PROLOGUE
Dreams do come true. It could happen to you.
—Walt Disney
It was March 5, 1988.
The city lights soared past me as the Yellow Cab wove in and
out of busy traffic. The energy of New York City was an intoxicant,
invigorating every moment. The city had a pulse so strong, it felt
like it must be the epicenter of the universe.
As we pulled up to Madison Square Garden, the butterflies in
my stomach flew faster. I felt that I was about to step into a piece
of history. I was right: this night would set me on a course that
would change my life.
We had arrived in New York just a few hours earlier after a fourand-
a- half- hour drive from our hometown in Largo, Maryland, a
suburb of Washington, DC. My aunt Vera had driven my friend
Tracy and me in her brand-new silver Nissan Maxima. That car
was all the rage that year because it talked, telling you important
things like “Your lights are on.” I always got a kick out of riding
in it. Sometimes we would purposely leave the lights on just so we
could hear it talk.
We were here to see Michael Jackson in concert—he was on his
Bad tour. I had been looking forward to this day for months. I was
seventeen, and Michael was my idol.
We found our seats, which were behind the stage. At first I was
upset that they were so bad. When I purchased the tickets, they
hadn’t informed me that the seats would be in an obstructed view
area. As the show went on, however, I grew to like them. It gave me
a different vantage point. From behind, you could catch a glimpse
of how the magic was made, and I could see him walking off and
on stage before the curtain was raised. I had always been obsessed
with magicians like David Copperfield. I was the type who would
watch a trick over and over so that I could figure out how the illusion
was created. The creation of an illusion is what fascinated me about
Michael. I always suspected his Peter Pan image was just a facade.
And now I could glimpse the real Michael, behind the curtain.
After a couple songs, the charm of sitting behind the stage wore
off, and we decided to walk around to see if we could snag some
better seats. Since we were already behind the stage, we easily
made our way onto the floor without anyone checking for tickets.
We spotted an empty area in the front row, and blended in there
as if we belonged. We managed to stay in our newfound frontrow
seats for the remainder of the concert. I couldn’t believe how
lucky we were.
This experience was completely different from sitting behind
the stage. Michael was right there, as if he were performing in my
living room. And he was overwhelmingly sexy. He wore black pants
with silver buckles, which showcased his perfect body—especially his
round backside. They were so tight; I could see everything. It was like
he was dancing naked in front of me for two hours. It was so intense
and exhilarating, inspiring feelings that I had never felt before.
During the song “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You,” he and Sheryl
Crow, who was his background singer back then, came together and
started dancing closely. He started rubbing his crotch while he was
singing to her, so much that he became noticeably excited. I could
not believe my eyes. I felt like I was going to faint from shock. It
was like I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to see. I was
overwhelmed. I had read so many tabloid stories painting Michael
as this asexual man- child that I was not expecting this at all.
He then launched into a beautiful rendition of his hit song
“Human Nature.” “See that girl—she knows I’m watching. She likes
the way I stare.” As his smooth voice effortlessly glided over the lyrics,
he pointed right to me. I squealed so loud, he started smiling. I
had been screaming the whole time, so there was no doubt he had
noticed me before then. He kept glancing at me for the remainder
of the concert and I was sure we had made a love connection.
I talked endlessly about that magical moment with my aunt Vera
and Tracy during the entire cab ride back to the hotel. “Did you see
him point to me when he said ‘See that girl’? We made eye contact!
He was looking at me the whole concert. I know he saw me!”
“Yes, he did point at you. I saw it.” Tracy said, probably just
hoping I would shut up.
We had left at the beginning of the last song, “Man in the Mirror,”
to beat the traffic. We also wanted to arrive back at the hotel
before Michael so that we could try to catch a glimpse of him
returning from the show.
The Helmsley Palace on the corner of Fiftieth Street and Madison
Avenue was a luxurious, majestic skyscraper fifty- five floors
high, directly across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Stepping
into the lobby made you feel like royalty—the decor was
classic, literally like a palace. I had read in magazines that this
was Michael’s favorite place to stay while in New York and I was
hoping this time would be no different. When we had checked in
earlier, we noticed a group of fans waiting across the street, and
I knew that my research had paid off. Michael was staying there.
I was so relieved.
As our cab pulled up to the entrance at around eleven, the group
of about a hundred fans were still gathered across the street behind
a barricade. A glimpse of Michael was all they wanted. Some held
signs with Michael’s picture; others were decked out in Michael’s
signature costume: high- water pants, a fedora, and one sparkly white
glove. They were chanting, “Michael! Michael! Michael!” hoping to
get his attention. New York City police manned the area, making
sure the crowd didn’t get out of control. This scene would repeat
itself in every city Michael traveled to. At this moment, he was truly
the king of the world.
Whenever Michael came to any town, the place stood still. It was
as if pixie dust had been sprinkled over it. Everything seemed more
alive, more beautiful—more magical. I distinctly remember being
excited simply because Michael was breathing the same air, feeling
the same weather, and seeing the same sights as I was.
Back then, Michael mania was in full effect. When he came to
town, vendors would set up on every block, selling buttons and
T- shirts and anything else they could stick his image on. It seemed
like the entire world was under Michael’s spell. New York City was
no different on this balmy night.
We exited our cab and a surly hotel security guard stopped us
at the revolving doors. “I’m sorry, but only guests of the hotel are
allowed in the lobby.” Aunt Vera proudly produced the card key
to our room. That was the magic ticket. The guard’s demeanor
instantly changed to warmth and we were promptly escorted into
the elegant lobby.
I felt so special as I looked back at the growing crowd of screaming
fans being held at bay across the street. Some shouted, “La Toya!,”
mistaking me for Michael’s beautiful older sister. I chuckled under
my breath but felt honored to be mistaken for anyone in the Jackson
family. I reveled in the moment and waved to the crowd. They
screamed even louder.
We headed for the elevators to our room. Just then, I saw Michael
getting out of a glass elevator from the parking garage. We had managed
somehow to arrive at the hotel at the same time. He walked
in with a black towel around his neck and a big brown coat. He
spotted me and started staring. I waved. He waved back.
“Oh my God, Tracy! Did you see that? He recognized me! I know
he did.” I was so giddy, I was talking a mile a minute. “I know he
saw me in the audience! I cannot believe this. Did you see him wave?
We have got to meet him tonight, no matter what.”
In my teenage mind, Michael’s wave was all the proof I needed
that we had made a love connection. There was no way I was going
back to Maryland without at least trying to meet him. I had caught
his attention. I couldn’t turn back now.
With a cool swagger, Michael strolled onto one of the special
elevators that were guarded by security. These private elevators
only stopped on the top floors, where the penthouses were
located. Through our investigations, Tracy and I had found out that
Michael’s suite was on the fifty- third floor. We started devising a
plan. The elevators we had access to didn’t go to those floors, of
course. They could only be reached by those private elevators. We
decided that the only way to reach his floor would be to bypass the
elevator altogether and walk . . . up the stairs . . . fifty- three flights.
When you’re young your brain thinks differently. You feel invincible
and don’t think about consequences. Yeah, we were young
and crazy, and clearly in good physical shape. We trudged up those
stairs without a second thought. Our minds were focused on one
thing and one thing only: getting to Michael.
When we finally reached the floor, I opened the door that led to
the hallway. To our surprise, our plan had worked. As we turned
the corner, I spotted Chuck, Michael’s main bodyguard, with his
trademark black top hat that I had seen him wearing in pictures
with Michael. I thought that we would immediately be kicked off
the floor, because he looked imposing. Michael’s entire security staff
was there.
I boldly approached Chuck and told him that I had seen him
in Japan.
He said, “Oh, you were there?”
“No, on TV,” I said.
Everyone laughed. I guess they were used to fans following
Michael all over the world.
Tracy asked Chuck if he could get Michael’s autograph for her.
He said that would be no problem at all.
Just then, Emmanuel Lewis, famous for playing Webster on
the sitcom of the same name, emerged from what appeared to be
Michael’s suite. He was shockingly tiny, only a little taller than my
knee. I think we were close to the same age. Chuck asked Emmanuel
if he could get Michael’s autograph for Tracy. He said, “Sure.” Then
I decided I wanted one too.
“Get me one too, please,” I said as I ran after him.
“Whose do you want? Mine or his?”
Not wanting to hurt Emmanuel’s feelings, I said, “Both.”
He said, “No, you probably want Michael’s. I’ll get it.” Before
walking back into the suite, he asked us to write our names on a
sheet of paper so that Michael could personalize our autographs.
Back then, an autograph was equivalent to a selfie. We didn’t
have cell phones, so a camera wasn’t always readily available; an
autograph was the only proof you could show your friends that you
actually met a celebrity. I hadn’t even brought a camera on this trip.
None of us had. Times were different then. Our memories and, in
my case, my diaries, are all we now have.
Hilary, another member of Michael’s security team, whispered
to Chuck, “Janet just called. She’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Janet Jackson was at the height of her fame at this time, having
recently released her chart- topping album Control. I had just
performed the title track at my high school talent show with my
best friend, Tirina, learning every move of the groundbreaking choreography
from the music video and singing over Janet’s breathy
vocals. We received a standing ovation for our performance, and I
won Most Talented of my senior class shortly thereafter. Needless
to say, I was a fan.
Emmanuel came back with our autographs and handed them to
us. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the ornate silver handwriting
that was uniquely Michael’s. He had touched this picture of him
in his motorcycle jacket, which also meant Michael was actually in
the room just a few feet away. A rush of excitement surged in my
veins. He was so close.
The elevator door opened. It was Janet with her boyfriend at the
time, Rene. I smiled with anxious anticipation as she approached.
Dressed in a silk black blazer and black slacks, she looked as gorgeous
in person as she did in pictures. I greeted her with a warm “Hi!”
She stared coldly, not saying a word, as she sauntered by.
I was so disappointed.
Jimmy Jam, Quincy Jones, Sugar Ray Leonard, and a parade of
other celebrities I had only dreamed of meeting started exiting the
elevator after Janet’s arrival. At this point, I could no longer contain
myself. I said to Chuck, “Can we please go in to the party?”
He said, “You really want to go in?”
“Yes, please.”
“What would you do if you went in?”
“We’d mingle. We’d be nice.” I was practically begging at this
point.
Then one of Michael’s other bodyguards said, “Why is it that
pretty girls always get their way?”
With no other choice at this point, Chuck reluctantly said, “OK.
Go ahead in.”
Chuck, wherever you are today, thank you.
As we opened the door and walked into the room, the bright
lights hit me. Everyone was staring. We were probably the only
non- A- list people in the room. They must have wondered who we
were and thought we were important too. I was wearing a black
leather jacket, black leather pants, black high heel boots with silver
buckles, and toy handcuffs hung from my belt. Of course, I hadn’t
even kissed a boy yet, so my “bad girl” look was all for show.
I stopped and stood in the foyer of this immaculate suite and
took everything in. Here I was, in Michael Jackson’s penthouse at
the top of New York City. Even in my wildest dreams, I hadn’t
imagined this. I scoped the place out, wanting to soak up every
detail of this room that only royalty and very special people had
inhabited. It was an elegant suite, with a massive window that
encompassed the entire side of one wall and displayed a breathtaking
view of Manhattan’s sparkling skyline. To the right of the
foyer was a winding staircase that led to an upstairs bedroom—
obviously Michael’s room. In front of me was a beautiful black
baby grand piano.
I looked behind me and Janet and Rene were sitting on a sofa,
keeping to themselves, people-watching. I was now slightly afraid
to even cross Janet’s path again. Her cold stare was enough to ward
me away for life.
Next to the piano, Michael’s personal photographer, Sam Emerson,
was standing taking pictures. I knew that Sam only took pictures
of Michael, so I figured he couldn’t be too far away. I walked closer
and there he was, leaning against the piano; guests surrounded him,
getting their pictures taken. I walked and stood next to Sam. I didn’t
dare ask for a picture, fearing he would discover that I was a mere
mortal. I wanted to just blend in with the scenery, in fact. Surely
everyone must have known we didn’t belong.
But then Michael spotted me. A big smile spread across his
famous face and his eyes widened through his Ray- Ban sunglasses.
He vigorously waved like a schoolboy spotting a familiar face in the
crowd. I slightly smiled and looked over my shoulder to see whom
he was waving at. Surely, it couldn’t be me.
But it was . . .
I waved back.
Suddenly, not only did I belong at the party, but the host himself
had welcomed me. I started to relax as I felt a million eyes staring
even harder. Michael’s welcome had inducted me into this crowd
of A- listers and transformed me into one of them. Everybody was
suddenly extremely nice. Even Janet’s attitude softened a bit.
Too afraid to actually speak words, I walked closer and stood
behind Michael. He was acting as the perfect host, chatting with his
guests and making sure everyone was happy, taking pictures with
anyone who asked. Boy, I wish I had brought my camera. He was
gracious, humble, and friendly. He was the Michael I had always
dreamed he would be. He had been famous for almost twenty years
at this point, but fame still hadn’t quite taken complete hold of him.
He was just a normal, extremely nice guy entertaining guests in a
hotel room. No one would have ever guessed that this dude had just
finished performing in front of twenty thousand screaming fans at
Madison Square Garden.
His skin was perfectly smooth and a lovely chocolate color. He
wasn’t wearing any makeup and was simply beautiful. Onstage, his
skin had seemed much lighter, even white, but I was happy to see
that he still had his original beautiful brown complexion just like
when he was a little boy. His lighter- looking skin was all a result of
stage makeup, I surmised.
Even back then there were rumors that he was bleaching his
skin and nasty tabloid stories about it. I was so happy to see
that that couldn’t be further from the truth. His hair was nice
and freshly washed, with a wavy ponytail—a short one. He must
wear a fake one sometimes, I thought, because it was longer
in concert just an hour earlier. He had on black Ray- Ban sunglasses
and a red corduroy button- down shirt that was tucked
into his black slacks; his belt was silver and glittery. His amazingly
cool black lace- up shoes had silver plates on the tips. His
right arm was adorned with two bracelets, one silver, the other
black. He had a noticeable dent on the side of his nose, but
nothing looked fake. In fact, he was more handsome in person,
with no makeup on, than I had ever seen him in pictures and
videos. He was small, though. His waist must have been smaller
than mine, and I only weighed ninety- eight pounds. I had on
high heels, which made me about five foot six. He wasn’t much
taller than I was—maybe five foot nine.
I also noticed he was chewing gum. I had never seen Michael
chew gum before and it made him seem so normal. Up until now,
I had only seen him on TV and in pictures, so in my mind he was
this perfect dream guy who didn’t do normal stuff like chew gum
or go to the bathroom. He was a star and stars didn’t do normal
stuff like us regular folks.
I overheard Sean Lennon, who was twelve years old, begging
his mother, Yoko Ono, to let him spend the night. He begged and
begged until finally she agreed . . . just a regular mother and son
having a typical conversation.
It appeared that Michael was going to have a slumber party with
Sean Lennon, Emmanuel Lewis, and a couple of other kids I saw
running around. Although Michael was in his late twenties and
in the prime of his superstardom, no sexy female groupie types
were roaming around like one would expect at a concert afterparty
like this. Michael was different: he preferred the company of
kids. This made him even more endearing to me. His Peter Pan
persona appealed to those of us not ready for actual relationships.
He was safe.
Jimmy Jam sat at the baby grand and started playing a few songs,
his fingers gliding seamlessly over the ivory keys. I walked over to
the window, gazed upon the sparkling lights, and thought, Is this
really happening? It all felt like a dream. There was Michael, staring
at me. Nights like this just didn’t occur in my world.
I strolled over to the bar, where an array of minibottles lined the
marble counter. Too young to drink alcohol, I poured myself a 7Up.
I wanted to seem cool, with a drink in my hand. Even the 7Up tasted
better than it ever had before. To this day, when I drink a 7Up, I
am transported back to Michael’s hotel suite on that spring night
when I was seventeen.
All of New York’s elite seemed to be in the room. I spotted New
York artist Keith Haring, who had spread a bunch of buttons with
his political sketches on them on Michael’s coffee table. Keith would
pass away two years later from complications of the AIDS virus. I
still have some of those buttons and cherish them.
Tracy and I found an empty sofa and relaxed, hoping to blend
in. I glanced up and spotted Quincy Jones walking over. He asked
if anyone was sitting in the spot next to me. I managed to nervously
mutter that the seat was empty. He plopped onto the sofa and
placed his icy brown cocktail, which he had mixed himself at the
bar, on the coffee table. I tried to remain calm as I watched him
coolly sip his beverage and chat with other nearby guests. After all,
I didn’t want to blow my cover. No one needed to know that I was
still in high school and dying inside, sitting next to the man who
had produced Thriller. I felt like Cinderella, worried that the clock
would strike midnight at any minute and I would have to return
to normal life. Surrounded by legends, I could only think about
how out of place I was. These people had accomplished so much.
I had watched them win Grammys, perform concerts, and create
masterpieces. And here I was, just a girl from Largo, Maryland. My
life had only just begun.
I then saw Michael spot Janet and Rene. Determined to at least
shake Michael’s hand, I walked back over to him. I overheard Rene
say, “Great show, man!” Michael shook his hand and said, “Thank
you.” Then Michael leaned over to Janet and whispered something
in her ear. As if Michael had just shared the most amazing secret
ever heard, she widened her already big eyes and said, “Really? Get
out of here!” Michael smiled and said, “I’ll call you.” They seemed
like typical siblings, Janet looking up to her big brother.
Then Michael turned around. He was just a few inches away. He
was so close I could smell his perfume. He looked at me, smiled the
biggest smile, with the whitest teeth I had ever seen, reached out
his hand, and said, “Hi. I’m Michael.”
It felt like the entire world stopped. The man I had dreamed
about since I was a child was standing in front of me, reaching for
my hand. It was the moment I had been waiting for.
I silently composed myself and took his hand in mine. “Hi. I’m
Shana.”
His hand was so soft. It felt like a warm, billowy cloud. It was
the softest hand I had ever felt. I was so nervous. I was afraid to
hold it too tight. So I delicately held it as if it were a porcelain
doll, not wanting to disrespect the hand that wore that famous
white glove.
But Michael took me by surprise and grabbed my hand tighter.
I opened my hand to let go of his tight grip, but he kept holding
on. I was stunned. He then slid his large thin hand down my entire
hand, lingering on every finger and sliding down to the tips of my
fingernails. The whole while he was smiling that big beautiful smile
and nervously biting his bottom lip.
Michael Jackson was flirting with me.
It was one of those rare moments that will be flashed before my
eyes when my life is at its end. This moment was everything.
Then other guests started closing in on him, vying for his attention.
He was the man of the hour and everyone wanted their moment
with him too. We looked at each other and smiled as I slinked back
to the sofa where I had been sitting. Michael stayed a little longer,
mingling with his guests, before heading up the spiral staircase,
saying good night to everyone as he disappeared into his room.
Sean Lennon and Emmanuel Lewis ran up the stairs behind him.
I thought that this would be one of those stories I would tell
my future grandkids over and over until they were sick of hearing
it, when I was old and gray: my one memory of meeting the most
famous man in the world.
But it was only the beginning.
opcorn: She could have just posted her fan fiction online like the rest of us.
