When I was nine years old, I spent as much time on the telephone as my eighteen years old sister. The only difference was that she was busy gossiping with friends and fielding requests for dates from lettermen while I was listening to an incessant ring I believed with all my heart echoed through the hallways of Neverland Ranch 1,500 miles away.
It was the summer of 1983, eight months after ‘Thriller’ was released, and rather than practice my batting stance as requested by my little league coach, I occupied my time moonwalking the kitchen’s linoleum floor back and forth between the refrigerator and dining room table. And there, on that same floor, beneath a counter curled up in ten feet of telephone cord, I imagined a ring amplified across Michael Jackson’s estate catching the attention of the King of Pop as he fed his giraffes.
“What’s that, Bubbles?” he’d say.
The chimpanzee would tug at his sequined shoulder boards and chatter anxiously.
“A phone call? For me?”
I don’t recall who informed me of the phone number – 1-800-MICHAEL – but I accepted it as sacrosanct. I would not only commit the digits to memory (6424235) and later use it as a password for neighborhood tree house clubs I’d organize, I’d keep it secret and devote several waking hours to sitting and waiting for someone, anyone, to pick up on the other end.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Bubbles removes Michael’s sunglasses, dangling them in the direction of the main house.
“Okay, silly chimp! Okay!”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Michael walks pass the carousel then turns to leap onto a lavender unicorn circling round and round, up and down.
“Yee-hee!”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The carousel’s Wurlitzer organ drowns out the telephone with “My Wild Irish Rose,” but Bubbles pulls on the red Nazi-looking armband and Jacko slides out of the saddle back en route.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
He’s on the Ferris wheel eyeing his 3,000 acre fun park and zoo.
“I need a hippo,” he says. “Children need hippos.”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
He’s on the Zipper, the Octopus and roller coaster. And I’m waiting patiently, ignoring my father’s mumbling as his rifles through the liquor cabinet making his own Jesus Juice.
“Are you calling Michael Jackson again?” my father asks. “Did your sister put you up to this?”
“I need to speak with him,” I say. “It’s important.”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
MJ enters the train station for a ride around the grounds. He snips a carnation from the magnificent floral clock before boarding and hands it to the engineer, an exchange of friendship and mutual admiration.
“You know your sister hates Michael Jackson,” my father says. “She’s making a fool out of you.”
“I know her admiration for Prince has clouded her love for real music,” I say. “Seriously, 1999? Do you think anyone will listen to that in the 21st century? Thriller is timeless, priceless.”
“No. Thriller was a nine-dollar cassette at Sam Goody. And it’s damn near worn out from the constant playing, morning, noon and night. What’s priceless is my son calling a celebrity on a toll free number.”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Michael’s gloved hand reaches for the front door of his palatial mansion. Studded diamonds rub abrasively on the iron handle as spins in, walks against the wind, then steps coolly over lion skin rugs in the foyer and into a throng of wild birds singing crazed and mad. There’s a smell of lilacs and pancakes and the carbonated scent of Pepsi.
Endless afternoons and evenings I called Michael Jackson, not once questioning that this was my sister’s own “revolution.” I picked up the receiver and dialed. Then waited. And waited. And not once did I think that perhaps Michael was visiting Brook Shields or Elizabeth Taylor. He was always there working on his next album, hosting soirees for disadvantaged children. If I only had lupus, I’d wish.
As my summer came to a close and full access to a free line ended, so did my desire to speak with Michael Jackson. Friends became more important, as did my need to be outdoors away from nervous butterflies of deciding what to say to one of the most famous people in the world. However, despite the awakening I may have had that summer, it isn’t to say I haven’t traveled back down that star struck road several times since.
Sometimes they aren’t stars, just beautiful and brilliant lights.
As a freshman I fell for Beth Rinaldi. She was one year ahead of me and my next door neighbor. After spending weeks visualizing myself asking her to be my girlfriend I crept into the front bushes of her home one evening and waited for her to return from cheerleading practice. I imagined this: an upperclassmen would drop her off at home, and once the car exited the driveway she’d be left with a long walk to the front door at which time I’d appear from the bushes with a dozen roses. Of course I hadn’t thought this through clearly enough and didn’t have the flowers on hand. All I had was a sweater full of juniper and pine needles introduced with a nervous smile reminiscent of what Ted Bundy must have given his victims. Thankfully, I stood down on Operation Stalker when Jeff Longval, star running back and future Homecoming King, pulled into the drive in his red Pontiac Firebird. The dream was over before it began, and he didn’t even walk her to the door.
A year later it was Melody Clayton , another upperclassmen, who spoke with me for twenty minutes before school one morning. She was present with me, looking me in the eyes and hanging on every word. I imagined her asking me to prom and then skipping out early to consummate our short-lived romance. In the end, I retreated humiliated to the bathroom, embarrassed that her fascination with me was the fact I had toothpaste smeared all over my mouth.
“You should look at yourself in the mirror before school,” she said. And then the bell rang and classes began, the idea of Melody fading in the distance.
Later on in life I went to great lengths to spend time in the energy of amazing athletes and artists. I traveled to Paris twice, in 2003 and 2005, to watch Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France. I’ve been fortunate to rub shoulders with famous actors and rock stars. But in the end, the idea of what you imagine is destroyed. It isn’t tangible and therefore fragile, and possibly a fantasy deflated by scandal or outright douchebaggery. All that can really be left in order to survive disappointment is to eliminate all expectation for others and be dependent solely on one’s self. But even that creates a precarious situation.
The first time I shared my 1-800-MICHAEL story with anyone was with my best friend, Ryan Haindfield. It was the fall of 1988, and that confession led us into grabbing the basement telephone and making a list of as many 800 numbers as possible. After we filled a yellow legal pad, we dialed and dialed making note of what each number was, often pranking the viable ones in the meantime. But there was one number I reached that made me tap into someone other than who I inherently thought I was. I don’t recall the number, but it was that of a counseling hotline. A gentleman picked up and assumed I had a crisis, for which I created unassumingly. That is to say, I spoke about what it was to be a teenager.
I held onto that number like I did the faux Michael Jackson number, but it was I who played a part. I remember telling this man my name was “Free” and that I was the child of hippie parents who lived in Arkansas. I can’t remember the conversations, most of which took place late at night while my parents were sleeping, but I will never forget the comfort I felt connecting with someone with a genuine heart. Someone real. It’s that same memory I hold onto when I see headlines about Kim Kardashian front and center over limited reports on millions of war refugees around the world.
What are we doing, I think. We’re paying attention to the wrong people.
If you were to call 1-800-MICHAEL today you’d reach a series of options announced by an operator for Michael’s, the arts and crafts store. There’s no wait. There’s no room for imagination. A pleasant woman comes on the line and asks if you’d like to check the status of an order (press 1) or place a new order (press 2). As for the title of this article, if you dial that … well, it connects to a business that doesn’t reveal the company name but rather asks a series of questions guiding you through an inevitable time share pitch.
Michael Jackson had the desire to be the child he was never allowed to be because there’s an innocence in youth that he knew he wasn’t living as an adult. The same can be said for so many of us, the proof lying in the desire to check in with what we feel is REALITY. But I’m here to tell you, call it, it’s a scam.
