The line wraps all the way around the record store and spills halfway down the block.

There’s a giant cardboard sign in the window that reads:

MEET THE MONKEES — ONE AUTOGRAPH PER PERSON

Inside, folding tables have been pushed together and covered with a slightly wrinkled white tablecloth. Four chairs behind it.

Mike sits at the far end, hat on, sleeves rolled up, signing records in a steady rhythm. He slides a record toward himself, glancing at the cover. “Name?” Occasionally looking up to give someone a polite nod or a dry, “Thank you kindly.”

Micky is next to him, waving at people who aren’t even at the table yet. “Hi! Yes! You! I like your hat!”

Peter, rambling on. “And the point I’m trying to make here again—Peter, stop!” He waves his hand in front of his face like he’s shooing away invisible thoughts. “What I mean is, if it helped you, then it did its job. That’s the whole thing.” He signs her record, adding a little flourish at the end, then leans back slightly.

Davy is at the end, charm dialed to maximum. Leaning forward. Flashing that grin. “And what’s your name, love?” He underlines his autograph with a little extra swoop.

You step up in line, heart pounding a little harder than you’d like to admit.

You’ve told yourself you’re here casually. You are not here casually.

The girl in front of you squeals when Davy blows her a kiss. Micky stands up for no reason and salutes someone. Peter knocks over his own pen. Mike calmly hands him another one without looking up.

Then it’s your turn.

You step up to the table.