Secrets On The Line
This is a short vignette set during the events of “Monkees On The Line.”
With a decided lack of good-paying employment for musicians, the Monkees went to answer an ad for operators at an answering service while the owner went on vacation to Jamaica. She warned them of several things, making a special point of telling them, “The woman in 146 might call with gloom and doom. She lives upstairs from me, and she won the part of a depressed woman in a play. She often uses us as listeners in her method acting practice.”
Duly warned, the Monkees took their positions—after a curious Mike pushed the red button and a bed slid out of the wall. They had a good laugh and sat down for the day’s business.
Less than five minutes later, the phone jingled. The flashing light read box #146. Mike plugged it in. “Urgent Answering Service.”
The voice was strident ‘and frightened. “I can’t go on!”
Mike kept his voice neutral, but he rolled his eyes. “I understand . . . life can be a bitch.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle with a chuckle. There had been no prickling of his neck—no crawling of his skin—no danger signs at all.
~~~~~~~
Davy’s phone jangled. “Urgent Answering Service.”
“Hey, darlin’,” a sexy male purr erupted. “You sound way cuter than the woman who’s been here . . . ”
Davy blinked and a chuckle was surprised out of him. “ . . . excuse me?”
“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “I can’t help it. I hear a sexy voice, I have to respond. I’m trying to get in touch with Trixie—she’s not answering her phone. Can you get the message to her that Bob is trying to reach her?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thank you very much.” There was a click as the caller hung up.
Davy looked up the number and called Trixie, who seemed very delighted to get the message. He hung up, smiling. It felt good to be able to blow good into someone’s life.
~~~~~
Mike picked up the phone. “Urgent Answering Service.”
A sob. “Oh, cruel world! I can’t go on . . . it’s just too, too terrible!”
“You’re improving. I think you need a little more oomph and you’ve got it.” He hung up.
~~~~~
Micky’s phone rang. “Urgent Answering Service.”
A familiar voice said, “Hello, this is Henry Babbitt—I need to check my messages.”
Once he got over the shock, Micky forced a smile. “Very well, sir. Box #562?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Micky read them off. There were two from two different ladies, and one from his ex-wife.
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.
Micky got a pencil and prepared to write. “Is there one certain one you were looking for, sir?”
“Yes.” He gave a deep sigh. “There’s this wonderful woman that I met and want to be with again. I keep trying and trying to find her . . . ”
“What’s her name?” He poised pen over paper.
“Mrs. Arcadian.”
Micky’s head snapped up, his eyes staring ahead of him, wide and shocked.
~~~~~
Mike picked up the phone. “Urgent Answering Service.”
“I’m going to do it!” came the wild voice of the actress. “I’ve got it all planned out—I just can’t take it any more!”
“That makes two of us, darlin’.” He smiled. He knew this wasn’t real, and he could play with her. “I can’t wait to see you in this play. You’ll be great.”
Silence, then a stunned, “Th . . . thank you . . . ”
His smile grew. “Goodbye and good luck.”
~~~~~
Peter was jolted from a sleepy daydream by the phone ringing. “Urgent Answering Service.”
A gravelly male voice said, “We have got a booking for a music group lined up. Please tell the Popsicles they go on third Saturday at three.”
Peter felt his flesh crawl. “Where at, sir?”
There was a long pause. “They know where.” Click.
Peter put the receiver back in the cradle and studied it.
“Peter?” Mike asked, concerned at the expression on his face. “What’s up?”
“Hold on.” Peter picked up the phone and dialed an outside line. “Hello, police? This is Urgent Answering Service. We just received a call that could possibly be a bookie placing an illegal bet.”
Mike waited while Peter talked, smiling as Peter hung up the phone. “Well?”
Peter laughed. “I was right—it was a horse race, not a booking group!”
“And Trixie was delighted to hear from Bob,” Davy reported.
Micky just glared at them. “Not one word,” he growled, which set them off and running laughing again.
Mike’s phone rang. “Urgent Answering Service,” he chuckled.
“Goodbye Cruel World!” she sobbed. “I can’t go on! I can’t!”
Watching the woman who owned the service come back from her day-long vacation, Mike smiled. “You won’t have to. The play’s tomorrow, right?”
“ . . . yeah . . . ”
“Well, then, good luck.” He hung up.
~~~~~
Ellen Farnsby let out a frustrated sigh and hung up the phone. She took a deep breath and dialed the number again.
“Urgent Answering Service.” The familiar woman’s voice was back.
“Never mind.” She hung up quickly and trembled, then picked up the phone again, dialing another number. She had to sit down, her knees threatening collapse. She dreaded the report she had to give.
“Mistress? It’s Ellen. I . . . I failed. Someone apparently has tipped them off that I was an actress . . . ”
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