You’re dating Peter in 1967, during peak Monkeemania, which means: good luck!

You barely make it past the entrance of the mall before the first person does a double take.

His hand in yours tightens just a little, a quiet okay… here it comes. Peter’s always been good with fans, but the screaming, the crying, the grabbing… he never loved that part. You already know how he feels; he told you once:

“Even though I’m there in person, it’s not me they’re clutching at when they run up to me. It’s still the image. But remember, there’s a real person underneath and if he feels clutched at and smothered, he just might start screaming at the top of his lungs because he doesn’t like to be clutched at and smothered, especially by thirty people at a time! I sure don’t!”

And another thing he said stays in the back of your mind:

“For instance, you’d never know if I had complexion trouble because it would all be under makeup. You’d never know if I were mean or angry unless you just happened to be in the way of one of my temper tantrums, which sometimes happens to fans. I sometimes lose my temper, like anyone, and if you happen to be in the way of it at the time, you might think, ‘Oh, what have I done?’ You’ve done nothing. I was just being human.”

And right now, watching the girl’s whole face light up, her whole body shaking. You know exactly what’s happening in Peter’s head.

She screams.

Full-body, hands-to-her-mouth, hopping-in-place screaming. Her friend joins in immediately, gripping her arm like they’re about to levitate through the ceiling.

They rush over without hesitation, words tumbling over each other:

“Oh my god, PETER—” “OH MY GOSH HE’S EVEN CUTER IN PERSON—” “I love you so much—” “You’re my favorite Monkee—”

Two teen girls freeze by the escalator, eyes huge.

“Oh my GOD— that’s PETER TORK,” one of them screams.

Her friend next to her goes, “OH! Where’s Mike??”

Peter signs everything he’s handed, answers every question, gives those soft, sheepish laughs, brushing his hair back because he’s flustered and overwhelmed.

A girl hands him a notebook, her hands shaking so hard Peter gently steadies it before signing. Another breaks into shaking, hysterical sobs just because he said hello.

The crowd builds, thirty people, maybe more. You see him try to manage it, try to stay calm even as the noise rises around him.

“H-hey, hey now,” he says, lifting his hands a little. “It’s alright, it’s just me. No need to scream. Honest.”

They don’t hear a word. They just push closer, louder, desperate to touch him, get something signed, get anything from him.