Chapter Text
He wanted to blame the nausea on the airplane. People got sea-sick, they must have gotten air-sick too. And it felt much better to think that the uneasy pit in his stomach was from the environment around him and not his life choices. The turbulence was something that caused him to grip the armrests, almost instinctual, another aspect of the environment to focus on. None of how he felt was his fault, it was all the airplane’s fault. The sweaty palms and upset stomach and spinning head were all at the fault of the airplane.
“Would your son like anything to drink?” The flight attendant asked the woman sitting next to Davy.
She laughed, “Oh, he’s not my son.” Now the flight attendant and the woman both looked at Davy, almost like they were expecting him to point them out.
“I’m not a kid.” His voice was not convincing though. “I’m not.”
It was embarrassing, to always get mistaken for a kid. All he wanted was to be treated like a real adult, have the chance to be treated like a real adult. He thought he could prove it, no, he knew he could prove it. That’s why he sat where he did. He had an opportunity and he seized it. An opportunity of his own creation. He was not going to just sit around and wait for life to come to him, follow some pre-determined path, he was going to make his own destiny.
Davy Jones walked off the plane in Southern California with not nearly enough effects for someone uprooting their entire life and moving around the world. But he had everything he needed. That he thought he needed. His passport, his small personal suitcase, and a pocket full of gold he stole from his grandfather. It would be okay, he had taken note of all the things he had taken and planned on buying back exact replicas. He hadn’t taken anything that was an heirloom, at least not anything he thought was an heirloom, and gold went a long way. He thought he had more than enough to get him to America. Because getting to America was the difficult part, paperwork and plane tickets, all sorts of things that Davy did not completely understand. But now he was in the Southern California sun. Basking on the tarmac, assuring himself it was smooth sailing from here.
“Next.” Was called by the lady at the information booth. Davy walked up, grin plastered across his face as he held his suitcase in front of him. “What can I help you with?” She spoke softy, almost concerned.
“Yes, I am here to become a movie star, where do I go for that?” He asked in complete earnest, eyes bright and bushy-tailed. Head full of dreams and heart full of passion. He got to America, he was sure they had a desk for it somewhere, where you just walk up and put your name on a list and you get an audition and before you know it you are a household name and people would be standing their children up on the dining room table saying how much they looked like Davy Jones. Davy knew he was meant to be a star. He had been told how much he looked like movie stars by his grandfather's friends his entire life. How he was a delightful dancer, a splendid singer, an authentic actor. It almost felt foolish that his grandfather had not shipped him off to America sooner.
None of that mattered now, he was here now, and he was ready to be a star.
The boardwalk was busy with people that had to be weaved through. Heel toe heel toe heel toe, back and forth so as to not hit anyone. Just like surfing, just on the street. It was considered a public nuisance, but Mike just thought it was a clever way to get from point A to point B. He ignored the scoffs and the comments. He didn’t hurt anyone. Or at least he tried not to hurt anyone. Early on he had run into some people and caused more than a fair share of groceries to go flying across the sidewalk.
More than once he had heard a comment about how ‘young people these days care about no one but themselves.’ Mike would always try to help pick up the groceries, but it never helped what people thought. Still, he rode his skateboard down the boardwalk, guitar on his back as he tried to make it to the club for that night’s gig.
He got to a certain point where there were too many people. He had to stop and pick up the board, be a young person that cared about someone else for a change. “You want to see a magic trick?” a kid asked him, pulling at his sleeve.
He looked down at the kid and frowned, “Sorry, I got to go.”
“Come on man, for a quarter, it will only take a minute.” The kid looked frantic and tired, it nearly broke his heart.
“That’s a minute I don’t have.” Mike still reached into his pocket and handed the kid a quarter, “No magic trick needed.” He said with an awkward smile, pulling his sleeve from the kid, breaking free from the crowd, getting back on his board and riding the rest of the way to work.
It was not what Mike considered riveting music, but at least he was working in music. Quiet lounge jazz in a club hazy with cigarette smoke and patrons who loved to mention how back in their day there was no such thing as a conscientious objector. When Uncle Sam needed men, people actually did the right thing instead of growing out their hair. The first few times Mike had heard it, it frustrated him, made him want to explain how it was different now, but he had heard the song so many times that he would just hum along. Kids these days knew no responsibility.
The boardwalk was fairly empty after his gig was over, but he was slow in his ride back home. His bowtie stuffed in his guitar case. His stomach growling. He was trying to be better about cooking at home, but so often after work all he wanted was a burger. Tonight he was going to be good though, he was going to go home and make whatever can of soup he had in the cupboard.
Then he passed by a bench that had a familiarly tired face. It caused Mike to stop the board and push himself backwards a few times until he was in front of the bench. “Hey kid,” He said, and the magic trick kid just looked at him confused. “You hungry? I’m buying.”
Like that the kid was on his feet and they were strolling across the seat towards the diner. It made Mike feel like he was doing some good, giving back to the community in some way, as he watched the kid stuff his face with milkshake and fries.
“Where are you from, you don’t sound like the other people in California.” The kid asked as he continued to scarf down his food.
Mike was much slower as he ate. “That’s because I’m not originally from California.” He was trying not to dumb himself down, but it was almost a habit. “I grew up in Texas.” There was silence for a while, Mike’s face growing more stern the whole time. “Where are your parents anyway? You don’t sound like you are from California either.” He asked, it was dark out and he was out all alone on the boardwalk. Mike's mind immediately went to the worst case scenario.
“I’m old enough to be without them.” The kid said practically rolling his eyes.
Worst case scenario it was. Mike knew how he was, he was the type to nurse baby birds in shoe boxes. His cat allergy the only thing keeping him from taking in every kitten he saw on the street. He liked to do his part, he liked to help, and now here was some poor kid who probably ran away while on vacation with his family and had nowhere to go. Doing magic tricks on the street for quarters. “I have a telephone back at my place if you want to call someone.”
The kid stopped eating. “Back at your place?” He seemed to think it over for a moment. “Alright.”
That made Mike feel better about the situation. “Alright.” He said with a nod, digging his cash out of his pocket to leave for the waitress. That was his good deed for the day, that would help him sleep at night.