Monkee Love

How you met

You first noticed Mike at the annual veteran's day ceremony. You were suppose to be helping your cousin with the snack counter selling peanuts, popcorn and a few spools of cotton candy, when you saw the tall dark shadow mosey on down through the crowd. His shirt was wrinkled, his shoes cloaked in dirt, and he had on a wool beanie lumped to one side asymmetrically. Something about the smell of sweets and a few peppermint red carnations pinned on to everyone else's lapels made your heart give a powerful jump. It wasn't everyday you got to talk to a man in uniform. You watched with unbreakable awe as Mike was given his airman's medal, wondering just how brave he must have been to have flown a military plane high above the clouds with the threat of great injury if anything should happen to have gone wrong. The crowd cheered along, but you made sure to continue clapping and whistling "ho rah" the longest. Perhaps the burning sun in your eye made that stray tear roll down your cheek as the life Mike saved told the death-gripping tale of the great Texan he hardly knew was in the same bunk as him saved his lonesome life. Mike stepped down and shook a few hands, only muttering a "thank you" here and there. When he comes to you, there's a brief halo moment. You start off by thanking him for his service to our great country. It seemed like the usual shake hands and leave, until you ask him about the force and take an interest in his bold country roots. The accent was a dead  give-away to a down-home sharp shooter, along with his western style attire, suit and sexy southern. Ever so slowly, the words come out more easily. He finds that he can trust you, he almost forgets his Texas pride and smiles a small cute pout. You share a bag of cotton candy, as the stories roll on. After a round of shooting targets for a teddy bear, banging on bumper cars and a ride around the Ferris wheel, you walk out of the fair holding hands out past the countryside.

Peter recalls it all as "fate". It was yet another day in Vinyasa Flow, when you noticed a new face next to your mat. He smiles at you with a chipper namaste. "Is this your first class?" he asks. "No, I usually come at night so I can clear my head." "That's funny, I'm more of a morning practice person." "So you feel energized to start the day?" "No, I just like to have fun before lunch." So still, one hand gently placed at one side at his leg, the other one simply flew to the sky. Was that a bird on his free foot? Maybe a jet plane circling his waist. What's more, it's time for partner poses. Hand in hand, you build upon each other's strength, pushing and pulling, breathing in the dance. You imagine him among your collection of trinket statues as you go through the asanas. Wouldn't he be perfect on your desk next to your favorite pen? What about his tree pose under your rear-view mirror dangling like a Christmas ball down the freeway? You seem to see him everywhere. It must be a sign. Is it insanity, lust or could it be, dare you say...love? It's almost sad to let go and lay down in meditation. The ringing of the gong alerts your senses to dismiss your dream. Your sweaty new friend happily asks you if you'd like to accompany him to the tea and coffee shop on Thursday. You walk out jitterbugging with butterfly kisses. It's a date.

Davy, who could forget a name like that? It's not every day you see a young man walk into a restaurant alone. Thanks to your friends around the block, you're nestled into a new restaurant with a camera around your neck, so your blind date can find you. You fib to break the ice. "I've forgotten my glasses. Could you read the menu for me?" "I guess you really are my blind date for the night." Each hot special sounds more mouth-watering in his soft Manchester English accent. The words all blow around your head swimming in the air in puffs of smoke. You take a moment to close your eyes and breathe in the "teriyaki chicken", "seafood scampi with a side of coleslaw" and the "thick porter-house steak cooked to perfection". He gently nudges you awake to ask you your order. You flash back to the table and remember something about a house special. "They all sounded lovely. I'll have this one." pointing randomly at the page. "Well, I've never met a girl who liked octopus before. I'll have the fettuccine Alfredo with sprouts." How could you have picked something as strange as octopus? It must have been the candles. "What other adventures have you had?" You start telling him about your road trips and how you studied abroad in England. This makes his ears perk. Once the ball is rolling, he seems to take over talking about Broadway. You're thoroughly intrigued by his tales of tricks. Davy laps up every little reaction with a sly compliment about how your dimples curl when you laughed at his Pickwick chicken prank, how big your eyes were when he mentioned his mother. You slowly tuck into your meals. The stories end as the candlelight completes the atmosphere. You can't seem to get that lump out of your throat. The night seems more and more hazy, lazy and dim. "At first glance, I thought we had never met, but now, I've come to my senses. I've known you forever." You take another sip of water to cool in the heat of the room. "You have a tentacle on your lip, darling." You rush to the napkin, but your hand gets caught by Davy's. "No, no. Let me get that for you." You don't even need a first guess to know what he intends. Your first kiss with Davy Jones. It's all salty, soft, and pleasureful. He takes his time to combine just the right amount of passion to make you swoon. All too soon, the waitress comes with your check. "I hope you've enjoyed your meal." You manage to nod. "Yes, Miss. I had good company." He takes care of the bill, like a gentleman and promptly thanks her for her service. As you walk out shoulder to shoulder, your head starts to lean towards him, like a kitten to it's mother. In one last goodbye kiss and hug, you part ways into the dark, begging to see him again.

Micky and you were always like bees and peonies. It seems like only yesterday you had just moved into the neighborhood. Two days in, you hear a knock, open the door and see the biggest afro on the block with a cracker plate. Micky had prepared it with every kind of cracker known to man...firecracker, cheese cracker, cracker jack, Christmas cracker...you name it. He greets you with a wave and a friendly smile. He takes you on a tour through his gift when he suddenly stops. "I have a tendency to go overboard. I also do birthday parties if you have a little niece or nephew." "Really?" "Yeah, it's a little hobby, about that big" he pinches his fingers and snaps against your gaze, making you involuntarily blink. "Actually, I'm a singer-songwriter-actor and drummer who loves birthday parties." You look devilishly at his skinny smile and know exactly what to say. "Well, I still haven't hooked up my stereo yet, and I would enjoy some music while I unpack my last few things. Maybe you'd be interested in helping me." The two of you get to light work and heavy ogling. Right around lunch time, Micky picks up an empty box, sets it between his legs and begins singing "Randy Scouse Git"slapping his new drum. It's the start of a long afternoon and an even longer happiness, one song after another.