The Moonwalker

 The Moonwalker

By Graham Swanson

The Director

The first time Micheal saw the Director was at a concert after he released his first album Off The Wall. By then he was independent from his father. He was free. He could perform however he wanted. 

 Micheal first heard him in the lights of a show. It started  a little early, and it threw off Micheal’s timing. Slightly. 

Snap!

“Posture” an whisper rumbled from the end of the stadium to Micheal’s ear. 

Micheal straightened his back. 

Micheal pretended he didn’t hear it. The show goes on. The concerts got bigger, faster, more lights, more explosions. The staff toiled tirelessly. And every year had to be bigger and better.

 But soon it made itself present even when he wasn’t performing. He didn’t have his first playtime until age 30 when he visited the children’s hospital he supported. 

Micheal walked into the children’s hospital in full dress. Black jacket. Double golden belts across his chest. The child reached out with a soft hand and touched his rhinestone glove. 

He dazzled them with his famous dances. The moonwalk, the anti gravity lean, even the robot. The children gasped and clapped. 

“I have a dance I practiced just for you.” He put on his sunglasses to complete the look. 

The children sat up in their beds.

Micheal had rehearsed it like a performance. He knew exactly what to do. Switch, supercharge, smn, en garde, over me with ribbon, smile. 

He stood in position. He tapped his foot, and honed his breaths. He pressed his toes down and lifted into the air. His feet moved so swiftly that it looked like the floor melted beneath him. The moment it took him to click his tongue his body became untethered, and it loosened into a liquid motion. He did it perfectly.  Switch, supercharge, smn, en garde, over me with ribbon.

He heard it once more. It sounded so soft that he wasn’t sure where it came from. 

Do it again…

“Well, let me try one more time.” Micheal looked out from the lenses of his sunglasses. He saw the Director standing there between the children. Every show after that, he saw him, and did as he was told. In the smoke. In the crowd among fans. And in the sky above. A cloud in the shape of a man. A god of spectacle. With a snake skin belt. Studded. 

Neverland

A dream came true. A mansion on the cliffside over looking the beach and the city skyline. An entire amusement park was built in. A roller coaster, a ferris wheel. A petting zoo. A stream engine train. Every desire was met here. Micheal told no one, but he began to notice speckles in the mirror. Small white pigments under his dark flesh. 

Here the kids had everything he never had. No one could tell them what to do. Their parents weren’t there to keep them from making messes. They could stay up all night, climb ladders, spill food on the curtains. Chase squirrels on the roof. 

The staff rushed from room to room. Full time. Cleaning up after the kids so the mansion remained pristine. Just like one of Micheal’s shows. He never gave them a break. At the end of the night, the kids finally went to bed. The staff smoked cigarettes and took what little sleep they could. Tomorrow would be an even bigger day for the children. It always was.

The Director had their playtimes scheduled between rigorous dances. Micheal let him pick children out. One boy asked Micheal questions. About his life. About what kind of activities he enjoyed when he was young. Micheal just looked down at him.

“The Director wants you to keep your posture up while you dance. And smile more.” 

The children had access to every room. They spent most of their playtime in the game rooms, but a few curious young ones explored further halls that the other kids did not venture down. A locked door. A forbidden door. A sign read. “For Micheal Only.” The kids tried to get in but they didn’t have the strength to undo the latch. One pressed his ear against the wood. He heard clapping, but no cheers. Counting, but no music. Then a scuttle across the floor as a heavy forced pressed back against the ear of the kid. 

The boy wanted to go home after the experience. So he took the boy into his private quarters to sleep. Micheal told him stories and sang to him. Things went well until the boy vomited on the  sheets. 

Micheal went from fun and playful to sullen. He examined the sheets. 10,000$ sheets. He ripped them off the bed, and called the staff to burn them. 

He spent the next morning shaking his fist at how poor the kids performed. He kept stopping the dance to correct them. At first the staff thought, hey, he’s a performer, he knows what he’s doing. Then Micheal started getting on them for playing right. 

“Put your hands up when you go down the roller coaster.” If they didn’t do it, Micheal wouldn’t let them dance with him. 

On still quiet nights, Micheal nursed a glass of alcohol. He stood over the kids as they slept. His mouth quickly changed from a smile to the trembling of a man on the verge of tears, then just as fast back to a smile. 

Micheal stared at a plate of his favorite food. Hot and crispy. A basket of fried chicken. The staff outside nurtured the chicken cages. Nothing like homemade. He put his leg up on the ottoman. He took a chicken wing. He pressed it into his lips. His teeth penetrated the skin. It crunched in his teeth. Juice and saliva pooled under his bottom lip. 

He reclined and let the seasoned batter rest on his tongue.

Snap!

He cringed at the sound. His eyes popped open, his mouth full of chicken meat. He spit it out. The Director had his phone.

The staff manager listened from the other end. It sounded like Micheal.

 “Yeah, I heard it again… the snack room this time. Sure. Okay, thank you. Bye bye.” 

The staff filed out to search the estate. They searched the attic, the secondary pantry, even the hidden tunnels between the main rooms. They found nothing. One room remained locked, forever unsearched, and silent. One new guy tried to open the door but couldn’t move it because it was locked by a 12 pound bolt. The other staff stopped what they were doing and got into his face.

“Dont you ever touch that door. It stays shut.”

“What’s in there?” 

“Don’t look.” 

The staff manager called Micheal.

“Yo, Mike. There’s nothing here.”

“The Directors wants you to search again.” 

The staff manager groaned. 

“All 52 rooms?” 

“And the gardens.” 

Micheal stood on his balcony and looked over the quiet ferris wheel sway in his backyard. The children didn’t ride it anymore. The nursery was unlit. The kids gathered for dinner. Each child had come starry eyed and excited. Now they weren’t so sure they wanted to be here. 

The staff manager stayed on the phone.

“When are the children going home? The maids are getting tired of cleaning up after them.”

“The Director wants them to stay.” 

The staff watched over the kids. They took notes on what they had seen. The kids started off having fun. It was dancing, games, swimming, rides, music. Then the staff noticed here and there. Micheal leaving the locked room but never entering it. To their utter disgust, Micheal no longer listened to his friends or supporters. He answered only to “The Director” who only he could detect.  

When Micheal was alone, he was depressed. He looked at pictures of himself, and hurled them across the room. In the glass of the frame the Director stood at his shoulder. The floor shuddered when Micheal grew. His dances became unstable, uncoordinated, and more than once he fell in front of the kids and staff.

He asked the Director to help him up. 

The children began to notice it too. Micheal would offer to take a young fan to dance with him. However Micheal seemed uncomfortable around them. Like he needed approval for anything. At this point they missed their parents. However the doors were locked. 

“Mike, why are the doors locked?”

“Because The Director likes you.” He would tell the chosen ones. 

"The Director said no... no. no." Micheal walked through the house in the morning. His pale sleeping robe covered in all manner of fluids and crusts. The kids just helped themselves at the banquet table. Morning light washed over the the mansion. Micheal stood at the window. His shadow erect against the rise of day. Perfect straight back. With his long black hair and fluttering robe he descended the stairs. 

He was happy to join the kids. He was innocent, he just didn’t know what a normal childhood was.  Until the ground shook. An earthquake caused the bridges over the bay to collapse.Micheal rushed them to the safety room while he went upstairs to grab his case of prosthetics. He spent hours in his washroom. Nurses applied balms to the cracks.

The earthquake ended but the kids were not settled.

Micheal tried to calm them down but then the cracks in his face appeared.  The kids all screamed and jumped up from their seats. Micheal rolled his head around and his angelic voice twisted into the roar of anger.

The kids ran down the halls. Micheal ran after them, his dirty robes fluttering behind him. Blinded by tears. The rocking horse fell over and bounced into the fireplace. The bottles of chocolate milk shattered on the floor.  

The kids ran down the lawn in the early morning. The mist rose from the blades of grass to shield them.

The staff organized a secret mission. They took photos, they recorded statements, and once on a rainy night, they left the large doors by the dinner hall unlatched. Thunder crashed, and the wind blew the doors open. Micheal rushed down. The dining room was empty. The kids were gone.

He roamed the halls crying for them to come out from hiding. His hair long unbrushed, his lips red, and his face white as porcelain. He saw himself in a mirror. The young man was no longer within him. Who he saw was unrecognizable. The Director’s shadow was there. 

The Moonwalker

Then he heard it again. 

Snap!

He stared at the bolted door. 

Micheal… a voice whispered. Forward step.

The latch came undone. The door turned a glowing red. Micheal gripped the handle and lifted. Metal rings turned within. The bottom dragged against the floor as he pulled it open. 

He heard synthesizers hum but he saw no equipment. He saw beams of lights searching the sky through holes in the ceiling but with no spot lights. Red fog settled to the floor. A stage emerged. The Director stood on top. 

“Where are the children?” Micheal asked. 

“They’re gone now, Micheal.” The Director whispered. 

Micheal stepped up on the stage. The lights became flames. His clothes burned off, and from the ashes his concert garments appeared. He strapped it together. Piece by piece. Penny loafers. Black pants. Gold belt. Leather jacket. 

Micheal tried to balance himself. The fatal hours he spent chugging shots and smoking cigarettes took a toll. His toes no longer had the strength to hold him. He wobbled when he walked. His legs felt stiff.

“You destroyed everything I built.” Micheal said. His limbs hard and aching. Back slumped. His head forward. Strands of wet hair covered his face. His eyes sockets deepened. Moisture seeped out. They focused on the shadow of the Director and spat hatred. 

“You dare challenge the Director?” The Director’s shape changed. He became thin, lean, narrow legged. He had golden sparkles in his skin. “You don’t have the moves anymore Micheal.” 

Micheal said nothing. He kept his gaze focused like an archer. He stood in position. He couldn’t see the floor tape. He didn’t need it. He heard no music. He didn’t need that either. 

Micheal matched every move. First it was the moves he learned as a kid, then moves he invented, then finally the Director changed pace, and began doing moves that no human being  alive can possibly do. ‘

“Now you understand, Micheal.” the Director’s voice BOOMED. 

Micheal almost blew across the room but he gripped the edge of the stage, pulled himself up, and began his counter dance.  Elegant, effortless, fallen but once divine. 

The Director writhed in pain as fire burst from his eyes and mouth. 

First  his appearance begins to fade. Then he lost his voice. It hurt. But the director tried to match the speed and precision of Micheal Jackson. He saw great dancers in ancient Persia fall. He taught ballet to the Russians. But no matter what he did, he could not produce the energy required to lift his body. He got tired with each motion. He began slipping up, while Micheal kept inventing new flawless moves. 

“No, Micheal… what have you done to me?” 

Micheal looked into the Director’s eyes. He saw wet mirrors wide with terror. He kept dancing. The Director’s bones turned to dust within his outfit. 

The police arrived. Cops rushed into the mansion. They crashed down doors,  they broke through windows, they repelled down the ceiling with ropes. 

The walls of the room fall apart. The ceiling collapsed. Micheal held onto the Director. The Director had once seen Micheal as someone soft, malleable, manageable. Now he saw a fierceness, dark side, when he saw it come to life, he wished he had never entered the heart and soul of Micheal Jackson. 

Micheal advanced, and for the first time the Director stepped back, stripped of control. Micheal kept doing the same move. Forward step. Unleashed. Unstoppable. Micheal no longer listened. The Director recoiled. Micheal danced through him. 

“I created you!” the Director snarled, his lungs filling with fluid. “How could you do this?” 

 Micheal took him by the collar. Tears of blood dripped own his cheek. Both of them faded into shadow and smoke. The cops frantically searched all 54 rooms. When they finally reached the forbidden  room, they witnessed the final shadow of Micheal Jackson, his features opaque, his surgeries coming undone, but he still danced with elegance and grace. As divine in motion as he ever was. He was still Micheal. Then he vanished.