Today, however, his name might as well be mud.

"Fired?" Mike asked in astonishment. "What do you mean fired?"

"Fired, Nesmith. As in out of a job. As in you don't work here anymore! Finished! Is there some part of that you don't get?" Mike looked on in fascination as his employer's face changed from its normal shade to scarlet.

"Mr. Striker, I can explain..."

"There's nothing to explain, kid. This is the third time this week you've been late. I need someone who can make my deliveries on time."

"But.."

"I'm sorry, kid. You've used up all your second chances.

Silently, Mike handed over the various packages he gathered up on his way out the door. He quickly left the store, more upset by the fact that the conversation had taken place in front of several nosy customers than he was at actually being fired. Making deliveries for Striker's Drugstore was, in Mike's opinion, a lousy job. The hours were lousy, the pay miniscule, and Striker himself was a stone drag. Still, that job had made it possible for him to afford his tiny apartment without taking on a roommate.

"Well, that might have to change now," Mike thought, disgusted with himself. There was no way he was going to make the rent with what little money he made playing guitar and singing in that dive club every night.

Unfortunately, as little as it paid, there was no way Mike would give up the club gig. The experience and exposure were priceless. His singing and playing had improved tenfold in the two months he'd played there, the result of trying to hold an audience using only a single battered guitar, his voice, and the songs he'd labored over.

Now that gig had cost him the job that put food on the table. Weeks of playing til two a.m., then trying to catch a few hours sleep before he had to be at Striker's at eight had left him more tired than he could ever remember being, and had made it all too easy to ignore his alarm clock's summons.

Walking away from Striker's, concentrating on his troubles and staring fixedly at the pavement, Mike was able to let out no more than a startled "Oof!' as, with no warning, a body, face hidden behind a stack of boxes, plowed into him, the impact leaving both sitting on the ground, stunned.

"Hey man, I'm sorry! I couldn't see you for the the boxes." The newcomer scrambled to his feet, extending a had to Mike. Silently he accepted, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, all the while taking inventory of the stranger. He saw a young man about his own age, slightly shorter than his own 6'1", with twinkling brown eyes, a mobile face, and the unruliest mop of brown curls that Mike had ever seen.

"I'm Micky Dolenz" the young man stated, eyebrows raised expectantly. Receiving no answer, his expression changed to one of concern. "Hey, I didn't hurt ya, did I?"

"Naw, man," Mike finally answered. "I wasn't watchin' where I was goin' either. No harm done."

That resolved, both became aware of the sound of laughter. Turning around, they discovered the source to be a young man, eyes almost hidden behind sandy blond bangs, clutching his sides, nearly doubled over in merriment.

"That was great! Better than the Three Stooges!" he managed to choke out.

"Glad you were amused, Shotgun." Mike snapped. Being laughed at, on top of everything else, was doing nothing to improve his sour mood.

Instantly the laughter died out of the light brown eyes, and the engagingly dimpled smile disappeared. "Sorry" he murmurred softly, shoulders drooping as he turned to walk away.

Feeling like a heel, Mike followed, his long legs easily catching up to the shorter man.

"Wait!" he called. The young man stopped, but didn't turn around. "I didn't mean to yell at ya. Just chalk it up to a real bad day, okay?"

The blond turned around, sunny smile firmly back in place. "Sure!" Extending his hand, he introduced himself. "I'm Peter Tork."

"Mike Nesmith. And that's Micky..."

"Dolenz. I heard. So, what's happened today to get you so down?"

Normally, Mike would have greeted such a personal question with an icy silence, and a stare that said "Mind your own business" better than words. This time, however, something in that friendly, completely open face compelled Mike to answer, and he soon found himself telling his newfound compatriots of the days trials.

Listening, Micky merely nodded in commiseration, but Peter began bouncing up and down, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a musician" he exclaimed excitedly, "Me too! Where are you working?"

Mike named the club, and Peter nodded.

"So you're the one! I always wondered who got that gig. I auditioned, but the manager said he didn't want a folk singer."

"So what about you? Mike asked, looking at Micky. "Don't tell me you play, too?" He was starting not to believe this conversation.

"Wellll..." Micky began. "I'm studying drafting at college right now, but I play drums in a dance band with a buddy of mine on the weekends."

Realizing that he should be trying to figure out what to do about a job instead of talking to strangers in the street, Mike moved to end the conversation. "Listen, this little get-together has been enlightenin', guys, but it still doesn't solve my problem. I got no job, no money, and the rent's due next week. I should be out lookin' for work instead of yakkin' here with you two."

"We could always use another hand over at the Red Room Cafe. I bus tables and wash dishes there. They're always looking for more help." offered Peter.

"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate you offerin', but I think the best thing would be for me to find a roommate, much as I hate to. My place is too small as it is, and I hate the idea of someone bein' there all the time, but I don't see any way around it. Another job might not fit in with my hours at the club, and I can't lose that gig." A long sigh escaped him at the thought of losing his coveted privacy.

"Think you could put up with me?" Peter asked quietly. "I've been crashing on a friend's couch since I got to LA, and it's really time I found a place of my own. I'm pretty sure I could make half the rent."

"I don't know, Pete..."

"Wait!" Micky interrupted, "I've got a better idea. You need a roommate, right Mike?" Mike nodded. "And Peter needs a place of his own, dig?" This time two heads nodded. "And I am desperate to move out of my parent's house. Plus, I know this really groovy place down on the beach. It's kinda run down, but it's huge, and the rent's not bad. The four of us should be able to afford it easy!" The words fairly bubbled out of Micky, his enthusiasm plain to see. "It's gonna be great!"

"Hold it right there!" Mike demanded. "What do you mean the four of us? Ain't you jumpin' the gun a little but? I'm not sure I want one roommate, let alone three! And who is this fourth person, anyway?"

"It's my buddy Davy, man. He sings and plays percussion with the band I told you about. He'd jump at the chance to live on the beach. All those chicks in bikinis!"

"I think it's a great idea!" enthused Peter, clearly happy with the proposition. "What do you say, Michael?"

"I say it looks like my mind's been made up for me," he groused. "I hope I don't regret this..."

The first order of business was to check out Micky's 'groovy' pad. It turned out to be only a short walk from the business district, perched overlooking a quiet section of beach.

He was right about one thing, Mike thought. It was huge. With two large bedrooms, two baths and a spacious, open living area, it was more than adequate for four people.

On the other hand, 'run-down' was a kind description of the house. At least a quarter inch of dust coated every surface, giving the place a ghostly look. Peeling paint and cracked plaster only added to the air of neglect.

A knock on the door broke the silence.

"Who could that be?" Mike wondered aloud.

"Maybe it's the Welcome Wagon!" cried Peter, clapping his hands excitedly.

Rolling his eyes, Micky headed for the door. "It's Davy. I called him and told him to meet us over here.

Micky opened the door to reveal a boy who could only be described as "cute." Only a few inches over five feet, with straight brown hair and huge Bambi-brown eyes, he walked into the room with a cheerful swagger that belied his short stature.

"Ey Micky, where'd you find this place? Better Slums and Gardens?

"Very funny. Guys, this is Davy Jones. Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork." Micky quickly made the introductions.

"So, Micky tells me you guys are going to rent this place together." Davy slowly picked his way around the main floor, pausing here and there to swipe at the layer of dust, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"Well, it's not settled yet," Mike replied.

"It is for me," Peter stated firmly. "I like this place!"

"C'mon, Mike, give it a chance." Micky climbed the spiral staircase that led up to the second floor, checking out the view. "What have you got to lose?"

"My sanity," muttered Mike, then more clearly, "All right. But I should warn you guys that I've never had roommates before, so this is gonna take some gettin' used to."

"Ey, don't worry, mate. We'll grow on you!" Davy offered.

"Like a fungus!" added Peter, earning him three black stares.

"So, who do we see about rentin' this place?" asked Mike, shaking his head. This Tork fella wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer!

An hour later, the four found themselves the proud tenants of 1334 N. Beechwood Drive.

"Great!" enthused Micky. "Now we can move our stuff in!"

"Don't you think we should clean up a little first?" Davy gestured at the room. "This place is filthy!"

"Couldn't we move my stuff in today? I don't mind the dust, but one more night on that couch and I may never walk again."

"Might as well. We gotta start someplace." Mike motioned for Peter to lead the way.

Arriving at Peter's temporary digs--a tiny flat above a hardware store, ironically not far from Mike's apartment--the guys were amazed at the amount of stuff Peter had piled in a corner.

"Where in the world did you get all these, Pete?" Micky stared incredulously at the array of musical instruments. Bass guitar, six-string, twelve-string, banjo, and a French horn, of all things.

"I play all of them. Plus piano and keyboards, but I can't exactly haul those around with me!"

"You play all of these? What were you, man, some kinda child prodigy?" Mike looked at Peter with new respect. He was self-taught on guitar, and even though he knew he was talented, he was still somewhat bashful of his less than textbook technique.

"I dunno. Music just always came easy to me." Peter began gathering up the various instruments.

Placing the banjo carefully back into its case, Micky looked at Peter. "You still didn't answer my question. Where did you get all of these?"

"Well, the six-string was my first. It was a birthday present the year I turned ten. The banjo belonged to my grandfather. I worked two jobs one summer to get the money for the bass, and the twelve-string was a graduation present. I don't even remember where I got the French horn!" Peter grinned.

"Your Dad must have really wanted you to be a musician," commented Davy.

"Not likely." For once the smile was gone from Peter's face, his eyes expressionless. "According to Father, playing music isn't a fit way to make a living. Having a 'long-haired music freak' for a son doesn't really sit well with him."

Unwilling to go deeper into an obviously sore subject, Peter shouldered the bass on one side, picking up his duffel with his free hand. The others gathered up the remaining instruments, and Peter bid his hosts a quick good-by.

It was a quiet walk back to the Pad, each lost in his own thoughts.

Mike was wondering how he would manage in this unfamiliar situation. He valued his solitude, comfortable by and with himself. Growing up an only child had done little to instill any sort of group values in him, he freely admitted. He was used to being on his own.

Peter trudged along beside Davy, amazed at this turn of events. Only that morning, low on money and in spirit, he had contemplated returning to the Village. L.A. had proven less than hospitable so far, lacking the comraderie he had so enjoyed back in New York. Going home to Connecticut was out of the question, at least for now. Maybe someday...

~*~

Micky bounced along, thrilled that he'd convinced the others to give this a try. As much as he loved his family, he was more than ready to try his hand in the real world. Life at home with three younger sisters was tough on a guy hid age. Bringing home any of his buddies was an adventure. His sisters would spend the entire time checking out the new arrival, flirting like mad. Bringing home a girl was a nightmare. The last time he'd tried that, he'd caught all three snooping behing the hedge, hoping to catch him and Ginny Nelson kissing! Maybe now she would stop avoiding him!

Davy walked silently, amused by Micky's antics. Micky didn't know it, but his invitation to join the guys at the Pad was a godsend. Only nineteen, the lonliness of being away from his native England was wearing on him. Just yesterday, reading between the lines of the outwardly cheerful letter from his sister, Davy had seen the truth. His father was getting no better. Already on a medical retirement from his job at the rail yard, his father's good days were getting fewer and farther between, his body slowly being wasted by lung disease. Still, he wouldn't dream of asking Davy to come home. Harry Jones knew that his son was born to be an entertainer. From the time he was a baby, Davy and an audience--any audience--went together like hand in glove, and L.A. was the place to find that audience. If Davy went back to Manchester, the only thing that awaited him was a dead-end job in one of the dreary factories that powered the shaky economy of northern England. He'd been in America for five months now, singing with pick-up bands when he was lucky enough to find a gig, and scanning the trades for promising auditions with little success. Maybe meeting the guys was some sort of sign, and indication that things were finally changing for the better. At the very least, it would ease the strain on his finances.

As the group approached their new home, they paused to look at the Pad, silhouetted against the early evening sky. A new beginning for all lay inside.

Slowly, they looked from the Pad to each other. Just as slowly, smiles broke out onto four faces. To each of them, inexplicable as it seemed, this just felt right.

"C'mon, guys. Let's go home." Mike led the way into the Pad, and the door closed quietly behind them.

Five hours later, four very tired, very dirty young men sprawled on the freshly scrubbed floor. Their efforts had made a world of difference. With the grime removed, the odd charm of the place was revealed. Hardwood floors gleamed in the sunlight, and the bay window revealed a spectacular view of the ocean. None of the furniture matched, and the walls were still bare, but it was--comfortable.

After cleaning up and taking a lunch break, the guys scattered to collect their belongings. Mike set off for his apartment, Davy for the boarding house where he rented a room, and Peter went with Micky to the Dolenz home, since Micky insisted that he needed an extra set of hands to retrieve his stuff.

~*~

Looking at Micky's room, Peter could see why Micky had said he needed help. He'd never seen so much stuff in one place! "Are you sure there's a bed in here, Micky?"

"Of course," Micky pointed to what looked like a huge pile of laundry. "It's right there."

"Lose your bed again, son?" Micky's mother poked her head in the doorway.

"Hi, Mom!" Micky gave his petite, dark-haired mother a kiss.

"So, is this one of your new roommates?"

Micky introduced Peter, who promptly bestowed a bear hug upon her.

"Hi, Mom!"

"Him, I like" Janelle laughed, untangling herself from Peter's embrace.

So, Peter, are you sure you're ready to live with all this?" She gestured toward the room.

"Is he always like this?" Peter asked, holding up a dirty shirt between two fingers.

"Ever since he was a little boy. I stopped nagging him about it years ago. Now I just shut the door."

"Hey, cut it out!" Micky pulled two suitcases from the closet, flipping the first open and proceeding to stuff it with whatever he happened to get his hands on. Clothes, books and extra drumsticks joined what looked like the contents of an entire chemistry set. Soon both cases were filled to overflowing. With Peter sitting on top of the cases to hold them shut, Micky snapped the locks closed.

"That'll do for now," Micky declared. "I'll come back for the rest next week."

Kissing his mother good-by, Micky headed for the front door. While Peter struggled with the two suitcases, Micky himself tackled the cases which held his dismantled drum kit. Those he would trust to no one else.

~*~

Arriving back at the Pad, Micky and Peter found Mike already settled into the upstairs bedroom.

"I guess we ought to decide who's gonna sleep where," Mike drawled. He silently congratulated himself on snaring the upstairs room. It would be a lot more private than the one on the main level, and it had it's own bathroom. Okay, so it hadn't exactly been fair to snatch it while Micky and Peter were gone, but those were the breaks.

"No fair!" Micky shouted. "I wanted the upstairs!"

"You snooze, you lose, shotgun!" Mike bantered back.

"Go ahead and take it, Micky," Davy looked on in disgust. "I'd have taken it myself, but I thought I would ask you guys first." He shot a black look at Mike, who merely smiled slightly. He'd only just met him, but already Mike struck Davy as someone who was determined to get his own way, even in something as trivial as this. "It's not worth fighting over. A bed's a bed."

"Yeah, that's all right, Micky," Peter added. "You go ahead and share that one with Mike. Davy and I'll stay down here." There was no way he was going to take a chance on having to share a room with Micky, not after what he'd seen. He couldn't wait to see the expression on Mike's face when Micky unpacked!

"Great, we're gonna be roomies!" Clapping Mike on the back, Micky proceeded to dance around the room with his suitcases. Watching him, Mike began to have second thoughts. This guy never seemed to slow down. He'd been bouncing off the walls all day with no sign of stopping. Mike hoped the room was worth it.

~*~

After Micky unpacked, (Mike was still in shock over Micky's somewhat--casual--attitude toward the task) he and Davy headed down to the beach, under the pretense of meeting their new neighbors. Peter retreated to his room, not entirely comfortable with being alone with Mike. He wasn't quite sure why, but he felt intimidated around the Texan. Mike seemed so forceful and self-assured, unafraid to go after what he wanted. And he certainly had a temper, Peter recalled, remembering their initial meeting.

Left alone in the living area, Mike wandered over to the bandstand, seating himself on the edge and reaching for his guitar. His hand stopped in mid-air as he spied Peter's collection of instruments, neatly lined up along the right side of the riser.

Involuntarily, his hand reached for the twelve-string. Cradling it in his lap, Mike studied the guitar, recognizing it as a top of the line model. Wherever he comes from, money doesn't seem to be a problem, Mike thought with a touch of bitterness. He'd had his heart set on a twelve-string for it seemed like forever, but the money had just never been there.

Unable to resist, Mike strummed a few chords, entranced by the fullness of the sound. Familiar chords blended together into song as he lost himself in the music. So much so, that he didn't hear Peter open the door of the bedroom, drawn by the unfamiliar music. Closing the door quietly behind him, Peter waited for Mike to finish playing.

"That was great," Peter said softly. "Did you write it?"

Startled, Mike looked up. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to touch your stuff." Mike quickly put the twelve-string back in it's stand, and reached for his own guitar.

"You can play them all you want," Peter offered. "I don't mind. Try out all of them."

"That's real generous of ya, Peter, but I wouldn't feel right gettin' into your stuff like that. Besides, these are all really expensive. What if something happened to one of 'em? No way in the world I could ever afford to replace any one of these."

Peter laughed at that. "Mike, I'm the oldest of four kids. I wouldn't feel right if somebody wasn't 'gettin' into my stuff!" Besides, they're only things, and they can be replaced. Friends can't."

Mike stared at Peter. From the past day and a half, he'd gotten the impression that Peter was a goof, and not a very smart one at that. Some of the things that came out of his mouth made absolutely no sense, and he seemed far too naive to be on his own. His socks didn't even match!

Now Mike was beginning to think that it wasn't that Peter was stupid, but that he simply had different priorities than most, and saw things in a different light.

"You May Just Be The One," Mike offered quietly.

"Huh?" Peter gave him a blank stare.

"That's the name of the song. I've been kickin' it around for a while, now. At least the guitar part." Mike picked up the twelve-string again. It really did sound so much better than his own instrument.

"Play it again," Peter said, picking up his bass and sitting down next to Mike.

~*~

That's how Micky and Davy found them an hour later, huddled on the bandstand deep in discussion, a stack of music paper between them.

"Looks like they've really hit it off," Davy remarked, heading to the kitchen for a snack.

Mike and Peter started to play again. With an exclamation of "What this song needs is a beat!" Micky ran to his drum kit, and seating himself, quickly picked up the rhythm.

Davy looked at the three. Shrugging his shoulders, he laid down his half-eaten sandwich and strode to the bandstand. Picking up his tamborine in one hand, and a pair of maracas in the other, he joined in.

As the song ended, the four looked at one another.

"Cool!" Micky crowed. "We sounded fantastic!"

"Yeah! Maybe we should form a group!" joked Davy.

That drew peals of laughter from Mike and Micky. Peter, on the other hand, looked suddenly thoughtful.

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea."

"Why not?" asked Micky.

"Well... well... because!" Mike sputtered, for one at a loss for a comeback.

"Mike, we sounded great just now!" Davy added, his pulse quickening as he thought of the possibilities.

"Yeah, well, one song doesn't prove anything! What if it was just a fluke? We don't even know if we like the same music, let alone if we can play it together. Shoot, we don't even know if we like each other, yet!"

"What if we could convince you?" Peter looked Mike straight in the eye, his face serious.

"What do you mean, Peter?"

"Give us a month," Peter continued. "That should give us enough time to figure out if we can actually live here together without killing one another. As for liking the same music, there's one sure way to find out..."

"What's that?" Micky bounced up and down, softly tapping out a riff on the snare.

Peter grinned, dimples flashing. "Gentlemen, break out the albums!"

~*~

Oh, this looks promising, Davy thought cynically to himself. The guys sat in a circle on the floor, albums piled up in the center.

With the sole exception of the Beatles, none of them appeared to like the same things. Peter's collection consisted mainly of folk music, with some classical on the side. Mike's was mainly blues selections, along with a little country, while Micky, along with the current pop tunes, showed a surprising affinity for soul music. His own collection was hardly any better, Davy realized, leaning toward Broadway cast albums and old standards.

"See what I mean!" Mike crowed. "A country boy who likes the blues, a folkie with a taste for classical, a Broadway baby, and Micky 'James Brown' Dolenz.! How are we supposed to put all that together in one group?"

"That's what makes it special!" declared Peter. Ever the optimist, he wasn't about to give up that easily. "Give it a chance, Michael." He looked at Mike with a pleading expression.

Aw, man, I'm supposed to say no to that face? Mike thought, shaking his head in amusement. "All right, you got your month, but you'd better make it good!" He didn't honestly think it would ever work, but it should be interesting to watch them try.

~*~

The next couple of weeks were a learning experience for the guys. Mike in particular found the adjustment difficult.. He'd never before lived in a place where there was always someone around, and now he not only had to deal with three roommates, but with the steady stream of visitors, both male and female, that came along with them. At times he resorted to locking himself in his room for a little peace and quiet.

Micky seemed to settle right in, and soon the Pad was full of signs of his presence. It was Micky who'd contributed most of the Pad's somewhat--unique--decor. Street signs, old movie posters, a totem pole and a three-foot stuffed giraffe now graced the room, and his various tools and gadgets were scattered most everywhere.

Davy was happy to finally be in a place where he could invite his friends over. The other residents of the boarding house had all been much older, and none of his pals had been comfortable visiting him there. He hadn't even attempted to invite any girls over, since his eagle-eyed landlady saw everything, and was the worst gossip in the neighborhood. Davy had soon made up for the deprivation. Within twenty-four hours of moving in, every girl in a three mile radius had his phone number, and it rarely stopped ringing.

Peter was in his element. Surrounded by accepting peers, he began to lose some of the shyness that sometimes came across as stupidity, growing more confident in himself not only as a musician, but as a person. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had something worthwhile to contribute, and began to express his ideas and opinions more freely.

Above all, the Pad was a place of music. It was rare that someone wasn't playing or singing, usually for a group of appreciative beach bums. For a while it looked as though things were going to work out better than anyone expected.

Or not.

~*~

"MICKY! Get down here!" Mike's voice thundered through the Pad.

Peter and Davy, returning from an early morning swim, stopped dead in their tracks just inside the door to the balcony. Mike stood in the Pad's kitchen, hands on hips, glaring at the jumble of metal, coils and wires on the kitchen table.

Micky emerged from the upstairs bedroom, still clad in his bathrobe, and stumbled down the spiral staircase. Knuckling the sleep from his eyes, he looked at Mike in bewilderment.

"What'd I do?"

Mike stared at him through slitted eyes. "I'll tell you what you did! I came down to get some breakfast. I thought maybe I'd have some toast. Of course, we don't HAVE a toaster anymore, do we, Mr. Wizard?"

"Oh..." Micky grimaced. He'd meant to put the toaster back together last night, but he'd gotten distracted and completely forgotten about it. "I'll put it back together today, I promise."

"See that ya do!" Mike turned back to the cupboard, grabbing a box of cereal from the shelf. He'd have to be content with that for the time being.

Micky's slow fuse finally began to burn. He hadn't meant to leave the toaster like that, he'd just forgotten.

"Hey, you don't have to take that tone with me! I said I'd fix it, and I will!"

Mike put down his cereal, moving to stand nose-to-nose with Micky. "You bet you will, fuzzy! I'm tired of you tearin' apart everything we own just to see how it works!"

Davy stalked across the room to face them both, intent on defending his friend. "Now see here, Mike. Micky just..."

Mike turned on Davy. "You stay outta this, shorty!"

"STOP IT!"

Three heads whipped around, jaws dropping. Peter still stood by the open balcony door, arms wrapped around his midsection as he watched the others, a stricken expression on his face.

"I hate all this yelling!" Turning, he ran back outside, slamming the door behind him.

Micky and Mike looked at each other, anger quickly turning to shame.

"I, uh, guess somebody better go talk to him," Mike began.

"I'll go," Davy offered. "You two have done enough for one day!"

Leaving Micky and Mike to work out their differences, Davy went outside in search of Peter. He found him sitting on the beach, partially hidden by a large rock, head buried in his hands.

"Peter?" Davy called. "It's okay. They're not yelling anymore."

"Go away!"

"Peter, man, don't take it so hard. They're not really mad. Well, I know Micky's not, he never stays mad long." Davy moved to sit next to Peter. "People argue all the time. It doesn't mean anything."

"I can't help it. I can't stand it when people yell. It makes my stomache hurt." Peter lifted his head, running his hands through his hair.

"Hey, you were doing a smashing job of yelling youself!" Davy joked.

Peter cast him a sidelong look, a small smile beginning to appear.

"Really?"

"Really! Those two may never get over the shock!"

With that, Peter finally laughed, shoulders straightening. Satisfied, Davy stood.

"C'mon, let's go get some breakfast."

From that day, the guys made a concerted effort to be more considerate of one another. Micky agreed to leave the appliances intact, while Mike promised to try to curb his quick temper. In deference to Mike's need for privacy, Davy agreed to limit himself to one female visitor at a time. For Peter's sake, they all agreed to talk their differences out before things got out of hand.

While things might have been a bit rocky on a personal level, they were going surprisingly well when it came to music. As Peter had predicted, instead of clashing, their differing musical tastes had come together quite nicely. While some songs were more of one style than another, usually depending on who was singing lead, no one style was dominant, and the result pleased them all.

~*~

Two weeks after the breakfast fiasco, Mike made a startling announcement.

"I think it's time we played a gig together."

Peter looked at him, eyes like saucers. "Really?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "if were gonna be a group, we need to play in front of an audience as a group. That month we talked about is almost up. It's now or never."

"Do you think we're ready?" asked Micky. He hadn't expected Mike, of all people, to come up with this idea.

"I don't know, " Mike answered. "But we gotta find out sometime. I know we've worked hard, but if this isn't gonna work, it's better we know now.

"So, where are we going to play?" Peter inquired.

"I saw a notice for an open audition at the Star Club tomorrow night. They're lookin' for a band for a six-week gig. So, whaddya say? You guys wanna give it a shot?"

"Smashing!"

"Cool!"

"Groovy!"

The three answers came simultaneously, accompanied by three huge smiles.

"I guess that's a yes!" Mike chuckled.

~*~

The next day the guys joined the line of people that snaked through the empty Star Club, waiting their turn to audition. Forty minutes later, they reached the head of the queue.

"So, what's the name of your group, young man?" the middle aged lady seated behind the table asked.

Mike looked at the others, mouth open. They'd never even thought about a name!

"Well, we don't have a name," Mike began. "You see..."

"Listen, kid," the woman interrupted. "I've got to have a name to put on this form. No name, no audition. Understand?

"Look, ma'am," Mike said. "We don't have a name yet. You can call us whatever you want to on you little form there. You can call us a bunch o' monkeys if it makes you happy, we just wanna audition!"

"The Monkeys," she repeated, writing the name on her form. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

Rolling his eyes, Mike mentally counted to ten. He really had to start watching what he said! "Fine, we're the Monkeys. Now can we audition?"

"Don't get smart with me young man! Here," she said, handing an index card to Micky. "Write the name of the group on this card, along with a number where you can be reached."

Micky complied, and handed the card back.

"M-O-N-K-E-E-S?" Shaking her head, she handed the card to her assistant. "Kids! Can't even spell anymore!"

Micky only shrugged at the others' curious looks. "Hey, it worked for the Beatles!"

The tension broken, the newly christened Monkees took the stage, automatically drifting to the positions they had adopted during long practices at the Pad: Mike stage right, Peter on his left, Micky behind them on the drums, and Davy front and center.

Counting them off, Peter led them into the number they had chosen for the audition. They had unanimously chosen Mike's song, the first they'd ever played together.

"All men must have someone...." Mike's tenor rang out through the club.

As with the first time, all the parts just seemed to click. They knew that it didn't matter if they got this gig or not. Today was the day that the Monkees truly became a group.

Nothing that feels this right can fail, thought Peter. Looking at the other's faces, he knew that they, too, felt how special this was. Micky flailed away at his drums, mile-wide grin on his face. Davy danced behind mis microphone, completely into the groove. Even Mike, resident doubting Thomas, loosened up enough to throw a wink at the pretty girl watching the auditions.

"Hey, Davy!" Peter yelled above the music.

Davy looked at him, eyebrow raised.

"Still think we ought to form a group?"

And so it began...