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"George Hargrave," I said, shaking his hand. "As we discussed, Mr. Jackson would love to come see the show." He paused for several seconds, looking me straight in the eyes. "Michael Jackson is coming?" he asked skeptically. "Well, if you'll have him," I said. He was clearly suspicious, so I talked quickly, redirecting the conversation. "We have a limo for the evening, of course, and I was wondering if you have a back door Mr. Jackson could come in?" (This was probably not the first time a man was asked if he had a back door Mr. Jackson could come in.) The event producer sized me up once more. "We do have a service entrance," he said slowly. "It leads up to a private balcony area that we could section off for your party." "That would be excellent," I said, quietly relieved. "There will probably be eight to ten of us." "Okay. Would you like to come backstage with me?" he asked, leading the way into the ornate concert ballroom. I followed him, nervous as hell. That was a close call, but I thought I had sold it. He wanted to believe. We all want to believe. That is why people fall for these pranks: who doesn't want to meet Michael Jackson? We walked up to the balcony, looking down into the gold-encrusted ballroom. The place was packed. The mayor of Boston was there, along with every prominent African-American in the city. I couldn't believe our luck: Michael Jackson was about to appear before a huge audience of wealthy R&B fans.  "We could close off this balcony for you," said the coordinator, pointing to a large curtain that could be pulled down to give us private seating. "That would be excellent," I said. We discussed the details, then walked down the stairwell to an unmarked metal door that led outside. "His limo could park out here. He'd come in this service entrance, then walk down this hallway to the balcony." He pointed down the hallway, where several security guards watched us from their permanent security station. We'd have to walk directly past them. "Fine," I said, quietly soiling my pants. "This will be just fine." WHATEVER HAPPENS  For Michael Jackson 2.0, we used Gerson, the Latino man who had played Hugo's nanny. That meant Hugo, our little person, would be able to enjoy the concert without the blanket on his head. Poor guy hadn't seen daylight in two hours.As we drove up to the Fairmont Copley Plaza hotel, my mind was racing. My heart was racing. The two organs were side-by-side in the final lap of the Daytona 500, with my liver and spleen cheering from the sidelines. I looked over at Gerson, who was wearing khakis and an Ace Hardware dust mask. I looked down at my suit and shoes, still spattered with vomit. There was no way we were going to pull this off. "All right, everyone," I said, "I have absolute confidence we will pull this off."
I got out of the limo, and ushered the team through the service entrance. I pretended to be talking on my headset as we whisked past the security guards. Hotel employees were lined up in the service hallway, especially younger women, wanting to catch a glimpse of Michael Jackson. The event producer and the hotel manager were waiting to escort us up the stairs to Mr. Jackson's private balcony. I looked back. The crew was still following behind, Moses filming with his hidden camera. The concert had started, and the music grew almost deafeningly loud as we approached the balcony seating area. It was dark and noisy, which was perfect. It was like a strip club with a $10,000 cover. "CAN WE GET YOU ANYTHING?" asked the hotel manager as the gang took their seats at our private table. "A BOWL OF NUTS," I said, without hesitation. I figured this was the perfect request, since Michael Jackson is nuts. They disappeared, and a few minutes later, a waitress came back up with an enormous pile of gourmet nuts in an expensive silver bowl. I swear, being a celebrity is the easiest fucking job in the world.  The show was fantastic. I tried to allow myself a few minutes to enjoy it, but my mind was flying. I was playing elaborate mental games of speed chess, trying to weigh our next move. The good news was that Gerson was perfectly playing the part of Michael Jackson, nodding his head to the music and even clapping along. The concert organizers kept visiting the balcony to get a glimpse of the reclusive pop star, and I did my best to keep them far away from the table, yelling small talk over the music.  SO THIS IS A CHARITY EVENT?" I asked the tall, middle-aged woman in charge of fundraising."YES!" she hollered. "COULD MR. JACKSON MAKE A DONATION?" I asked, immediately regretting the question. "SURE!" she said, her eyes lighting up. "LET ME GO GET YOU A DONATION FORM." She paused uncertainly. "HOW WOULD HE LIKE TO PAY FOR THIS? YOU TELL ME." "WELL," I said, thinking quickly, "WOULD YOU TAKE A CREDIT CARD?"  SMOOTH CRIMINAL What the hell, I said to myself a few minutes later, as Gerson forged Michael Jackson's signature to the form. If I'm going to prank a charity, I better give generously to the cause. "HE'S SORRY IT CAN'T BE MORE," I told the event organizer, giving her the donation form and Michael's credit card. "HE'S HAD SOME FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES LATELY." She nodded, looking down at the number. "WE APPRECIATE IT!" "CAN WE PAY YOU FOR THE SEATS HERE?" I asked. "THE NUTS?" "NO, NO," she said. "IT WAS OUR PLEASURE."  Gladys Knight (no Pips) played her last song, and the house lights went up. It was time to make our move. "Stand up, and walk near the balcony," I said to Gerson over thunderous applause. "It's time for your photo op." He stood up, and over the applause for Gladys Knight, there was just this audible gasp. Flashbulbs began popping toward the balcony. Celebrity news travels fast, and every person in the ballroom had heard that Michael Jackson was in the hizzy. It was glorious. I briefly went downstairs to finish up some business. When I returned a few moments later, I found a young alcoholic reporter from the Boston Herald seated directly across from Gerson. "Excuse me, sir!" I said, adrenaline coursing through my system. "You need to leave. NOW!" "You're not Michael Jackson," the reporter growled, looking directly into Gerson's face, as a hungry lion might size up a hyena. "If you were Michael Jackson, how'd I get this close to you?" Later, I would find out that he simply walked around the curtain, as my crew watched helplessly. "If you do not leave RIGHT NOW," I commanded, "I am going to call the police. GET OUT." I pointed at the curtain, waving the team out the door behind me. "You're not Michael Jackson," he repeated, backing away. Now we had curious guests peering around the curtain. "This is NOT Michael Jackson!" he shouted. He had a point: this was not the King of Pop. It was the King of Poop. The facade was crumbling, and we couldn't sustain the hoax much longer. |
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