The Cinema - A Michael Jackson Fanfic

Three

'Michael Jackson?' I whispered, barely audible. In 10 seconds of shocked silence, I stood still, my mouth gawping. My first thought was that he was an impersonator, not the real deal. But he had to be! I saw on the local paper only yesterday that he was here in this part of London, practising for some shows or something. It was headline news but I didn't pay much attention. It would make so much sense for it to be him. I wasn't like one of those fangirls that screamed, but I did drop my broom. In fact, I didn't care for him much, but seeing him of all people took me by surprise. What startled me even more was that he was clearly crying or at least disturbed by something. Our eyes locked in that moment, and the fear that his gaze held was truly intense. He quickly glanced away, looking as if he needed to get out of the situation all together, like anxiety was overwhelming him. He wiped a tear and moved his eyes towards his lap, his head almost hanging down in shame. I couldn't believe Michael Jackson was here, in this cinema, where I worked? The biggest singer of the decade just happened to be in here, and I hadn't even noticed? I should pay more attention to detail.

Snapping back into reality, I remembered my situation. I couldn't quite believe he was really sitting there. Abandoning my rubbish bag, I edged even closer and sat on a step below him. He was clearly uncomfortable with me making this action but was too polite to say anything.

'Are you...ok?' I stupidly asked. Of course he wasn't ok! Why would he be crying in a run down cinema in London if he was ok? Once again he blanked me, almost as if he was pretending I wasn't there. I was a very intolerant person and began to lose my patience slightly. I was trying to be nice, and he was ignoring me like I was scum? I guess it's true what the say about all these celebrities, fame really does get to their heads.

'Why did you frighten me like that earlier? I can curse as much as I like thank you very much' I remarked, frantically searching to spark off conversation. Just when I thought he was going to ignore me again, he turned his head to face mine as he wiped more tears away.

'Because I don't like it when people curse. It's just a thing I have' he finally replied. His voice wasn't even as high as everyone made out, although it was very shaky, like he was extremely upset. Forgetting his emotions, the fiery side of me slipped out.

'Ok. Is it also a thing of yours to just go around ignoring people and scaring them? That's really rude.'

'Look, I'm just shy, ok? I came here for a place to relax alone, would you please stop interrogating me?' He pleaded. For the first time in our encounter, I pitied him. He intrigued me.

'What's the matter?' I persisted, my nosiness making yet another appearance.

'I can't talk about it. I'm not allowed' he replied, breaking eye contact once again. I watched him for a long time, studying his moves. There was something about him that was different to what you saw on the papers.

'Fine. Sorry I bothered you. I hope you're feeling better soon' I sighed. Just as I went to get up, he grabbed my hand and spun me back. This took me aback and I jumped, those piercing watery eyes transfixed on me once again. I frowned down at this hand before he interrupted my look.

'You can't tell anyone about this. You can't tell anyone you saw me here. I need you to promise me that you will keep this between us' he commanded, becoming very authoritative real quick. Once again, this remark annoyed me slightly. I hate being told what to do. I swiftly removed my hand from his clasp.

'And why should I keep quiet?' I sarcastically demanded, knowing that if I told the press his exact location, I'd be paid a lot for a start. It was 1988 for god's sake - everyone wanted to know about Michael friggen Jackson.

'Because I'm the king of pop' he chuckled, clearly proud of his believed superiority. He hadn't realised that I couldn't care less if he was the king of pop or the peasant of jazz, I wasn't amused by his arrogance. Realising this, he stopped smiling and returned to his sad demeanour, something I instantly felt bad about. 'I'm kidding. But you do need to keep this quiet' he added.

'I'm not dumb, I get it. I hope I get something out of saving your ass that's bigger than the pay check I would have got from the press' I lightly sneered before picking up my rubbish bag and broom, heading towards the door. Just as it swung shut behind me, I heard a voice echo out.

'Trust me...you will!' I rolled my eyes as I heard this and headed back to the storage cupboard. If he was going to give me tickets to his fake ass show, I was not down for that. In fact, he didn't even get my name, so how would he ever repay me? I really don't know why I bothered.

Returning my equipment, I set out of the cinema and took a brisk walk to the car park opposite where my vehicle was waiting for me. Climbing in, I slammed my head against the back of the head rest and stayed there for a minute. I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Closing my eyes, all I could see in my head was that legendary Motown 25 move he did about what, 5, 6 years ago? Something like that. After my moment of astonishment, I opened my eyes and set off home, and all I could hear in my head was the 'Billie Jean' riff looping over and over as I tried to figure out what his last words meant. What an extraordinary night.