Occiditur

Are the Good Times Really Over?

Oct. 1969

The bright sunlight of early afternoon mingled with the deep green of the tree tops. A soft breeze tussled my permed curls. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and smiled.

These types of days were my favorite. I enjoyed the way the lighting of the sun made the colors of the sky and earth contrast against one another. I couldn't help but smile. Even if I was having a bad day, I would smile.

Today was one of those days.

I couldn't stand it inside the country house. The tension of unspoken disagreement, the tension of spoken disagreement! All of it was bringing me down.

You see Mike, Peter, Davy, and I had the great idea that we should try and release a new album to rekindle the flame of Monkeemania. Mike and Peter knew, and often told Davy and me so, that The Monkees were dead. That they'd worked, and exhausted, their magic. Davy and I knew this deep down, but we were actors! Mike and Peter already had back up plans for the end of the Monkees. They would form their bands and go on living as usual, writing and singing songs. But as actors Davy and I had no such security. If the Monkees broke up we would have to find a new gig, and who knew how long it would have taken to find a job.

I couldn't breathe inside. So I stood up silently and walked out. At the moment I was lying face up on the blue cement porch. I heard the screen door close with a bang as Mike joined me in the cool October afternoon.

My Texan friend sat beside me, Indian style.

"You feel it too?" He asked.

"Feel what?" I asked without opening my eyes.

"Oh come on Mick!" Mike sighed. "The whole house is saturated with...." Mike searched for the word.

"Hate?" I offered.

"...No...Uh, not hate. More like frustration." Mike said innocently.

"Yeah, I felt it."

"What's wrong with us man?" Mike asked, frustrated.

"How do you mean?" I sat up and faced him.

"I mean that when we were first Monkees, life was simple. We knew what we wanted and who was in our way. Now we don't know what we want and we are in our own way!" Mike laughed.

I chuckled along with him but offered nothing more. He'd answered his own question perfectly.

"Anyways...I came out here to tell you that the others and I have decided that it's time we all just went home." Mike informed me.

"Okay, so are we just going to finish the songs at the studio?"

"I'm not sure yet, but we'll figure something better out." Mike stood up and offered me a hand and a smile. I didn't smile, but I did take his hand.

Inside the house Peter and Davy were bickering over who was supposed to have washed the clothes.

"I told you not to touch my stuff!" Davy yelled.

"I was just trying to help." Peter sassed him.

"Well, you weren't helping!" Davy slammed his clothes into his suitcase. Peter glared at Davy, and when the British boy's back was turned, shot him the bird.

Their fighting stirred something within me. It resembled panic or fear. Every harsh word. Every glare. Every gesture of hate. All of it felt like daggers to my heart. I hurried out of the room and forced myself to think about anything but Peter and David.

I packed all of my belongings in less than five minutes and lugged it out to my car. I was the first to leave. I didn't want to stay and see them continue to argue, and possibly fight. They did have a history of getting into fist fights, luckily I'd never witnessed any of them. I thanked the Lord above I hadn't witnessed the one that took place in my absence.