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Authors: Anson Cameron
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Instead of going to the Grammys and performing for the Sultan of Brunei, heâs on the run, disguising himself as a mortgagee. The shop guy bags his white gloves and his Little Drummer Boy braided jacket and his stovepipe trousers and white socks and sparkling black patent leather shoes. Out on the street Marcel keeps catching his reflection in shopfronts. Oh God, this weekend golfer is me.
Everyone sees through his disguise. Even those who donât recognise Michael Jackson have a creeping intuition they are in the presence of a sicko, a clerk who has imprisoned a girl in his cellar.
In his flat that night Marcel changes back into Michaelâs clothes and puts on Thriller . âWanna Be Starting Somethingâ, âBillie Jeanâ, âBeat Itâ. He scoots around his Naugahyde divan, sliding, posing, miming. But the music has changed. He stops and sits on the sofa. He has abandoned Michael in his darkest hour. Michael ⦠innocent, innocent, innocent. Michael, who Iâve always loved. The music sounds like a rebuke, the ghostly voice of a deceived lover. He goes to the hi-fi and lifts the needle off Thriller for the last time.
Now that Michael is accused of misdeeds with lads, Marcelâs professional appearances end. Nobody wants a registered and officially recognised Michael Jackson look-alike any more. No one wants to hire a Michael Jackson in any capacity. Not to deliver pizzas. Not to sweep streets. Marcel becomes desperately short of money. Southeast Water send red invoices. Eastern Gas call after 8 pm.
One night some months before, while Marcel and Turton were enjoying a limoncello in a nightclub called Handgun, a guy laid five hundred-dollar bills on the bar in front of Marcel. Fanned them out like a straight flush. Marcel didnât know what that money meant at first. He blinked at it and pouted at the guy, asking. When the guy licked his lips Marcel turned away, flustered. The guy laughed, picked up his money and left.
Neither Marcel nor Turton spoke of it then. But now, hungry, rent due, the minions of Eastern Gas calling daily, Marcel remembers those five bills. Now he knows what that money means. He goes back to Handgun and sits at the bar. Suddenly itâs the only money in the world.
He begins selling his hero to men in bars. To men who stroll down Fitzroy Street. Men who skip sideways out of the streetlight and drop, bent-backed and furtive, eyes darting, cruising to assuage an appetite they so despise that they attack it with the ferocity of rape and, when itâs done, toss money onto the dirt as if the other party in this transaction bears all the weight of its indignity. Marcel closes his eyes and races his eyeballs around beneath his eyelids, humming a tune.
It pays well, but it is an unforgivable treachery, an impossible insult to Michael, and it sends Marcel spiralling into fits of depression every time he commits it. One night in Catani Gardens he sells himself to a Greek restaurateur who gives off airs of cologne and cuisine and whose lips have a latticeworkof spittle joining them as he snarls snatches of Thriller lyrics in his climax. Listening to those verses it is easier for Marcel to believe Michael innocent of the crimes of which he is accused than to believe himself innocent of them.
Afterwards, he goes home and drinks a bottle of Stolichnaya and eats a handful of Panadol. He wakes the next day to the sound of the evening peak hour, pain flaring like aurora in his head. He showers three times before the smell of that restaurateur is off him. Cries in the shower each time, then prays to a poster of Michael for forgiveness.
In the end Turton insists on finishing Marcelâs portrait, though there is no client for it now. He has him sit for hours, imploring him to remain perfectly still and to hold the broad, enigmatic smile they have chosen, even when Marcel complains his back is killing him and his cheek muscles are screaming with the effort. He
Everyone sees through his disguise. Even those who donât recognise Michael Jackson have a creeping intuition they are in the presence of a sicko, a clerk who has imprisoned a girl in his cellar.
In his flat that night Marcel changes back into Michaelâs clothes and puts on Thriller . âWanna Be Starting Somethingâ, âBillie Jeanâ, âBeat Itâ. He scoots around his Naugahyde divan, sliding, posing, miming. But the music has changed. He stops and sits on the sofa. He has abandoned Michael in his darkest hour. Michael ⦠innocent, innocent, innocent. Michael, who Iâve always loved. The music sounds like a rebuke, the ghostly voice of a deceived lover. He goes to the hi-fi and lifts the needle off Thriller for the last time.
Now that Michael is accused of misdeeds with lads, Marcelâs professional appearances end. Nobody wants a registered and officially recognised Michael Jackson look-alike any more. No one wants to hire a Michael Jackson in any capacity. Not to deliver pizzas. Not to sweep streets. Marcel becomes desperately short of money. Southeast Water send red invoices. Eastern Gas call after 8 pm.
One night some months before, while Marcel and Turton were enjoying a limoncello in a nightclub called Handgun, a guy laid five hundred-dollar bills on the bar in front of Marcel. Fanned them out like a straight flush. Marcel didnât know what that money meant at first. He blinked at it and pouted at the guy, asking. When the guy licked his lips Marcel turned away, flustered. The guy laughed, picked up his money and left.
Neither Marcel nor Turton spoke of it then. But now, hungry, rent due, the minions of Eastern Gas calling daily, Marcel remembers those five bills. Now he knows what that money means. He goes back to Handgun and sits at the bar. Suddenly itâs the only money in the world.
He begins selling his hero to men in bars. To men who stroll down Fitzroy Street. Men who skip sideways out of the streetlight and drop, bent-backed and furtive, eyes darting, cruising to assuage an appetite they so despise that they attack it with the ferocity of rape and, when itâs done, toss money onto the dirt as if the other party in this transaction bears all the weight of its indignity. Marcel closes his eyes and races his eyeballs around beneath his eyelids, humming a tune.
It pays well, but it is an unforgivable treachery, an impossible insult to Michael, and it sends Marcel spiralling into fits of depression every time he commits it. One night in Catani Gardens he sells himself to a Greek restaurateur who gives off airs of cologne and cuisine and whose lips have a latticeworkof spittle joining them as he snarls snatches of Thriller lyrics in his climax. Listening to those verses it is easier for Marcel to believe Michael innocent of the crimes of which he is accused than to believe himself innocent of them.
Afterwards, he goes home and drinks a bottle of Stolichnaya and eats a handful of Panadol. He wakes the next day to the sound of the evening peak hour, pain flaring like aurora in his head. He showers three times before the smell of that restaurateur is off him. Cries in the shower each time, then prays to a poster of Michael for forgiveness.
In the end Turton insists on finishing Marcelâs portrait, though there is no client for it now. He has him sit for hours, imploring him to remain perfectly still and to hold the broad, enigmatic smile they have chosen, even when Marcel complains his back is killing him and his cheek muscles are screaming with the effort. He
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