But then again, if I was the kind of person you had to send a car for, I probably wouldn't be here. I think a big reason Michael likes me is that I'm not a part of his world. I look at things a little differently from the executives and the celebrities that fly out every now and then. The funny thing is, Michael's not a part of that world either. It surrounds him, and I guess to a certain extent it protects him, but in the end he's just as much an outsider here as I am. "You know Joe?" he told me last week, "I feel like I've been painting myself into a corner for the past twenty years."

"That's a shame," I said. "Most people paint themselves into their corners much faster."

Then he laughed, which is one of the things you never see him do on television. It's a girlish, unsettling sound, but I feel lucky every time I hear it because I'm one of the few people that gets to. I'm still thinking about that laugh when the seventh gate opens and the road changes from gravel to yellow brick.

Neverland. The first few seconds are always a little overwhelming. The house and the grounds that surround it are so colorful that it almost hurts. Everywhere you look there is something to catch your eye and hold it: bright metal amusement park rides, a funhouse, giant statues of candy canes and lollipops. It all demands attention. Unfortunately, carousels and Ferris wheels are only happy when they're being used. Abandoned here in broad daylight, they look gaudy and sad. I almost expect tumbleweeds.

Michael doesn't have kids up to the hill anymore, and after the kids quit coming it didn't take long for just about everyone to quit coming. Now the place looks like the day after a carnival, except that it's immaculately clean. I imagine Michael has someone come out here and dust the rides once a week.

There's a garage set off a little from the front of the house, but it hasn't seen any use since Michael let all the valets go. It's a pain in the ass to come in through the front anyway. The double doors up there are twenty feet tall and solid mahogany, and it really takes two people to open them. I drive over the grass, park by the rear terrace, and let myself in through the sliding glass door.

The first time I came through this door was when I set up the satellite TV here six months ago. Michael was already down to one person on permanent staff by then: a large black woman named Tanya. In between rants about the difficulties of keeping house in a place this big, she showed me the back door and all the rooms that needed service. In under a week I did every room that had a TV in it, twenty-three in all. I got to know the interior of the house pretty well, but I never saw Michael. Tanya assured me that even if I didn't see him, he was sure to see me. He had enough passages and peepholes in this place to wander for days.

In bed at night I told my wife that I didn't think it was that big a deal. That celebrities need their space as much as anyone else, maybe more. I didn't admit to anyone how eagerly I had anticipated looking him in the eye and shaking his hand. This was, of course, before I knew that Michael Jackson never shook hands.

I walk through the sun room and into the main hall. "Citizen Mike," I yell, and my voice comes back to me once or twice. "Citizen Mike, come out wherever you are. We've got a schedule to keep."

His voice comes from the stairs behind me, "Am I incognito?"

Michael Jackson is a master of disguise. His array of fat suits, make-up, wigs, and clothes takes up a room that is bigger than my house. He has a different name for each of his different costumes, and he loves putting them on and walking around town anonymously. He watches, eavesdrops, and buys a lot of records. He likes to think that he can blend in, but I always tell him that blending in and remaining unnoticed are two different things.

[pagebreak]

When I turn around, I see that his disguise tonight is a plain white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and black work boots. The way he's coming down the winding staircase, though, it might as well be a full-length evening gown. Then I get the joke. I look down at my own white t-shirt, faded jeans, and black work boots.

"Well Mike," I say, "Now I'm going to have to go home and change. You've definitely ruined prom." His boots are even the same brand as mine.

Michael says, "You won't tell me where we're going. I thought this was the only way I could be sure to dress appropriately." He laughs. If a joke is to his taste, Michael will laugh at it off and on for weeks to come. "First, though," he says, "I need you to look at something in the master bedroom."

Two days after I finished that first job out here I got another call: Michael needed his remote control programmed. He met me at the door himself. I met Charlton Heston in an airport once, and the thing that struck me was how he seemed like such a regular guy. Michael didn't give me that feeling. Everything about him was so artificial. I couldn't get through the plastic surgery and the pancake make up and the perfume to the person underneath. "This man is not like me," I thought. "This man is not like anyone."

He showed me into the study where he took fifteen minutes to thank me for all the good work I had already done. I showed him how to work his remote, and then we talked for a good two hours about anything but music and satellite television.

Since then I've been handling service calls to the Jackson estate every couple of weeks. It's almost always something silly: a loose plug, or a lost remote, or a clock that shows the wrong time. I fix the problem in five minutes, then we talk for a couple of hours and Michael pays me an obscene amount of money which I always refuse once.

In the master bedroom, Michael has Peter Pan playing. Again. I've watched it with him at least two or three times before. "Look," he says, "I'm getting these running lines all over the picture." I pull the TV out and fiddle around behind it for a second. There's a wire that's just a little loose. When I push the wire back in, Michael says, "My hero."

I push the TV back in place and sit next to Michael on the bed. "I think the crocodile is the big winner in this movie."

He says, "How can you be so cynical?"

"Not cynical," I say. "Practical."

"Sure," he says, "tell me you've never wanted to fly."

We sit there in silence for a minute watching Pan and Hook fight it out on the deck of the ship. "It doesn't matter," I say. "Tonight I'm playing the croc." I make a show of looking at my watch. "Tick tock, tick tock."

"Not even a little hint about where we're going?"

"Well," I say, "it's your first time off the reservation in over a year, does it really matter where we go?"

His smile fades as easily as it came. "No." He's not looking at me and his hand is squeezing the bed post in time with some rhythm only he can hear. I assume he's got more to say, so I let the silence stretch out. Talking with Michael is like fishing. You have to know when to pull hard and when to give him some line.

"Listen," I finally say, "If you're not ready for this, we could always do it some other time." It was my idea for Michael to go out somewhere as himself, and it usually takes a little time for Michael to warm to ideas that aren't his. Still, how are you ever going to be comfortable in your own skin if you can't leave the house without putting on a giant fat suit and a wig?

Then Michael pauses, straightens up, and takes his hand off the bed post. "Life is too short for some other time."

[pagebreak]

We walk out to the car just in time to see the sun start to dip down behind the hills. I pat the steering wheel a couple of times for good luck before I try starting the car. Michael drops into the passenger seat and starts giggling like a schoolgirl. I wait patiently to be let in on it. "Do you know how long it's been since I opened a car door for myself?" he says.

I laugh and clap my hands together. "If I'd known you were going to be this easy to entertain, I wouldn't have bothered making reservations." Michael giggles all the way down the hill, all seven gates.

We drive through the woods in silence. Michael is looking out the window, getting reacquainted with the world. Somewhere beyond the trees the sun is still going down and the light makes diagonal bars across the road. The woods give way to occasional houses and then, almost without transition, we are in the city. I consider putting some music on to pick up the mood, but I change my mind. It's too demanding. I wouldn't try to cook dinner for a chef either.

"Not even a little clue about where we're going?" Michael asks.

"Trust me," I say, "You'll love it." I haven't actually been to the place. I wanted somewhere Michael wouldn't stick out, and as much as I try to play man-of-the-world for him, my stomping grounds are mostly limited to Anderson Satellite Installation Inc., the local video store, the grocery store, and my house. Last Monday, though, I had been sitting at my desk puzzling over where to take Michael Jackson for an evening out when I overheard my office-mate Bobby Jr. talking to someone on the phone. For no reason that I can guess, his conversation involved the words, "Trust me. If you want to see some freaks, go to open mic night at C. C. DeMille's."

Immediately, the word bingo jumped into my mind. I felt a little bad about my lack of hesitation, but it passed soon enough. No use pretending that Michael isn't a freak. We've all got our problems.

I drove by the place once or twice, and I even stopped in the parking lot once, but I couldn't quite get the nerve to go inside by myself. Still, just by looking at the people walking in and out, I could tell it was a place that Michael could fit in.

"Drag queens?" Michael says as we pull into the parking lot. It's more of an accusation than a question. The line to get into the bar is full of women with shoulders that are too broad, heels that are too high, and make-up that is too thick.

"It's just a cocktail bar with live entertainment," I say, reading off the sign over the door.

Michael crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It's one of his gestures that takes some getting used to. If The Thinker couldn't bear to touch his own face, he might sit like that. "Joe, if I'm seen in a place like this my career will never recover."

"Come on," I say, "After all the stuff you've done, you really think people are going to care that you party with drag queens." He sighs and looks up at me and I can tell that I've hurt him. I say the first thing that comes into my mind. "They're all just going to think you're an impersonator anyway."

Michael closes his eyes. "What if they're right?" he says. Then he gets out of the car and starts walking to the door.

I hate it when he pulls out the melodramatic shit. Jesus, sometimes I just want to punch the guy. Instead, I lock up the car. I jog a few steps to catch up with him, but then I drop back a little. Some buried part of my brain has become embarrassed that Michael and I are wearing the same outfit, and I always feel clumsy walking next to him anyway. He has a kind of fluid walk that shows off how comfortable he is with his body, and I always wonder how anyone can be so at ease with something they hate so much.

We walk straight to the front of the line. I tell the host, "LaToya, party of two." Michael chokes and begins to cough. I pat him on the back few times, maybe a little harder than necessary. He catches his breath and looks at me like I've just slapped him in the face. "I'm sorry," I say. "But Michael you’ve got to relax a little. I'm tired of walking on eggshells with you." Michael opens his mouth to say something but stops himself.

The host clears his throat. "Excuse me. Right this way please."

[pagebreak]

I give Michael the smallest smile of encouragement and reach over to hold the door open. He accepts the peace offering and follows the host in.

The place is larger than it looks from the outside. It's all one room with a bar along the near wall and a t-shaped stage along the opposite one. In between is a sea of people chatting and drinking at round, white clothed tables. The lights are dim blue except for the stage which has a million different kinds of spotlights and disco lights. Michael is walking in front of me like a man who thinks he's going to have to start running at any second, but the only people who give us more than a glance are a group of well built drag queens sitting in the corner. They are definitely looking at Michael, but it isn't the look of mixed adoration and distaste that most people get when meeting him for the first time. These ladies are openly sizing him up, assessing a potential threat. One of them calls out, "I've seen Michael Jackson, I've partied with Michael Jackson, and you, sir, are no Michael Jackson." Their table shrieks with laughter.

The host leads us to a table right in front of the stage and pulls out our chairs. Then, he leans down and whispers in my ear, "For my money, these are the best seats in the house."

I whisper back, "For my money, they better be."

The host leaves quickly, and a waitress comes up to take our drink order. "Just two ice waters," I say, but Michael puts out his hand.

"One ice water, one Bud Light."

"Michael," I say, "I don't want to drink if you're not going to."

And Michael smiles for the first time since we got here. "Who says the beer is for you?"

Jesus, I walked right into that one. "Well, if you're going to start drinking tonight, you shouldn't do it alone."

"So two beers then," the waitress says without looking up. She jots something down on her pad and hustles off.

Now I have a chance to take a good look around the bar. Michael and I are under-dressed, but not so much that we really stick out. Still, I don’t think these people have the same definition of the word bar as I do. It's like they're all trying to upstage the person next to them. I hope the world's supply of sequins hasn't been hopelessly depleted. The clothes, the hair, the make-up, it's all completely over the top. Michael looks almost tasteful by comparison.

The first contestant in the karaoke contest is being introduced. For the most part, the audience continues to talk among themselves, but Michael’s eyes are glued to the stage. The drag queen is well over six feet tall with biceps the size of ripe eggplants. She explodes into "I Will Survive." Her voice isn’t that bad, but that song has always made me want to retch. Michael, on the other hand, is grinning his ass off. "She has so much enthusiasm," he says. "I mean, she looks like she’s having so much fun."

Well, I’ll give him that much. The waitress comes back with our beers and Michael and I both reach into our pockets. "Jesus, Michael," I say, "Let me do something nice for you. Let me treat you at least once. I want to pay." This is mostly true. If I was being completely honest, I would have said that the money for the drinks, and the good table, and the reservations on short notice, and the line skipping all came from the money Michael paid me for those bogus service calls and I never felt comfortable taking that money in the first place. However, I feel completely comfortable blowing it all to have a good time tonight.

More singers come and go. They seem to be divided into three basic categories, disco, piano lounge, and Aretha Franklin. Some of them are good, some are bad, and some are so bad they’re good. I order another beer and look over to see that Michael hasn’t touched his. Well so what if he just wants to hold the bottle, he’s having a good time. He leans over to me between songs and says, "You know this reminds me a lot of the way my family was when I was growing up."

"What, the guys all dressed up like girls?"

"Don’t be difficult Joe, I’m trying to be serious here."

"Ok," I say, "How’s this like your family?"

"Well, you know, all my brothers and sisters used to just take turns performing for each other. Singing, dancing, playing instruments, things like that."

[pagebreak]
"That sounds like a really good time," I say.

Michael nods a couple of times and goes back to watching the stage. The MC is trying to get more singers for the contest. "Come on," she croons into the microphone. "Only eight contestants? Ladies did I mention this is for a grand prize of two hundred and fifty dollars." There are a few scattered cheers, but no one approaches the stage. Suddenly the thought of Michael getting up there seems both ridiculous and inevitable. The MC reads my mind. "Well well well, we even have a little Michael Jackson up here in the front row. Are you going to get up here and Beat It baby? Are you going to give us a little Thrillaaaaaah?" The portion of the audience that’s listening gives a polite chuckle and a few whoops of encouragement. Michael looks to me. His face is uncertain, but his eyes are practically glowing.

"Just think what you could do with two hundred and fifty dollars," I say.

Michael laughs, more at me than at my joke I think. Then he turns and steps up onto the stage. The MC puts her arm around his shoulders. "So what do you want to sing tonight baby?"

"I don’t want to do any of mine," Michael says. "I want to cover someone else."

"Hmmm," the MC says, "Mixing it up on us? Well as soon as you find one you want, let us know and we’ll shove you out under the lights." Michael walks over to the DJ booth and begins to browse through a song catalog. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see a small man in a business suit.

"So is little Mikey over there your boyfriend?" the man asks.

I instinctively hold up my hand with the wedding ring on it to say I’m taken. The man smiles politely and goes back to his table. I’m flattered in spite of myself, and it takes a second before I realize that the man probably thinks I’m married to Michael now. And Claire, my wife, doesn’t even know I’m here.

When I first started going out to Neverland on a regular basis, she begged me to take her along. I told her that Michael was awkward, that he didn’t really like people, that anything away from the routine was very stressful for him. All of these things were true, but looking back I think I really just wanted Michael all to myself. I wanted to be his only friend. She kept after it and eventually it just became easier to tell her I had quit going out there. That Michael didn’t need a satellite man anymore. And for some reason it never seemed like deceit until now. The realization of my own selfishness makes my face hot. I tell myself that the beer is just making me sentimental, and it probably is. But that doesn’t mean that the sentiments aren’t true.

Michael has his song picked out and he walks onto the stage. I doubt anyone but me notices the change in him; it’s there in a dozen tiny details. Michael is a fish who has just been thrown back in the water. There is a smattering of applause as the first bars of his song drift over the audience. It's a good choice. He sways back and forth a little and snaps his fingers just like Marvin would have. Then he starts to sing.

Is it possible that I became so familiar with the mild recluse persona that I forgot he could do this? His singing voice leaves no trace of the man that I know.

Brother, brother, brother. There's far too many of you dying.
His voice is clearer now than when he started singing. Then I realize it's not Michael, it's the audience. The chatter has stopped completely. Michael has them all. Some people stand to get a better view. Some start to clap in time.

Now he starts to improvise. He pushes certain notes. He punctuates phrases with a kick or a spin. He makes the song his own.

When the chorus comes up, Michael sings the first line, What’s going on? then he holds the microphone out over the crowd. Only a few quick ones get it the first time, but by the second time around, the whole audience is involved in the call and response.

"What’s going on?"

"What’s going on?"

People are shrieking and whooping, but Michael's voice remains clear and strong above it all. One of the drag queens in the corner table has two tear tracks running down through her make up and we lock eyes for just a second. "It’s really him?" she mouths.

I smile and put my finger over my lips. "Shh."

She laughs and chokes a little at the same time.

[pagebreak]

Then I realize what’s been there between Michael and me, just under the surface the entire time.

It’s worth it.

Whatever price he has to pay, it’s worth it for this. The thought is so shocking that I can feel it like a numbness between my eyes. I would give up my friends, my wife, even my natural face to be able to move people like he does. God help me.

Michael finishes the song, and anyone who is not already standing leaps up, cheering wildly. He steps off the stage and over to me at the table and instantly he is his old self again. The crowd is begging for more, but Michael just gives them an awkward wave and motions for them to sit down. Drinks appear at our table as if by magic. People begin to crowd around. I am too stunned to move. Everyone is trying to get in close to Michael. Someone in the jostling crowd bumps our table and spills the drinks. Michael takes me by the shoulders and says as forcefully as he can manage, "We have to get out of here now."

The simple instructions get through to me, and I make a hole through the crowd for Michael to follow through. For the most part, these people aren’t assholes. Once they see that we’re trying to leave they let us through as best they can. We have just cleared the door to the parking lot when I recognize the small man in the business suit tapping Michael on the shoulder.

"I’ll make this quick," he says, "I own this club, and I want to hire you for a two hour set once a week. Five hundred cash and ten percent of the door."

Michael and I don't try to hold back our laughter. The owner knows we are laughing at him, but he doesn’t know why, so he just stands there, looking uncomfortable. For a second Michael becomes stage Michael again and he says, "I won’t take the job, but I tell you what. If I’m ever in the mood again, I might just come down here and win another contest." With that we jump into the Civic and I give a silent thanks that it starts on the first try. Michael turns to take one last look at the crowd that has gathered outside the bar. Then we're off.

The high from our escape leaves quickly, and now it's time to go home. The thought sobers both of us. Once we get into the country, the only lights are the headlights on the road, and in the dark everything seems different. I think about what Michael will do after I drop him off. I wonder what possessed me to think that I might want to trade places with him, and I wonder if I'll look different to my wife now that I’ve had that thought.

"I’d like to sing another song," Michael says.

"Go ahead."

"No, I’d like to sing a song with you."

"I don’t know very many songs," I say.

"That’s ok," Michael says, "I do. Just pick one you know. Start it off and I’ll come in."

[pagebreak]

So I sit back in my seat in the dark car on the highway. I reach way back and way down to find the songs that mean something to me. They come in bits and pieces along with chunks of memory and emotion. There are so many more songs than I thought there would be. Then, for no reason that I can really explain, I pick one.