Don't Stop Til You Get Enough

Today, the world lost perhaps the finest entertainer we have ever known.

I lost my first love.

Michael Jackson.

As a child, Michael was real to me. He visited me at home, we ate peas at the dinner table together, we danced around the living room--my mom even left him in the car once when we went grocery shopping. It elicited a screechy "Mom! You left Michael in the car!!!" She dutifully turned around, opened the back door, and let Michael out, lest anyone in the parking lot think she was locking a little brother in the car on a hot day.

I remember seeing Michael Jackson moonwalk on TV for the first time, his glitter glove aglow. I remember digging my hand into a bag of popcorn, completely enthralled. My boyfriend was on the teevee! And he floated! The man may go down as the greatest dancer in history.

My brother brought home the 13-minute VHS tape of Thriller, thinking I'd be overjoyed. What I remember is sitting in front of our giant floor TV set (which made that signature ga-thunka, ga-thunka sound when you twisted the dial), hands over my eyes (but still peeking a little), screaming, "That's not my Michael! He wouldn't scare me like that!" Of course, subsequent viewings of the mini-movie thrilled me, like most people, to no end.

I am still the first person on the dance floor when those first bass lines begin to groove on Billie Jean. I unapologetically love We Are the World, Bad, Dangerous, Leave Me Alone. I love him without irony. Throughout his scandals, the disappearance of his face, his strange, sad publicity grabs, I still thought he was one of the most talented people alive.

I feel sad for him. Being the most famous person in the world for at least a decade—a decade of excess, no less—must be lonely. Despite his fame, he always had this melancholy air, this arrested development. Someone worked himself to death, adoring millions, but still feeling fundamentally misunderstood.

The man in the mirrored aviator glasses, military jackets, highwater pants (only he could make those cool), and the glittery glove. The man whose hair caught afire during the filming of a Pepsi commercial. He brought us the bizarre, the spectacular, the sublime. The man who completely overdelivered on his moniker, fulfilled his title as the King of Pop.

His genius made him unreal, untouchable. We stayed home when he launched new worldwide singles. (I particularly remember Black or White.) Everyone was always talking about him the next day, but fame took a toll. He was obviously, seriously mentally ailing. Eventually, we saw less and less of the genius, and more and more of a man in need of help. A sad genius recluse, looking more and more like a freakish wax statue, bankrupted financially and socially.

When I saw TMZ was reporting his cardiac arrest, I thought. It's not possible. It's not real. Then I thought, he'll be OK. Then I thought, uh-oh, number 3.

Tonight, I imagine him walking up the stairs to a great forever, each step alight as his foot touches it, a little further away from us mortal beings.

I don't want to think of it as it is: A mere slip of his former self, he died uneventfully. Like most of us.

Edited to add: After I wrote this, I saw this article at NPR. I wish I had written it.