... And There She Was

Chapter 1

The room was silent.

No one dared say a word, not after what they had just witnessed.

All that work. All that time. Sweat. Brain storming. Genius. All the sleepless nights, the time away from spouses, the time away from kids, family. For what? A jumbled, tinny, cheap sounding mess.

The man who had been sitting on the floor, face in his hands for the better part of the presentation, was now slowly rising up out of his half-lotus position. He looked as if he may burst into tears at any moment. All the nervous anticipation, excitement and relief of finally getting to experience what he KNEW was a masterpiece, had dissolved into a broken heart. Frustration. Confusion. The man stood up, said not a word, and with slumped shoulders and a depressed shuffle, slowly made his way out of the now suffocating room that once held all that hope.

"Mike, we'll fix this," a voice said.

He didn't answer, as the door quietly shut behind his long, lean frame.

Bruce Swedien, an older man with a wise visage and shiny eyes, looked at his producing partner Quincy Jones and sighed deeply.

"I don't want to say I told you so...but. I told you so. You put that many minutes of material on a vinyl record, the grooves get too close and the sound quality is reduced. I've been doing this too long. I told you we had too much track. Nobody wanted to listen. Now look." His rant started off calm enough, though the more he spoke the more his voice showed his frustration. He couldn't help it. Michael was the artist, Quincy was the conductor, but he was the engineer. The scientist. He couldn't sing his ass off like the kid, and couldn't put together a string section like Quincy, but by God, when it came to the mechanics of a record, there was no one better! And they didn't listen to him!

Quincy wasn't in the mood to argue, especially when he knew that Bruce was 100% right. "Alright guys, it is what it is. We gotta fix it. Look, what we have to do now, is edit. We gotta get at least 17 minutes off of this thing. Cut verses, intros, bridges, break-downs, whatever."

"Michael won't let us touch Billie Jean, though," a voice argued.

Quincy just nodded, waving those thoughts silent.. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." His tired hands crept up to his face to rub his eyes and massage his sore temples. He slowly leaned back in the chair that had almost become a part of his person over the last 4 months. "But.....not today. We can fix this guys, but not today, not like this. Let's take two days off, sleep, recharge our engines and come back ready to make this thing into what it deserves to be. We'll take out time, mix one song a day until we're satisfied. CBS will just have to hold their wad a little longer. Everybody agree?"

The murmur of agreement echoed throughout the room. "Somebody go tell Smelly the plan. I don't think I'm up to it." Quincy, for as much as he loved that kid, knew that he was probably all but having a nervous breakdown in whatever room he had escaped to.

"Bruce."

"Yeah, got it," he said, already lifting himself up off of his own chair with a groan.


As Bruce slowly made his way down the dark main hallway of the studio, it occurred to him that he didn't know if Michael was still even in the building. However, he soon found himself following the sounds of the sobs, knowing they could only be coming from one person.

Finally having traced the weeping to its origin, the control room for the adjacent studio B, Bruce lightly rapped on the door. "Michael, you in there, man?" he called out gently. The sobbing stifled itself for a moment, but there was no answer. Slowly, Bruce turned the knob on the door until it clicked open, and hesitantly padded into the quiet room.

The room was completely dark, but he could sense a presence in it. Kind of like that feeling you get when you know someone is watching you. After his not-so-young eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, he noticed that all three of the swiveling producing chairs were empty, as were the 2 leather visitor chairs in the corner. Something caught his eye though, and Bruce squinted to get a better look. Curled up in a ball, in the leg space under the control board, was Michael, his flawless caramel complexion streaked with tears.

Bruce's heart broke a little, as he gingerly began his attempt to console the distraught young man.

"Michael, we're gonna fix it. We already got a plan."

"How? It's awful. It's ruined." Michael moaned between sobs.

Bruce, his old knees begging him not to do what he was about to do, crouched down to the floor to sit beside the kid he considered to be a musical genius. "It's not ruined, Michael. All the components are safe, it's just the mix that is off. Everything is still fine in their individual parts. Nothing is ruined. We just have to start the mix over, that's all. And edit. It'll be fine." Bruce had learned from working with Michael both on his breakthrough album Off the Wall, and now on this album, Thriller, that Michael, while assertive and strong in his opinions about music and certain other subjects, could be quite fragile when it came to other things. Like...emotions.

They two men sat in silence for awhile. Michael, not wanting to move from the safety of his new found hidey hole, and Bruce, not wanting to rush Michael into coming out until he was comfortable. As they sat, they both pondered over everything they had accomplished in the last 4 months, even if the test record hadn't achieved the sound they were looking for—yet. Along with Bruce, Quincy, songwriter Rod Temperton and a couple of other cats had also worked with Michael, or "Smelly", as Quincy affectionately referred to him, on Off the Wall, so one could almost predict what the other was thinking. This experience though, well, this was a whole different animal. It was like Michael's alter ego, or rather simply, his inner self, was finally coming through in his song writing, and to be honest, at times it was startling. When they first started these sessions, Michael confidently brought a song to the table he had wrote a year or so ago, about a girl who had claimed that he (Michael) had fathered her child. The song spoke of paranoia, lying, scheming, cheating and shame. It was unlike anything they had ever heard from him, not only in the lyrics but in the composition of the song. The drum beat. The bass line. The strings. Bruce knew that every instrument in the song was playing a hook—a rarity, and a feat in pop music. Even in its rough demo form, everyone immediately recognized that this song had the potential to be revolutionary. Looking at him, being around him, he was such a gentle soul, it was difficult to imagine him wrestling with these kinds of ideas. As disturbing as it all was, it was also genius. It was like 24 years of festering brilliance had finally come to the surface of the young man and was ready to be unleashed to the world, like the warning rumblings of an active volcano. No one knew how the public was going to react to this darker, more adult Michael. He was either going to be heralded for it, or crucified for it. Either way it panned out, Bruce, for one, couldn't be more proud to have been a part of this project.


Remembering where he was and why he was there, Bruce started to calmly let Michael in on Quincy's plans. Michael's lack of argument led Bruce to believe that he was okay with it.

Eventually, once satisfied with the course of action for his album, Michael bashfully crawled out from beneath the console, suddenly embarrassed at his handling of it all. His young, limber dancer's body not affected in the least, even having been curled up in the fetal position for the better part of half an hour. Bruce, however, well...it wasn't as easy for him.

"Help an old man up, kid." He commanded with a chuckle.

Michael, breaking into his first smile since before the horrid listening party scene back in studio A, gave a laugh back to the struggling man on one knee on the floor. "Whatsa matter, knees giving out on ya?" Michael grasped the man's hands, planted his feet, put his weight in his heels and helped heave Bruce up off the (truly ugly) carpet. "Better?" he chided, with a smirk on his gentle features.

"You have no idea," said Bruce with a groan, placing a hand on his now aching lower back.

The two men made their way back down the hallway, in no real hurry to get back to studio A, Bruce filling Michael in on a few more details before parting ways for the evening, and for the next couple of days.

"What about the label?" Michael asked, now panicking. "They're going to be furious, they've been hounding us about this record for weeks now—they're not getting it! Not likethis!"

Bruce calmly cut the young man off. "I believe Quincy already talked to Walter. It is what it is. We're not giving them anything until we get it right. They can take their deadline and, well....." he trailed off. Michael was unfailingly polite and Bruce didn't want to be as bold as to say "shove it up their asses" in front of the shy young man.

Michael just nodded, content with that explanation. He had dealt with enough record label bosses over his young career, butting heads, trying to gain artistic freedom. Not being required to mess around with this was something he wasn't planning on arguing with. Eventually the two men stood near the doors to the main studio.

"Looks like everyone but Quincy has already left...", Michael observed. He didn't feel it necessary to talk to his producer, he was sure Quincy was pissed maybe even more so than himself at their stupid lack of judgement, and for not listening to the man who knew the technical aspects of records inside and out.

Bruce just nodded his head. "Yeah, I guess that working 5 days and 5 nights with no sleep would make people wanna hightail it home." He yawned, stretched his arms high up over his head, still working out the kinks from sitting on the floor.

Michael scrunched up his face. "True. So, I guess I'm gonna head out too."

"...but....", replied Bruce.

"But what?"

"There was some hesitation there, like you don't really want to go home."

"I don't, really. But I should, ya know?" Michael shrugged. "What else am I gonna do?"

"Go for a walk or something. You love to take walks. Clears your mind, right? You've had a long day. A long 4 months, really."

"Yeah, but...I dunno. I don't have Bill with me. Plus there isn't a park nearby. And I don't have any of my disguises anyways."

"Michael! Don't you know this area? There's a park just a couple blocks down the street. It's not much, but there's a walking path and some benches and it's never too busy. I don't think it's a place where people wait around to mob Michael Jackson."

"No, they just wait at the front gate to my home." Michael said with a hint of humor in his voice. Though it were depressingly true. He loved his fans, but geez louise, sleeping outside the gates to his home? Come on. All he ever wanted was to be treated like a regular person. 'Guess it's just not in the cards,' he thought, 'finding someone who can love me for me.'

The older man shrugged his shoulders and tossed his jacket over his shoulder. It was LA, but it was still October and it was still chilly. "Well, if you're interested, go out the back door of the studio, walk through the lot, cut across the street, that's...." Bruce looked up in thought, "...Orchard? Yeah. And then you can go left or right to either entrance. There are two. And it's just a couple of blocks and you'll see the wrought iron fence and that's where you enter."

Michael brain was trying to map this out as quickly as Bruce was spitting out the directions. He thinks he got it all.

"Anyways...I'm out for the evening," Bruce said. "If I leave now I can fight the traffic and maybe be home by 7:00 for some dinner." He put his plump hand on Michael's still slumping shoulder. "It'll all work out. Don't worry, we just gotta....well, not start from scratch, but...you know." He sighed. "Don't worry, we know what not to do this time, right?"

Michael, looking at the floor, raised his eyebrows. "Right," he replied unenthusiastically. "We should have listened to you Bruce," he conceded, softly. "Respected your opinion. I'm sorry we didn't, not because we have to start the mix over, but because...well, we just should have trusted your judgement, no questions asked."

Bruce, truly touched, lifted his hand that was still on Michael's shoulder and gave it a friendly slap. "See you in a couple days, Smelly. Get some rest." He started off down the hallway towards the back door to the parking lot. Still walking, he turned and called over his shoulder, "Check out that park. Get some fresh air. I think you'll be happy you did." With a wink, he was gone, the heavy steel door closing behind him with a loud 'clunk'.

Michael stood in his spot, contemplating what Bruce had told him. 'Oh, hell with it. Might as well. If I get mobbed I can run back to my car, I'm faster than those girls could ever be anyways.' Smirking, he gathered up his light fall jacket with an embroidered Mickey Mouse on the left breast pocket, mentally mapped out his path from what Bruce had told him, and made his way to the park just down the street.

************************************************** *****

"Stupid fondant. 'Oh, I'm sugar, I'm going to do what I want to do. You want me to do that? Oh, oh no. No, no.....NO I'M GOING TO BE UNCOOPERATIVE AND DO THIS INSTEAD!!!'" With a heave with a whole lot of anger behind it, the frustrated cake decorator hurled the lump of sugar dough at the brick wall of her shop.

Maddie, the front of the house manager and general jack of all trades for the shop, just stood there, calm as a cucumber, her arms akimbo. "Good thing our customers can't see back here, Zoey, or else they'd be wondering why our head cake decorator and owner was speaking as an inanimate object and throwing wads of fondant at the wall."

"Hush. Not like I'm gonna use it now." Zoey trudged over to where the lifeless lump of dough now lay on the pristine white and black checkered tile floor.

"Just sayin'."

"It keeps cracking! I am so FRUSTRATED, Maddie, you have no IDEA. I have to get this cake covered in fondant TODAY. The decorations are so intricate and I don't want to be worrying about fondant when I should be worrying about the HOURS of lace point piping I have ahead of me!" Zoey tossed the offending ball into the garbage and dramatically fell back into her chair, defeated.

Maddie, always the voice of reason, shook her head and smirked, though she dared not let her boss and best friend see it. "No, you don't. This cake isn't due until Saturday, it's Thursday. You can work on it tomorrow. Leave it alone."

"But—", Zoey protested.

Maddie held out a spatula and pointed it mockingly threateningly at Zoey. "Step away. From. The cake."

Doing as she was told, Zoey calmly put down her rolling pin, setting it beside the pastry brushes, sifters and gel colors. Covered in cornstarch and flush-faced, her deeply red hair wildly sticking in our all direction from underneath her ball cap, she sure was a sight to see.

"Why don't you stop for the day," Maddie propositioned. "You've been here since 5 am and I don't think I remember seeing you take a bite of food the whole day."

"I wasn't hungry," Zoey mumbled.

"Oh, I'm sure you were. You just get obsessed over this stuff and you forget to eat or drink for 12 hours. That isn't healthy, ya know. What if I wasn't here to remind you to sip on a Diet Coke every now and then? Hmm?"

"I'll stop by KFC on the way home." She shrugged.

"No you won't. That crap is nasty."

"Yeah, like your Pepsi is so much better." Zoey sighed dreamily. "KFC though? It's wonderful, mmm, I can taste the biscuits now. Honey. Butter.....A...gallon...of mashed potatoes and gravy...." her voice trailed off in rapture, her mouth watering at the idea.

Laughing, Maddie threw a dry towel at Zoey's face. "Go home. Now. That's an order."

Zoey broke out of her food daze and giggled, arching an eyebrow. "It's my shop! Besides, I don't feel like going straight home, it's too nice out."

Maddie almost choked on the Pepsi she just took a sip from. "Nice?! Are you nuts?! It's freezing!"

Rolling her impossibly dark brown eyes, Zoey chuckled. "It's perfect. You southern California people. It drops below 70 and you'd think it were the Apocalypse. And don't even mention rain. It's perfection out there. Go spend a day in 90% humidity like it is where I'm from and then tell me the weather out here isn't....perfection."

"You said 'perfection', like, 3 times. I get it. You like cool weather. Go take a walk then Miss Midwest Humidity Hater, " Maddie offered.

"Where? There isn't a park nearby."

Maddie looked at her friend, confused. "You crazy bird. There is a park just about a mile from here. It's a real sweet little area. Nothing too big. No bums. I think a lot of old people go there for strolls, come to think of it."

Zoey scrunched her face up in consideration. "Sounds nice. Maybe I will."

'Why not?' thought Zoey. She could use a couple of hours of peace and quiet, not to mentioned the fresh air—having been cooped up in her cozy bakery since the wee hours of the morning.

Zoey Jansen wasn't what you'd call a workaholic, just...dedicated. She was easily one of the best cake decorators in the city, never mind being relatively new to the industry as well as not quite out of her teens. Her clients are always shocked to find out that the shop they've grown to love since it's opening only 8 months ago, was owned and operated by "just a kid" who was also responsible for the wedding cakes slowly making their way into local bridal magazines with nothing but rave reviews. Just a kid. She wishes she were still 'just a kid'. Several years had passed since that time in her life when she wasn't being forced to make decisions on matters that no child should be faced with.

Shaking the thoughts from her head, Zoey put the unfinished tier of the wedding cake (due on Saturday) back into the cooler and began to clean up her area.

"Maddie, are you leaving?"

"Huh?" Maddie called out from the dry storage room, just before a loud crash would echo through the workroom.

Zoey cringed at whatever her clumsy right hand-woman just dropped.

"Cake pans!! Just cake pans! Totally fine!" the bodyless voice bellowed.

"Are you LEAVING?" Zoey hollered back.

"YES. Once I," Maddied struggled to get the words out, inaudible anyways as she made quite the ruckus gathering up the metal cake pans. "...clean this up....AHHHHHH!!" The tower had fallen over again.

"Okay, well I'm all cleaned up, I'm gonna head out for the night. Go get Sophie, and check out that park." Sophie was Zoey's pink potbellied pig. Zoey didn't live far from the shop, so it was easy for her to swing by her condo and grab the piglet to join her on her walk. It's somewhat of a long story of how Zoey came to be not a dog owner, not a cat owner, ferret or even fish...but a pig owner. "You okay locking up? The register has been counted down, right? And the message machine is on?"

"Yes, yes and yes Miss OCD!" Maddie replied, finally emerging from the storage room, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Have a good night."

"You too." Zoey turned on her heels, ready to go grab her purse and sweater from the shop office. "Hey Mad," she said, tenderly. "You know I love you right?"

Maddie's expression softened. "Of course I do, crazy bird. Now, get lost."

You didn't have to tell her twice.

A walk in the park with her favorite piglet sounded pretty good to Zoey right about now, especially after the end of that day.

"Stupid cake."