Michael Jackson

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna be in Springfield in six minutes, here. Six minutes to Springfield. Please make it through the aisles to get to the doors on the lower level if you're getting off at Springfield. Springfield next,” bawled the Amtrak PA.

She was at the counter of the café car, followed me to a table, tugging on the cotton underwear peeking out of her pants. Flashy red earrings, brown corduroys, dirty tennis shoes, and a thin black v-cut slip-of-a-top. No bra. Pendulous breasts stretched low, swaying in time with the coach. Expressive black eyes with a look of almost childish sincerity, encased in sleepy purple eyelids, on a face worn by care and suffering.

She called herself ‘Michael Jackson’. She boasted eight children: ‘Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo and Boo-Cah’.

She came to Springfield filled with promises made by a man. A shadow fell when I probed her religion, followed by much excitement: “Get God all up in you and be the best you can be.” She kept eyes on me, leaning forward, stroking her long neck, rambling about matters apocryphal and real, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the tracks.

A Friganormous conductosaurus came to a noisy stop at her side. Leaning on an arm thrust heavily onto the table he said, “We couldn't find any record of your ticket in Springfield. You don't have any baggage or ID. I should put you off at the next stop. However, against my better judgment, I'm going to let you go to Chicago.”

She smiled, no shame on that face. She was conning me. I knew it and she knew I knew it. I bought bagels, coffees, and sandwiches on our way to Chicago, where talents of every kind have greater encouragement.

The train emerged from high corn, passing everything on I-55 with ridiculous ease, horn sounding continuously. Across the aisle, a tall sorority beauty in her twenties was flipping her honey-blonde hair, doling out M&Ms to a table of polished little girls, in a scene straight out of Norman Rockwell.

We were rocking past the Big House in Joliet when I let slip to Michael that I was staying with my granddaughter Christina. Her eyes widened. When the cars began leaning and slowing on the great curve approaching Union Station, I had to make a decision. A pause in her rambles gave me a chance to take to the lavatory. I sat down on the little stool.

She was ready to do anything. I could have it anyway I wanted. If that wasn’t providential, then what was?

I rose when the train stopped, and returned to the café car.

No Michael!

Christina’s apartment was unlocked; no one home. I set my bag down, fixed a drink, collapsed in the recliner, and closed my eyes. I slipped away, wondering what Michael’s true feelings were.

Suddenly the door opens and Jackie enters. Christina arrives with her cousin Olivia, fourteen, amped from her plane trip.

“Oh dear. We don’t have a place for Michael to stay,” says Christina.

A cab takes us to the Field Museum. The roar from the Millennium Park pavilion turns Michael’s head. A bulging steel bonnet pounces on the front man like a giant interstellar cockroach. Clothes are jumping off our bodies from the booming West African-Caribbean beats and Colombian hip-hop dance rhythms.

We snap pictures at the Bean and barge into the apartment, munching a batch of Pico de Gallo. Olivia and I take the upper and lower berths of Christina's trundle. Michael curls up on the living room sectional. “I don't want you thinking about my baby boy ‘Boo’—he insists on ‘Boo-Cah’.”

The next morning, we board the Motor Vessel Industry on a very hot day and grab deck chairs. Holly Head, docent, comes aboard and we slip into the main branch of the river to let the wonders of Chicago come to us. Michael stands on the flying bridge, nipples painted bright red, hair fluttering in the wind, half-closed eyes, guiding us through a vibrant array of colors in an enchanted forest. It was if she had entered us briefly.

Holly points out sexy Aqua, triangular Swissôtel and towering Trump. Super-tall buildings left, Union Station right. The boat U-turns at the Roosevelt Bridge and retraces to Ogden Slip. We edge down the gangplank and cab to Cafe Iberico. Michael sits us by the front windows and orders white wine and tapas: goat cheese, a mixed salad with beets, cold red potatoes, and hand-carved Iberico ham.

The night shouts yes. Outside the Rodan, under a lamp post, Michael attracts three Latinos. She bums a cigarette and speaks Spanish while she smokes it. The Latinos follow her into the lounge, the gaiety muffled by dim lighting. A steely tenor jabs Chicago-style. Two black eyes stare into mine. I try to dodge their frantic appeal, but she’s too fast. “Get God all up in you and be the best you can be.”

A shot rings out.

Bright blue lights.

“She’s not conscious, of course,” says a doctor. “She can’t see us or hear anything we say.”

A tremor disturbs her face. Her lips move.

“Gramps. Wake up gramps!” Christina’s voice. “We have a cab for the Field Museum.”