Chapter 1: Coincidence
I was never one to obsess over people I didn't know.
So the idea of celebrities, sensationalism, and all of that seemed extremely overrated to me.
The only time I can ever remember caring was once, when I was but a small child. I was about 8 or 9 and I can still remember my mother letting me stay up late to watch the Ed Sullivan Show just to see my favorite boy-band perform.
The lead singer-- the short fellow-- was about my age, and I remember watching and studying the way he moved. It just amazed me that someone as little as I was able to portray himself as such an elder in the music industry. This was what made him my favorite. He could move, glide, and spin across the stage like a pro. His energy was so radiant. It was apparent to my mother that his inspiration came from the legendary James Brown, whom was her idol back then.
But I idolized HIM, the short fellow with the crazy little legs. He always inspired me to be the best at everything I did, to reach my potential. It's a shame I never can remember the name of the band, or more surprisingly, the name of the little boy.
Probably because my life took an extreme turn by the time I aged to 10.
My mother died that year of cancer, and because my father couldn't handle it, he became an alcoholic. The liquor took over his mind and he became violent and cold. Because I had no siblings, I had no one to turn to for support. No one I could lean my problems on. I mean, God was there. He always was. But I needed to be touched, to be held. To be squeezed tightly by warm, loving arms and to be told everything was going to be alright. There was none of that for me. So I decided to do what no 10 year old ever dreams of doing-- I left. Just like that.
I left my small town in New York, and slowly made my way to the west coast over the course of 8 years. I kept food in my stomach by finding whatever small job I could in the area I happened to be in at the time. But eventually I arrived; a brand new adult in a brand new world. The east and west are like night and day. I loved the warm weather; scorching-hot during the summer and just right in the winter. It was June all the time, unlike the east.
You'd think winding up in such a hotspot-city like Encino, California would make me star-struck, but no. I was a little at first when I'd arrived, because that's just what happens when you come to Cali from so far away. But that quickly wore off.
The year soon turned to 1983 and I still wasn't into any of that. Was still living in the beautiful city of Encino and it didn't even phase me. I guess you could say I was pretty much cut-off from civilization...in a way. I didn't have TV. I didn't look at magazines or tabloids. I found that stuff irrelevant. Hell, I didn't hardly listen to the radio. Nor did I know the names of the latest hits or the names of the hot, young artists who'd created them. Don't get me wrong, I loved music and always will. But it was my job that kept me from coming out of my little (yet beautiful) lair on 4642 Hayvenhurst Avenue and into reality.
I loved my job as a novelist. I spent most of my time at home thinking up the next big New York Times' best-seller, and trust me, it paid off. Four of my novels made it on that list, and if I did say so myself, I was pretty good at what I did. But only because I was so dedicated. I had almost no social life...well okay, I didn't have one at all. I was like a nerdy college student; I'd devoted most of my time to my work and to trying to be successful. And in some ways, it bothered me. Sometimes I got unbearably lonely, because when I pondered it...I'd never really had a true friend. No one I could lean on. But I think the loneliness that came from my success MADE my success. That was how I would channel all the feelings of anger when I realized what I'd done to my life-- I wrote it down on paper. Thus, the masterpiece created itself and the whole thing started over again. Though sometimes, I felt like I needed to be writing and sculpting my own story-- the story of my life-- instead of wasting it on ficticious novels.
Well, one evening the loneliness was getting to me. And this time, no amount of writing would help. There were so many flaws in my life-- ones that began around my 10th birthday-- that were just overwhelming me. And I had to get out of the house. I grabbed my walking shoes, threw on a red cami and pair of aviators, then darted out the door, not paying the least bit of attention to hair or makeup.
Maybe I'll meet someone. I'll talk to anyone. Anyone. I just need someone.
I was desperate for a friend. Just someone to throw all my problems on and someone to tell me it would all be okay. Someone who understood the problems my life had come to face, and the incredible loneliness I had to come to feel lately. Didn't matter if you were short, tall, fat, skinny, black, white, ugly, or beautiful. You just needed to have a compassionate heart.
I turned the corner onto 4641 Hayvenhurst Avenue, and the street was vacant. Unusual for 4641...usually the neighbors were out mowing or yelling at one another. "MY YARD'S BETTER!"
It was a beautiful day though, and I'm sure everyone was down at the beach for some sun.
I was so deep in thought that I'd almost forgot where I was walking. And the fact that my head was hanging down didn't help much. This brought back an old song I hadn't heard in several years. Though the name escaped me, the lyrics and the beautiful voice of the young singer remained in my head: Don't you know I sit around, with my head hangin' down. And I wonder who's loving.... I then changed the next lyric "you" to "me".
WHAM!!
I fell back a few steps from the impact.
"I'M SO SORRY", we said to each other simultaneously.
"Oh my WORD, are you alright?" I asked the man I'd just idiotically ran into.
It took him a moment to respond, like he was deciding whether to even say anything or not. He held his face in pain. The man was tall and wore a thick navy-blue hoodie, the hood pulled over his eyes, covering most of his face. It was 92-fricken-degrees out! Was he crazy? Was he shy? Or a creeper..? I became uneasy, but something told me not to be.
"For the most part", he giggled then looked down nervously. His voice was soft, and smooth like velvet.
"I'm such an IDIOT. Is your face alright? I really am sorry, I should seriously start watching where I walk."
"No no, 's not your fault girl. I was lost in thought. Kind of wandering about, mindlessly.. I'm sorry..", he shyly trailed off in his velvety voice.
"Are YOU okay? I just about knocked you off your feet, there..."
"Oh. I'm fine", I replied.
I noticed 2 pairs of aviators lying on the concrete, one pair cracked.
"Crap", we said simultaneously. I giggled.
"Whose are whose?" I asked.
They were exactly the same pair, with the exception of one now being damaged.
"Here, I'll take the bad ones. You take these", the man handed me the good pair.
"Well.. If you're sure. It's my fault, I'll buy you a new pair. These glasses are far too expensive to be breakin', you know?" I said.
"No, don't worry about it. I can afford it", his tone assured me he was confident of that. Well WELL...
We stood back up and I put my pair on the top of my head.
The man slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled his hood off to reveal a nothing short of breath-taking face. He was totally HOT. His skin was a rich caramel and his hair, black as night, fell in short ringlets around his thin face. I tried not to drool.
We made eye-contact for what seemed like an eternity and I could see he became uneasy. He winced as if he was about to be hit by a train; like he was getting ready for impact of some sort. His eyes were the deepest, richest chocolate-brown I'd ever seen, and there was something so scarily familiar about them. I could not put my finger on it.
He quickly put his pair of damaged aviators back on, and gave me a nervous smile.
A big, long, ugly, purplish-blue bruise quickly started to form on my left bicep. I bruised way too easily. I supposed that was where his built-up arm collided with my mushy one.
I fingered at the spot and he noticed.
"Okay. Now, seriously. Are you alright? That's a hell of a mark. I feel terrible."
"Really, I am fine." I sounded a little more annoyed than I'd planned to.
I stared at him to assure him I was fine. I became somewhat uneasy when he made a face and examined me up and down. Was he seeing if I was hurt..? Or just reading the "menu"...
I honestly couldn't tell.
This was awkward. I needed to break the silence.
"Well, sorry, that was such a rude way to meet. Hi, I'm Evonne Sommers", I offered him my hand.
Through his pair of glasses (which, by the way, flattered his gorgeous facial structure), I could see him gaze at my hand, then back at me, then at my hand again. Over and over. His lips parted a bit. Too many awkward seconds passed and I decided to take my hand back.
His caught mine just in time. His hand was enormous, massive. It devoured mine. I'd never seen such a size.
His grip was too tight for comfort at first, but he soon relaxed and gently shook my hand.
I watched his expression hard.
He seemed as if he was trying to figure something out, like he was very confused. Was there something on my face; a booger in my nose?? Because I had no idea why he was looking at me that way.
Time kept passing as I waited for him to introduce himself... I waited and waited.
Finally, I had to ask. "And you are...?"
The man's eyes widened. "Um..", he began, "Michael." He said, smiled nervously, and released my hand.
What the heck...? Was he some kind of criminal, afraid to give out his name in the event that I should turn him in? I honestly was confused.
I crossed my arms and laughed. "Well do you have a last name?"
"Oh lord." He muttered in an unsuccessful hush. "Jackson. Michael Jackson." His voice cracked and he blushed the deepest red I'd ever seen. Again...what the heck?
"That's cute, two of the most common names in the world put together. Kinda like 'John Smith'", I giggled then waited for a response. All I got was a pair of wide eyes and a dropped-jaw in return.
"What...? Did I say something?" I shifted my eyes left to right and unfolded my arms. He was really starting to get on my nerves. And I thought I was socially inept. This guy hadn't reacted normally to anything I'd been saying the whole time. Really, what was his deal?
"Let me get this straight...", he began, mouth open, head tilted toward the ground, "you don't.. know... who I am?" His voice started low on the word "am" this rose very high at the end. He was in awe of something.
"Uh... No?? Look, I just ran into you. I'm only trying to be polite. And--", Mid-sentence, I suddenly remembered where I lived.
I was truly not the brightest bulb in the tanning-bed at the moment. This man was a hotshot. A celebrity. No freakin dip.
He watched my face as I had my epiphany. "Ohh", I began and watched his radiant face fall. He probably thought I realized who he was. Ha, fat chance. I didn't know who anyone was. "...Celebrity?" I asked with a smug smile on my face.
Mr. Jackson's mouth was still open. "That depends. How would you react if I said yes?"
He was funny.
"It wouldn't make a difference. I'm not into that stuff." I said as I walked to a rock bench sitting on the sidewalk. I sat down and he followed.
"You wouldn't believe how relieved I am to hear that. But what do you mean you're not into that stuff?" Mr. Jackson sat down beside me, pure wonder and curiosity in his innocent voice.
"I'm not into all this into pop-culture crap. I don't keep up with who’s-who these days. I...I just have too much to worry about. I'm not about to consume my time obsessing over people whose lives I'm not a even a part of, you know? It's just... It's stupid. I'm sorry if I offended you, Mr. Jackson, but that's just the way it is", I ranted. Why was I becoming irate? There was no reason to...
"Gee." Was all he said.
A silence followed and a cool breeze from the east picked up. I caught a whif of his cologne. My, he smelled heavenly. Probably the most expensive scent in the country.
I looked at him through the corner of my eye. He sat bent over, his legs spread, and his hands dangling between his knees. He was focusing on the ground with a crooked smile on his angelic face. Wow, he was gorgeous.
"Evonne... That's a beautiful name", He said in a soft, barely audible voice, while continually looking down. His face was content. Like he was in the middle of a realization and he liked it. All traces of nervousness receded and his half-smile remained.
I became aware of the goosebumps on my legs and quickly tried to hide them. No one had ever said that to me in my life. And the way he said it sounded like a sweet serenade.
The next moments changed my life. We walked down the sidewalk and around to 4640. We walked basically where there were no people present, since Michael explained to me he wasn't "your average Tom Cruise". He giggled at his joke and I quickly reminded him I had no idea who that was. He put it into more understandable terms: he wasn't your average celebrity.
Michael said he tended to generate a crazy response from people, with the one and only exception being me, and he apologized for the weird way he acted when I'd ran into him. I told him I understood.
He asked me what I did for a living and I told him I was a novelist. Michael's eyes widened and he smiled at my response. He told me he loved to read and wanted to read some of my work when he got time. I told him I was surprised he hadn't heard of me, because of my four famous novels. Michael explained that as much as he loved to read, his career just didn't allow time for leasurely reading, therefore I shouldn't be so surprised.
I asked him about what he did for a living. He said he'd rather show me than just tell me. He invited me to his home and I was shocked to find out I was his neighbor. He owned a beautiful mansion on 4641 Hayvenhurst Avenue. We entered and Michael gave me a full tour of his gorgeous home. I wished I could afford such a fine piece of architecture. Artwork covered the walls, some I knew some I didn't. There were endless amounts of bedrooms, which I found unecessary, and a full-scale library. Wow, he was really living it up.
We came to the entrance of what he called his trophy room. He held the beautiful oak-and-bronze doors open for me. I entered and saw gold records, platinum records, trophies, ceritificates, everything you could imagine. The room was dimly lit, with the exception of the track-lights which shone flauntingly on his many awards and records. The room had a very modern look, which contrasted with the rest of the house.
I stood wide-eyed as I looked at all his records and acheivements. I felt his presence close behind and he put his hand lightly on my shoulder.
He sighed. "See anything you know? Anything at all?" He still couldn't believe I'd never heard of him.
"I...I'm not sure. I probably wouldn't know them by name. We should play one. Do you have any of the covers? That might help too."
Michael went over to a filing cabinet placed over in the corner of the room. The drawers were labeled by year. "Yeah. Right here. Which one do you wanna see?"
"Uhh.. This one, I guess," I pointed to a record titled ABC by The Jackson 5.
Michael giggled quietly, his eyes focused off somewhere far in the distance. He turned to the drawer labled "1960's" and pulled it out. He took the record out and placed it on the player, then turned it on and handed me the cover.
As the melody of a sweet, familiar voice flooded my ears, my heart must've stopped for a complete minute.
My mind took a wild trip, far back to my childhood in that very moment. Back to the late nights sitting in the living room with my wonderful mother, watching the kid with the crazy legs.
I looked at the record cover in complete awe, which featured the faces of my favorite boy band and my favorite young singer of all time. I looked back up at Michael. Then back at the cover. Then back at Michael (who was watching my face closely).
"Dear...word. This. This is you?"