interlude⁶ | ANY OTHER WAY
❝...when you see my baby, here is what you say.
Tell her I wouldn't have it, any other way.❞
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Bill did not find Michael where he left him.
When he rolled through the gates of Hayvenhurst with the giant bag of junk food, drinks, and other nocturnal fancies rumbling in the seat next to him, he saw him seated at the water fountain, his back facing toward the driveway.
Dread swept over Bill faster than he could control.
No doubt he had let optimism get the best of him. He'd hoped that Michael and Ms. Ross's attempts at lowering their arms would come to pass, but hope be damned. When love was involved, there was no natural order to anger, forgiveness, acceptance, or whatever else they said went along with it. Pain did whatever it wanted, chewing on the same bone until something came along and convinced it to do otherwise.
He hoped the same would happen to Michael, that one of these days, he would realize he was on the dance floor. And he would get off the floor, go to the balcony, and see things for what they were.
But for now, it seemed none of that was happening, and until it did, Bill had made a silent commitment to stick around as long as he could. He'd already been doing it for decades, so how hard could it be?
Before Hollywood, much of his life had been regular 9-to-5s, working in warehouses or docks, anything that involved using his body as collateral. He'd known that sort of thing would eventually kill him faster than the bottle, so when he was offered what was essentially an extended babysitting job (with the added "bonus" of body armor and a concealed weapon), he jumped at the chance. Of course, you could also die a rough death as a bodyguard, but what real trouble could come from watching over a bunch of tykes from the Upper Midwest?
Oh, how wrong he'd been. It made him laugh now, but back then, when his shifts would "end", he'd lay his head down and wonder what the hell he'd been thinking. He figured the Jackson 5 would take the same route as Frankie Lymon and The Ponderosa crews: ascend to greatness, rapidly nosedive, and fade into Bermuda Triangle levels of obscurity. In hindsight, his assumptions had been ridiculous.
He had been right about one thing—they were a handful. They drove him nuts with their pillow-fighting, quarreling, and mischievousness. Michael and Marlon had enough in them to make Dennis the Menace look like an angel, and Jermaine, Tito, and Jackie were no better, sneaking around and coordinating rendezvous with enough girls to fill the ranks of an entire modeling agency. If those kids hadn't made it beyond Hollywood's playground, Bill would have looked forward to a life that hadn't involved being a part-time reprimander.
That wasn't how the chips fell, of course. The Jackson 5 catapulted to superstardom. They traveled the world, seeing places they would have otherwise never seen. Bill never thought he'd be able to go home and tell his folks that some parts of Paris stunk like an alley in Philadelphia or that the Japanese revered a tree enough to hold festivals in its honor.
Just as his world knowledge expanded, so did his understanding and patience. The boys grew on him. Whenever anyone asked who his favorite was, he always said all of them, but it wasn't true. Michael and Marlon were his little rascals of choice; after a while, when marriage had him seeing less of the other boys, Michael took the top spot, maybe for good reason. In the span of a few years, he had gone from being outgoing and confident to withdrawn and as quiet as a mouse. Puberty seemed to be the biggest culprit, but everything else—fame and family—probably didn't help.
The call from Ms. Ross began to turn the tables. A huge Motown production was in the works, she told him, and there was a part she felt he would be perfect for. Michael had been hesitant, worried about previous litigations with Motown, but she had insisted. She didn't think there would be much cause for worry, but if Berry gave him any trouble, she would do whatever she could to stop it. With her promise in mind, Michael took the leap and auditioned, blowing it out of the water. Berry, thankfully, offered no fuss. He wanted Michael for the part of The Scarecrow and Sidney Lumet, the movie's director, had merrily agreed. Joe Jackson had proven to be Michael's greatest obstacle. Some years later, after The Wiz had come and gone, Michael told him it had taken an undisclosed sum to convince the old bull to lengthen the leash.
Summer of '77 was still fresh in his memory. Michael had somberly packed his bags, but the closer they got to the airport, the more loose and light he became. Joe and Katherine had tagged along on the flight from California to New York City, curious to see the now-furnished apartment at Sutton Place that would be Michael and Latoya's home for the next six months. Joe had done his usual routine, grumbling about, lengthening the separation with his gripes and edgy compliments, until Katherine had been the one to remind him they had a plane to catch. As Mr. and Mrs. Jackson disappeared into their car, the other half of security primed and ready in an inconspicuous van behind them, Bill had watched as the last remaining shackles keeping Michael in a gentle state of catatonia finally broke away.
Latoya was mostly in charge of keeping Michael out of trouble, but after that scare on the beach (a collapsed lung would send any mother into hysterics), Mrs. Jackson had made Jermaine, who had made frequent trips between Los Angeles and New York, promise he would stick as close to his little brother as possible. He wound up taking a more practical approach: from time to time, Jermaine would show his face, acting as both a source of level-headedness and encouragement: "Discover the city, live it up!" Sometimes, they stayed at Jermaine's NYC residence, caught up in whatever little get-together he was holding at the time.
The young man Bill had come to see as a homebody began stretchin' out a bit more. He got a real kick out of it, watching Michael pop into Kingdom Hall early Saturday mornings only to go galavanting to Studio 54 hours later. He'd acted oblivious to his and Latoya's rebellious drives through the city and never said a word about Stephanie's overnight stays or the short trips she took with Michael to the laundry room. Ms. Ross would be entertaining family and Michael would manage to wriggle his way into the festivities, eventually gaining some level of popularity among the Rosses. Michael was still shy and reserved for the most part, but he'd tried his luck more with socializing, even directing some of it to the womenfolk.
Bill still couldn't believe nearly ten years had passed since then. His body could, however. Time was coming for him, turning him old and gray almost overnight. His back hurt and bending at the knees was a trial of life and death. His eyesight was getting worse, his hair was thinning, and he couldn't watch an episode of Wheel of Fortune without "resting his eyes" before suddenly being jolted awake by the sound of boisterous cheers from the audience.
He had been doing that the day Michael and Ms. Ross had consummated whatever was going on between them. Maybe? Probably. He went back and forth on that all the time, but one thing he could say is that it wasn't the dulcet tones of Chuck Woolery that had snatched him from the arms of slumber. It had been Michael toppling over a stack of suitcases.
First, Bill had wondered how someone could trip over suitcases in broad daylight. Then he realized it wasn't broad daylight and the television was the only light in the hotel room.
It took a moment to get the rest of his wits about him. What had he been doing before he fell asleep? Watching Wheel of Fortune. Why had he been watching Wheel of Fortune instead of being out and about? Ah, because Joker had insisted he had this. That boy's terrible driving was grounds for getting his license revoked for the rest of his life. Still, he had spent enough of his existence being coddled and commanded, so Bill had decided to give him one of many opportunities to get to a destination on his own.
Ms. Ross was in New York that day clearing up some last-minute business before heading out to Dallas. Michael had left his suit jacket with her a few weeks back, and after reviewing their schedules, they had coordinated a pick-up date.
"It'll be quick," Michael had told him as he tramped out the door. "Just gotta grab my jacket." But if there was one thing he'd learned about him and Ms. Ross, it was that once they got to talking, it was like trying to pry peanut butter from jelly.
"Alright," he'd replied, knowing it wouldn't be. He thought he'd probably be gone for the better part of two or three hours, but the moon had gotten to the hotel before him. Bill hadn't been expecting that.
Those details were beside the point, however. That had been five years ago, old news compared to what was happening now.
The wheels of time were heavy in his knees as he grunted his way out of the car, the bag looped in the crook of his arm. He hobbled toward the fountain. Michael sat there with nothing but the sound of the water to keep him company.
Bill squinted, hoping that he had it wrong. Maybe things had gone well, and he was misreading this. Though the closer he got, the more he realized his initial instinct had been correct. He was feet away, the bag swishing at his side, but Michael didn't acknowledge him. All he did was stare into the darkness with his hands braced on his knees.
Bill searched for the right words. You alright? How did things go? Not so well, did it? He knew the answer to each of those questions, so he finally said the only thing he could.
"I'm sorry."
He'd been watching this battle play out for a year—two years, if he was being honest. Something interesting had been on the horizon in early '84, but that had all come crashing down after that incident with Pepsi. Everything after had just been worse. That tour with his brothers, Ms. Ernestine's sickness, and that strange period where the mere mention of Ms. Ross was enough to make Michael take an oath of silence. There had been that other thing, too—the pretty woman who had tagged along toward the end of the tour. All in all, '84 was a terrible, horrible, no-good year, and they were smack dab in the middle of the fallout.
Michael was standing. He brushed debris from his behind and rolled up his sleeves. The discoloration of his skin was more evident in the glare of the overhead lights.
"You're sorry?" he replied. "I'm not."
That was a lie. Bill could tell just by listening to the ache in his voice.
Michael walked away, moving toward the built-in exit he'd added to his room. It gave him the privilege of coming and going when he pleased. Never would he have to answer to anyone. Not Mrs. Jackson and especially not that old man of his.
Bill watched him vanish. Should he go after him? Sometimes, it was just best to leave people to their thoughts, and Michael was no exception. He could be erratic sometimes, but Bill didn't hold it against him. Anyone dealing with a hard ass for a father like Joe Jackson could come out that way, but as an adult, it was no good holding on to all that bad energy, and the prescription drugs only made it worse. That kind of thing could take hold of you before you could even figure out what was happening. That's at least what Bill's father and his father's father had told him throughout the years.
That was why Michael gravitated to Ms. Ross and all those other ladies, really. They offered him the space to lay down his burdens and decompress, and they'd do it without running to the magazines and telling his business, too. Bill remembered Michael's funny little attachment to Ms. Fine, his tutor, and how he'd find them discussing classic Hollywood movies in some corner, school lessons long forgotten. There was also the occasion when Michael, with a puffed-out chest, claimed he had gone skinny dipping with Jane Fonda while she was shooting that movie with her father. What was it again? Something about "golden ponds". He had called Michael a bold-faced liar for that one, but to this day, he wondered. Then there was Elizabeth. He'd gotten close to her lately, bonding over the burden stardom had inflicted on their childhoods.
Things were different now, but out of all of them, Ms. Ross had been his greatest confidant. Bill reckoned he told her things he had never shared with anyone else, which was why her leaving probably hurt so much. How would anyone feel if their fence vanished from the pasture? If all the things it kept inside suddenly had all the space in the world just to come flowing out? They'd yell, stomp, scream, and cry and wonder what the hell was going on and who was responsible, something Michael had been doing a lot of in the past year.
He didn't hold that against him—or Ms. Ross—either. People ran their mouths, telling Michael how he should feel, calling the woman everything but a child of God. As someone who had been around to see it all, he knew the matter was complicated. He let Michael do his ranting because he loved him and wanted him to have a listening ear at his disposal, but he never told him how he should feel. Nor did he take the bait when the little devil on Michael's shoulder was looking for a partner in his angry thoughts. He had been there before and knew that making a devil out of someone you loved was just as bad as making them out to be a god. It never got you anywhere in the end. Not anywhere good, anyway.
But, again, he didn't tell him that. It was just another thing he would have to understand on his own.
After a few minutes of contemplation, Bill decided he would go to him. He looked through the hefty "Thank You" bag, calculating his next move. He had grabbed enough candy to make Willy Wonka look like a peddler and send the entire bubble gum industry into bankruptcy. It had to be of some help in all of this.
He squeezed through the door, ascending the stairwell. It was tight and dark, but he was so used to making the journey it didn't bother him. With a few grunt-filled steps, he was standing in Michael's room, now more of a dance studio than an actual bedroom. When he was in a dark mood, he'd usually find somewhere to dance it out, but that didn't seem to be the case today.
He headed downstairs to the studio. The booth and the break area were empty. Sweet Lady Music wasn't giving him counsel tonight either. Bill wondered if he was somewhere simple like the kitchen or bathroom, but he thought better of it.
He considered the room, the one just weeks from completion. He'd run his mouth and mentioned it in passing to Ms. Ross, but thankfully, she hadn't been in much of a mood to ask for details. Otherwise, he would have had no choice but to show her. Michael would have probably strangled him. He couldn't see why. He and Ms. Ross were in a different place, but that didn't change the sentiment. That was just his opinion, though.
The door was ajar. Bill cracked it open slowly, and just as planned, its hinges creaked. He wanted Michael to know he was there. Sneaking in during someone's private moment just wasn't right.
Michael was standing in the middle of the room. Beside him were large cans of adhesive, paint rollers, and smoothing tools. Ladders from the crew's last visit were still propped against the left-hand wall.
Pictures from times past littered the walls. Photos of Joker, his siblings, and his friends. Old events, performances on stage, stills from music videos. She—Ms. Ross—was sprinkled everywhere, represented in nearly every significant event in his life. There was a plague on the wall:
To take a picture is to capture a moment, to stop time. To preserve the way we were, the way we are. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, so with these photographs, I will recreate some wonderful magical moments in our lives. Hopefully, this journey into the past, in picturesque form, will be a stimulant to create a brighter successful tomorrow.
MICHAEL JACKSON
He called it The Memory Room. Bill had hoped to return and miraculously find Michael and Ms. Ross in this room, trading nothing but happiness and smiles, but reality was never that sweet.
He watched Michael sit on the large storage container in the center of the room. He didn't tell him to go, so Bill stepped further inside, wagging the bag the entire way.
"I picked up some good stuff, including your favorites."
Michael turned his head. "I don't want any."
"I got Dubble Bubble, Hubba Bubba..." Bill's eyebrows raised. "...Mentos?"
Michael stared at him. He thought maybe he was trying to look annoyed, but he only looked like a wounded deer.
"It'll do some good. Let your mind go aimless for a while."
"I don't want my mind to be empty," he contended. He kept his stare on the opposite wall as Bill sat beside him. "I want to remember so I can..."
He talked out of his head, speaking then stopping like there was a person inside him course-correcting the entire way. Something about people calling her names, then a quiver of his lip. Then a "but that isn't an excuse to" and then another full-stop and reroute to "she said she couldn't live if we"—another abrupt redirection—"she doesn't get it because I wouldn't want it any other way".
It was a word salad, yet Bill just let him talk. It didn't have to make sense to anyone but him. Michael talked himself into so many circles that he reached down, groping for a bottle of Perrier. Bill helped him, shoving aside a few bottles of pop in the bag. Michael drank, guzzling like a man trapped in the desert.
Bill wanted to laugh and cry for him. When you loved someone that much, reflections of them were almost impossible to shake.
"I hear you, kid," he said.
A line of Perrier dribbled down his chin. He lowered the empty bottle, sitting it on the floor.
"Well, hear this," he said, his voice cracking, "gimme some of that Hubba Bubba! The Perrier—it's the Perrier making my voice all funny."
Bill handed him the Hubba Bubba tape. Michael opened it, wearing a smile too broad for his face.
"What flavor is this?" he asked as if the answer wasn't on both sides of the container.
"Not sure," Bill replied, going with the flow. "Can't remember what it said."
Michael looked down, registering the container in the palm of his hand. "Sour blue raspberry." The hum in his voice sounded broken. "Tastes good."
Fresh tears streamed down his face. Michael was ignoring them, trading one strip of bubble gum for another. When Bill put his hand on his shoulder, Michael let in a deep exhale. A few more tears dropped, but eventually they dried, leaving hard, defiant tracks on his face.
Michael finished the strip of Hubba Bubba in record time. Before he could discard the wad of tasteless gum, Bill was putting a pack of Dubble Bubble in the palm of his hand.
"You don't ever say nothin'," Michael remarked.
Bill had been waiting for this. "What would you have me say, Joker? I'm as much a part of this as the milkman is." Which was to say not at all.
The look on Michael's face was disapproving.
"I know what you want me to say. But what good would it do? None, Joker. So I'll say this instead: sometimes we all need to be open to the message even when we feel it isn't meant for us."
"Whose side are you on?" Michael said, having the nerve to sound indignant.
"Both. Look, I get it. You've got every reason to be upset. If it were me, I'd probably be worse off. And while I don't know what happened here tonight, what you two may have did or said to each other, make room for the man you're gonna be in a year or two or maybe even five or ten."
He couldn't tell if he was listening. Michael had unwrapped a piece of Dubble Bubble and shoved it into his mouth. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes narrow, watery slits.
"All I'm saying is tread lightly. Remember long ago when you came to me about something similar? How you told someone something you didn't mean and you regretted it? Don't give that devil on your shoulder the license to take control again. And if you do, claim it. Accept whatever it creates."
He prayed it wouldn't get that far, that all those hours he spent locked away in his condo and the studio produced more than just anger and resentment. The most tender of people could have the meanest streaks—Michael fit the bill. But he couldn't tell him how to behave, now could he?
They were in that room of love and pain for another hour before Michael, sullen with red-rimmed eyes, grabbed a paper and pen and started writing.
Mentos in hand, Bill sat there at the ready, prepared to brave anything, whether it be a storm or a rainbow.
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