𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

―𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆⁴, 𝐈𝐈

interlude⁴, II | MAKE IT WITH YOU

❝In every little thing only time will tell,
but you believe the things that I do.
And we'll see it through.❞

●

MID-DECEMBER 1983.

Navigating the airport was always a pain. Michael had spent years of his life doing it, sidestepping hefty groups of fans, sneaking in back doors, staying put in dark hallways, shifting nervously from foot to foot as gruff, fast-paced talking filled the air around him.

Security's efforts were never without fault. People would discover him and his brothers and come running, ramming against their shoulders, frantically screaming their names, staring at them with glassy, awed-filled eyes. These things never lasted long enough to present any true physical danger (at least not all the time) but there was never a day that went by where it didn't leave a lasting impression.

What he didn't know was that there would be a time when he would prefer that brand of chaos over the one he had now.

"Thriller" had made being Michael Jackson go from manageable, if not slightly bearable, to nearly impossible. If success was fire and brimstone then every journey into the public was like preparing for battle. No amount of planning or intricate forethought was enough to outsmart the league of admirers he accumulated overnight. Preparing for travel or something as basic as a trip to the store was akin to sitting around the war table. Bill, head honcho since Michael's early teens, had taken on more than imaginable, strategizing their next move nearly as much (and as well) as a publicist.

This weekend's goal was to transport the face of the biggest album known to man from Los Angeles, California to Greenwich, Connecticut in one piece.

Bill's method of choice this month? Flat-out subterfuge. According to "unnamed sources", early Friday morning, Michael Jackson would be arriving at Westchester County Airport, just outside of White Plains, NY. Westchester County was a small airport with a whopping four departures and landings every thirty minutes, a drop in the bucket compared to JFK or LaGuardia's endless Jumbotron of flights. It was the perfect place for a larger-than-life entertainer looking to avoid massive crowds of devoted followers and zealots who were itching for a front-page article on the habits of America's new boy wonder.

Within hours, a sea of people had amassed around the airport's perimeter. As airport police wrestled with more than they could handle, the moon charted a slow course across Westchester County, the perfect marker for the event taking place more than thirty minutes away: Michael Joe Jackson, the world's biggest prodigy, being hastened through LaGuardia airport like a pallet of smuggled goods.

A few women caught wind of him just steps away from the back exit and nearly trampled two security guards as they fought for his attention. After that significant brush with death and numerous apologies from Michael, security split into groups. The first to make it seem as if Mr. Jackson was still at the airport and the second to whisk him away under the cover of darkness.

"I might be getting too old for this." Those were Bill's first words since their narrow escape. Another explicit, more spirited remark had accompanied it, but the sound of Michael's black bubble coat as he sank into the backseat of the faceless black van had drowned it out. He knew Bill was joking but the painful twisting in his gut made him inclined to agree.

Through the rearview mirror, Bill's eyes darted between him and the other black vans following from behind.

"We're going to take the scenic route. Can't go the way we used to in the chance folks are trailing us. Get comfortable."