I Wish the King | Another Life For Michael Jackson

1987

I'm bad. And embarrassed. Vincent and Susan taught me so much, and I just took their lessons and ran. They and so many others invested in my musical growth, and now I haven't touched a keyboard or sang in front of a crowd in nearly three years. Mom showed me so much grace and inspired me deeply with her courage, and I haven't reached out to her since.

Oh, well. There's a very old part of me that will always feel guilty and anxious. Maybe I did exactly what a good student does: persevere, graduate, throw your cap in the air and disappear.

Teachers stay put, like a stalwart bridge over rushing waters. The generations pass under their arches, on to rapids unknown. It would be tiring and messy to keep track of every graduate; how they're doing, healthy or ill. At some point teachers have to learn the nature of it: focus on the here and now, be surprised when a former student gets back in touch. It was probably for the best. Neither teacher, parent nor friend would have understood my choices in the years that followed the church gigs.

After my visualization session by the waterfall at Indian Canyon, I drove straight to San Francisco, no breaks. I took Highway 1, which has a lot of ups and downs, twists and turns. The old VW didn't like it too much, and by the time I coasted into San Francisco, the van was making some scary sounds. Despite my feelings of alarm, I stayed true to the intentions I'd set in my mediation, and drove right through SF and toward the pretty mountains on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. If you've ever crossed that bridge, you know there's a steep little climb just on the North side. I persisted upward in the slow lane and seemed to insult my van to the point of injury. At the crest of the hill, something behind me, in the van's engine went "ping!" and I knew I wouldn't be driving much further. Assisted by gravity, I cruised into a town called Mill Valley. Three sides of town were flanked by beautiful mountain ridges, forested or grassy, and the east side of town connected to the freeway and an inlet of the Bay. "This must be the place" I said. I stashed my van in a vacant lot and began to live in the Bay Area.

Like my time in the deserts of the Southwest, much of what I did in the Bay Area would seem like a terrible waste of time, to the untrained eye. I read a lot. I wrote some too. I bounced from town to town and studied several ancient traditions, including a Russian martial art called Systema and singing in the North Indian Classical style. By 1987, I'd settled in Mill Valley: a beautiful, funky, artistic and increasingly expensive place to live.

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"Come on in, Michael, Jane and James are thrilled to meet you."

"Great!"

I made a pleasant face, bordering on grimace. After fudging my way through a few interviews and background checks, I'd made it to my first meet and greet with a client of Help At Home. They were a referral service, who placed nannies with families in and around Mill Valley, just fifteen minutes north of San Francisco. It was a beautiful place to live, but not without an underlying tension. A relaxed, bohemian hideaway was turning into a hotbed of international wealth, real estate bonanzas and service jobs.

Patricia Moy, one of the owners, led me into a cozy Victorian styled room. It felt like the kind of place where you might have a therapy session, I guessed.

"Jane, James, I'd like you to meet Michael."

"Hiiii, Michael!"

"Hello, hello." I smiled broadly and shook both their hands. Some days, this kind of thing can be very easy for me. This was one of those days.

"Oh, we've seen you down at the Depot, haven't we?"

"Yes, I go there and get a coffee sometimes."