The Evil B.B. Chow and Other Stories by Steve Almond

Author:Steve Almond
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2005-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

THE IDEA OF MICHAEL JACKSON’S DICK

BRAMBLE WAS TALKING about Michael Jackson again. “What I think he’s done is he’s bleached his dick. He’s tried to turn his dick white.”

“You can’t turn your dick white,” I said.

Bramble poured himself another vodka. “Are you Michael Jackson?” he asked. “If the answer is ‘No, I’m not Michael Jackson,’ then I don’t know why you’re talking about his dick.”

“You’re talking about his dick,” I said.

“Has he even got a dick?” said Delk.

“Oh, he’s got a dick,” Bramble said. “He’s got a dick alright.”

We were on Delk’s porch, watching the sun flame out over our neat little southern city, where we’d come to cash in on the emerging field of Cultural Studies. None of us belonged here. That was totally obvious. But they’d let us in and our department chair, being a southerner, was too polite to do the decent thing and rescind our funding.

Every now and again, an undergraduate would stumble past, hungry for some kind of dope. It was a Friday in spring. They were just waiting for sundown to jump on one another.

“You sound pretty confident,” I said.

“Photos,” Bramble said. “I’ve seen photos.”

“I don’t want to hear about this,” I said.

“Long and thin and pale.” Bramble leered. “Think: albino garter snake.”

“How about if we stop talking about Michael Jackson’s dick?” I said.

Delk started to sing “Beat It” in a pinched falsetto.

But it was no use trying to stop Bramble. He was like weather in that way—broad and incontrovertible.

“Let me tell you boys a little story. When Jacko was about fifteen years old, he went over to Paris for a special appearance. This was after the Jackson 5 had fizzled out, but before the big solo push. A fallow period, if you will. Anyway, he was over there, when is this, like, late seventies, for a benefit, a benefit for the child victims of land mines.”

“Child victims,” Delk said. “Perfect.”

Bramble waved his cigarette.

“They wheeled all these mangled up kids into this grand ballroom to watch Michael do a little lip-synch and dance thing, these kids from, like, Kurdistan and Latvia, bobbing their heads and blinking at all the flashbulbs from the photographers trying to capture the moment for PR purposes. Suddenly, there’s this big commotion at the back of the room. Who should appear but Princess Diana? This is in the early days of the marriage, before the bulimia burned out her throat. She was a huge fan of Jacko. A documented fan. They arranged this backstage meeting, very hush-hush. Michael’s kind of shaken up, though, seeing all those kids. He starts to cry. Diana starts to cry. They start talking about all the pressure they have to deal with, you know, being famous, the fans, the press, and so forth. This is what the super famous talk about. It’s like their shared story, this aggrandized sense of grief, no one understands. Lady Di is smitten. She gets her security detail to smuggle her upstairs to where he’s staying and what happens is, they spend the night together.

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