Chapter 8 - Why I Have Never Ventured Back

The next few weeks saw Mike go into a downward spiral. He spent more and more time by himself, sometimes with his guitar and sometimes just staring out any window he could find. More than once, one of the other Monkees went to find him and discovered that he’d been crying. No one bothered him when he was like that, but they did worry. After a few days, though, they stopped asking, “Where’s Mike?” every time Mike was absent.

“Does anyone have any idea what’s wrong with him?” Micky asked one day when he, Peter, and Davy were taking a break between filming scenes.

“I have no idea, but whatever it is must be pretty bad,” Davy commented, draining a glass of water and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Do you think it might have something to do with that girl?” Peter suggested cautiously. He hadn’t told the other Monkees about Georgia’s being pregnant. He didn’t think that would make things any easier for Mike.

Davy looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Maybe. But it’s a bit after the fact, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so,” Peter nodded, “But…you can never tell.”

They lapsed into a silence, which was broken only by Micky tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. A minute later they were called back onto the set and were just getting up when Mike came in, walking unsteadily. His eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in days, and his hair looked like he hadn’t bothered to comb it. The other Monkees sighed. This was becoming a familiar sight.

Later that day, after a quick session in the recording studio, Mike went off by himself again. He just couldn’t seem to bring things into perspective and live like a normal person. He knew what everyone else was seeing: his acting was going sour, his personal appearance was deteriorating, and even his music was taking a turn for the worse. But he just couldn’t seem to make himself care enough to correct it.

Except with the music. Mike felt that, if he lost the music, he’d truly lose Georgia forever. He’d lose himself, too. So he shut himself in a secluded room, picked up his guitar, and tried his hardest to play the way he used to.

It didn’t work. An hour later, Mike was gritting his teeth at the mechanical sounds coming from his guitar. The songs didn’t sound like his own; the music wasn’t mirroring his feelings. In fact, it didn’t seem to have any feeling at all. Mike could feel himself breaking into a sweat from some unseen effort. Once more, he thought, once more and if something didn’t change…

A few minutes later there was a crash. Mike screamed wordlessly in frustration and banged his fists against the wall. Then he sank down next to the splintered mess that had been his guitar and withdrew into himself.

Peter found him like that the next morning. Mike was just sitting, staring vacantly at the ceiling and smoking a cigarette.

“Mike? Geez…Mike, what are you doing here?” Peter exclaimed, kneeling down and trying to make eye contact through the smoke, “Have you been here all night? Everyone thought you went home!”

“Does it matter?” Mike laughed softly, blowing a stream of smoke straight up into the air, “Does anything really matter anymore?”

Peter scanned Mike’s face, trying to figure out what the other man was thinking. “Is all this because of that girl?” he asked finally, “Because if it is, I swear, Mike, you’re getting yourself too worked up…”

Mike looked at Peter and his vacant stare suddenly became focused. “Think what you want,” he spat, “But, chick or no chick, my life is crashin’ down around me and I can’t get it back. Simple as that.”

“That’s a cop out, man,” Peter shook his head, “A complete cop out, and you know it.”

Mike glared at him. “All I know is that I can’t play. And if I can’t play, then I might as well give up ‘cause there’s nothin’ else I can do.”

Peter was trying to think of something to say in reply when the door opened and Micky came in.

“What the hell happened in here?” he demanded, taking in the ruined guitar and the look on Mike’s face before running over and kneeling down next to Peter.

“I’m not really sure,” Peter admitted, sitting back on his heels. Mike’s gaze became vacant again, and he looked at the wreckage of his guitar as if seeing it for the first time.

“Gotta clean that up,” he muttered with a short laugh, “Dead as the music.”

Micky blew out a breath and fanned some of the smoke away. “Phew, what’s in that cigarette, man?”

“It’s not a cigarette,” Peter muttered, getting up, “Come on, help me get him out of here. Thank God we’re not on tour…”

Micky and Peter helped Mike up and supported him as he walked unsteadily out of the room, leaving behind a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke and a symbol of something he’d lost and couldn’t quite seem to regain.

Mike awoke in his dressing room several hours later. It took him a moment to realize where he was and that the other Monkees were standing over him with concerned expressions on their faces.

“What the…how’d I get here?” he asked, his words running together. He tried to push himself up from the corner he was sitting in and fell back when the room spun around him.

“Whoa, whoa, steady Mike,” Davy warned, holding out a hand to indicate that Mike should stay sitting down.

Mike turned to Peter, the last person he consciously remembered seeing. “What happened?” he asked shakily.

“You passed out when we were helping you out of the studio,” Peter explained, “We had to put you in Micky’s car and bring you over here.”

“Here? Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?” Mike demanded, trying stubbornly to get up again. This time he managed it, but had to lean against the wall for support.

“Because you were stoned off your ass, that’s why,” Micky replied impatiently, “You want the press getting a hold of that?”

“If you don’t stop treatin’ me like I’m on trial here, the press is gonna be gettin’ a hold of your obituary,” Mike snapped, glaring at Micky.

“Whoa, you guys, calm down,” Peter ordered, stepping between them. Then to Mike he said, “All right, man, this is getting sorted out, and it’s getting sorted out now.”

“What’s there to sort out?” Mike exclaimed, throwing up his hands, “Georgia’s pregnant and she hates my guts, I can’t stop thinkin’ about her and I can’t even play a decent tune anymore! How the hell am I supposed to sort that out?”

Davy and Micky looked surprised and worried, but Peter was beginning to get angry.

“But you can play, Mike!” he countered, his voice raising, “I’ve heard you, and I’ve seen the look on your face when you do. And if you can’t play for what you’ve got, then play for what you had! You’re worrying everyone sick with your stupid moping around and you’re not even trying to do anything about it! So get off your butt and start! Here,” Peter removed the guitar he had slung on his back and shoved it at Mike, “You’re not leaving this room until you see that you can still play.”

Mike stared at Peter in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But somewhere, back in the small part of his brain that was still thinking rationally, he knew that Peter was right. He hadn’t been doing much to get out of the slump he was in; it was almost as if he enjoyed it. He was using his anger and depression and utmost frustration at what Georgia had told him as an excuse for letting the rest of his life go down the toilet. Now was the time to get back on track.

“All right,” he said quietly, taking the guitar, “I will.”

He sat down and began to play.

What he heard come from the guitar surprised even him. For the first time in a long time, he was mesmerized by his own music. It wasn’t the same, of course, but it was good. The other Monkees just sat and listened until Mike started singing, then they all joined in. If someone had looked in at that moment, it would have seemed like a scene from the Monkees’ TV show had transposed itself into Mike’s dressing room. There was a sense of togetherness, a sense of finality. And, most importantly of all, Mike felt whole again. He felt all the negative emotions draining out of him, all the hurt fading. He felt like he had finally returned from the town. He felt…free. And, when he finished and put the guitar down, the other Monkees could see the change in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mike,” Peter said quietly.

Continued