A Conspiracy of Trash

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Saturday, 26 October 2013

MICHAEL JACKSON’S UNSCHEDULED VISIT TO BATH

I write about this extraordinary event perhaps because it occurred many years ago and was unscheduled. Something that was in its own way extraordinary. That happened quite out of the blue. Was never surrounded by any publicity or made the usual seismic splash in the media simply because it went unheard and unseen. In short nobody knew. But then I have to say that it was so very typical of Michael himself. Wanting to do something so very private. A bold spur of the moment thing just for himself. Out of the glare of public attention. Out of the limelight and the gaze of that multitude of his adoring fans. The Michael Jackson that few people knew. Shy, retiring, introspective and thoughtful. A world away from the manicured publicity image. The world that knew him as a great star for so many decades.               

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. JackoWhackoWeirdoWhako 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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