The buzz of electricity followed Peter Tork as he returned to consciousness. “No . . . ” he moaned, trying to twist away from the pain. A violent, savage thrumming filled his ears, driving him to the edge of madness . . .
He snapped awake with a gasp, his hair damp and sweaty on his forehead. He realized that the banging he heard was actually drumming coming from the living room—Micky was obviously up early. He glanced at the clock and realized that Micky wasn’t up early at all—it was nearly twelve noon. Peter’s joints and muscles were still stiff and sore from the previous day’s ordeal—the events of which came rushing back as sleep fled.
Dr. Mendoza had kidnapped them, stealing their musical abilities and placing them in a monstrous android body. Peter could still feel the electricity surging through his body, bringing with it intense pain that he just wished he could forget . . .
He shook his head. Relax, Peter, he thought. It’s over and you’re home. He crawled wearily out of bed and saw Davy; the Englishman was sitting on the edge of his bed, his tired eyes focused on the floor.
“Hey, Davy,” Peter whispered gently so as not to startle him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Davy replied without much enthusiasm. “I’m just tired and sore from yesterday.”
“Me too,” Peter said as he pulled out clean clothes for the day. “At least Micky was able to reverse the process . . . and Dr. Mendoza’s in jail now.”
“You always try to look on the bright side of things, don’t you, Peter?” Davy moaned, flopping back on his bed.
“I try,” Peter said, stepping into the bathroom. As he showered he couldn’t quite dismiss the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a nagging doubt that wouldn’t go away.
When Peter exited the bedroom he was greeted with a sight that made him stumble and fall heavily to his knees, his mouth hanging open in shock. A half-second later Davy emerged and tripped over Peter, landing solidly on top of him.
It was definitely Micky’s drums that had awakened him, but it was not Micky who was sitting behind them, pounding out a furious rhythm.
It was Mike.
Micky was leaning against the nearest amplifier, his fingers dancing agilely over Mike’s twelve string. He was so lost in concentration that he didn’t see Davy approach the bandstand, Peter crawling behind him.
“Wh-what are you guys doing?” Peter asked.
“Playing,” Mike said. “What’s it look like?”
“But Mike . . . you play the guitar,” Davy pointed out.
“I know,” Mike said, pausing. “Today I just felt like . . . ” He hit the tom tom a few times. “ . . . drummin’ a little.”
“Okay . . . ” Davy said. “You guys mind if we join you?”
Micky gestured to the bass and tambourine. “Knock yourselves out.”
Peter picked up the guitar and slung it over his shoulder. It was a movement he had performed countless times; this time, however, it felt odd . . . unnatural, in a way.
“Ready, Pete?” Mike asked, his sticks poised over the snare.
“Um . . . sure,” Peter said uncertainly. His fingertips rested gently on the strings as Mike counted off; when Micky started to play Peter tried to join in, but his fingers refused to move across the strings.
It was as if he’d forgotten how to play.
Micky’s melodious playing trailed off. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I can’t play,” Peter replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
“What?” Mike asked, rising from his stool. “What do you mean, you can’t play?”
Peter looked down at his bass, noticing for the first time how uncomfortable it felt hanging from his shoulders. “I can’t,” he repeated.
Mike’s brow furrowed. “Mick, gimme my guitar for a sec, will ya?”
Micky carefully slipped the instrument from around his neck and handed it to Mike, who casually tossed the strap over his head. He plucked at the strings for a few minutes before realizing that whatever had afflicted Peter had affected him as well.
Noticing the dismayed looks on his bandmates’ faces, Micky plopped himself down behind his drums. The drumbeat he pounded out was discordant and awkward--the random banging of a beginner.
“Well, I’m sunk.” The three of them looked to Davy.
“Don’t look at me, fellas. It doesn’t take a lot of skill to shake this,” he said, rattling his tambourine.
“Yeah, but you sing, too,” Mike said.
Davy paused. “Yeah, you’re right.” He inhaled deeply and started to sing, then stopped abruptly a few moments later. His voice was softer, unaccented, and wavered off pitch in a way that it normally didn’t.
It was almost as if he had . . . Peter’s voice?
“Man, this is just . . . weird,” Mike said, raking his hand through his hair. He wondered if it was going to start to curl at the ends. “It’s like . . . our musical abilities have been . . . switched.”
“Peter, lemme see something,” Davy said, reaching for Peter’s bass. Peter handed the instrument over, taking the tambourine Davy handed him. It fit easily into his hand in a way that was far too familiar for comfort.
Davy hefted the bass—which seemed to be entirely too big for his small frame—and effortlessly executed the opening bass line to ‘You Just May Be The One.’ Micky joined in with guitar, and Mike’s drums followed a heartbeat later. Mike opened his mouth to sing, but was interrupted by Peter, who had set down the tambourine and picked up Davy’s maracas. The bassist sang with the Mancunian accent and the harder edge that Davy possessed; the slight tremor in his baritone was gone.
When the song was finished they stood—or sat—in stunned silence.
“Micky, you and I have switched, and Peter and Davy have, too,” Mike said at length. “I think that transference you did at Dr. Mendoza’s last night didn’t quite work out. We got our abilities back but they’re the wrong ones.”
“It might not be so bad,” Peter said. “At least we can still play at our gig tonight.”
Mike, Micky, and Davy exchanged panicked glances. Gig?? Tonight??
~*~
All things considered, the gig at the Vincent Van went over very well. It took some fancy verbal footwork on Mike’s part to explain to the manager why they had switched instruments from the last time they’d played; for his part the manager didn’t want to know. Musically they were nearly flawless, but the next morning Mike could feel the discontent as soon as he emerged from the bedroom.
Micky was sitting behind his drums, staring at the sticks in his lap with a forlorn expression. Peter was on the couch, buried halfway under a blanket, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. Davy was sitting on the edge of the bandstand, trying to sing ‘I Wanna Be Free’ with a voice that was not exactly his own.
“Hey guys, how you feelin’?” Mike asked, receiving three unamused glares in response.
“I miss my music,” Peter murmured. “I can’t play anything except those stupid maracas.”
“How do you think I feel?” Davy snapped. “I’m trying to sing with your voice, and I can’t dance with that bloody bass hanging off of me!”
“Tell me about it,” Micky grumbled, crossing his arms. “I just about died last night—I had to stand still the whole time! And my fingers are bleeding!” He held up his left hand; the tips of his four fingers were wrapped with Band Aids.
Mike walked silently over to the drum set and held out his long arms. The smooth palms of both his hands were red and swollen. “And every muscle in my body feels like it’s been twisted like a pretzel. Honestly, man, I don’t know how you manage to bop around so much without killin’ yourself. I am not built for drumming, that’s easy to see.”
Peter sat up, pulling his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “So what do we do, Mike? I want to be able to play again.”
“So do I,” Micky added.
“And I want to be able to sing again,” Davy said.
Mike pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, Dr. Mendoza’s machine was the cause of all this . . . we could try goin’ back to his house and see if we can’t find some way to fix all this.”
Peter shuddered. “I don’t know, Mike. That machine scares me.”
“Would you rather spend the rest of your life shakin’ those maracas?”
“Like I said; what are we waiting for?”
Go on to Two
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