WTWTCH ... when you get locked in a Beverly Hills gift shop with Michael Jackson?

This is, somehow, a completely true story.

So a while back I too worked in a talent agency mailroom. I say “I too” because Hollywood legends such as David Geffen, Mike Ovitz, and Barry Diller all got their start in the mailroom. At the time that the events in the story below took place, these were very big names indeed, veritable Hollywood titans who could close a deal with their eyes closed, while asleep, while also locked in a Parisian brothel.¹

At the time, I too wanted to become rich and powerful. So rich and powerful that I already had a title prepared: I was going to become known as The Producer of the 21st Century®. As the TPOT21C, I would not only become the most prominent producer of films in the coming century (being the world’s most successful film producer was just table stakes) but literally the person who produced the entire century.²

My goal was to be an agent of change. So trying to be an agent of talent seemed like a reasonable place to start.

For reasons that remain obscure, talent agency mailrooms tend to attract people who are really into throwing things.

Now, working in the mailroom isn’t quite as sexy as it sounds. First of all, there’s a lot of, well, mail. Lots of memos. Fan mail. Blind script submissions. And yes sometimes boxes of candy to some long-forgotten film star still on the agency rolodex. To be clear, there was a ritual where the manager of the mail room would inspect the Star Candy and take it for himself if he so desired, or if the candy was found wanting, he would pass the bounty down to his Right Hand Guy, who then would pass it to his Right Hand Guy, and so forth and so on, from one right hand to the other. Safe to say the Star Candy never made its way to me.

A mailroom summer intern had a lower status than the following:

• the agents

• the assistants

• the agent trainees (non-interns who were slaving away in the mailroom for years—to them, we were just tourists, inconsequential whipping boys)

• the receptionist

• the FedEx guy

• the UPS guy

• the deli delivery guy

• the security guard

• the valets

• and the piece of gum on the bottom of the valet’s left shoe.

The Agents never came into the mailroom. Each agent had at least one assistant, who as a recent graduate of the mailroom, loved nothing more than poking their head into the mailroom and yelling, “I remember when this was a fucking mail-room!” before returning to their desks to be bullied and belittled by their bosses. If you ever watched a nature documentary, you’d surely have been able to follow along.

There was one agent trainee, in fact, who was a Harvard-educated brain surgeon. This is not a metaphor. That was his actual job, before, for some reason (maybe he decided brain surgery was too bourgoise?) he decided to leave that line of work to work in a mailroom: basically trading a scalpel for a mailcart. His parents must’ve been so proud.

I don’t remember his name. Nobody remembered his name. Because nobody even knew his real name, because everybody exclusively referred to him to his face as

Dr. Mumbles.

Yep. That’s right. The guy who could have saved your long and short-term memory after a horrible car crash and perhaps even your sense of smell to boot? Now reduced to dodging oily Subway wrappers thrown by non-Harvard-trained-brain-surgeon assistants who snarl things at his passing mailcart like: “Tw*t’s that, Dr. Mumbles? I c*nt hear you.”³

Long story short: if Dr. Mumbles as a trainee had it bad in the mailroom, as an intern, I had it worse. In fact, I have only one positive memory about that entire summer (and it wasn’t babysitting child actors trying to score Camel Lites on the mean streets of Beverly Hills). And that was shopping for my younger sister’s birthday gift.

My mailroom dungeon was located at the first building you see, on the left-hand side of the intersection.

As an intern, we got only a tight 30 for lunch. So right at 12:30 on a bright sunny June Friday, I left the mailroom and sped-walked down Rodeo Drive. My sister, living in San Francisco at the time, had a birthday the next day. Normally, I’d be screwed and wouldn’t be able to get the gift there on time. But, as turns out, there was one lone perk to working in the mailroom: free overnight Saturday Delivery, if one knew how to charge the postage to the partners.

So in my double-breasted olive suit (I did mention this story took place in the ‘90s, right?), I scoured Rodeo Drive, in search of something affordable that would delight a soon-to-be 23-year-old. I knew where I had to go: that Sharper Image competitor with the decidedly less sharp name: Hammacher Schlemmer. They were the purveyor of the “Unexpected Gift.” I had no idea how accurate that would be.

These were the stores that specialized in the type of high-end gadgets that occupy the uncanny valley between “Why didn’t I think of that?” and “Who the hell would want this?” But to my mind, they surely had something “unexpected” to delight a birthday girl, or so I figured.

Sure, there a perfectly good Tiffany’s right next door, which would have a more “expected” gift for a 23-year-old young woman. But have you seen what a mailroom summer intern makes? Hammacher Schlemmer and its arsenal of plasma-globe egg timers and bowler-friendly CD player holsters would have to do.

When I arrived at 12:38 (only 22 minutes to complete my mission and be back at my trusty mailcart), I was met with an ominous discovery. The store, as far as I could tell, was being held up. The front glass double door was locked. There was a very large, possibly Uzi-toting bodyguard with a blonde ponytail inside on the other side of the door, his back to me. There were a few other large men in suits scattered throughout the store. And in the middle, stood a masked man.

At 12:38 pm, I was met with an ominous discovery.

The store, as far as I could tell, was being held up.

I wasn’t quite sure what my moral duty was at the moment: citizen’s arrest? Call 911? Run for my life? But I knew what my brotherly duty was—I had to get a gift, and I was down to 19 minutes before mailroom discipline would be applied.

While I was busy with my moral calculator, there was a commotion at the door: an elderly couple trying to leave right in the middle of the robbery. To my surprise (and might I add: morbid disappointment), they were not macheted in twain by Pony Tail Guy. Instead, he deftly unlocked the front double doors and allowed the elderly customers to slip out.

Which was the same moment that I, dear reader, slipped in. Like Dr. Mumbles confidently slicing into a diseased cerebellum, I sliced into the store, because robbery or not, I had a birthday gift to procure and time was running out. Fortunately, the bodyguard / violent marauder didn’t punch me, stab me, shoot me, or even slap me; instead, he locked the door behind me.

I was in.

The store was empty of all customers, save for three large bodyguards stationed at the front door, the back door, and in the middle of the story like an NFL Free Safety, ready to reinforce whichever perimeter was breached.

“By whom would said perimeter be breached?” and “To what end?” were questions that had not entered my mind. I was 12 minutes into my mission: existential questions were a luxury I no longer had.

Like Dr. Mumbles confidently slicing into a diseased cerebellum, I sliced into the store, because robbery or no, I had a birthday gift to procure and time was running out.

So while I power-shopped for an unexpected gift in a clockwise fashion around the store, I noted a few other facts: there was a British banker in a three-piece suit by the cash register with a Secret Service-style earpiece. To my right was a 12-year-old boy, dressed in red and black leather. To my right was the aforementioned masked man, who also over-indexed in the leatherware department. He wore a fedora up top and what I now recognized to be a surgical mask over his mouth. The mask was white. His skin was whiter.

And then he spoke to me.

“Do you have any writing pads?”

I realized three things at once:

1. In my suit, I somehow looked like I worked here. Like maybe a manager, maybe even a regional manager of Hammacher Schlemmer Worldwide. That was cool.

2. This masked man’s voice was much higher-pitched than expected.

3. This was not a robbery, but in fact, its opposite. It was an unexpected gift. An unexpected gift from the gods.

The leather. The British Banker. The oddly-aged boy. Yes. I was speaking to the one and only Michael Jackson. Who thought I was the manager of the store in which I was now sealed inside of. And so, not sure what else to do, I gave Michael Jackson a tour of “my” store.

He and I spent the next ten minutes evaluating a “space-age” dog hair removal comb. A dust-buster on steroids. One of those click-clack silver ball things that always showed up in movies to indicate that the man behind the desk was a deep thinker who thought a lot about kinetic energy and the power of a steady beat.

I carefully demonstrated each of these display items to the King of Pop. And I became more bold in my interactions. I pretended to brush his sleeve and explain that it was a “Spot Remover,” which he, let the record show, giggled at. To be clear, I touched his arm, in my pantomime of how one might remove dog lint. I was now physically connected with the world’s most famous person alive. How could I not touch him?

I then showed him how to click-clack the pendulum ball thing, and he would like to stop it really quick, right after I started it, and then start it in the opposite direction. Like we were playing a game. When we got to the giant dust-buster, I laughed and turned to the quiet 12-year-old boy and said “See? This is a Big Spot Remover” and pretended to vacuum up the boy.

At that very moment, let’s just say, the vibe? Well. It did change.

Boy did it ever.

The kid stopped moving as if the dust buster electrocuted him (which, again for defamation and libel purposes, it did not.) The bodyguards stopped moving. The British banker guy at the front swiveled around, his finger already on the coiled mic at his ear.

The King of Pop took a step back, and audibly said, “Oh.”

As if he had been struck in the guts in some mild, but purposeful way: like he’d unexpectedly turned into a shopping cart on his many, many visits to Chimpanzees’R’Us or wherever he liked to while away his day.

I could tell he was frowning beneath that totally normal surgical mask he wore.

I stepped away, suddenly remembering my madcap mission, my whole reason for being here—quick time check: just 14 minutes left of cruelly short lunch break!—and gently guided Mr. Jackson to the cash register.

Michael was surprisingly suggestible — he ended up buying the specific notepad I recommended: the one with a suction cup that sticks to the inside window of a car or hearse or whatever he was being driven in. The British Banker paid the actual Hammacher Schlemmer employee (who was, as far as I was concerned, now my employee by law, so total was my command over this Official Celebrity Incident).

The rear bodyguard opened the back door. An unmarked white minivan (my hunch? Honda Odyssey, just because they’re so darn dependable. And if you need a get-a-way undercover minivan to stalk the alleys of Beverly Hills to whisk away the King of Pop from an army of fans, paparazzi, and plaintiffs’ attorneys, at the very least you’d think you’d want it to be dependable, right?)

I stared at the Hammacher Schlemmer employee. We made the sort of meaningful eye contact that only two complete strangers can make: “Did you just see that?” while also simultaneously communicating “Oh hell yeah, I definitely just saw that.”

After a dazed beat, I asked out loud, “Has that happened before?”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe.”

I nodded, letting the flood of new visitors stream past me through the now unguarded and unlocked front doors. Not one of them knew the out-right miracle had just transpired in these hallowed halls of Hammacher Schlemmer, Beverly Hills branch.

That I had just been … well … hanging out with the King of Pop.

But here’s the curveball: despite making this my first choice for birthday shopping, despite basically breaking into what I thought was a robbery in broad daylight, despite being Michael Jackson’s personal shopper: Hammacher Schlemmer just didn’t have that perfect unexpected gift I knew my sister would love.

So instead I did what I should have done in the first place: go to Tiffany’s, ask for the cheapest expected gift, groan when said cheapest gift is still a hundred dollars, and scoop up a sterling silver bean necklace for my sister and stroll back to the mailroom.

A good fifteen minutes late. And I could not give a f*ck.

I didn’t make any excuses. I didn’t make any apologies. I had just been part of a celebrity supernova—for MJ at that time was quite literally the most famous person in the world by a long shot. He was Taylor Swift times Donald Trump to the power of Bad Bunny plus Lebron James. Famous and infamous all at once. A voice of an angel, and a rap sheet filled with some of the worst crimes imaginable against children. I don’t want to sugarcoat anything here: Michael Jackson was a predator who used his fame and wealth to sexually assault young children.

The really stomach-churning part? for all I know, that young boy that I pretended to vacuum was also a victim of Michael’s.

So what do you do with his music? How do you square that horrifying behavior with some of the greatest jams ever written and performed? Specifically, what do you do with my all-time favorite song of the 80s, Billie Jean?

Even Apple, the largest company in the world, is not immune from this moral calculation: what to do with art made from evil?

True story: according to Quincy Jones, producer of the best-selling album of all time Thriller, one day Michael came into the studio humming a new bass line.

Quincy says, if it’s stuck in your head, go play it.

And so Michael does so. He gets a bass guitar and starts playing it.

Quincy starts nodding: Nice groove. Any idea for a lyric?

And Michael says, It's about this woman Billie Jean—

Quincy nods, A love song. I dig.

Michael says, yeah, sort of. But she’s pregnant [ed. note: And here, I’d like to think Quincy stops nodding. I can’t imagine Quincy wants Michael anywhere near Family Law issues in his dance songs]. And she tries to tell everyone I’m the father, but I’m not the father [again, I imagine gentle knowing laughter here]. You know me, right Q?

Quincy nods again, but this time it’s a long, slow, painful nod. Because he did know Michael. He likely already knew the dark shit that was rumbling in that artistic genius's head.

Quincy would say later something to the effect: I thought this Billie Jean lyric was the dumbest idea I’d ever heard and that we’d record it, then let it naturally hit the cutting room floor as it got beat by better tracks for the album.

But instead:

And here he stops and grins, pointing to what looks to be a diamond-plated record on the wall, or whatever plaque they give you for making the most popular man-made thing in any and every category one could make a man-made thing. That sick and twisted mind had made the most popular song of all time.

Michael and Quincy at the peak of their accomplishments.

But my point is, that in this world—much like in the inner workings of talent agency mailrooms—there are bad people who do bad things. And how do we square that with their art? Just look at New York liberals and their disgraced mascot Woody Allen, if you don’t know what I mean. What was loved is now hated, what was celebrated is now denigrated, and what once brought joy now brings pain, anger, and grief.

Interesting how that “joke” lands now, isn’t it?

As for me, per usual, I’m somewhere in the middle.

My compromise is this: to me great artists like Michael Jackson, who have a gift that is so obviously transcendent, so obviously not of this world, these are the seafarers of our time—they have journeyed to the very edge of creation itself, stood on their toes, and peered over the edge and seen something far beyond.

Out there, beyond the cultural event horizon, exists something beautiful—a melody, a riff, a plotline, a vision. Artists bring these discoveries back down to earth to share. Now just because the messenger is a deeply flawed and harmful criminal, does not mean the message is invalid. Much like Magellan or Columbus or countless other explorers—we only know what they found, what information they gathered from the other side. We didn’t cancel America because Amerigo Vespucci got too friendly with the deckhands on those transatlantic voyages (again: not a real fact). Just like the discoveries are independent of the discovers, perhaps so too is a creation separate from its creator—even if it is his delicious bass line and perfect voice that make that creation so irresistible.

Sometimes it feels that just being alive, we’re all stuck in a mean-spirited mailroom, having our dignity torn away by cruel neighbors whose power rests upon the randomness of wealth.

So while it may feel we don’t get much for free on this big rock, every once in a while we do: a creation that is so rare and powerful that when we find it, we know that it belongs to all of us—it’s not just the property of the damaged human who made it.

A diamond so pure that it can pass through the hands of its imperfect discoverer and still dazzle and delight today.

Thank you and Michael, please play me off …

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Other posts on What’s the Worst That Can Happen!? that you might enjoy:

• My adventures at adult crying camp

• My adventures with Ayahuasca tea

1. Don’t worry guys. My brother-in-law went to law school and probably also passed the bar, so he very likely can totally litigate me out of any lawsuits that the richest men in Hollywood can throw my way. So bring it on!

2. Technically I still have 76 years to pull this off, so don’t count me out yet!

3. But instead of asterisks, there were vowels. And not “i” and “a” respectively. But the vulgar sort of vowels that you just don’t want to be reading in a family blog like this.