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I was working at the register when a man in a fire-engine red button down, black pants and black fedora walked in the store’s front door. It was Michael Jackson. I remember taking 'Thriller' home in 1982, and I was just starting to figure out who I was. It was a few years later when everything started making sense to me and I realized that I was a lesbian.
In 1991, I was 17 years old and working part-time at a baseball card/comic book shop in West L.A. It was a typical Friday afternoon, business was brisk and I was working at the register when a man in a fire-engine red button down, black pants and black fedora walked in the store’s front door. It was Michael Jackson.
I immediately called one of my long-time friends and co-workers who lived around the corner and who worshiped the King of Pop. Then told my manager who had just walked in. Together, we greeted him and began fielding questions about the store’s inventory.
He entered the store with someone who appeared to be a security guard/assistant, and started pointing at some of the large comic book-themed display items, inquiring about at a 3-foot-tall Captain America cardboard cutout and asking about the price. None of the items had been for sale and nobody had ever inquired about them in my three years of working there.
He bought four of the displays. And while my co-workers climbed ladders to break down the displays, my job was to serve as a buffer between customers seeking autographs and assist him with his other purchases. It was a few days after he lent his voice to Fox’s The Simpsons, and the store carried a plethora of toys from the animated show. A few regular customers approached me, toys in hand, and asked if I thought he’d sign.
My manager had instructed me to sort of stand guard, answer all of his questions and make sure he had everything he needed. I’d introduced myself and began making conversation. I inquired if he’d be kind enough to sign a few Simpsons toys for regular customers who were fans of his — and the show. He did. He signed anything and everything and did so very graciously.
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The whole experience was incredibly surreal. Between signing autographs, Jackson, who died Thursday in Los Angeles at the age of 50, picked up a music magazine with Guns ’N’ Roses’ Slash on the cover. The iconic video for Jackson’s “Black or White” featuring the guitar legend had just had its world premiere after The Simpsons episode to which he lent his voice.
I was a huge GnR fan in ’91 and was having trouble letting go of my favorite ’80s music — to this day still regularly listen to “Thriller” and anything from Duran Duran more than most people my age. Thriller was, after all, the very first album I bought. OK, my grandmother bought it for me at Kmart, but still, it was my first record.
And here I was, standing guard over the King of Pop and making conversation about Slash, talking about The Simpsons, asking him to sign autographs for customers. It was insane. At the time, my heart had never raced as fast as it did at that very moment.
Then, a few minutes later, my childhood friend exuberantly came through the store’s back door, saw that Jackson was still hanging around the shop and — I’ll never forget this — Moonwalked right past him. Jackson chuckled and quickly said, “That was pretty good.” My friend got an autograph. Then almost wet himself from excitement.
His visit didn’t last much longer after that. I rang up Jackson’s purchases at the counter as my manager carefully went over everything he’d bought. I ran his credit card and paused while waiting for the approval to come through on the charge machine and stood there, his card in my hand, in awe at the name on it: Michael Jackson. He spent about $1,000 that day. Once the approval came through, I handed him a pen and had him sign two autographs: one on the credit card receipt, the other on a large piece of white cardboard — an autograph for me. He kindly signed both, thanked us for our service and waved as he walked out the front door.
The news of Jackson’s death takes me back to that day. It’s all still so hard to believe that a singer — OK, the singer of my generation — has passed away. I remember taking “Thriller” home in 1982. I’d just begun listening to pop music — my parents raised me on Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow and country — and I was just starting to figure out who I was.
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Unlike most girls, I loved sports, hated wearing clothing “that didn’t have legs,” as I used to say, and hung out with the boys. “P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)” made me curious. I used to wonder what he meant. It was a few years later when everything started making sense to me and I realized that I was a lesbian.
Today, after learning of his death, I played one of my favorite MJ songs, “Man in the Mirror,” and wondered if he knew the effect those lyrics must have on so many people. It’s one of the songs I still consider part of my life’s soundtrack. I’d loved that song since it first came out in 1988 and a few years later, when it was time for me to come out, I began to understand what it was about the lyrics that captivated me.
The song helped me realize later that everything starts from the inside; to look in the mirror and see — and love — what’s reflected back made huge a difference to me. As he said it, “No message could have been any clearer.”
