Davy Jones slumped into the chair in front of his dressing room vanity with a heavy sigh. He couldn't believe the show's run was over. He had always known this was to be the last night, but he hadn't expected the letdown. Worse, he was likely to be stuck here in California with no job and--since the touring company stayed in hotels and he hadn't rented an apartment back in New York--no home. He sighed again, flung his battered top hat across the small room to his cot, pulled off his garish bow tie, and began removing the stage makeup that made him the Artful Dodger in this now-ended production of Oliver! for the past few months.

He didn't hear the door bang open. What he did hear sounded something like a boy imitating Ethel Merman with a grossly thick Cockney accent.

"Cornsider yerself at 'ome, cornsider yerself one o' the famileeeeee..."

"Knock it off, mate," Davy grumbled.

"Knock what off where?" the voice, changing to an American tenor, asked with a giggle.

Davy turned, scowling, to face the intruder. He saw a tall youth of about his own age with suspiciously straight, slightly long brown hair, a ready smile, and twinkling brown eyes. His clothes were standard issue for California teens in the 1960s--a blue eight-button shirt and grey flared pants--with traces of dust to show that he worked somewhere.

"Do I know you?" Davy asked, frowning.

"George Michael Dolenz, milord," the newcomer announced with a tolerable British accent and bowed with a flourish. "Everyone calls me Micky. I'm kind of a stage hand here at the theater," he continued in his normal voice.

"Cha'ming," Davy replied sarcastically. "What brings you here?"

"Special delivery from Manchester, England, for one Mr. David Jones, who I'm assuming is you from the name on the door." Micky pulled an air mail envelope from his back pocket and presented it to Davy.

Davy read the return address and tore open the envelope excitedly. Micky sat down on the cot with a bounce, eager to share the actor's joy. His expression changed from expectation to concern as Davy's face fell.

"What's wrong, man?"

"It's me father. He's 'ad to quit 'is job with the railroad."

"Why?"

"He's too sick."

"Oh, man... What a bummer! I'm so sorry."

Davy tucked the letter back in its envelope. "Me sister said 'e didn't want me to come 'ome just for this. She said they're sure I'm 'avin' a lovely time 'ere. But... with the show over... I dunno if I even 'ave the money for a plane ticket back to England..." He sniffled back a tear.

Micky's heart went out to the young Englishman. He tried to think of something--anything--that would help ease the pain Davy obviously felt. For lack of a better idea, Micky suggested, "Hey... um... would you like to go out for dinner somewhere? Maybe get your mind off it for a while."

Davy nodded sadly. "Let me get me makeup off first."

"Sure, mate." Micky's affected British accent now softened his voice to a gentle tone. "Five minutes long enough?" At Davy's nod, he left, closing the door more quietly than he had opened it.

True to his word, Micky returned five minutes later, jacket and keys in hand. Davy no longer seemed likely to cry, but he was still pretty down.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Silently, Davy turned off the lights and they left. Neither said another word until they reached Micky's car in the parking lot. Davy instantly perked up at the sight of the cherry-red GTO convertible with two back seats.

"Wow! Is this your car?"

"Groovy, isn't it?" Micky beamed.

"And then some!" Davy walked up to it reverently.

"My cousin bought it and decided he didn't want such a tank after all. So I bought it for $35."

"Thirty-five bucks?" Davy asked incredulously.

"I know! I told him he was crazy! I've kinda been tinkerin' on it a little."

"A little? Man, this thing is souped!"

After a few moments of similar comments, Micky tossed his jacket into the second back seat and leaped into the driver's seat. "Hop in!"

Not wanting to risk scratching such a beautiful car, Davy carefully opened the passenger's door and slid into the front seat. No sooner had he shut the door than Micky revved the engine and backed out of the parking place with a jerk.

"Where are we going?" Davy asked.

Micky grinned as he pulled onto the street. "There's this little restaurant not far from here that serves really excellent food. You'll love it."

Sure enough, five minutes later the two young men were seated at a table awaiting their order. Micky had ordered chili, to Davy's amazement, and Davy had opted for a BLT. Their heartening conversation revealed that both had an interest in acting; Micky had starred in a short-lived TV series called Circus Boy about nine years earlier. In fact, this restaurant had been one of Micky's favorite haunts during the run of his TV show.

It was close to closing time, so both Micky and Davy looked up when a tall, lanky figure wearing a wool cap wandered in. No one else was in the dining room. The newcomer hovered near the door, unsure of where to go.

A young man with long blond hair came out of the kitchen with a dishrag in his hand. "I'm sorry, sir, but the kitchen's about to close."

"Oh, man," groaned the man in the wool hat. "This is the only place in town with its lights on, and I'm starving." His face bore powerful testimony to the literal truth of that statement; his cheeks were sunken and sallow, and the fluorescent lights added little sparkle to his lackluster chocolate brown eyes.

"Can't you scrounge something up for him?" Micky called.

The dishwasher wrung his rag in anxiety and sorrow. "I dunno, man. I want to, really..."

"We'll pay extra for it."

"'Ave a heart, lad," Davy admonished.

"Oh, okay, but I hope the boss doesn't yell at me," the blond sighed and ran back into the kitchen.

"Here, come sit with us." Micky jumped up and guided the taller man to their table.

"Thanks, man," the other replied.

"And don't worry about paying for this or anything. We may not be rich, but we can afford to help a brother out."

"What's your name?" Davy asked.

"Mike Nesmith. I've been tryin' to make it big as a country singer, but..." He shrugged eloquently. "No jobs at home in Texas, no jobs in Nashville, no jobs in Arizona or New Mexico or California. Nothin' to my name 'cept a guitar and a motorcycle."

Micky introduced Davy and himself. Davy suddenly felt that his troubles were very small and far away. By the time the food arrived, an interesting conversation had arisen. The dishwasher, who introduced himself as Peter Tork, joined them after delivering the meal, having finished his own job.

Talk soon turned to music. Micky and Davy found that they had a common interest in percussion instruments, and all four enjoyed playing guitar. Mike contributed very little to the conversation, partly from characteristic terseness and partly because he was too busy eating his first good meal in three days. Peter, at first shy, opened up enough to reveal that he had been a folk singer in Greenwich Village for some time and possessed diverse musical talent, from harpsichord and piano to harmonica and French horn.

Micky, between bites of chili and bouncing in his chair (which made Davy laugh and Mike doubt his sanity), began formulating an idea. When everyone had finished eating, he felt confident enough with the details to present it to his newfound friends. He cleared his throat and began.

"I have an idea."

"Oh?" Three pairs of curious eyes fastened on him.

"Mike needs a place to live, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"And so does Davy."

"Right."

"An' Pete here seems to want some company."

Peter nodded. A few minutes earlier, he had complained that his small townhouse seemed too quiet without younger siblings or roommates, to which he had been accustomed in New England.

"And I'd kinda like some new digs myself."

"What's your point?" Mike frowned.

"How about rooming together?"

"Who?"

"Us four."

"Groovy!" Peter's eyes lit up.

"Cha'ming!" Davy grinned.

"You're joking." Mike's no-nonsense tone briefly quelled the others' high spirits.

"Why not?" Peter asked. "You can't sleep on your bike forever. I've got plenty of room, and I'm sure the landlady won't up the rent too much."

"Look at us." Mike waved a callused hand around the table. "A starving Texan, an unemployed midget from England, an insane Angelino, and a stupid dishwasher from DC! How on earth could we possibly refrain from killing each other?"

"I'm not stupid!" Peter retorted.

"Cool it, both of you!" Davy ordered, cutting off further arguments between them. "So maybe we aren't the most likely of roommates. So what? At this point, it doesn't look like we're going to find anything bettah any time soon. I say we give it a try."

"Amen," Micky nodded.

"Please, Mike?" Peter pleaded.

Mike looked at Peter's puppy eyes and sighed. "All right," he relented. "We'll give it a try. But don't expect anythin' miraculous. I ain't used to sharin' a room."

"Hooray!" the other three cheered.

Mike followed Peter home that night. The next day, Davy collected his things from the hotel, bid farewell to his fellow actors, and moved in with the elder musicians. Micky took longer to pack his things, but he had joined the other three within a few days.

It didn't take Peter's landlady long to kick up a fuss. She threatened to triple the rent if the newcomers weren't out within three months. "And I'm giving you that long only because I want you to find someplace else! I won't have you boys making a racket and disturbing the neighbors!"

Peter choked back tears. Mike, unconsciously taking a fatherly attitude toward his new roommate, slid a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry, Mrs. Fraser. We'll be out in three months."

With a triumphant snort, the landlady turned on her heel and walked away.

"Mike, we can't afford anyplace else!" Peter sniffled as the door banged shut. "Two of us don't have jobs, and Micky doesn't make much more than I do working at the theater!"

At any other time, this would have annoyed Mike immensely. But now he felt an inexplicable affection for the childlike blond sitting on the arm of the couch, trying valiantly not to blubber. Perhaps it was partly because Mike was thinking the same thing himself.

"Don't worry, big Pete," he replied soothingly. "We'll manage somethin'." What, I don't know, he continued to himself.

"I can look in the real estate ads," Davy volunteered. "Since I don't 'ave a job, I can go look at places to rent during the day."

"I can get a second job if I have to," Micky added. "We are not going to live in a box under a bridge when this old lady kicks us out!"

Peter smiled gratefully.

Three days passed without any leads on houses or jobs. Davy, taking a break from his perusal of newspaper ads, found a date for the time while Micky and Peter were at work. Mike, at first enjoying the silence, decided to pick up his guitar and work on a song.

When Peter came home half an hour later, he entered quietly and sat unobtrusively at the kitchen table until the music stopped while Mike made a change on his manuscript. Peter then applauded. Mike jumped.

"Don't DO that!" Mike snapped.

"Sorry."

"What are you doin' here, anyway? You don't get off work for another two hours."

"I got fired."

Something in Peter's tone made Mike look up. Peter was looking at the floor, playing ashamedly with his keys.

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's not like I broke plates or anything. I just couldn't remember what the boss had said and he was in a bad mood and when I asked..."

"Oh, man."

Mike managed to pack so much sympathy into those two words that Peter instantly forgot about crying and looked up. "Thanks for not yelling."

"Why should I yell? I been fired for no reason before. I know what a stone drag it is."

"Yeah, but I pay the rent."

"So now Micky has to pay the rent."

"I hope he doesn't get mad."

"Look, we'll only be here for three months anyway. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Um..."

"Whatever happens, we'll all be in it together. Even if I decide to head out..."

"Oh, please don't go, Mike!"

"I said 'if.'" Mike suddenly didn't seem too sure that "if" was truly a possibility. "Even if I do, Micky and Davy wouldn't abandon you. They seem to be the kind of friend you can't get rid of."

Peter bounded over to the couch and wrapped Mike in a bone-crushing hug. "Thanks, Mike!"

"Hey! I need to breathe, shotgun!" Mike grumbled, but there was an undercurrent of laughter in his voice.

"What's that song? It's really groovy." Peter relented, peering at the sheet music.

"'You Just May Be the One.' I've been workin' on it for a while."

"Play it again."

"Why?"

"Please?"

With a shrug, Mike picked up Black Beauty again and started playing. About halfway through, Peter started humming a harmony line. Mike stopped.

"Why'd you stop?" Peter asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, nothin' like that." Mike shook his head quickly. "I just hadn't thought about harmony yet. I liked what you were doin'."

"Want me to get my bass and play along?"

That's how Micky found them when he came home an hour later: guitars in hand, enthusiastically discussing the finer points of part writing, fleshing out some ideas and trashing others. Micky slipped quietly behind his trap set, which stood in a corner, and listened for a few measures; he then jumped in with a drum fill. The two men on the couch jumped.

"Don't DO that!" they chorused.

"What?" Micky asked innocently. Peter laughed; Mike grumbled.

"Hey, that was a groovy drum riff you were playing there," Peter smiled.

"Aw, shucks," Micky replied, donning a hick accent, but his cheeks and ears burned with real embarrassment.

"It did fit well," Mike admitted, still slightly annoyed at his extroverted roommate.

"Let's try it again," Peter suggested.

"Okay."

Davy walked in just as Micky was about to count off. "'Ey, are we 'aving a jam session?"

"Yeah! Wanna join?" Micky replied.

For answer, Davy threw his jacket on the table and grabbed his tambourine from the top of the dresser near the stairs. Micky counted them off, and they played the song through without a hitch. After the final cymbal crash, they stared at each other for a long time.

"That was good," Peter said at last. His hushed tone had an air of awe.

"Yeah," Davy agreed.

"But why? I mean, we hardly know each other, and we haven't ever played together before..." Mike's voice trailed off in wonder.

"Providence," Micky replied firmly.

"Providence?"

"Gotta be. What are the odds of this just happening?"

"He's got a point," Davy nodded.

"Hey, Mike? I know this guy who owns a record store. Maybe we could audition for him and he could get us a job or something!" Peter's eyes shone with excitement.

"With one song? I doubt it, shotgun."

"Can't we try? We could probably work out a few other songs. And since I lost my job..."

"Oh, boy." Davy flopped into a nearby chair, dropping his tambourine with a clatter.

"Well..." Mike hesitated.

"There aren't many non-musical jobs out there," Micky added.

"Oh, very well. But I can't guarantee success. I mean, I dig country and blues, you do folk and classical, Mick's bag is pop, and Davy's a Broadway star."

Micky was proved right. It seemed absolutely providential that every song, no matter who sang or which style it leaned toward, worked. By the end of the next week, they had secured an audition with Peter's friend Rudy.

"You boys sure have a good sound," Rudy nodded after their last number. "What's the name of your group?"

"Group?" Mike's eyes widened. He hadn't really realized what they were getting themselves in for if they did try to play some gigs. Sure, it was fun, but a full-fledged group? His mind whirled.

"We hadn't really thought about names yet," Peter frowned.

Reflecting on their antics soon after their arrival, Rudy's daughter Jill laughed, "They act like a bunch of wild monkeys!"

"Hey, that's it!" Micky cried. "The Monkees!"

"Oh, come on," Davy replied.

"No, really. Look, if we spell it like this..." he grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled "The Monkees."

"Why?"

"Well, it worked for the Beatles and the Byrds."

"Monkees it is!" Rudy laughed, slapping Mike on the back. "And I know of a couple of gigs you can have right away!"

More good news soon followed. Micky spied what looked like a reasonable ad for a beach house in Malibu. Davy's report on the house was favorable, and the landlord "isn't too mean," he announced. Mike stifled his misgivings, and they rented 1334 Beechwood.

That evening, while Davy was on yet another date and Micky was working for the last time at the theater, Peter and Mike set about packing a few things to start taking over to their new abode. Peter suddenly stopped.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"You aren't gonna leave, are you?"

Mike set down the knickknack he was dusting. "No, man. What makes you think that?"

"Well... you know, that conversation we had when I lost my job..."

"I dunno why I said that. I didn't mean it." As he said this, he realized how true it was. "Sure, I may get annoyed with Micky's crazy antics an' science experiments or with you bein' so emotional all the time or Davy always goin' on dates an' stuff. But... well, I dunno... I just like y'all."

"Really?"

"Well... yeah."

"Groovy." Peter's sunny, dimpled grin conveyed his happiness. For Mike to say he just liked people he hadn't known more than a month was a huge compliment.

"C'mon. Let's get back to work."

"Sure, Michael."

The four took their time packing and moving, especially since Mrs. Fraser cut their rent for the time it took to move. Davy and Peter took an entire day to clean up the house and make it livable. Between gigs, Rudy let them borrow his woody to move some of their heavier belongings that wouldn't fit in Micky's GTO, now christened the Monkeemobile. (Peter had sold his own car to help make ends meet.) Occasionally, the four took a break from their hard work and hung out at Rudy's record store for a while.

That's where they were when Rudy made the following announcement: "Woolhat, take the boys right over to the Riviera Country Club. You're to audition for a Mr. Russell."

The rest, as they say, is history.

Well, maybe not everything has been told. A few days after they finished moving in and had finally forgiven Davy for nearly losing their job for Mr. Russell, Micky and Davy sat at the kitchen table writing something. Peter, trying to fix chicken soup, looked over his shoulder at a particularly loud burst of laughter.

"What are you two up to now?" he asked.

"Nothing," they chorused.

"I bet."

"Nothing Mike wouldn't approve of, anyway," Davy added.

"Come on, Davy, let's go for a swim," Micky grinned, putting down his pen. "We're done."

"Great idea."

Peter waited until his younger bandmates had run giggling upstairs to change clothes. He then slipped quietly over to the table to read the paper they had written on. It contained what looked either like a poem or song lyrics, begun in Micky's distinctive handwriting and switching occasionally to Davy's.

Peter framed it, and it hung by his bedside for many years.