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“Hello?”
“Ten years, Micky. Happy anniversary.”
“Michael?”
Michael held the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, watching his own fingers as they straightened out the bends of a paperclip. He pulled and pushed at the thin, unforgiving curves of metal at either side. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said. The paper clip snapped in two.
Micky sighed on the line, relief blooming in his voice. “Wow, well, hey Mike! Happy New Years, man! How are you and yours doing?”
“Well, uh,” Michael searched for words. The call was a spontaneous, drunken one, spurred on by his catching a viewing of the Monkees’ Christmas episode. Riu Riu Chiu, la guarda ribera… Michael’s own strong voice on the chorus had accosted him. And Micky’s effervescent verses were like strawberry seltzer in his sinuses, tickling and sweet. It was late January: too late for new years wishes, too late to watch holiday shows by any measure. Micky was being just as silly as he was, even if it was meant to be sociable. There was no need for small talk. “I was just thinking about us. The show and the whole thing. It was 1966 when it started and now it’s ‘76 already- we're still on reruns between bicentennial coin collector advertisements. The TV bag is weird, Mick.”
“The years really went, yeah.” Micky’s trilling voice was submerged in telephone static and distance. He still sounded squarely like himself, tongue gobbing at the end of his words like he had a bit of peanut butter on the roof of his mouth. Michael tried consciously to picture him: face broadened with time and eyes like squinted half-almonds. His hair was loose and curled, and his eyebrows would be soft and furrowed down from their arches, surely, as Micky was on the phone and thus was thinking hard. “You know, Davy and I are thinking of pulling together something like a reunion set, and I would love for you to be a part of it. More than love, actually. I didn’t want to get my hopes up though.” Micky laughed nervously. “So we’re probably going to send a formal inquiry for your formal letdown. Not that you would let me down. I know you’re very busy. I finally got my hands on a copy of The Prison, and that was some really good stuff. So cool, so much depth, you know? The book with music or music with book combo is genius, I love to read and do a hundred things when I hear a record so it just worked for me.”
It felt like sandbags were piling up in Michael’s brain: Micky’s mental streamline had opened up. That was a familiar sensation. The rambling was rather self conscious, Mike recognized, because Micky was scared about the reunion question. That he had even been aware of The Prison was the biggest shock. Michael brought his hand to his cheek on the phoneless side of his face, half-hiding. “Thank you, Mick. I was really proud of that piece, and I don’t sense I’ve got a lot of fans out there.” He ignored the reunion remark. Micky hadn’t said anything about what Michael was really wanting to talk about- the television syndrome that was consuming his mind. TV was power and pain and it was endlessly capable. He watched MASH or Happy Days sometimes, and caught black and white flicks on the movie channels. He found it all gaudy and thin, but obsessed over it in turn too. He had stumbled onto his fame there, after all. So had Micky, but Micky was a Hollywood baby and that surely dulled the absurdism for him. Still, Michael had meshed unexpectedly with Micky’s private intellect in the past, and he craved understanding. Hmm. He was unsure how to broach the topic a second time and organize his feelings legibly.
“Do you feel like you lived in the TV on the Monkees? Like, when I say that we lived there, like TV is a place or location, what is your response to that?” Mike settled on his phrasing. It was odd, but open-ended enough.
“Oh, absolutely yes. I’ve forgotten almost everything I did apart from jump and mime drums for at least two years of my life. I laid on that couch on set more than my actual bed!”
Michael hummed an affirmative. “I did too,” he said, looking for an opening to coax something more out. “But it’s almost like our existence was precipitated by NBC, and 7:30 Eastern. Our faces were dotted and lined approximations on screen, and we lived and breathed and ate there.”
“That’s all... true,” Micky drew out slowly. He was closing up. “Are you doing alright Mike?”
Michael stood abruptly and allowed the drop of his stomach to resound through his body. He’d have to write this out, defend his point, extract the cosmic observation from behind the material, tangible experience before anyone would hear him out. Even Micky. So he quickly indicated that he was well but stressed lately, and that he wanted to talk more often. “Love you, man,” he said, and hung up the phone.