When Old Friends Get Together

Chapter 9

The next morning, the Monkees drove Connie all the way to San Francisco. Mike and Connie sat in the front seat, chatting. Micky, Davy, and Peter were in the second seat. And Connie's luggage was in the back.

The guys waited while Connie spoke with her landlord, a nice, older man- nothing at all like Mr. Babbit, fortunately. In fact, when Peter commented on the difference, Micky turned to Mike and asked if they could move in with Connie. Normally, Mike would have responded with a look that was half-annoyed, half-amused, and all-indulging. But this time, the Texan just blushed.

Connie returned from speaking with her landlord, and the boys carried her luggage upstairs- all but Mike, that is. The other three were, as Micky put it, appointed as pack mules (with Micky wheezing "hee-haw" all the way up the stairs).

Mike and Connie stood by the car, kissing, until the others returned. They came out, saw the young couple, and politely turned and went back inside. A couple of minutes later, they came back out... and went back in.

The third time, Davy felt compelled to tap Mike's shoulder and bring him back to the world around him. "Ah... should we go on home and come back for you tomorrow, then?"

"Hmm?" Mike blinked a few times until Davy came back into focus. "Oh... no, ah was jest sayin' g'bye, is awhl." His accent was very thick, indicating that he was more depressed about leaving Connie than he let on.

"You'll come back 'n' see me, right?" ventured Connie.

"'Course, I will," Mike promised. "In fact, you remember the guy that hollered at us last night? Turns out he owns a discotheque here. He gave us a job. We'll be back next week."

Connie pouted a little. "I'd hoped to see you a bit sooner than that."

Mike shrugged. He didn't smile, but his eyes sparkled a little. "Maybe we can arrange that."

Connie gave him a mischievous smirk that reminded him of the scrawny, freckled kid that grew up with him. Back then, she'd been the most annoying pest. Now, she seemed a clever, beautiful woman. "I've got some insurance here," she said, "to make sure you come back, all of you. Davy, what do you think of auburn hair and hazel eyes?"

Davy fingered his recently-clipped, brown locks. "I'm happy with my own coloring, thank you."

Connie gave that delightful laugh that made Mike's face light up. "No, no, no. I'm talking about the girl that will be my next-door neighbor. I described you to her, and she gave me her picture to give to you." She handed Davy a photograph.

Davy fairly squealed when he saw the girl's picture. "Oh, don't worry, Connie, I'll be back."

"Just bring Mike with you when you come," Connie said, squeezing the Texan's arm.

Davy began, without looking up from the photo, "I'm not about to share-" Then he looked at the cuddly couple and amended himself, "Oh, right. Mike is for you. Never mind." He returned to drooling over the picture.

"I guess maybe we should say good-bye, now," Connie said reluctantly.

"Mm-hmm." Mike kissed her again.

Micky looked at his watch. When Mike finally stopped for breath, Micky announced, "You'll be pleased to know you've just broken the record for the longest kiss in the state of California."

Peter added, in one of those deep, sports-announcer-type voices, "Formerly held by our very own David Jones!"

The three boys cheered and clapped. Micky and Davy both whistled. Connie glowered at them and growled, "Knock it off," surprising them all with a very good imitation of an annoyed Mike Nesmith.

At last, Connie threw her purse strap over her shoulder, pecked Mike's cheek, said her final good-byes, and went into her new home. Mike sighed and blinked the dreamy look out of his eyes. "Well," he said, "I guess we oughta head on home."

Like a soap opera announcer, Micky said, "And so, another episode in the larger-than-life lives of The Monkees draws to a close as we watch our heroes drive off into the sunset."

"It's only twelve o'clock," Peter said.

"Drive off into the high noon," Micky corrected himself. In his normal voice, he said, "There's just one thing that bothers me, though."

"What's that?" asked Mike.

"Well, Davy usually gets the girl, Peter sometimes gets the girl, you finally got the girl..."

"So what's the problem?" asked Davy.

Micky pouted, his lower lip sticking out like Edward G. Robinson's. "When's it my turn?" he wailed. He began sobbing dramatically, burying his face in Mike's shoulder.

Mike rolled his eyes and patted Micky's head like he would a small child's.

And Peter observed, "Well, at least we're all back to normal, again."