathering dust. Each binder he knew was filled with songs. Some of them were bad and made no sense, but he couldn't bring himself to throw them away. The feeling he had in his heart when he played or wrote was gone, though. He looked back at the dresser and set the guitar pick down.
The third item was a picture. Framed in deep rosewood, a beautiful smiling face stared back at him. Mocking him. He loved the woman in the picture, but she would never love him back. Not anymore. She refused to even speak to him anymore. She was the reason he had moved out here in the first place. She had gotten a job here and was taking classes at the local community college. He was so in love with her, he had followed her. But she had broken his heart only months later and he didn't have the nerve to return to his family, who had told him he was making a mistake in following her out here. Micky suddenly grabbed the picture of the beautiful woman and hurled it across the room. It was her fault that any of this was happening to him. The day she broke up with him was the day his life ended. He had to move out of her apartment, of course, which had forced him to come here. She was his muse. His inspiration in some of the best songs he'd written. He couldn't even think about those songs without his heart feeling like it wanted to jump out of his chest through his throat. He had never stopped loving her. But she would never again love him.
The entire day's events played through his mind, along with all the other abuses he'd suffered in his life. Staring at her face through the broken glass, he took the small bottle out of the bag and walked back over to his bed. On the nightstand was a small glass of old water. He looked at the small bottle in his hand and read the label for the first time. Oxycodone. A narcotic. The label said to take only 1 pill every 8 hours for pain, but Micky wanted a more permanent solution. Resigned, he took the cap off the bottle and poured a large amount of the pills into his hand, shoved them in his mouth and drank the water on the night stand. He then stuffed the bottle back in his pocket, fell back on his bed and waited.
Within a few minutes, he started feeling very tired. He closed his eyes, hoping all his pain would end soon. It felt like forever, but it was probably only half an hour after having taken the pills that he heard a soft knock on his door. Wondering who could possibly be knocking (Robert usually pounded), he got up and immediately regretted it. The room around him spun around and his stomach lurched.
"Who is it?" Micky called out, hoping to just get rid of the visitor quickly so he could lay back down.
"It's Peter," came the reply. Micky rolled his eyes. Hadn't this guy left yet? It certainly didn't take half an hour to pack up a stage after a show. "I um…I wanted to say thank you again and give you something." Give him something? What could the man possibly give him? He hadn't even been carrying a bag of clothes. Just his music and bass guitar. Micky reluctantly crossed to the door and opened it. He must have looked terrible because he saw the man's face immediately turn ghost white. "Are you okay?" Peter said with a great deal of worry. Micky knew opening the door was a huge mistake. He had to get rid of Peter.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Micky said weakly and was sure he sounded very unconvincing. He tried to muster all his strength, but found it very difficult as his stomach gave another lurch. "I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me. Look, you don't need to give me anything. Really. Just go home and forget about all this. I'll be fine." Micky closed the door before Peter could respond, but still somehow knew Peter wasn't going to leave that easily. But it didn't matter. Micky couldn't speak anymore. He turned and threw up. It must have been very loud, because he heard Peter shout his name through the door. Micky couldn't respond, however, as much as he wanted this man to go away. Micky fell to his knees and felt as though a sledgehammer smacked him in the head. He was finding it difficult to breathe, and threw up one more time. Then everything went dark, and Micky passed out.