It had been at the time of his last visit
to Europe on tour. An only too brief day or so out of the hands of his agents
and minders. A short hop by plane then a long distance taxi. With the money he
had then he could arrange anything and no-one would know. That was the beauty
of being the most public man in the world. No-one would ever expect him to be a
man on his own. Indeed, I never recognised him at first when he turned up in
front of the stall, but I certainly sensed something. A strange kind of
magnetism and a growing realisation. It was only then that I knew how he felt. Don’t say anything… Don’t bring them all
here… Let me have what I want… to be here on my own…
As I said, it happened many years back.
During my first year selling fossils and healing crystals on markets. Before
the time we set up proper in London we had a small stall in Bath down the lower
end of the town. Trying our luck three days a week learning the trade. Building
up a handful of regular customers. Tell you the truth my wife and I weren’t
into popular music. We liked the more classical stuff. Even so we both read the
papers. Got bombarded with the same sort of stuff as everyone else. I was never
into their kind of music but I felt sorry for some of those stars all the same.
Sure they made the money, only that said their lives were never their own. What
exactly then did they own when their thoughts, their feelings and every detail
of their lives belonged to millions of others?
That was the price they paid I sometimes
thought to myself. Big names trapped in a whirlpool world of their own making,
somewhere all the wannabe’s wanted to go, but then maybe it was all manufactured.
A kind of media conspiracy with journalists and pop stars feeding off each
other like vultures. Helping create a stupefied public for one another that
sold newspapers, vinyl and plastic. Not that I ever listened to it. Not even
Madonna, the Spice Girls or this group or that. And definitely not Michael
Jackson.
Sure, I read the blistering headlines. The
names he was called. Jacko… Whacko… Weirdo…Whako Jacko… Journalists creating a
cheap public image. Easily identifiable for all agog semi-hysterical fans. The
guy doing this or that in the spotlight. How did anyone know if any of it was
true? All you had to do was see the bold letters heading the gutter-press
dailies and you knew who they meant. It was a sickening part of the musical
scene but then it wasn’t my scene. If
I knew anything about the man it was through images seen on television. The pallid
complexion, the equally strange squeaky falsetto voice, the india-rubber
dancing gyrations on stage. Tales of his entertainment childhood career and
rise to super stardom. It was all mixed up in a towering universal image that
millions were a part of. Something almost bigger than anybody. The man a kind
of icon. A thing for itself. Something unlike anything else and there was me,
totally disinterested and not caring a shit about Wacko, Weirdo or Jacko. His
music didn’t interest me in the slightest, same as the man. He was one of those
‘creations’ of American entertainment that gets forced on people and I didn’t
want to be part of it.
I was simply disinterested! That said, I
suppose it’s all history now in view of our meeting. Perhaps it’s best if I go
back to the beginning and relate matters as they occurred. I have to tell you
that the figure who appeared in front of the stall that Wednesday morning was
quite unexpected. He seemed to come out of nowhere. It was a cold, wet
mid-morning in March. People had been hurrying by on their way to somewhere or
other with few bothering to stop or take in my stuff at a glance so quite
frankly I really hadn’t been expecting anybody. For some reason the guy made me
smile for a moment. A curious one-off I rationalized, relishing the unlikely
prospect of taking a shilling!
He was slim. Strangely dressed in an
ill-fitting suit. Cotton check shirt and a dark tie. A stylish mid-brown trilby
covered his head and he wore what almost seemed fashionable dark glasses, but
then I was wearing mine too and they were even more fashionable. I’d happened
to be looking at some boxes under the table then switched to some of the
crystals I had for sale off to one side when suddenly I saw him. Strange pallid
face I thought, taking in its febrile aquiline sensitivity and through his
darkened lenses noting a large pair of eyes. I said nothing. Not even my usual
hello or welcoming invitation to look or ask any questions. I recall being
curious though. Why here and now on this cold rainy morning? Best if I just let
him take in the goods.
The silence lingered and so strangely did
he. Interesting outfit I thought. Well he wasn’t off to work in one of the
shops. I began to warm up. “Wet day,” I muttered encouragingly. If he was
interested in anything he was welcome to ask any questions.
“Some nice things,” he replied, bending
over the stall to take in the minerals, his voice strangely high pitched.
They
were, I said positively, thinking now that there
was something familiar about him. Funny, if it wasn’t for that short wiry beard
of his… An image had come up in my head of the man in front of me. A strange
bearded mirror distortion in a suit, tie and shirt. None of the tight pants and
sequins! All the same there was that face!
I began talking minerals, disguising my
curiosity under some science. Crystal habit, geology etc., even so taking in
more of the overall appearance and thinking. Making certain connections. Trying
to clarify things that were vague in my mind. Even building a picture. He must
have sensed it all through the silences. Me having my thoughts. Making surmises.
Wondering and not being sure. As he said later, he knew it must have all been
going through my mind. And then his own thoughts. Wondering about what kind of
person I was. One of the usual full of
adulation admirers? The kind who freaked out. Begged for an autograph.
Letting just about everyone know. Then it would be out all over town. The
crowds, the police and the press. Everything suddenly undone. His privacy,
everything he’d hoped for, a quiet anonymous visit blown out of the skies!
He seemed to study me for a moment. “You
know who I am then,” he said quietly.
I shook my head. “For a moment you reminded
me of someone,” I hedged, “but then I’m not one of his fans.”
He seemed to like that. Was on a day’s visit to Bath on his own,
he confided, replying to my unspoken question. Didn’t often get the chance to do that. Just getting away on his own.
Finding his way to do things without so many others crowding around. I
understood that I said. Even so I wasn’t one of his fans. My wife and I didn’t
like modern pop music. We’d liked the Beatles and before that Buddy Holly.
He liked them too he said quietly. Good
songs, for their time and now.
Soon I began telling him about Bath. Good places
to see and easy walking, I added, trying
to be reassuring. “Not too many people. You should be okay, even in the Roman
Baths if you go there.”
He liked the idea of the Baths. Been
reading up on it all before leaving the States. Hoping to steal some free
private time if he could away from the fans. Away from just about everything. The
place seemed a good choice.
It was I said firmly. Plenty to see and far
less busy than London. He knew what I meant. That it wasn’t so likely that he’d
be recognised here dressed like an ordinary person. Even so I complimented him
on his outfit. Ordinary with a real touch of style. Stylishly ordinary I laughed. His face lit up with a grin. He
really liked that he purred. Stylishly
ordinary… It was something he’d have to remember. Our conversation then
turned in a different direction. About what I was doing there and where I
lived.
I was making a living I explained quietly.
I knew about minerals, crystals and fossils. Any money we made bought me free
time to write. Short stories and novels, that kind of thing I explained. I was
really a writer. The money I earned help pay the bills. I felt pleased he was
interested, asking me if I’d had anything published. Some science fiction short
stories I told him with pleasure, but none of the six novels I’d written so
far. I mentioned A CONSPIRACY OF TRASH, my
black comedy on the literary profession, going through some of the story. His face
kind of glowed. He really liked that and knew how it was. It was tough for any
good artist. You had to start young and work extra hard. Even then you had to
be lucky and hope for a break. And once you’d gone all the way to the top you
had to fight hard to stay there. One little mistake and the media would kick
you all the way back down to the bottom. You had to keep them sweet then pay a
whole army of people to keep you up at the top. Sure, he had to perform. Keep
it new all the time. Even so he was surrounded with people. It was one of the
evils.
He gave me a look. But then writers never made any money, he smiled. Not even the ones at the top.
I acknowledged. Sure, I’d never make any
real money. It was only the publishers who did that. Truth was however that I
was writing because I enjoyed it. I believed people would like what I wrote.
That it would give them plenty to think about. Give them reasons to laugh. I
wanted that more than anything. He’d been nodding his head. Listening hard and
liked what I was saying. It was the same for him too. He was a creative artist.
That’s what he wanted to be more than anything. Both in his dance and his
music. Sometimes he felt depressed. Scared of losing it. Worried it might never
come back.
It was the same for me and my writing I
told him. Moments of doubt about my mind drying up! Suddenly a light fell over
the stall. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out. We’d been so busy
talking we hadn’t noticed anything else. Time had kept running by. Our
conversation in and out of the personal and all so very easy. We both talked
about family. Things that made both of us happy. I could feel his deep personal
commitment and all the complexity in his life. It was more important than
anything, I said calmly. There was nothing else like it that gave us that kind
of joy. Without saying a word his face turned all the more serious. I could see
how deeply it moved him. These were matters of emotions and feelings, and
nothing ran deeper with Michael I knew. I guess we were two of a kind. From two
different worlds but each with the same kind of heart. It was an understanding
we shared. Of what was really important and then of each other. Him where he
shouldn’t have been that Wednesday morning but somewhere he’d wanted to be.
Taking time out in nowhere. That all important understanding between us.
He was working on a new kind of dance
routine he said out of the blue. Something as good as the Moonwalk! I laughed. At
least it was something I knew! No matter, I’d keep his intentions a secret.
I knew you’d say that… he let out a laugh, trying to sound like Stallone in Judge Dredd. He
made me laugh too and I liked him for that. “Pick anything you like off the
stall,” I said generously. “My gift to you for making me laugh.”
He looked at me for a moment. The pale
whitened colour in his face seeming to flush. It was kind of me to say that but
no, he’d enjoyed our conversation too much. I told him likewise. I’d really got
to like him and the kind of person he was. I’d always remember our meeting.
I thought he was leaving when suddenly his
eyes turned back to the stall. He was looking at the mineral specimens and one
in particular, as though he was drawn to it. Could he pick it up he asked
quietly? He was welcome I said. Did he know what it was?
He didn’t, but somehow I knew it held an
attraction and told him so. “It’s Mookaite,” I volunteered. “A healing stone from
Australia that gives people strength.” It was interesting that he’d picked it
up.
He looked at me curiously. Why so he wanted
to know.
“Because it contains certain attractions. It
meets people’s needs on various levels, emotional, mental and physical…
“It doesn’t help everyone,” I added. “Depends
on your affinity for its waves… its special vibration. Each mineral or crystal
has its own special vibration, suitable for each kind of person… People and
minerals choose each other. It’s mutual. A two way process. If something or
someone’s not suited it just doesn’t work.”
We
both knew he felt drawn to it and I wanted to know how he felt. I wouldn’t ask
though. I wanted him to say. He was gently handling it now. Enjoying the
sensation. “It makes me feel calm,” he confided. “I mean really calm. I can
feel it all the way through, yet it’s also exciting.”
“That’s your need for adventure,” I
concurred. “It stimulates a deep inner calm yet also releases your need for
adventure and change. It makes you both mobile and flexible. Able to grasp and
understand a variety of things at the same time and help you find what’s right
for you. What concurs with your emotional needs.”
“And how about the physical side… What does
it do for your health?”… Would it make him strong. Clear out anything bad in
his system, he asked casually.
These questions also surprised me and I
think he knew that. These were places I wasn’t happy to tread.
“It’s not drugs or pills I’m talking
about,” he said brightly. “I’m just asking generally. I mean my medical
condition and what I’m like inside. I mean healthy and that.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. No drugs or
pills of such kind. Nothing recreational and nasty. Nothing he couldn’t
control. His smile broadened. He knew I felt concerned for him and hoped he
liked me for that.
“It just stabilizes your health,” I assured
him. “Strengthens your immune system against anything nasty and cleans out your
blood. Kind of like amethyst but operates in a more general way…”
He hadn’t put it back on the table so I
again interceded. “Take it as a gift!” I said forcefully, “and keep it with you
all the time. In a pocket when you’re on stage or walking around with people
you know. It’s something from me and my wife. Just something you’ll remember us
by.”
He took my hand and I his, and I felt his
emotions. He was a good man I thought and told him so. His face seemed sad for
a moment then brightened up. He’d always remember our meeting. No need to
exchange any cards or any more words. With the piece tucked away in his shirt
pocket he was gone. Skipping away into the distance with that brown trilby hat
he was wearing soon lost up the drag. It had been an emotional time for me too
and I felt it. Yes, he was a good soul and I knew it, and I wished him well in
his life but he knew that because those were my last words to him.
After that the day seemed lighter. I sold some
stuff and later bought coffee from the market on my way home. I never did see
him again but somehow felt his spirit had brightened my life and would always
stay with me. His vibrant personality on the one hand then his warm inner
spirit… And maybe he remembered me too, keeping that gift as a talisman, a
small reminder of a human being he’d once met on his journey through life and
that all things were possible!
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