1982 – California
KIM
Too much fun. I seated behind a synthesizer or grand piano and just let loose. Wardrobe employees even gifted me with a jacket that instantly reminded me of Morris Day. The animal print blazer fit like a glove. I posed in a tucked black blouse and snug but appropriate dark slacks. I wasn't a full-blown sex symbol, but never fit brands of those prude musicians, either. I blurred titles. My entire duration in front of the cameras wouldn't even feel like a boring photoshoot.
I'd taken headshots before, but nothing else compared to this day. Dick Zimmerman could've transformed this entire process into archived footage for the future. If anything, I entertained more than posed that morning. Marketing Vice President Larry and CEO Walter from Epic Records once again cornered near the entrance. Bodyguards also watched the entire premises. A Zapp record warbled from every speaker possible. White colored the marble flooring.
By noon, we finished. Those promotional snapshots would emerge for the public weeks from now. I offered Zimmerman one more handshake. Those around us joyfully applauded. I understood given our excitement for the debut project. Even my record details finally ended for good. I'd visit the studio next year once Michael's mania calmed down and release this project by summer. Happiness couldn't even begin to describe my feelings at this point.
Two vehicles parked right outside for Larry, Walter and myself. We all headed back to the studio for lunch. As usual. While not too excitable, I couldn't wait to call up my family from home and spill all kinds of details. My baby sister and recent college student Gail would've loved to know that I voyaged right back to my destination in a limousine anyway.
After ending that wonderful family phone call and meeting a lunchtime traffic jam, my driver finally parked in front of that studio. He then jogged around the vehicle in question and soon open that back door for me. Just like a gentleman. I humbly acknowledged that employee and he tipped his hat in a cliché manner. I simply laughed to myself.
Before long, two bodyguards walked on either side of me. I'd felt so compelled by my outfit this morning that Zimmerman and clothing personnel allowed me to keep the ensemble. I just felt so bad in a good way. Even my strut improved as I walked in these pumps.
When I finally turned the corner and walked to lunch, heads turned. Michael almost dropped his jaw across the room. Out of all the men in this room, he knew better than to stare like that. Jackson knew exactly what a woman looked like. I was no different. As soon as I cleared my throat, everyone minded business once more. Even Michael turned back to face the salad platter.
"Why did you stare at me like that?" I soon crept behind and nudged Michael on the shoulder. He almost jumped back. I couldn't help giggling for a moment. Michael then rolled his eyes, but smiled. At least this man could take jokes in one way or another. I calmed down long enough to finally gather my own meal piece by piece.
Michael just turned around and found a table, never speaking to answer. I didn't know what to think of his response, but we sat together anyhow. Jackson probably didn't mind my company. At least he hadn't refused. I sprinkled my food with pepper before facing him again. In that moment, Michael faced me with sensitive brown eyes. Anything could've happened. Maybe I did something wrong earlier. While cliché, possibilities were seemingly endless.
"What's wrong?" I gently questioned him. Seconds later, Michael wiped away the Ranch dressing from his lips and concentrated on me. My heart almost dropped. Voices resumed chatting around us. Neither of us seemed to even care right now. I could only imagine what raced through his mind now.
"Could I have your number?" Michael lowered his voice out of nowhere. Everything that raced in my mind completely stopped. I clanked my fork right back onto the plate. Jackson never blinked. In a cliché manner, time froze. We were the only people eating in this otherwise packed room.
Of course, I wasn't in love right now, but damn. Michael Jackson switched from an overall humble soul to this bold man. Did Michael bring out his stage persona just to flirt with me? Once again, I didn't even know what to think. To avoid conversation for a moment, I took sip of water.
"Maybe. Keep your promise about visiting the club next weekend and maybe it'll happen. Even though I'm a fan, I don't care if you are Michael Jackson. Never take without giving, boy." I teased right back and even rolled my neck at him. Michael lifted one of his eyebrow in response to my sassiness. I wouldn't hold back if Jackson challenged me again. Unlike other women, I loved playing hard to get.
"As promised, called your boss last night, girl. And you better visit me on Friday night. Deal?" Michael set his plate in a different corner, learned across from the table, and rubbed both hands together. As if he'd planned an evil scheme before I arrived this afternoon. His voice dropped again. I stayed cool. He wasn't slick at all.
"Deal." Not even bound to collapse, I titled my greased and curly hairstyle. A sly grin crept onto my face in response to Jackson. If tabloids wanted proof that Michael flirted with women and not men, this moment would operate as the perfect evidence.
I just knew.
