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August, 1983
Mickey had fled Chicago a year ago, at the age of nineteen. His family and their ‘business’ connections were getting to be too dangerous. And if they’d ever found out his secret… well, he probably wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.
So he’d run. Saved a few bucks here and there, rented a locker at the bus station, where he stashed a couple changes of clothes, his ID, and a few other small things he thought he might want. Slipped out late one night when everyone else was passed out, wasted on a mix of booze and pills that would have killed most people.
Looking over the prices, he’d settled on a one-way ticket to L.A. It left him with a few bucks to buy food on the way, and it had to be far enough away that his family wouldn’t find him. And it was a big place. Easy to get lost in.
When he arrived, he’d had seventeen bucks left in his pocket, a backpack with dirty clothes, and absolutely no idea what to do next. But he was free, and he was safer than he’d ever been back home. Living on the streets in L.A. was both easier and harder than back home. Easier because at least it never got cold enough to worry about freezing. But harder because he didn’t know the streets, the people, or the rules here.
After a few weeks though Mickey knew he needed to find a better way. He had come out here for a better life, after all. He needed a way to get some cash, and he could only think of two ways to make that happen. Both involved using his body, but only one of them was illegal.
Mickey had kept two secrets from his family, really. The big one wasn’t something you talked about with anyone. But the other… well, Mickey had fallen in love years ago with street dance. He’d snuck away whenever he could, getting lessons from kids in the neighborhood, taking part in impromptu dance-offs, and learning a dance style that was unique to him and his slightly stocky frame.
So when he needed some cash, he figured why not give it a try? He’d wandered a bit until he found a corner where dancers were showing off, getting some cash tossed their way from bystanders, and inserted himself into the group, nodding to the kid who seemed loosely in charge. “You want a go?” the kid had asked, taking in Mickey’s scruffy appearance.
Mickey shrugged. “Yeah,” he muttered.
The other dancers gathered around had scoffed, but nobody outright objected, so eventually Mickey was waved into the circle. And he danced. He was a bit weak from lack of food, and some tricks didn’t come off quite right, but it was good. He was good. And he left that circle with more cash than he’d seen since he left Chicago.
He’d trekked the ten blocks to the nearest YMCA that night, got a bed, a meal, and a shower. Even did his laundry. And Mickey knew that at least for now, he had his way to make enough cash to survive.
He’d been wandering, dancing for cash when he could for a few weeks when he started noticing the same face appearing in the crowds. Spooked, he grabbed his backpack after his latest performance, trying to decide how far he needed to run this time, when one of the other dancers he’d gotten to know a bit tugged on his sleeve.
“Milky, you should come talk to this guy,” he said. “He’s legit, alright? I can vouch for him, so just hear what he has to say.”
The guy who’d been watching him turned out to be some kind of talent scout, looking for people for his agency, people, he said, with unique looks or skills that they could cast in everything from music videos to commercials. He admitted that it wouldn’t pay a lot, especially not to start, but he thought Mickey had something worth showing off.
And that was how Mickey found himself signed with a talent agency, doing just enough work as a background dancer in music videos to have a room in a shared house, clothing on his back, and food to eat. He knew it probably wouldn’t last, but he was going to enjoy it while it did. And he was using the extra money he made from street dancing to pay for lessons, trying to get better. Because sometimes people made it in this industry, so why not him?
So that day in August, when Paulie showed up at his door, he didn’t think too much of it, probably just some tiny role for a couple hundred bucks, but he wasn’t going to turn down whatever it was.
“Can’t tell you exactly what the project is,” Paulie’d said. “It’s being kept a bit hush-hush for now, but I showed them your tapes, and you’re in. Short film, horror musical kinda thing. You’ll be in full makeup, so no chance of being recognized, but this could be huge for you kid.”
Since this job was also paying more than he was used to, Mickey had jumped at the chance. He was told where to be and when, and left to wonder for the next two weeks what kinda weird shit he had just signed on for.
When he showed up on set that day, he was ushered into a room with the other dancers and quickly found his eyes drawn to a tall redhead. Reminding himself not to be obvious, he nevertheless found his eyes returning again and again to the lithe figure, the way the other guy filled out his tights a distraction that he couldn’t help giving in to.
Everyone in the room eyed each other curiously as they waited, until someone standing near a window gasped, drawing all of their attention.
“Holy shit,” the woman muttered. “Guys… is that who I think it is?”
That brought a quick shuffle of bodies as everyone scooted towards the windows to look outside. “Oh my god,” someone else whispered. “It is. That’s Michael Jackson.”
“Are we shooting a Michael Jackson video?” A voice came from right behind Mickey, and he was suddenly aware of the tall form of the redhead standing right behind him.
“Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” came a new voice from the doorway, jerking all of their heads back in that direction. “If you’ll all kindly join me, I’ll explain, and we can start some choreography.”
Mickey found his eyes scanning the form of the tall redhead again, and he flushed slightly when their eyes met. “Ian,” the other guy introduced himself, giving Mickey a hand to shake quickly.
“Mickey,” he replied, nodding towards the middle of the room. “Guess we’d better get to it.”
“Sure,” Ian said with a slow smile, as Mickey tried valiantly to ignore the feel of a long-fingered hand brushing his hip as Ian turned away. “Later, Mickey.”
Walking back to his place, Mickey shoved their little encounter out of his head as he listened to the choreographer.
“So, first, yes, we are filming a Michael Jackson video today. I’m sure you’re all familiar with his latest album, Thriller? Well they’ve decided to make a totally different kind of music video for the title track. Short film style, riff on old school horror films. You all will be in full makeup as zombies, and the choreography is fairly simple for the dance sections. So lets get to it!”
They warmed up as the song played on repeat, and then spent an hour going over the steps to what was, as they had been promised, fairly simple choreography.
“Some of you will be assigned other minor pieces of the film, no speaking, just typical zombie activities, and there are a couple of group scenes of wandering about as a horde, but I’m sure those will be easy enough. Break for lunch, then we’ll get you in makeup and costumes and try the choreography again. Once we’re sure we’ve got this, Michael will join us for some joint rehearsal, and then filming is tomorrow.” They were told, and everyone broke apart, some going off alone, others gathering in small, chattering groups to work through the excitement of what they were doing.
“Mind if I join you?” Ian’s voice came from beside him as Mickey made his way to craft services for lunch.
“Sure, man,” Mickey replied almost shyly. “Free country.”
Mickey knew that being… gay… was pretty accepted in the dance industry, he’d seen plenty of evidence of it, subtle and not-so-subtle hookups, men and women eyeing each other up on and off set, and he knew some of the rumors about certain celebrities that could be counted on for a discreet hookup. But he’d never had the courage to approach anyone himself. He’d been terrified of making a mistake and maybe losing his one shot at success.
But here was Ian. Tall, beautiful, and almost definitely flirting with him.
“I’ve seen you around, you know,” Ian told him when they were seated, knees pressed together under the table. “Never on set, which is too bad, but I’ve seen you around a couple of the studios.”
“Huh,” Mickey replied as he chewed. “Definitely never seen you before,” he raked his eyes down Ian’s chest, “I’d remember.”
“Different classes,” Ian told him. “You’re mostly in street dance, right? I’m classical, just starting to learn some hip-hop.”
Nodding, Mickey found himself studying the other man as they ate, heart rate increasing with every minute that passed. Shaking his head, he floundered to find something to say. “You done many of these?” he waved a hand around to indicate the set in general.
“Music videos?” Ian guessed. “Yeah, a few, nothing for a star this big before though. You?”
“Same,” Mickey told him. “Never thought I’d be sharing a set with Michael Jackson, you know?”
They managed small talk all through lunch, exchanging small smiles and shy glances, before being brought back to reality with a reminder announcement that the backup dancers needed to report to wardrobe.
“Guess that’s us,” Ian said with a shrug as he rose to his feet. “Let’s go get zombie-fied.”
They were separated once they arrived in the wardrobe trailer, and Mickey didn’t see Ian again until they were all back in the studio in full gear and makeup. It took him a minute to find Ian, whose hair had been dulled out with various substances so it was now a grimy grayish-red, and his pale skin and freckles were covered with thick slabs of makeup and prosthetic skin to appear rotting.
When he finally caught Ian’s eye, he raised an eyebrow and shook his head sadly over his transformation. Smiling, Ian gestured for him to turn around, giving him a full view of his own costume. Obeying, Mickey spread his arms slightly and did a shuffling turn, showing off the tattered clothes, mud-coated hair, and dirt-encrusted limbs he had ended up with.
Ian silently applauded his performance, giving him a quick thumbs-up before their attention was called back to the front of the room.
Mickey had to admit, whoever was putting this whole thing together had a pretty cool vision, because with all of them in costume and makeup, the shuffling, stomping, almost campy dance became something much cooler.
And then, holy shit, Michael Jackson was in the room with them, up there at the front, in pretty ordinary clothes, just talking to the choreographer like it was nothing. And they were moving into their places, and running through the dance again, Michael singing softly along as they moved, and it was probably the most surreal experience of Mickey’s life.
Right up until the next day, that is… until they were on the full set, and he was crawling out of a grave, with the dim lighting, and the smoke everywhere, and they were really doing this, really filming a horror-style video with Michael Jackson.
And then they were lurching and clawing their way through the set, banging away on the sides of a ‘house’, and Ian was right behind him, pressed against his back as they moaned theatrically.
And then they were doing take after take of the main dance sequence, stomping and twisting, globs of makeup falling randomly to add to the effect, and then… and then it was over. He was being ushered off to the showers with the other extras, and he felt like he was coming out of a daze.
Once he was clean enough to be seen in public, Mickey grabbed his backpack and made his way outside, eyes scanning for a tall redheaded form that they never found. Sighing, he headed to the bus stop, resigning himself to a return to normal life, with maybe a bit of extra padding in his bank account from this gig.
It was when he got home and dumped out the contents of his backpack that he found the note stuffed in there, with a hastily-scribbled message. Call me. 555-452-5542
Smiling, he stuffed the note in his pocket and went to the kitchen in search of dinner.
December, 1983
In the few months since making the Thriller video, Mickey’s life had started to change. He was getting more gigs, making a bit more money now, and living with just one roommate instead of a whole house full of hopefuls.
Speaking of that roommate…
“Hey, Mick, hurry up!” Ian’s voice called from the living room. “The video is premiering in ten minutes!”
“Almost done!” he called back as he swirled the pot of popcorn around a few more times before dumping it in a bowl and pouring the melted butter and salt over it.
“Here,” he said, dropping the bowl on the table before settling in beside Ian on the couch. “Can’t believe it’s about to be shown to the world.”
Ian pulled him close as they watched the MTV host talking about the video, and what had gone into making it. And then it was there, on the screen in front of them, the video that had both brought them together, and started them both on the path of making a name for themselves as backup dancers.
They laughed at the scene of Mickey crawling out of the grave, fake-gagged at the shot of Ian with ‘blood’ pouring out of his mouth, and sighed over the deletion of the scene of them pressed together as they tore into the house.
“Think we’ll ever top that?” Ian asked when it was done.
“Not a chance,” Mickey replied. “Still doesn’t seem entirely real, man. The whole thing was just crazy, something hardly anybody gets to say they were part of.”
“Besides,” he continued quietly. “Got something way more important out of those two days than the video or the career.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Ian smiled and pulled him close again as they turned their attention back to the TV, picking apart the dancing in all of the other videos that were playing as they laughed their way through the rest of the night.