When Old Friends Get Together

Chapter 1

Davy had hung a sign saying "Monkee bars" over the stair railing, and was hanging from them, pulling himself up the stairs one bar at a time, a new part of his daily calisthenics. Micky was polishing up his drums. Mike was still in his room, getting dressed. Peter was crunching on a bowl of Rice Krispies- that is, crunching the cereal, not the bowl itself.

Just another Monkee morning.

Someone knocked at the door. Peter got up from the table, carrying his breakfast with him. "I'll get it," he told the other two, and then spooned another bite into his mouth. He went to the door and asked, "Who's that?" The words were a little garbled because he was still chewing.

A female voice on the other side responded, "Who dat who say who dat?"

Peter replied, "Who dat who say who dat who- Uh, wait a second... Who say dat who dat say who..." He frowned, scratching his head with one hand while still holding his cereal bowl with the other. "Um, I got lost in there somewhere. How 'bout we start over?"

The lady on the other side chuckled good-naturedly. "How 'bout you open the door and let me in?"

"Hmm," Peter mused, "why didn't I think of that?"

Micky and Davy both tried to hide their smiles as they continued what they were doing.

Peter opened the door, and a pretty, college-age girl with shining blonde hair and bright blue eyes stepped into the house. She was around five and a half feet tall, and she had a stunning figure. "Hi," she said, smiling brightly. "Is this where The Monkees live?" She had a light southern accent.

Davy dropped to the floor and was instantly at her side. "It certainly is," he answered, adopting an aristocratic accent. "Sir David Armstrong Jones, percussion instruments- m'lady." He bowed low, took her hand in his, and gently kissed the back of it.

Micky came up beside Davy, offering the suavest smile he knew how. "Micky Dolenz," he said, lowering his voice a couple of notches to make it sound more masculine, "drummer extraordinaire." He, too, bowed, and made a flourish with his right hand.

"Peter Tork," said the blonde Monkee, extending his hand.

She took his hand and shook it. "Connie Wilkins. What do you play?"

"Oh, bass, piano, organ, French horn, recorder, harpsichord- little bit of everything, really." Peter smiled brightly.

"Everything but bagpipes, huh?"

Peter shrugged. "Who says I don't play bagpipes?"

Davy made a face at him. "You don't either play the bagpipes."

Peter returned Davy's stare. "For a girl like this one, I'll learn!"

Connie laughed. She seemed strangely unresponsive to all their charms, even Davy's. "Nice to meet y'all. Um..." She looked around at the house. "Isn't there a fourth one of you? The Texan, the one that wrote 'You Just May Be the One.' That's actually my favorite Monkee tune."

"Really?" said Micky. He shouted up the stairs, "Hey, Mike, get down here! Your biggest fan's in our living room!" Then he turned back to Connie and said, "You know, uh... I write songs on occasion, too." He gave a smug grin and polished his fingernails on his shirt.

"I know," Connie said. "I heard Alternate Title. Why did you call it that, anyway?"

Micky shot a look at Davy. "Because," Micky answered her, "the song was about things I've heard and seen about England, and the original title was taken from something I heard once- and this little guy thought it was funny to read that title and not tell me that it wasn't PG!"