I Wish the King | Another Life For Michael Jackson

1978

From the outset, I knew this would be a zig-zag journey. I wasn't concerned with where I would go, but who I would be. In every town, there would be multiple levels of existence: Those who read the tabloids and follow every banal twist in the lives of the stars, those who are mainly concerned with their families and local goings-on, spiritual people who look beyond their Earthly station, artists who want mainly to be famous, and people who want to better themselves through their craft.

I knew a woman in Memphis named Lou Anne. She owned Rex's, a funky venue and restaurant on the Chitlin Circuit, where we had played at least five times in our early days. More than most club owners, Lou Anne cared about musicians. We first met her when I was ten. We'd arrived several hours early for our load-in time (common for an operation like the Jacksons). Father knew how to keep us busy, and pack every minute of the day with something purposeful. He and my brothers thought they'd go to a ball field and have a catch. I asked if I could stay at the club until sound check.

Dad looked around the club: neat rows of tables lined the walls, a juke box performed a Fats Domino record and a peaceful woman chopped vegetables a few feet back in the kitchen. My father seemed pleased with the place. He stuck his head through the service window of the kitchen. "Is it all right if Michael stays here with you? He's a perfect gentleman."

"Why shorrre" she cooed, before turning to us and craning her head out the window. I didn't know how familiar her face would become – smooth skin and a calm set of features. It was difficult to guess her age.

I had all my pens and paper out on one of the cocktail tables, and must've looked very self-contained. After dad stepped out, she came and had a look at my work. "That's a nice spider there...but who is that? Running away from him?"

"Me."

"Wellll shorrre it's you! I can see your handsome face there!"

I liked the sing-song quality of her voice.

"Michael." She said my name with un-alarming assertiveness.

"Yes?" I said, trying to sound like a boy genius, which of course I was.

"Do you want to learn a recipe?"

"I'd love to!" I probably would have said yes to anything she proposed.

"Wellll, I'm gonna make a split pea soup, and you'll start the secret broth!"

An initiation. I leapt up and she said "Ohhhh-kay! That's my sous chef."

"Your who?"

"My sous chef! Like a kitchen apprentice."

I loved "the Sorcerer's Apprentice", so that sounded like a fine title to me.

I followed her back into the kitchen. It was old but clean.

"Ok Michael, wait right where you are." She turned around with a long knife, suddenly serious. "The first thing a chef learns is knife skills."

"Oooh-wee!"

"I know. How old are you?"

"Ten."

"Wellll, that's the same age I was when my mother showed me how to chop."

"Outta sight!" I knew my dad wouldn't be down with this. We both knew he'd never find out.

"Can you keep a secret, Michael?"

"Yes." I meant it.

"Okay. Then I will share with you one of my secret recipes." And you must only cook this soup at home, at my restaurant, or at your own restaurant one day."