The Beautiful Katastrophe

(VI) The Creative Genius

   Six Months Later-April, 1983

Six months is more than enough time to fall for someone. Maybe not in love but fall into the habit of always wanting more. But it's worse when you've fallen for someone you know is hard to reach.

I was let into the house by a stranger I'd probably never know. "He's upstairs in his bedroom; first door on your left as you make your way up the stairs." Then the nameless woman left me to venture through Michael's family home.

As I made my way higher into the incredibly large house, the air was becoming increasingly humid. Despite its large size, and abundant amount of family photos and trinkets and things, the eerie silence alone made it feel less like a home. But only a pretty house.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I turned left and walked up to the first door I saw. Softly, my knuckles tapped against the painted wooden door. The air was so stiff, I began to grow impatient rather quickly and I detected no movement from the other side of the door.

I twisted the knob, slowly, just to see if it was unlocked. It was. "Michael?" As if it was some dire emergency, Michael had called me back at my Los Angeles apartment in a panic. He said he needed me right away.

It was my first time in that house. And I was afraid I intruded the wrong bedroom. But as my eyes scoped the room, it was so clear it was Michael's. The organized clutter; The break in the rug in the corner of the room that laid wooden panels; The shiny glove hanging lifelessly off the dresser; The posters of Brooke Shields stuck to the wall...

"Michael?" I called again, letting the door shut behind me. "Michael? I know you're here." I looked at the closed bathroom door.

"I'm in here," I heard him say from behind it.

"Are you decent?" I asked with one eye closed and the other twitching as I barely wanted it opened. Through my blurred vision, I saw he was leaning over the sink, fully clothed, so I opened my eyes and took a good look at him. "What's wrong?" Over the phone, I never got an answer to the question. He demanded I'd just 'come.'

Michael's chest rose steadily with deep breaths accompanying his exhales. "It's so frustrating. Not being in control of this. I have no control. I have no power. No real decision to make. It's taking over me and I don't know how to handle this."

A few things came to mind as to what he could be talking about. His album sales? No. They were far beyond his expectations. His music in general? No. He was already creating new things.

I knew what the real issue was and I wasn't ready to confront it. I loved when he'd call me to talk casual, to talk of something non-business related. It probably was just an adverse reaction to me falling for him.

I always loved when he would call to say 'hey guess what?' Or to ask my opinion on something that had nothing to do with his appearance. But I couldn't forget that this is what he hired me for—to paint his mask every day.