Michael Jackson (46 page)

When Michael slowly opened the door, Bob and a bunch of others rushed into the bathroom. ‘I dropped my glove,’ Michael said,
embarrassed.

‘Where?’ asked Bob.

‘In there,’ Michael said, meekly. He pointed down to the toilet bowl. Floating in the water was a lone, white, rhinestoned
glove.

‘Oh, okay,’ Bob said, trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Somebody get a hanger or something. We'll just have to fish it out
of there.’

Everyone scattered about in search of a hanger. Finally Michael said, ‘Oh, forget it.’ He reached into the toilet and pulled
out the soaking-wet glove. ‘Anyone have a hair dryer?’

*

It had been a long day. All of the brothers except Michael had arrived at nine in the morning. Tito acted as his brother's
stand-in, taking Michael's place for the purpose of camera angles and other technical positioning. Michael, the star of the
show, would not arrive for hours.

By about six p.m., the group performed their number for the sixth time that day – this time so that Bob Giraldi could make technical
adjustments. Finally, tape began rolling at 6:30. As he had done during each rehearsal, Michael began to descend from a podium
by going down a staircase amid brilliant illumination. His brothers were lined up on the stage, playing. A smoke bomb and
pyrotechnics exploded, as planned, momentarily blocking Michael from view.

First a pose; that unmistakable silhouette.

Then, a magnesium flash bomb, which went off with a loud bang two feet from Michael's head.

As Michael headed down the stairs, the smoke became thick. Something wasn't right. He began to dance. He did a turn. And another,
and another. After spinning three times, he popped up on his toes. He was hot – literally. When he turned, their was an audible
gasp from the audience. The explosion had set his hair ablaze. He would later remember feeling the heat, but said he thought
it was generated by hot stage lights. He continued to perform, but not for long.

When he felt the burning pain, Michael pulled his jacket over his head and fell to the stage floor. ‘Tito! Tito!’ he yelled.

Bob Giraldi would recall, ‘The film would later show that while his hair was burning, he was trying to get his jacket off.
Maybe he thought it too was on fire. He did two quick spins, though, and put out the fire by his own force.’

The first to respond was Miko Brando, Marlon's twenty-two-year-old son and one of Michael's security staff. ‘I ran out, hugged
him, tackled him, and ran my hands through his hair,’ reported Brando, who burned his fingers in the process.

For a few disturbing moments, no one seemed to know what had occurred, or how to respond to it. There was chaos and pandemonium.
Jermaine would later say he thought Michael had been shot. The crew rushed on to the stage, threw him down, and covered his
head with a blanket to put out the fire. After a handful of ice was applied and a T-shirt borrowed to make a cold compress,
Michael was taken off the stage.

When Michael was taken away, and did not return to the stage, it was difficult for the authorities to keep the crowd calm
and orderly. Screams filled the auditorium. Since no one in charge could give an accurate report, audience members began to
develop their own theories. Most believed that it had been an assassination attempt on Michael.

In order to avoid fans and news media, the authorities hoped to transport Michael through an exit from the back of the theatre.
However, Michael insisted on exiting where the crowds and photographers could see him. He said that he wanted to be able to
to show the assembled crowd that he was all right. In truth, though, he also knew a
moment
when he saw one coming; no one could ask for better public relations. ‘No, leave the glove on,’ he told the ambulance attendants
as he was being prepared for the stretcher. ‘The media is here.’ No matter the pain, shock, or hysteria, the showman prevailed.

The videotape of Michael being loaded into the ambulance became the lead story on all news broadcasts that evening. There
he was, strapped in a stretcher, covered up to his nose, his bandaged and taped head resting on a pillow, one sequined-gloved
hand protruding weakly from blankets. Michael lifted his hand with what appeared to be his very last bit of strength… and
waved to the cameras. ‘If E.T. hadn't come to Elliot, he would have come to Michael's house,’ Steven Spielberg had earlier
said of Michael. Now, Michael
was
E.T., an odd little creature, hurt by grown-ups who had been playing with fire, being carted away to who-knows-where, by
who-knows-whom, and for who-knows-what purpose.

As he was being wheeled out, as he would later tell it, he noticed several Pepsi executives huddled together with anxious
expressions. They must have realized that the accident could become the catalyst for one of the biggest lawsuits in show-business
history: Michael Jackson could
own
Pepsi by the time the smoke cleared.

The next day, photos of Michael as E.T. were on the front pages of newspapers all over the world. Michael would call it ‘that
famous shot of me’.

Michael was taken to the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where he was treated with an antiseptic cream and
bandages. He was offered a painkiller, but because of his disdain for narcotics, he turned it down. Soon, though, he realized
he needed it and accepted one. Then, accompanied by Joseph and Katherine, Bill Bray, his brother, Randy, and his doctor, Steve
Hoefflin, Michael was transported to Brotman Memorial Hospital in Culver City.

I attempted to get an interview with Katherine and Joseph as they rushed into the hospital, arm in arm. ‘How do you feel about
this?’ he asked.

Katherine kept walking, but Joseph stopped. He glared at me. ‘That's my son in there,’ he said, clearly upset. ‘How do you
think I feel? How does any father feel when his son is hurt?’

‘You and Michael have had your differences, though,’ I observed.

Joseph studied me for a moment. ‘Hey, man, do you have any kids?’

I shook my head no.

‘Then you can't understand how I feel. Whatever happens, a father will always be a father. His son will always be his son.
All right?’

Michael spent Friday evening in room 3307, resting. In a short time, though, he was bored and asked for a videotape player.
Because no one on the staff had the key to the cabinet where the hospital's video equipment was kept, someone broke the padlock
to get Michael a machine and an assortment of tapes. He chose the science-fiction film
Close Encounters of the Third Kind –
directed by his friend, Steven Spielberg – and watched it until he fell asleep at one a.m. after taking a sleeping pill.

Outside his room, Katherine, Joseph and Bill Bray prepared to go home. They looked relieved. It had been a tense, exhausting
experience. Joseph noticed a group of Pepsi executives standing together, still looking upset. As he walked by them he asked,
‘Why the long faces? Jeez. The burn's only the size of a half-dollar.’

Michael had been fortunate; his face and body escaped injury in the accident. He suffered a palm-sized patch of second- and
third-degree burns on the back of his head. Only a small spot – smaller than a half-dollar, actually, more like a quarter – received
a third-degree burn. Doctors said most of his hair would grow back. Ironically, Michael had visited burns patients at the
same hospital on New Year's Day. He had been particularly affected by one patient, twenty-three-year-old mechanic Keith Perry,
who had suffered third-degree burns on 95 per cent of his body. Michael had had photos taken of himself holding the patient's
hand, with his sequined glove on. When asked why he was wearing the glove, Michael responded, ‘This way, I am never offstage.’
The photos were quickly distributed to the media.

By Saturday, according to nursing supervisor Patricia Lavales, ‘Michael was singing in the shower.’ He spent the morning watching
American Bandstand
and
Soul Train
on television when he wasn't talking on the telephone. Diana Ross called, as did Liza Minnelli. Michael was released later
that day. According to Lavales, before he left the hospital, Michael, wearing turquoise hospital scrubs over his street clothes
and a black fedora covering his wound, went from room to room saying goodbye, taking photographs and signing autographs for
the other burns patients.

After being released from the hospital, Michael checked into the Sheraton Universal for a night in order to be away from his
family. John Branca met him there.

‘Mike, I think God is trying to tell you something about this commercial,’ John told him. ‘We should never have done it.’

‘I know, Branca.’

‘You know what? You've got Don King to thank for this,’ John added.

‘Look, don't remind me,’ Michael said. He was clearly disgusted.

That evening, Michael, Steve Hoefflin – who had performed Michael's rhinoplasty surgery and is chief of plastic surgery at Brotman – and
others in the Jackson entourage, including John Branca, watched a videotape of the accident to determine just what had happened.
(As soon as the accident occurred, John's partner, Gary Stiffelman, seized the tapes from the cameramen. Pepsi didn't have
any footage, at all. Michael had it.)

After Michael saw the tape, he became enraged. ‘I could have been killed,’ he said. ‘Did you see what they did to me? Did
you see that? Man, I can't believe it.’

Though the others tried to calm him down, it was useless.

‘Show it again,’ Michael ordered.

Someone popped the tape back into the VCR, and everyone watched again.

‘That's it,’ Michael said. ‘I want the tape released to the public. I want the public to see it. I'm gonna ruin Pepsi. After
my fans see this tape, Pepsi will be history.’

‘But, Mike – ’ one of his associates began.

‘No. I'm serious,’ Michael said, cutting him off. ‘Release the tape. I want it on the news right away. I want everyone to
see what happened to me, and I want it released on Monday. Pepsi's gonna be sorry.’

‘You can't do it, Mike.’

‘You wanna bet? I sure can,’ Michael insisted. ‘And I'm going to.’

By Sunday, word of Michael's decision got back to Roger Enrico, president of Pepsi-Cola. John Branca showed him the tape.
‘Did the press reports say his hair was on fire?’ Roger later recalled. ‘To me, it looked like his whole head. Like a human
torch. No way can
anyone
see this footage. It's grotesque.’

Roger knew he had to change Michael's mind or no Michael Jackson fan on the planet would ever again drink Pepsi after they
saw ‘what Pepsi did to him’.

‘With more anxiety than I've ever felt in my life,’ Enrico telephoned Joseph Jackson to ask what should be done about this
problem.

‘What problem?’ Jackson asked.

‘Michael wants to release the film with his hair on fire.’

‘Why would he want to do a thing like that?’ Joseph asked, perplexed.

Roger didn't know the answer to that question. He could only assume that Michael wanted revenge. He told Joseph that if Michael
allowed the film to be released, people would always associate him with the burn accident, the way, he said, the public equates
the Zapruder assassination tape with President John F. Kennedy.

Joseph didn't know what to say. ‘Try telling Michael what to do these days,’ he said. ‘There's no way. He does what he wants
to do. All I can say to you,’ he concluded, ‘is lotsa' luck.’

The tape would be released early the next week, Michael finally decided. He was bent on revenge. It would have been distributed
sooner, except that his associates were unable to locate a lab that could process the film on a Sunday at such short notice.

First, to whet everyone's appetite, a blurred photograph of Michael descending the stairs with his hair on fire – it looked
in the photo as if he had a halo – was distributed by the Associated Press. It made the front pages of practically every daily
newspaper.

After that photo was released, John Branca felt that Michael had had ample time to cool off, and he tried to talk Michael
out of releasing the tape.

‘It's morbid, Mike,’ John told him in a meeting with associates. ‘Don't do this to your fans. And besides that, I think we
should just settle with Pepsi and get on with our lives. Why infuriate everybody, Mike?’

‘Why not?’ Michael wanted to know.

‘C'mon, Mike. You're bigger than this,’ John said.

Michael cracked a smile. ‘I'm being dumb, huh?’ he asked, sheepishly. He'd recognized his own petulant behaviour. ‘You're
right,’ he told his lawyer. ‘Let's just end this thing, but I want them to pay, Branca. I mean it. They should pay big time
for this.’

Though Michael was only paid $700,000 to do the Pepsi commercial, the publicity he would receive because of the accident would
prove invaluable. It triggered an outpouring of public sympathy from around the world. The hospital where he was first taken
for treatment was even forced to add six volunteers to answer telephone calls from fans and well-wishers. At Brotman, thousands
of calls, letters, and cards were received.

Even Ronald Reagan got in on the act with a fan letter to Michael dated 1 February 1984: ‘I was pleased to learn that you
were not seriously hurt in your recent accident. I know from experience that these things can happen on the set – no matter
how much caution is exercised…’

‘What really pissed Mike off,’ recalled Steve Howell, ‘was when attorneys for Bob Giraldi [producer of the video] tried to
put the blame for the burn on the hair grease Mike used. They said that this product was responsible for his hair catching
fire. He thought Giraldi was his friend and wondered why he would do such a thing. The stuff he uses on his hair is, he told
me, like everything else he uses on his body, one hundred per cent natural, no chemicals.’

When Michael got home to the Encino compound, one of the first things he did was call Steve Howell: ‘Can you come up here
and set up the video equipment in my room so I can watch the Three Stooges?’