1984
Rochelle Davis
For the first time, crickets chirped on Michael's end. No upcoming short films. Not even whispers of new music. I couldn't believe it.
Ever since the Victory Tour officially ended for good in Los Angeles, headlines warned that Mike quietly drifted in or out of Brotman Memorial, still treating burns from that Pepsi accident.
Out of precaution as Michael hid from the press, we settled playing phone tag after he received a long term break away from the burn center. At home, Billy Bray or others were around for safety reasons on Havenhurst, but Jackson still earned freedom.
On the other hand, I asked very little from him and respected privacy of course, but Michael rambled once given a chance. So many questions. Though we each worked in show business, my own life intrigued him and I never lived through a fishbowl.
"Flipping through channels bored out my mind." Mike grumbled through our conversation around two in the morning.
"Nothing to watch?" I asked. Meanwhile, he vented and showed off that rare low voice with a slightly croaking Indiana accent.
"Different programs have gossiped about celebrities all day long if you skip past the local shows." Michael told me. He definitely rolled both eyes in person during our phone call.
"That's our world for you. It's Hollywood." I clipped, trying to laugh while still offering the truth. Michael could not control these airwaves like his music-plays on every radio.
"So pointless. Nobody cares for art these days." Michael went on, still venting without anger about his issues with the press.
"I'm sure that a lot more people really care." I said.
"Not enough." Michael scoffed on the other line. I completely understood that frustration now.
"Can't control how people react to entertainment, Mike. That's just how we need to move." I advised, trying to bring in logic.
Just when I believed that Michael would continue this debate, he asked me to watch something on television.
Not even seconds later, I laughed out loud. Another television show caught wind of my recent "visit" to Soul Train.
"Did you really interview Vanity?" Michael sounded both shocked and even annoyed for some odd reason. Questions reached my thoughts.
"Not exactly." I've repeated myself time and time again. Denise had steered our whole "afternoon photo shoot" in that studio hallway. Our memorable pictures or broadcasted footage ran across the television screen. I ended up smiling again.
"Come on!" In show footage, I yelled over the dancing crowd almost immediately after Denise stopped performing "Pretty Mess." Other folks joined in, which explained why voices shouted through Don's post-chat. I'd always remember.
"Is she a friend now?" Michael asked me on the other line. Hee seemed annoyed by my bond with Denise, but I answered proudly.
"Yes!" I smiled, boosting my industry sister. "She's a wonderful person. Don't let the sultry image fool you."
Michael then turned silent on the phone. I kept my mouth shut for a few beats as well. There was no other choice now.
"I'm just worried." Michael admitted. I could only imagine what thought zipped through his mind.
"About what?" Still listening to Mike, I shouldered this landline phone while sitting in my bedroom, lonely pillows and all.
"Are you going to Prince's movie premiere?" Mike asked this question out of nowhere. I never expected that probe, either.
"Of course. Just waiting for the confirmed date." I was beyond ready to go. Outside of awards season, showing that film in Los Angeles would serve as a press gold mine. I'd be foolish to refuse opportunities there, knowing my very profession.
"Make good choices." Mike warned me in the same way my Grandmother surely would've spoken up.
"I will." I told Michael.
"Any word on the guest list? No promises, but I might sneak in too." Mike had chuckled again.
"No one outside the main cast, but I hope to see you there." I whispered, quietly offering my own tibit in one of way or another.
"Check its theater instead, Rochelle. I'm not standing on that carpet." Michael seemed adamant, but I still wanted to keep things light.
"You don't like his theme?" I giggled and mentioned the royal hues that were definitely arranged for Prince's night.
"No. I'm not worried about random colors. If I'm there in public, it'll move the spotlight away from Prince." Michael wanted to support him, not rival him as many ironic headlines wrote to this day.
"Boy, he don't care about the media just as much as you do." I scoffed right back, almost cackling out loud.
"Really?" Mike almost gasped.
"Yep. Prince rarely gives interviews unless everything's planned out. Just like you." I nodded, still offering the truth. "He'll show his face at the premiere and keep moving that night. Watch."
"We'll see." Michael hung up, ending our phone call without quickly fussing to say goodbye right now.
I knew so much better. Right?
YOU ARE READING
The Price of Fame || Prince/MJ
Fanfic"Everyone has story, but what about mine?" - Rochelle Davis
