World
Premiere
Special Excerpt
Carol Denise Mitchell
The Love He Saved
Publisher: CDMbooks.aol.com
A Love Fantasy for the Ages
0-9786258-3-8
“Frankie Mae, after you get out of this car I may not see you up close like this again for a very long time. Please remember this day,” he said, gently lifting my chin to his famous, beautiful face.
“No matter what you hear about me, what you see on TV, or what I shall become, I love you, Frankie Mae. I know it’s kind of soon,” he defended, holding up his famous hand, “but I’m for real.” Not knowing what to say, we shared a long glance at one another. My heart began to beat over my chest as this lovely entertainer leaned slowly down to meet my face with the gift of a well-approached kiss. As I felt the heat of his breath arouse me, I rolled the window down to a flashbulb from the paparazzi. It surprised me how close they could get to a car that was in motion. Soon, I quickly rolled the window all the way up. Michael was not the least bit fazed about the man who had tried to steal a bit of our privacy.
“Sorry. I should have told you about that,” he said, referring to the paparazzi.
“Price of fame?” I asked.
“You got it, kiddo!” he chimed. We laughed heartily again.
I gently placed my lips back up to Michael’s for another dream-filled kiss. And then I kissed him long and passionately for dear life. Though thin, his body was very strong. His lips were full and soft as he defied what people said about his sexuality in the mass media. And, as he kissed me, I felt the insatiable need of a man. I appreciated the beautiful story he gave me about the history of my ugly gold tooth, and all I wanted to do now was please him. The minute I released my mouth from his, the gold tooth fell into my lap. I was so embarrassed that I had not glued it in as I normally do. I didn’t know what to say to him about this. It happened so awkwardly I couldn’t hide it.
Unmoved by the chipped tooth, Michael Jackson pressed his mouth back to mine to let me know he could never get enough of my pure love. He promised to protect me, saying he’d never judge me or even let others judge me. His simplicity and his warm love for the world proved he would never expect me to be perfect, for he loved me just the way I was. Next, he talked as if he had known me my whole life. I was shocked at what came later.
Michael had the driver go all the way up north to San Francisco to Market Street. Hours later, he asked the driver, a man I would come to know well as “Agent,” to stop at a window that presented to the world an old photo of me from the ‘70s. It was the one I had posed for, trying to be a model for just one day after friends ran me away from school in shame over not knowing Michael Jackson’s songs. My hair was in the Farrah Fawcett style (short version). I was laid out in a cute beige sweater with a white pearl placed around my neck. I had tried feverishly to hide the gold tooth. I was indeed successful. The picture was so cute – the photographer had put it in the window years ago, just as he had promised. The red brick store was boarded up completely except for the photo.
When we arrived at the window, Michael asked me to get out of the car. Next, he excitedly raced up to the dusty window with me. Together we were like children as we got our hands dirty clearing away the dust from the large, forgotten storefront window. Michael was just seconds away from verifying the photo was me.
“Is that you?” he asked, waiting for my answer. “Please tell me that’s you,” he begged, pointing to the eighteen-year-old fresh version of me. Tears began to fill my eyes as I remembered all the pain I had been hiding while taking this photo. To tell the truth, I was glad the picture was me. If it had been somebody else, my ass was grass. To imagine him leaving me over a photo that was not me was mind-boggling.
I bowed my head, feeling lucky the picture was me and feeling sad that I had never really graduated from high school. The picture did not belong to a class. The picture was to me a mere fulfillment of lost dreams of pain. I was able to put the gold tooth back together while he wasn’t looking.
“Yes, that is me,” I shyly answered back. I stood in front of the window, cold, rocking side to side, wondering what in the hell was wrong with Michael Jackson for liking me. That picture was black and white. It was ten years old, and to me I looked like somebody’s lost puppy.
“You’re crying?” he asked gently, as he came closer to wipe away my tears.
“I’m okay,” I said, letting him dry my tears.
“I am indeed a lucky man!” he pronounced, lifting my chin gently. “You don’t have to cry.” He placed his other gloved hand on my shoulder. “You remind me a lot of my little sister Janet,” he said happily. I was glad Janet didn’t hear what he said. Janet was beautiful. My God, what was Michael Jackson thinking? Had he lost his mind?
“Does she have a chipped gold tooth?” I asked him.
Michael laughed heartily. “Of course not, Frankie Mae. You are so cute.” He pulled me to his side. “Janet’s my little sister. Your eyes are a soft brown like hers. You’re a little brash. But you look kind of shy like her.”
I smiled at the compliment, thinking Michael had lost his damn mind. I loved it. I loved watching his sister Janet on Good Times and I remembered crying when she played the abused child Penny on the show.
“You have round cheeks and chocolate, beautiful, clear skin like Janet, my mother, and my sister, Rebbie. Frankie Mae, I have been trying to find you ever since the day I first saw that picture of you two years ago. I saw it with one of my brothers and I kept saying to the driver, ‘Stop the car!’
“I looked for who you were, and back then the most I could come up with was your beautiful name, Frankie Mae. I called photographers everywhere. Nobody could tell me who you were or where you lived. I did everything but put out a PSA to find you,” he declared in the softest, sweetest voice I had ever heard.
We were back in the car now. His driver nodded his head up and down in assent, while I marveled at how this innocent event had drawn in a huge crowd. Michael, dressed in a red and gold fedora, wearing a beautiful black leather vest and pants to match, ignored the crowd this time. He began talking to me as if nobody was there. I could feel the heat of the people shouting his name.
“Hey, it’s Michael Jackson, everybody. It’s him, live!” a person shouted. As the crowd began to swell, Michael continued talking to me as if we were the only people on the street at the stoplight. The agent got out of the car to deal with the crowd and keep them at bay. Wanting a concert, that crowd launched into Michael’s early hits. They were dancing on Market Street in San Francisco while the King of Pop kept his focus on me.
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