How to Become The Monkees Without Really Trying

Chapter 7

They spent the day trying out classic tunes like "Johnny B. Goode" (Micky's suggestion) and "Different Drum" (Mike's suggestion) to see how they would sound together. After a while, they decided Davy would be a good fit, and Mike and Davy both began to settle into their new home. Micky had a bedroom upstairs, and Peter's room was downstairs. Mike agreed to share Micky's room, and Davy agreed to share Peter's.

Peter found a couple of cots in the basement, left by a former tenant. He set one up in Micky's bedroom, and one in his own. Peter was still making up the blankets when someone knocked at the front door.

"That'll be the landlord," Mike said, grabbing the envelope full of money on the table.

"What about Davy?" asked Micky.

"Should I hide or something?" the lad asked. He'd heard about Babbit's coniption fit when Mike moved in that morning.

Mike shook his head. "Nah, just stand back. He might not even see you. And he doesn't need to know you live here. Not yet, anyway." Mike opened the door, and he was once again assailed by that cold breeze that had accompanied Babbit on his previous visit. Mike was certain this time that it was no coincidence.

"Hi, Mr. Babbit," Mike greeted him cheerfully, thrusting the envelope at the landlord. "Here's the rent."

Babbit eyed Mike suspiciously as he proceeded to count the money. Once he was done, he offered a grunt of satisfaction. "Well, it's all there. Hmm... well, I guess I was wrong about you, Nisbaum. You can stay, after all."

"Nesmith," Mike corrected him. "And thank you, Mr. Babbit." He tried to make his smile seem sincere.

"Well, since you're all paid up for once, I'll leave you boys alone," the landlord said, turning to leave. Maybe he really wouldn't notice Davy, after all.

Micky called out, "Bye, Mr. Babbit," and waved from where he was sitting on the black chaise.

Babbit glanced over his shoulder at Micky- and that's when he saw Davy, leaning against the bookshelves on the far right side of the room. "Who's that?"

"Uh..." Mike cleared his throat. "Oh, that's just Davy."

Davy, like Mike had done earlier, put on a charming smile and thrust out an open hand, which Babbit refused to shake. "David Jones," the lad said. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Yeah, sure you are," Babbit growled. "Who is he, and what's he doing here?" The landlord had pulled his head down so stiffly in order to glare at the shorter man, Babbit's chin seemed to disappear into his thick neck.

"He's our, uh... our new, ah... percussionist," Micky said. He snatched up the tambouring and maracas from the stage and handed them to Davy. "Here, show him."

Davy started shaking the instruments while Micky began singing, "Take the last train to Clarksville, and I'll meet you at teh station. You can be here by four-thirty, cuz I've made your reservation. Don't be slow. Oh, no... no... no?" Micky chuckled nervously under Babbit's beady, black-eyed stare.

Babbit hrumphed. "You call yourself a singer? If you were any more off-key, I'd set you on a fence just so I could throw boots at you." He returned his gaze to Davy. "So the midget's in the group, eh?"

Davy's brown eyes flashed at the insult to his height, but he gave no other indication of being angered by it.

Babbit turned back to Mike. "And just why didn't you mention him this morning?"

"Well, uh..." Mike cleared his throat. "Maybe cuz we didn't know him this morning."

At that, Babbit whirled on Micky so fast, he almost knocked him down. "I knew it! Another worthless bum you dragged in off the street!"