By Becky Tsang
He woke up at 6 in the morning, softly padded across the heavy beige carpet to the enormous gilded bathroom connected to his shadowed, brocaded bedroom, and brushed his teeth. The toothpaste foam dribbled down his fingers and crept towards the sleeve of his imported silk pajama shirt, and as a tiny squeal escaped his lips, he quickly wiped it with a plush hand towel monogrammed with the letters MJ before it blemished the clean material. Taking care not to splash water, he rinsed his mouth out and spat delicately.
Setting aside his toothbrush, he dispensed a light foam of rose scented face soap. Slowly and methodologically he massaged his face. After two minutes (a timer on the counter alerted him), he squeezed a dime's worth of an exfoliating scrub out of a tube onto his palm and continued his circular motions for another 2 minutes. Again he rinsed, careful to keep the counters and his clothes dry.
When he finished, he reached opened the medicine cabinet behind the side mirror, and took out a small silver rubber lined box. He took out his nose, and put it on.
It wasn't until 11 in the morning that he was ready-it took him another hour for a cosmetician to apply his foundation, pencil in his eyebrows, and line his eyes. Then another hour for his stylist to carefully wave his deep black strands. Dressing was a whole other matter, requiring 5 people. The entire process included several naps on his part, random, sporadic naps whenever he began to tire.
Even though the appointment was at 11 for early lunch, he waited 15 minutes in his bedroom, passing the time by watching his old 80s music videos and occasionally twitching in tune. At 11:15, when he felt he had kept his guest waiting long enough and was appropriately late, he opened the double doors to his bedroom, and glided towards the private dining area. His long, loose silk robe fluttered silently behind him.
The reporter sat alone facing the entrance to the room at the oval, wood carved dining table. Her look was of reluctant incredulity, as she took in his appearance: his red satin shirt clung to his thin frame, and the black leather snakeskin pants hugged his hips and tapered to his ankles. He wore thin black ballet-like flats, and a black and red flowered robe draped across his narrow shoulders. His hair glistened with pomade, and a solitary curl was placed carefully over his forehead. His eyes, large and alert, were warm, but with a child-like quality. Heavily decorated in velvet and heavy brocaded drapes, the room seemed to imitate him; both were clearly trying too hard.
The reporter stood up, and offered her hand, smiling slightly. "Camryn Davis. It's very kind of you to meet with me here in your home."
He smiled back at her, a small, unsure-but-wanting-to-be-sure smile. "Oh, it's all my pleasure," he responded softy in his famous, high pitched lilt.
He sat down perpendicular to Camryn and gestured for her to sit. Immediately, a small horde or servants came rushing in and almost silently began setting plates and silverware gently on the table. Without a pause, dishes topped with silver covers were laid down. As quickly as they came, they were out the door, and the room became thick with the warm, muffled air of the room.
He smiled again at her, shyly at first, but then wider. He slowly unfolded his linen napkin in his lap, uncovered his plate, and took a dainty bite of the salad before him. Camryn took off the dish cover, but made no move to eat. He swallowed completely, and said brightly, "Today's beautiful, isn't it?"
As he waited for her response, he reached over and lifted the cover off of the soup tureen and sniffed at the wafting plumes of steam. Fascinated how he seemed to ignore the purpose of their meeting, Camryn observed him as he shut his eyes, melodramatically moved his head back and forth and smacked his lips.
"Mmmm. Tomato basil roasted garlic baby vegetable soup is my favorite," he sighed, with his eyes still closed. Camryn leaned closer. What was going on here? His skin had taken on a strange, translucent color, almost slick looking. At first it had simply looked like steam from the soup, or perspiration, but she soon realized that his skin had actually taken on a slippery quality, as if it were melting. Her eyes widened with horror and she resisted the impulse to reach out and kneed his skin. He snapped his fingers, and a servant from the shadows of the room appeared. He ladled two bowls out and placed one in front of both of them. Suddenly he turned to face her, and grinned happily.
"No questions?"
Camryn blinked, and looked down at her notepad. "Uh umm" she stuttered, "Can you tell me more about your next career moves?" It was one of those obligatory questions she was required to ask, but at the moment she was so engrossed with his skin's apparent change from solid to liquid form to care much for his answer.
At this, his eyes brightened and he began gesticulating widely. "I'm absolutely thrilled for the coming album-it's completely different from anything anyone's ever heard before"
Apparently finished with his salad, he began to sip his soup while jabbering on and on about the new and unique artistic components of his projects. Soon, Camryn's attention was reduced to infrequent nods and "uh huh"s as she stared at his nose. To eat his soup, he did not move his hand at all, opting instead to bring his face to the spoon. Occasionally, the tip of his nose came frighteningly close to the steaming broth. As she watched him bob his head down to the liquid, in her mind the soup became bubbling lava and the tip of his nose a screaming creature crying for help. She could almost see it twitch with fear every time he took a sip.
"Don't you like the soup?"
Camryn jolted in her seat, and nodded enthusiastically, quickly scooping mouthfuls of the broth one after another. "It's delicious." She kept watching him out of the corner of her eyes, and he resumed talking, satisfied with her renewed attention to her food. Suddenly he began giggling abruptly, and it took her several moments to realize he was laughing at his own joke. Camryn half heartedly made an attempt to laugh as well, embarrassed for the both of them. His skin was still the strange watery, milky quality that reminded her of mucous.
"Ahh, ahhh," he wheezed, and before he could cover his mouth and nose with his hands, he let out an enormous wet sneeze. At that exact same moment, the small tip of his nose popped off with-in Camryn's mind-a little shriek, landing in his soup. Her hand immediately flew up to her mouth as she gasped, horrified, and stared at him. A pink bit of exposed flesh the size of a dime blunted the end of his nose, and she could see the miniscule veins crisscrossing the whole surface.
He stopped giggling, disturbed at her sudden revulsion. Snorting prissily,- Camryn shuddered at the nose's action - he said, "Excuse me, but is there something offensive about a little sneeze?"
When she didn't recover from her shock fast enough to respond, he stiffened and added, "Don't you have any more questions? I have quite a busy day."
Camryn could see that he was offended by her reaction, and she almost felt bad for him. However, she was still stunned, and couldn't seem to make her mouth move-until she noticed that he had a spoonful of soup in his hand with a piece of flesh colored material jutting up from the liquid, and was dipping his head again to take a sip. She flew at him, shoving his head back, and grabbing the soft, pliable bit of pale prosthetic cartilage, she thrust it victoriously in the air at him. He stared open mouthed at her, and she reached over and squished it back on his nose. Sitting back down, strangely triumphant, she flipped close her notebook and said as calmly as she could, "Mr. Jackson, thank you for the interview. I know everything I wanted to know."