Mike couldn’t remember the last good meal he’d had. It seemed like months since he’d first arrived in Malibu by bus from his old family home in Texas, though it had only been a matter of weeks; two or so, maybe more, maybe less.
He’d promised to write home to his family a lot, but so far only one letter had been sent and with no return address he never got anything back.
It all started when the family bought a television the summer before. Mike had played the guitar since he was just a kid. He would play the guitar, his pa would play the harmonica, and his ma would play the fiddle. All of his many brothers and sisters were younger than him, so they didn’t play instruments, they only sang. All together they would make great country music, so when the Beatles came on his parents weren’t too impressed.
According to Mike’s parents, the Beatles were just a couple of city folk who got lucky and now were famous, but Mike saw them as his future. He saw how successful they were, and thought maybe he could make his way in the world with his guitar the same way the Beatles did, so he packed up some money, a little food, his hat, his guitar, and headed to Southern California. This, he figured, was where all people got famous, and so when he did get his big break he could send money home to his family who had always been in need of it and they needed it more than ever now that he was gone. He had always worked around the ranch, and kept things running smoothly, so without him his parents were at a loss for work. ‘They’ll be swimming in money soon though!’ Mike promised himself and he watched the small town he’d always known disappear in the back window of the Greyhound Bus.
Now he was here in Malibu where for approximately five days he’d stayed at a hotel and then ran out of money for that, had no cash for any means of transportation, and had only gotten hired once by accident. When he said his last name was Nesmith, they had mistaken it for Newman.
He jingled the last few coins he had left in his pocket, and fingered a single twenty dollar bill. ‘I can’t walk everywhere in this big ol’ town,” Mike told himself, that’s when he noticed in a store window an electric skateboard for only $14.00. ‘Well it’s not much of a way around, but it’s better than walking everywhere. It takes batteries, and comes with them, so that’s a plus. I’ve got the money… I’m going to buy it!” He marched into the store and bought the skateboard. Wanting to try it out immediately, he stood of it, pressed the button, and away he shot.
Mike raced down the side walk, not quite sure where he was going, but having the time of his life. He shot around people quicker than you could say hogs on a farm, but suddenly, turning a corner, he rammed into a newspaper stand.
“You were going a little fast kid,” The man told Mike, helping him up.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t know how to slow it down,” Mike examined the skateboard, not seeing any buttons telling the speed.
“Right here,” The man slid a button over to slow that Mike had missed before. “You’re not from around here, are ya kid?”
‘The newspaper man has noticed my accent,’ Mike told himself, and then shrugged at the guy.
“Well look, I’ll bet you came here to become famous, we all do, but believe me you most likely won’t find anything here. You’re a nice kid, everyday you come by here and I’ll give you a free newspaper so you can look in the wanted ads, ya got it?”
Mike didn’t want to give his dreams of becoming a singer, but maybe this guy was right, he needed a job anyway, “I’ll be here tomorrow,” Mike smiled at the guy.
“Don’t be driving your skateboard to fast!” The newspaper man called after Mike as he sped away much slower than he had sped away before.
The next day, and the day after that, and so on, Mike came by the newspaper stand for his free newspaper, but none of the jobs seemed any good for him. He didn’t particularly want to be the feeder of the lions at the zoo for example.
On about the fourth day, Mike found a job he might actually consider, but he needed somewhere to put his guitar. He asked the guy if he could leave it with him and then continued to the restaurant where he was going to try to be a dishwasher… He was an hour late to get the job.
Well, Mike figured he needed a paper today after all, so he rode back to the newspaper stand. Mike didn’t even stop to talk to the guy this time. He just took the newspaper extended to him, and kept going on his skateboard.
He began to read it right away, but found that not to be a smart idea because almost immediately he ran into some guy carrying a bunch of boxes. From the looks of it, the contents of the boxes were different parts of a drum set.
The boxes of the drum set spilled everywhere and Mike found himself on the ground with some other guy sitting next to him. A blonde guy was standing across the street, “Great job Micky,” the blonde guy called, slightly teasingly with a hint of seriousness in his voice.
The guy sitting on the sidewalk next to Mike, whose name was apparently Micky, cracked up and stated laughing a bunch. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Mike half glared, half smiled at ‘Micky’.
“Oh, well no disrespect meant!” This unusual young man started picking up all his boxes and putting them in a pile.
“Well… None taken,” Mike said.
“I’m gonna keep going home, okay Micky?!” The blonde guy called from across the street. Then, without waiting for a reply, the blonde guy walked away.
It was now that Mike remembered he needed his guitar so he jumped up and asked the guy for his guitar back. He got it, and then noticed Micky was still picking up his many drum cases. It seemed as though the minute he got one case picked up and put on top of another so it was easier to carry, a different one would fall down so he would have to pick that one up and then a third one would fall and so on.
After watching Micky for a while, he asked if Micky wanted help. Then he got a few of the cases, and Micky got a few more, and then Mike placed his cases on top of Micky’s. “Hey, thanks!” Micky said from behind an armload of drum cases. “Did I see you had a guitar case?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do. Do you know how I can get a job playing the guitar?” Mike asked a little hopefully.
“Well, you could be in a band!” Micky suggested.
“How would I find a band to be in?” Mike asked skeptically.
“With me and my friend you just saw! We’re starting a band! I play drums and he plays base, and keyboard, and guitar, and a bunch of other stuff as well. Of course he can’t play them all at the same time, so it would be helpful if you joined!” Micky tried to look at Mike reaction to this proposition from around the boxes, but only succeeded in dropping two of them. Mike picked them up, and then thought for a minute.
‘Well, I certainly can’t be any worse off than I am now… Why don’t I give this a try?’ Mike picked up his skateboard, took a strong grip on his guitar case, and kept hold of the two boxes from Micky.
“Lead the way,” Mike announced.
“You mean you’ll do it?” Micky was surprised, to say the least. “Oh thanks! It’s this way by the way!” He peered around the cases he was carrying and led Mike down one street and up another.
“How in the world are you able to tell where you are going with all the stuff you’re carrying?” Mike asked Micky once.
“I can’t! I guess I just kinda have the way memorized and I’m lucky I haven’t bumped into anyone. I’m glad I bumped into you, though, we need someone else in our band. Peter really wanted to be in a band but the last one got sick of him. They left! I’m not going to leave Peter! He’s my best friend! I’ve known him for years. I guess I can see why they might get tired of him. I know I do sometimes! That’s okay though, when you stick by a friend they’ll stick by you. Of course Peter would stick by me anyway, you know what I mean?!” Micky said very quickly in a matter of seconds.
“Riiight, okay… I just asked a simple question, but that’s fine.” Mike said, a little confused.
“That’s cool. We’re here, by the way.” They had arrived at a beaten up old beach house that, from the looks of it, had desperately needed repairing for some years now.
‘I guess nobody has gotten around to it yet,’ Mike said to himself when as he was walking in when he noticed some little holes in the roof. “Does the roof leak?” he asked Micky.
“Oh yeah, but that’s no big deal. It doesn’t leak as bad as the faucet! I’m trying to fix that, but it still leaks a little. Thankfully it doesn’t rain too much in California!” Micky closed the door after Mike and called out, “Hey Peter, we’re home!”
“We?” Peter walked in and was surprised to see Mike standing in the doorway.
“Um, interesting decorations you’ve got in this here pad of yours…” Mike said slightly awkwardly.
“We like it,” Peter told him, “I’m Peter by the way!”
“Hi, I’m Michael Nesmith, but uh, you guys can just call me Mike,” Mike looked around for somewhere to put his guitar and skateboard. Finding nowhere reasonable, he just dropped the skateboard by the door and kept holding onto the guitar.
“You’ll get used to living here,” Micky told Mike, “I’ll take your guitar by the way!” He had already placed his drums over by some huge windows at the far edge of the room, and that’s where he put Mike’s guitar. Another guitar case was there too, Mike figured that was Peter’s.
“It’s certainly bigger than where I used to live,” Mike glanced around again, “And it’s even got two stories! It’s nicer too. My old house with the family didn’t have very good electricity, this place is lit up quite nicely. Do you guys have a name for the band yet?” Mike asked
“Nope, so far we’ve just been called, ‘Mick and Peter,’” Micky informed Mike, “Do you have any ideas for a band name?”
“No I don’t. I reckon we don’t need to think of one right away though. We could just be ‘Mike, Mick, and Peter,’ or somethin’ like that. You got any stamps around here by the way? Or paper?” Mike walked around the kitchen as if looking for stamps or paper.
“We’ve got paper! Um, do we have any stamps Peter?” Micky asked, giving Mike some paper.
“Yep, we’ve got two left,” Peter gave them to Micky, who gave them to Mike. “Why do you want them?” Peter asked.
“Well I wanna write home, tell them I’m okay. Tell them without stamps, I don’t think I’ll be writin’ too much…” Mike started his letter.
“Why don’t you, uh, ask them for stamps. They could send them,” Micky suggested.
“Oh, they don’t have that kind of money,” Mike thought for a moment, then put something else down on the letter.
Micky and Peter looked slightly taken aback when they heard Mike’s family didn’t even have money for stamps, then they remembered they didn’t have money for stamps. Suddenly it seemed a lot more okay.
“Well, you can write them twice,” Micky shrugged, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. So, when is our first gig?” Mike asked, sealing up the letter.
“Um, I don’t know. We’re trying to get our name out there, but we’ve only had two gigs. Only one successful…” Micky trailed off.
“Yeah, we had one today, but when we got there they said they didn’t want us. They hired us, why could they go through with it!?” Peter looked slightly upset.
“Well, I don’t think our kind of music fits with a country club ball,” Micky explained.
“I hope we get some money soon, but if not I’m sure the money situation couldn’t be worse than it was back in Texas. By the way, you got anything to eat?” Mike asked.
Micky went to check the icebox, “Uh, what do you want? Cheese that expired a week ago, soggy two week old French Fries, or stale cornflakes?” Micky asked Mike.
“Um, stale cornflakes I suppose sounds the most reasonable… At least we weren’t starving back in Texas…” Mike muttered as he took the cornflakes and sat down.
Suddenly a loud knock sounded on the door. “Uh oh, that’s probably Mr. Babbitt,” Micky looked worried.
“We could pretend we’re not home!” Peter looked hopeful.
“I heard your voices, I know you’re home!” A man’s voice yelled through the door.
Micky glanced at the others dejectedly, then went to answer the door. “All right, you two boys promised the rent would be paid off by now so where is it?!” A stout, tall man came in yelling.
“I, well, we, um, don’t have it…?” Micky nervously glanced at Mr. Babbitt.
“You get out of here before any more time goes by and you’ll owe me less in the end!” Mr. Babbitt pointed toward the door.
“Wait a minute, who are you?” Mike got up from the table and came over to where Mr. Babbitt was standing and looked quite confused.
“I’m Mr. Babbitt, these boy’s landlord, and they haven’t paid their bills in almost two months! Who are you?” The landlord asked.
“I’m Mike Nesmith. I just moved in with ‘these boys’ and I have a question for you. Can I see the lease?” Mike took it out of Mr. Babbitt’s hand. “It says here that tenants get four months to pay off the rent. We deserve more time!”
Mr. Babbitt looked taken aback, then startled, then angry. “Well, yes but in four months if it’s not paid, out you go… All three of you!” The landlord glared at Mike as he slammed the door.
“Well, how are we going to pay the rent if you can’t get any gigs?” Mike turned to face the two surprised faces of Micky and Peter.
“Wow, how’d you do that?! He just left!” Micky jumped for joy and soon Peter joined him. Mike stared at them blankly and annoyed.
Two weeks later and no gigs had turned up for the group. Mike began checking out the want ads again, nothing looked very good, and finally he got the other two together and told them, “We need to think of some way to get some money! Do either of you have any ideas?”
“I do, I do!” Peter raised his hand and waved it in the air. Mike had already learned that Peter was basically brainless, so he ignored the waving hand and glanced at Micky. Micky shook his head, and shrugged at Peter.
“Okay, what’s your idea?” Mike asked doubtfully.
“We need another member in the group!” Peter looked very proud of himself.
“Hey, yeah! All groups have four members,” Micky smiled.
“Well where in the world are we going to get another group member? It is a good idea though, I’ll give that to ya,” Mike told Peter.
“I know! I met this little guy in England who wanted to be a singer! He gave me information with which to contact him with, I’ll give him a call,” Micky raced to the phone quicker than anything and dialed up England. “Hey Davy, this is Micky… Micky, remember? … We met in Bath,… No, not in a bath,… Bath the resort town…, and you gave me your phone number… Oh good, you do remember. Well you know how I was a drummer,… yeah well I’m in a band but I think the band would be much better with you in it!... Yeah you should come to California and join up… There’s three people right now… You’ll talk to your grandfather?... Great!... Talk to you later!” Micky hung up. “He said he’ll think about it, and he sounds like he wants to come! He’s a really good singer! If he was in the band we might actually get some gigs!”
About three weeks later, they still hadn’t heard from Davy, they’d had no gigs, and Mike, despite the fact he was getting quite fond of Micky and Peter’s unusual ways, was very fed up with the whole thing. Sometimes a kindly neighbor or friend of Micky’s would bring over some brownies, cake, cupcakes, bread, or other random thing they had recently made, and this just happened to be one of those times.
“Thank you Mrs. Vanderwal!” Micky closed the door and brought some cookies over to the table, “Eat up guys, Mrs. Vanderwal brought us some cookies!” Micky called upstairs.
Mike and Peter came down and each grabbed a few cookies, “Mmm, these are good,” Peter said before taking a second bite.
“Thank you to Mrs. Vanderwal!” Micky agreed wholeheartedly.
“Wait a minute guys, I really have something important to say.” Mike interrupted their eating.
“Yeah, what is it?” Micky looked a little worried when he saw Mikes face.
“Look, we can’t go on like this, only eating what scraps and tidbits people bring us! I really like it here, and it’s a lot easier than my life in Texas, but we all got to get a job.” Suddenly the phone rang, “I’ll get it,” Mike grumbled a little. “Hello?” he said into the receiver.
“Alow, oo is this? Is this Micky’s numba” An English voice piped into the phone.
“Yes, this is Micky’s number. I’m Mike, who is this?”
“I’m Davy and I’m colling to sai I cahn come,” The voice said. “I’m oon my waay tomarra, is thaat aollright?” Davy asked.
“Yeah it’s great news!” Mike felt like jumping for joy himself, “The address is 637 Beachwood. See you soon!”
“Who was that?” Micky asked.
“Davy! He’s flying here tomorrow!” All three of them smiled happily at each other and daydreamed about good times to come.
