Chapter Text
Mike was eight years old when he first met Micky Dolenz. He had turned eight last December, several months before. It had been a particularly cold winter in Texas that year, but that was all behind him as the heat of summer rolled in and school came to a close.
Mike had always liked the summer. He loved the warmth, he loved the sun that encompassed him as he lay in the grass, he loved the light that shone over him and everything around him. Even if he didn’t have many friends to spend it with, he found his own ways to pass the time – spending time with his mom when she was home from work, riding around town on his bike, borrowing books from the library – and of course, he always loved not having to go to school, as most every kid did. But he found he looked forward to summers a lot more after meeting Micky.
It was a couple days after the last day of school, and Mike had chanced a visit to the playground. He never ended up playing as much as the other kids did, preferring to find his own quiet spot where he could stay for a while in the sun and watch what was happening around him. Usually, nobody came to talk to him, but he didn’t mind being left alone. From a young age, he had become very good at keeping himself company.
This time, however, somebody did speak to him. He was sitting peacefully on one of the wooden merry-go-rounds that squeaked loudly whenever anyone tried to push it to spin and was wondering what his ma would be making for dinner. That was when he noticed a shadow over him and the bench dip slightly as somebody stood on it beside him.
“Hi!” An enthusiastic voice exclaimed from above him. Mike looked at the stranger beside him. “What’s your name?”
“Um,” Mike stammered. The stranger was a small boy with frizzy, curly hair and a missing tooth that was growing back. “Michael.”
“No way, me too!” the boy laughed loudly.
“Well it’s actually my middle name,” Mike shrugged with a shy smile.
“Me too!” the Other Michael exclaimed. He spoke loudly and with an uncontainable energy. “My name’s George Michael Dolenz, but everybody calls me Micky ‘cuz George is my dad’s name and we already got a cat named Michael.”
“Mine’s Robert Michael Nesmith,” Mike explained. Micky’s smile didn’t let up as he tapped Mike’s leg with the toe of his sneaker.
“That’s a cool name, Neswit,” Micky teased, smiling brightly.
“ Nesmith ,” Mike frowned, turning red from embarrassment, thinking Micky was making fun of him. It had happened to him a few times at school – kids pretending they couldn't remember his name.
“I know, I’m just playing,” Micky giggled, and Mike eased a bit. “You mind if I call you Mike?”
“Uh, I don’t mind,” Mike replied. “It’s what my mama calls me.”
Micky somehow smiled even wider and sat heavily down next to Mike, causing the merry-go-round to sink lower and the metal to squeal loudly. He swung his legs back and forth and bumped Mike with his shoulder. “So what’d’ya wanna do, Mike?”
From that moment on, Mike didn’t think he could have separated himself from Micky if he tried. For some reason, Micky insisted on sticking with him. But Mike wasn’t complaining. Many years later, in a high school English class, Mike would learn what the word halcyon meant. It became one of his favourite words (even if he didn’t run into many places he could use it) because whenever he thought of it, he always pictured the time he had spent with Micky when they were children.
The first day they met, they talked and played in the playground for about an hour or two – it was difficult to remember how long when the specifics of time were largely meaningless at that age. They knew when it was time for lunch, they knew when it was time to go home for the day, and they knew when they had to go to bed, but that was all that was necessary to know. But eventually they migrated to Micky’s house. Or Micky’s grandmother’s house, rather.
As Mike found out, Micky was only staying in Texas over the summer, visiting his grandmother. He was actually from California, which explained why Mike had never run into him before in school or just out and about. Micky told him all about it as they walked to his place, where he promised Mike that there was a treehouse in the backyard that he wanted to show him. It had been there since his mom was a kid, but now it was all theirs to spend the summer in.
That first summer was so long ago, and they were so young that Mike didn’t remember many of the details. But he remembered being happy. Side-splitting, stomach-achingly happy. He had never known he could laugh so hard until he met Micky. He remembered spending almost every moment with Micky from after he ate his breakfast until the sun started setting in the sky. He remembered the both of them having scraped knees from when they fell off their bikes, but he didn’t remember them stinging at all.
They spent most of their time in the treehouse, or in Micky’s backyard, kicking a ball back and forth between the two of them. Micky was boisterous and confident, and Mike didn’t think he was scared of anything. He was clumsy and ended up hurting himself often, but Mike never saw him cry from it. The only exception was when he had fallen out of a tree and thought he had broken his ankle. Mike had cried too, worried about what he could possibly do to fix it, until he had helped Micky limp inside to his grandmother. It turned out that his ankle was fine, just a little sprained. Though, a lack of crying didn’t mean that Micky wasn’t sensitive – he was plenty soft, plenty kind, and had a big heart. He just always preferred to be smiling than anything.
Micky was small for his age, while Mike had always been tall and lanky – skinny arms and knobbly knees and all this height he didn’t know what to do with. He always thought it made him look gawky and awkward and ugly. But Micky never made fun of him for it like the other kids did. He always told Mike how he wished that he were tall, so at least he could reach things on higher shelves. But Mike didn’t mind being the one who had to get things down for him.
Mike remembered one Sunday, after church, he immediately rushed to Micky’s house, still dressed in his Sunday’s Best. Micky’s family didn’t go to church, which Mike had always envied. He would rather be able to do better things on Sunday mornings, like sleep in or spend time with his friend.
His mom would yell at him if he messed up his clothes, so all day he watched as Micky climbed the trees at the park while he stayed firmly on the ground. Which inevitably bored him to death.
“C’mon, Micky, you monkey,” Mike complained. “Let’s go do somethin’ else.”
“Monkey?” Micky asked, swinging upside down on a branch, dangling by his bent knees as if to prove Mike’s point. The sun was pouring onto his face through the gaps in the leaves, and it cast patterns over Micky’s cheeks. Mike would remember that detail for years, though he was unsure why. It was so unimportant, and yet so ingrained in his memory. “If I’m a monkey, then you’re a possum.”
Mike crossed his arms and frowned. They were eye level now, due to Micky’s dangling. “Why am I a possum?”
“I dunno, you just look like one,” Micky shrugged. “I got this book back home with a picture of one, and I swear it looks just like you. Same eyes and everything.”
“Do not!” Mike scoffed. “I do not look like a possum.”
“You do!” Micky giggled, gesturing wildly with his hands. He was swinging his upper body back and forth. “You’re cute like a little possum!”
“You’re crazy,” Mike laughed in return, flicking Micky’s nose. “Nobody thinks I’m cute ‘cept my ma.”
That was all it took for the two of them to start calling each other those affectionate nicknames. They would feel embarrassed whenever they looked back on them by the time they were twelve, but calling each other monkey and possum didn’t feel embarrassing when they were eight. So it stuck for most of the summer, starting as an inside joke that made the both of them snicker, but eventually slipping out as naturally as their given names.
Mike remembered being sad when Micky eventually had to go home. It was probably the first time he had been well and truly sad all summer. They both knew that it would happen, but it was still difficult saying goodbye. But Micky had promised that they would write to one another, and so Mike waited patiently for Micky’s letter to arrive. And when it eventually did come, Mike felt an incredible elatedness as he opened it and saw Micky’s scrawly, scribbly, almost unreadable handwriting. It felt as though he was holding a piece of that summer in his hands, no matter how unbelievable that was.
He kept the letter in a box his ma bought for him, and over the years it eventually started to fill up. Mike didn’t have many friends at school. Or any, really. So for the rest of the year, he spent recess with his notebook in his lap, writing letter after letter that he could send to Micky, and begged his mother over and over again to take him to the post office.
And it wasn’t all that bad, spending the rest of the year alone, when he had summers to look forward to.