Lenora's Fiction Archive

"You Monka Cookie, Cooka Monkee"

As the quantum energy of the leap faded, I found myself at the wheel of a very large car . . . running through a newly-red light. I slowed the car down to a normal speed after I cleared the intersection.

"Hey, you all right, man?" I heard from the seat next to me. I looked over to see a young man with light brown hair and deep brown eyes, looking at me with a critical eye.

"Yeah. Just forgot where I was for a moment," I replied as I returned my eyes to the road.

"Youíre not tripping are you? You know I hate when you drive while tripping," the man asked, concerned.

"No, no. Just distracted -- thatís all," I assured him.

Suddenly, a police car pulled me over. "License and registration please." I pulled out the license belonging to my current host and surreptitiously looked at the name on it as I handed it over. The young man sitting beside me then reached over me to hand the cop the registration papers.

As the cop looked over the papers, I realized with a start who Iíd leaped into this time.

Micky Dolenz of the Monkees. My favourite Monkee! My favourite band for that matter. And Peter Tork was sitting beside me!! I couldnít believe that I hadnít recognized Peter sooner. Iím probably swiss-cheesed, I thought.

"Well, Mr. Dolenz, are you aware you ran a red light back there?"

"Yes, I am sir. I got a bit distracted for a moment and by the time I noticed the light, I was through it."

"Well, Iím going to let you off this time, on one condition," the cop said.

"Whatís that?" I put on my best Micky grin, to try and appease the cop.

"Sign an autograph for my daughter. Sheís a huge Monkees fan, and sheíd love to have Micky Dolenzís autograph!"

Peter opened the glove compartment, putting away the registration papers Iíd handed back to him and pulling out a glossy 8x10 group photo. He then slid a Sharpie marker out of his pocket. "Better than that, sheíll get two Monkeesí signatures." He grinned as he signed, "With love, Peter Tork," and drew a flower. He then handed the photo and pen to me.

"Whatís your daughterís name?" I asked.


I signed, "To Kelly, Be a good girl, Love and Peace, Micky Dolenz."

Good thing my handwriting is as messy as Mickyís or someone would notice that itís a forgery . . . sorta.

"There ya go," I handed the photo to a now-smiling cop, capped the pen, and handed it back to Peter.

"Thanks. Boy, will my daughter be excited when I tell her I pulled over her favourite Monkee!" He returned to the cop car and sped off.

"Celebrity has its advantages," Peter intoned. I giggled -- more at the "guru" tone of voice he used than anything else.

"Sure does. At least it helped prevent a spot on my spotless driving record," I said with a grin.

"Spotless, hah!! Actually, Micky, why donít you let me drive. I know you have such a spotless record, but if youíre that distracted, Iíd rather drive."

I blew him a raspberry. He got out and walked around to the other side of the car, which I now realized must be one of the Pontiac GTOs that each Monkee had been given, while I slid over to the shotgun seat.

"So, Micky, you ready for filming?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny . . . no." I tried to keep as deadpan a face as possible, but it was tough. I got the reaction I wanted, though.


"Eyes on the road, Pete," I gently reminded him. I got a punch in the arm for that -- because I, and Micky, both know perfectly well that Peter dislikes being called "Pete."

As we drove along, I took a moment to orient myself to my new surroundings. First, though, a quick look in the side-view mirror confirmed that I had lept into Micky Dolenz -- early on in the run of the series, as his hair was straight and not too long yet. Looking at Mickyís watch, I saw that it was nearly 1 PM. My stomach gurgled, as if in protest, seemingly to say I hadnít eaten yet. I was about to ask Peter to pull through a drive-thru, but he heard and laughed.

"Geez, Mick, hungry already? We just ate a half hour ago!"

That reminded me of a series of fanfic stories Iíd read before I started leaping -- in which, at breakfast, every morning Micky managed to gobble down a half dozen or so waffles while everyone else had two or three apiece.

"Well, I need a lot of energy to pre-form!" I countered, getting a hearty laugh out of Peter.

"Oh, fine." He pulled up to a drive-thru and ordered a plain cheeseburger and Coke for me. I pulled out Mickyís wallet and handed him the money. Then he pulled back on the road as I munched on my burger -- which was a delicious, old-fashioned, greasy burger, nice and hot!

After a few minutes, Peter pulled into the Columbia lot. The guard nodded to us with a smile as he let us in. This was a dream come true for me, as before I made my first trip to Los Angeles, Columbia had been relocated. Only Paramount had still been at itís original location. But I think the guys filmed parts of "Monkees Marooned" and "Hitting the High Seas" in Paramountís water tank.

Peter parked near Soundstage C, which had a huge Monkees logo below the "C" sign. I followed him in, wiping the grease off my face and hands as I did. Right away, we ran into Bob Rafelson.

"Oh, good, youíre back . . . not another second lunch Micky?" he moaned. I replied to that with a sheepish grin. "Well, youíve still got a few minutes to study your lines."

"Hey Micky -- you want to run lines with me?" Peter asked quietly.

"Sure! Now . . . where did that script of mine run off to?" I started whistling, as if calling a dog, "Here boy! Címere little script!" Peter rolled his eyes and dragged me off to my, er, Mickyís dressing room.

"In there, genius." I stuck my tongue out at him and ran inside to get the script.

Wow, so this is what he described! I thought, taking in the shag carpeting and abundance of pillows that Iíd read about in Mickyís book Iím A Believer: My Life of Monkees, Music and Madness. I found the script sitting in the middle of the room and grabbed it, then walked back outside to where Peter was waiting.

He walked into the room next to Mickyís and I followed him in.

"Uh, try and find an empty spot if you can," he said as he pulled out his script. The room was packed with musical instruments of all kinds so that one could barely move around -- just as Micky had described it in his book. I found a drum stool crammed behind a drum kit and sat there, placing my script atop the snare.

"What scene?" I asked.

"Um, how bout we go through scenes 30 through 45," Peter said, scanning the dayís shooting schedule.

"Sounds good to me!" I opened the script and flipped until I found scene 30. I quickly looked over the scene -- it was from early in the episode, "Monkees Chow Mein," when the Monkees are getting ready for bed.

"Iíll do Mikeís lines and you do Davyís, okay?"

"Sure," I replied.

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"You know what? I think the inspector was trying to scare us into helping him. I donít think weíre in any danger."

"I dunno. You know the movie wax museum we passed on the way home?"


"Was Gary Cooper Chinese?"


"Then weíre being followed." I folded my arms and regarded Mike with a skeptical glance.

"Oh come on man, weíve done everything we can, itís as secure as it can be. Letís go to bed." Mike headed up the spiral staircase and I followed, silently thanking Peter for his running lines with me -- I knew the episode pretty well, being such a huge fan and a Dolenzkateer to boot, but I hadnít seen an episode since Iíd started leaping and I also had become slightly swiss-cheesed from leaping. Running through the lines with him had really helped refresh my memory, to the point where I was now relaxed and actually enjoying the opportunity to be Micky for a while. After all, I am a stalwart Dolenzkateer!

I followed Mike into the upstairs bedroom -- which, I had discovered, was little more than a small ledge inside the door, and then stood by the door, leaning on the doorjamb. Mike stepped around me and sat down, hanging his long, lanky legs over the edge of the small ledge. I slowly leaned down and poked him in the back, as if I were going to push him over the edge. He swiftly grabbed my wrist in a death grip.

"Donít even think about it Dolenz," he hissed. I just smiled and stood up, listening for my cue.

"Davy, if they kidnap me tonight and kill me, I want you to have my new sport jacket," I heard Peter say.

"Aw, Petah, will you stop that. Theyíre not gonna kill ya, do you understand, nothingís gonna happen to ya. Come on . . . hey, what colorís your new sports jacket?"


That was my cue. I stepped out of the door, still clad in black boots, white pajamas, and dark brown robe, and walked downstairs as Mike called after me, "Oh, come on, letís go to bed."

"Itís okay Mike, Iím gonna get something for my stomach, a little upset" I replied.

On cue, as I reached the bottom of the stairs, the two men playing the Dragonmanís henchmen, "knocked" me over the head with a mallet (in actuality, just a light tap), and I collapsed into one manís arms, and they carried me out the back porch door.

"Cut! Print! Beautiful!" the director, James Frawley, called. "Take five!"

I returned to Mickyís dressing room to collapse for a few minutes. Peter popped his head in a moment later, as soon as Iíd flopped onto a pile of pillows.

"Hey, Mick -- any special requests? I feel like practicing."

"Anything soothing," I mumbled, arm over my eyes. Peter laughed.

"Gotcha. Brahms, not Bach, cominí right up!" He dimmed the lights and closed the door softly. A minute later I heard the strains of a classical-sounding song I didnít recognize coming from the piano next door.

"What a talent!"

"Donít do that!" I jumped.

"Do what?" Al, who had just stepped through the wall, asked.

"Never mind. What have you got?"

"Nothin much. Youíre Micky Dolenz of the Monkees . . . "

"I know that. Iím a huge fan, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," he smacked the handlink. "I remember now. Helped a ton when Sam lept into Micky that one time."

"So, anything on why Iím here?"

"Nope. But, this is weird, Ziggy says both Micky and Peterís histories are in flux, like thereís another leaper in Peterís place."

"Not right now there isnít . . . at least when I left Peter a minute ago there wasnít another leaper in his place."

"Just telling you what Ziggy says, so you can be ready."

Just then there was a knock on the door, "Micky -- time to be on the set" I heard Peter call.

"Okay. Be right there!" I called back and told Al, "Hurry up and get me some information okay?"

"Will do," he said as he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber door. A moment later, I left Mickyís dressing room and headed back toward the set.

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After filming finished for the day, I rode with Peter, whose car was in the shop, to the recording studio. Mike was there ahead of us, and Davy arrived a short time later.

"Okay guys, weíre goiní ta record my song 'The Girl I Knew Somewhere' for the next single. Peter, Iíd like you to do harpsichord for this if you donít mind -- John Londonís here to do the bass," Mike said.

"Sure thing Michael," Peter replied.

"Okay, good buddy. Micky and Davy -- you two know what youíre playing."

I nodded and beside me Davy piped up, "Sure Mike! You want tambourine, maracas or both?"

Mike scowled, "Just tambourine. And Iím singiní this one."

We headed into the recording booth and I took my position at the drums. The music had been placed on the music stand but unfortunately, I couldnít read drum notation! However, this was one song Iíd taught myself on drums.

Mike grabbed his huge Gretsch 12-string, while Chip picked up the bass and started tuning it. Davy started checking to make sure all of his maracas sounded right and Peter settled down at the harpsichord and warmed up with a short Bach piece. I softly tapped each drum, making sure they were all in tune.

"Ready everyone?" Mike asked. Everyone nodded. "Okay Micky -- count us off."

I took a deep breath and clicked my drumsticks together while counting, "One . . . two . . . one, two, three, four!"

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The next morning as I woke up and tried to stay awake, I went over last nightís recording session in my mind. Twenty takes -- and Chip still said he was going to have to piece my drumming together from several takes to get a decent one! I guess it was okay, since heíd had to do that for Micky on all of Headquarters but it still stank!

Just then I heard the Imaging Chamber door open and Al stepped out.

"Hey there beautiful! Whatís shakiní?"

"Where have you been?!" I hissed.

"Hey, sorry -- Ziggyís been having trouble with the history and keeping track of you. Any sign of more leapers?"

"Not since last night," I replied.

"Well, I still have nothing . . . but weíll figure it out soon. Whatís that?" he asked as he saw my breakfast -- orange juice and cornflakes.

"Only breakfast in the house," I replied, "Mick hates milk so he has orange juice and cornflakes instead."

"Oh yeah. I remember now. That is so disgusting! Why donít you just go to Dunkin Donuts?" He made a face as I ate.

"One -- I actually like this, and two -- Peterís car is being fixed and Micky apparently loaned him his -- Peterís picking me up in -- " I was cut short by a car horn, "a nanosecond." Polishing off the last of my cornflakes I tossed the bowl in the sink and raced out to the car. Al centered in on the backseat but stayed quiet throughout the ride to the studio.

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After weíd changed into costume -- robe and pajamas for me, orange striped shirt and red pants for Peter, we ran over the lines for the scene and got started. An aide tied us up for the scene, one of the ones when Peter and Micky are being interrogated by Dragonman, and the cameras rolled.

Halfway through the scene as we simultaneously asked, "What is the Chinese ice torture?" I felt a slight tingling as if I were about to leap . . . then tied up beside me was Sam Beckett -- who had no idea what the next line was!!

"Cut!!! Peter -- you guys just rehearsed this! Donít tell me you forgot your lines already!" Jim cried.

I stood up -- we werenít tied down very tight, and pulled Sam up. "Come on Peter, letís go over that again," I said in my best "Micky lecturing Peter" voice and dragged him off to my dressing room -- hearing Davyís "Petah Petah Petah," as we walked off the set.

"Who are you?" Sam asked as soon as the door was closed.

"Agnes . . . Agnes Garreffa. I guess you donít remember the last time we met?"

"No. But thatís not saying much. Swiss cheese memory ya know."

"Dig. Iím another leaper -- I lept after the project lost track of you."

Al had by now managed to get his mind off a female intern and stepped into the dressing room. "Oh, hi Sam . . . SAM!"

I grinned at him. "We found our other leaper."

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Part 2

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Created by Lenora McCoy

Last updated 11 AUG 98

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