Michael's Magic Touch
by James Duncan
Our Vegas trip had seemed like a bust. A long flight delay put us in our room at 1 a.m. Vegas time, astronomical prices, like $80 Canadian for a round of drinks had us feeling shell-shocked, and the extreme heat of late July melted Sandy’s shoes and made it too oppressive to do much. I tried to rent an inexpensive car from Turo, the Airbnb of car rental, but the renter left us and our plans hanging with her no-show. I called to find her sounding half asleep, hungover and stoned. “Oh, I was on the way to meet you but got a flat tire,” she slurred through the phone.
“Really? Where are you? We’ll come get you,” I thought sarcastically.
On our last night, we saw the Cirque du Soleil Michael Jackson show ONE even though the prices were sky-high. Attending the late show with seats to the side gave us a third-row view for hundreds of dollars less than a center seat. The energy outside the theater felt electric with little kids dressed up like MJ gleefully reenacting moves from the early show with big smiles on their faces. This show meant so much to people. The line of ticket holders stretched hundreds of feet from Mandalay Bay through the Delano lobby. “It’s going to take us an hour to get in,” Sandy said with exasperation. Thankfully, they filled the theater with remarkable efficiency.
When the show started a row of men all wearing the same Vineyard Vines polo shirt found their seats unacceptable and got up blocking our view to discuss it with an usher. They must have had fistfuls of cash because they persuaded five people with center seats to trade with them. It reminded us of the special treatment we witnessed at the coffee shop that morning when a group of men from Sopranos central casting cut the line and were seated in a closed section of the restaurant while passing crisp bills to the hostess.
We both loved the show and were utterly inspired by an Asian dancer who had only one leg. He didn’t have a prosthetic or even part of a leg. He breakdanced with his crutches throwing his body around as if he had been on a pommel horse. “Are you kidding me?” Sandy exclaimed. “What’s my excuse?” we both thought.
During the show, I wondered if Michael Jackson watched from beyond. I later mentioned it to Sandy and she said, “He was there. I saw him standing on the side of the stage watching.” From anyone else, I might have dismissed the comment, but Sandy sometimes sees ghosts. During her first audio demonstration, she described my late brother dancing in the corner. She didn’t know who he was because he looked so different from me in his long hair, Nehru jacket, and mutton chop sideburns. He had cultivated such a look just briefly in his late teens, and only years later did I find a single piece of supporting photographic evidence.
We packed our bags in the morning, took advantage of the in-room check-out, turned off the TV, and double-checked for our belongings. As I grabbed the big bag to make our exit, the Alexa made a soft, fading sound: “Never can say goodbye...” Michael sang with the Jackson 5! “Never can say goodbye...” It faded out. I went to the Alexa and found it still turned off. Then at full volume with crystalline clarity, instrumental music filled the room as a prelude to the lyrics:
“I'm gonna make a change
For once in my life...”
We stood together in the center of the room shocked as Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” somehow boomed from our Alexa – still turned off. Chills froze our bodies in place as we listened to the powerful song. A video projection of Michael had performed this song during the show. Some theater critics had erroneously called this a hologram.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Sandy exclaimed. “Michael’s in the corner – he’s right there! Come with me.” She grabbed my hand and we walked over to him. Trepidation and excitement consumed my hand as Sandy guided it to touch him. I can’t say I felt anything, but Sandy claims that I said it was cold.
We went back to the Alexa and Sandy asked Michael to join us. “Jim! He just put his hand on your shoulder. ” The song finished, Michael disappeared, and we stood in tears and disbelief.
Alexa then continued with “Superstition,” by Stevie Wonder. “No way!” Sandy yelled. Sandy loved “Superstition” not just for the song’s subject -- it had been a frequent play when we started dating. The song finished and Alexa went quiet. At that moment, the TV turned itself back on –- at full volume.
We stood in shock about all that had happened. Practical matters pressed and we made our way to the taxi stand to catch our flight. We sat in silence until our colorful, highly neurotic cab driver started sharing his concerns du jour. “What do you think about the UFOs?” He asked. The U.S. government had made a disclosure that week that UFOs are real. No one seemed to care. I told him that I had enthusiastically studied UFOs since the 80s, but now that the government says they’re real I have my doubts. In an earnest, studious way, the cabbie grabbed his mangled spiral notebook and wrote down what I said.
Sandy leaned in and whispered: “Jim. Michael is here. He’s sitting between us and he just giggled at your UFO comment and nodded in agreement. He’s wearing that red shirt he liked.”
That’s the last we heard from Michael, but the experience has vividly stayed with us.
With a badly frozen shoulder, I hadn’t been able to do a push-up, lift my arm over my head, or even swing a golf club all summer. I had missed most of the golf season. Within a couple of days, I noticed that my shoulder didn’t hurt. Within a week, I could swing a club.
“What shoulder did Michael touch?” I asked Sandy.
“This one, your left – your bad shoulder.”
“I can swing a club now,” I told her.
“Wow. Thanks, Michael.” She replied.
“Yes. Thanks, Michael. Thank you very much.”