Somewhere in the Australian wilderness, a movie called Phoenix was being made. The sets had been built, the crew stood by with cameras ready, and the cast was in full costume, waiting for the go-ahead.

The director, a lanky young man with long hair, sat in his chair just behind the cameras. His name was James Vogel, and this was his first major film. Satisfied with what he saw, he leaned back, raised his megaphone, and yelled “Action!”

A single line of dialogue was spoken: “Sir, I think you better take a look at this…”

But nothing else was said, because upon the word better, a drop of water plopped onto the cameraman’s nose and trickled down his chin. A few more flecks scattered at look, and everyone realized it was raining by this.

James Vogel leaped to feet, flung down his megaphone, exclaimed “Fuck!” and stomped off. The cast and crew let out a collective groan and began to hurriedly collect their equipment, the props, and themselves before heading to the safety of their vehicles.

It was still raining by the afternoon, and it became clear they wouldn’t be getting any work done that day. This wouldn’t have been a problem, if it weren’t for the fact that they were twelve days already into their schedule and hadn’t shot enough footage to make up a single scene.

At seven o’clock, a man in a business suit arrived carrying a waterproof briefcase. James Vogel, who had come up with the idea for the movie, co-written the script, and supervised pre-production according to his vision, had been removed from his position as director by order of the studio.

A chauffeur drove him to the airport that night. There was a scene worthy of the cinemas in the parking lot. James, carrying hastily-packed luggage in either hand, fumed in silence as Evelyn Sharma, the lead actress in the movie and a close friend of his, argued with her agent.

“If he’s gone, the movie goes with him. There’s no point in any of us staying!” she shouted. Tears streamed down her pretty face, and her hand, each nail perfectly manicured, made a cutting motion in the air, indicating that they had hacked off the film’s head.

“If you leave with him,” her agent began, taking a deep breath, “the studio will bring a lawsuit against you for breaking your contract. Your career will be ruined.”

Evelyn began to sob in frustration. She looked to James for support, or perhaps only comfort, but was startled to find no sign of James. They called out his name and searched for him, but he was gone.

“He must have gone already. Didn’t want to miss his flight.”

She glared at her agent, but consented to return to the hotel.

The next morning, they discovered James had never gotten on the plane.

***

Music has power. It can make the listener feel just about any emotion. Memories long forgotten can be triggered by certain melodies. It paints a picture in the mind’s eye, images of fantasy and reality, past, present, and future.

Arthur Jackson lay uncovered in a hotel bed, for it was much too humid for even the thinnest sheets. Rain pounded against his window, but he drowned it out with his headphones.

Certain songs reminded him of certain people. He dutifully kept all his father’s albums with him, because he loved his father and found comfort in the sound of his voice. His current favorite was the dark and somber "Who Is It?", a fitting song given the circumstances.

He wasn’t crazy about the wild metallic sound of Tobias’ band, but he’d gone to Lazarus concerts and bought their music in support of his brother. The fact that he had been listening to them quite a lot lately betrayed how often Tobias was in his thoughts, primarily as a subject of concern.

When he needed cheering up, Arthur always turned to Electric Light Orchestra. His mother used to play their records when he was a child; he had fond memories of her dancing to “Turn to Stone” and “Evil Woman”. Their songs reminded him of her and simpler, happier times.

He didn’t always seek escapism in the music. Sometimes it was good to wallow in misery. That was where The Smiths came in. If Michael Jackson was the King of Pop, The Smiths were the Pope of Mope—most of the time, anyway. Years ago Arthur had heard them blaring from behind D’s bedroom door:

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour

But heaven knows I’m miserable now

It was no use knocking to ask what it was, so he snuck into the bedroom later and found their entire discography. Of course they were D’s favorite band—they suited him perfectly.

I was looking for a job, and then I found a job

And heaven knows I’m miserable now

Arthur remembered how D had earned his nickname. Somewhere along the line two very naughty boys had seen a very naughty cartoon called Vampire Hunter D. Tobias and Arthur, noticing a strong resemblance between their baby brother and the hero of the movie, had put one of their father’s fedoras on little Donovan Jackson, flung a black coat over his shoulders, and called him D after the frightfully beautiful, ultra-cool son of Dracula. Maybe that suggestion had inspired the strange, sulking creature of today; either way, the name stuck.

In my life, why do I give valuable time

To people who don’t care whether I live or die?

Eventually, reality would come creeping in, disturbing his insulated reverie. Arthur knew that he was one of many floundering passengers on a sinking ship. Without its director, Phoenix was doomed—he could only pray it didn’t drag him down with it.

***

He’d always wanted to be an actor. As a child he played elaborate games of pretend, making costumes and inventing scenarios. When Michael noticed, he sat him down and had a long, serious discussion, which basically boiled down to Do you really want to do this? Arthur had looked into his father’s eyes, was reminded of how he talked about spending his childhood performing instead of playing, and shook his head no.

So it wasn’t until he was seventeen that he got his start. He was a supporting character in a sci-fi TV show called Xeno. It was considered an underrated cult favorite. People who had never watched it claimed it was a ripoff of Star Trek, and people who did watch it said it was better than Trek. Neither side was quite right, but Arthur enjoyed it nonetheless.

It was a learning experience, but more importantly it was the most fun he ever had. He was working with people who loved what they were doing, who didn’t take themselves all that seriously, and didn’t care whose son he was.

The best of them was Merle Sinclair. He was a little bit like Lorenzo, though twenty years younger and minus the accent. While the cast all met each other before filming began, it wasn’t until shooting started that they had a conversation that wasn’t about the show.

During a break between takes, Merle had leaned toward him and whispered, “Did you know I once dated your mother?”

Arthur merely stared at him. With a grin, Merle continued, “High school. She was a senior, I was a junior. Didn’t last beyond graduation.”

Nodding awkwardly, Arthur raised his water bottle to his lips.

“Isn’t it strange to think I could’ve been your father, and now here I am playing your father?”

Arthur nearly choked, then recovered just enough to croak “Don’t say that out loud!”

“Why, because people might overhear and sell it as fact?” Merle patted him on the back. “Nobody worth your time would actually believe it. Besides, it’s the truth—I could’ve been your daddy, if I hadn’t been such an insufferable little bastard.”

Looking at him, it was easy to believe it—that Clara could’ve loved him once, not the bastard part. Merle was handsome, friendly, charming, reliable, and completely incorruptible.

It was Merle who took him to get his first drink when he turned twenty-one. That day, Michael was in court being accused of child sexual abuse. While the media made a circus out of the trial and photographers coyly snapped pictures from the windows of the bar, Arthur drowned his sorrows with hard, unforgiving liquor, knowing Merle would make sure he got home that night.

Even after the not-guilty verdict, things were never the same. Michael abandoned Neverland, where he had raised his children and buried his wife, and went into hiding with Prince, Paris, and Blanket. It was difficult to keep in touch with him, because he was constantly moving. Tobias was taking the world by storm as Lazarus, clawing his way out of their father’s shadow and becoming a star of his own. D went off to medical school somewhere no one had ever heard of, only to show up at Toby and Fatima’s wedding and a brief reunion at Christmas, then disappear again.

Arthur hardly spoke to any of them for the better part of a year. Out of loneliness he pretended the cast of Xeno was his family, but it was a fragile fantasy at best, a pathetic delusion at worst. The world made a mockery of Michael Jackson, and as his offspring, he was looked upon with a mixture of horror, disgust, and pity.

That first drink in the bar proved a gateway to his own private oblivion. The days blurred together. He couldn’t keep a steady relationship, was always late for work. Though he knew he was sinking, he didn’t have the strength or the will to pull himself back up.

One day he was sitting in a bar in L.A., feeling sorry for himself, when a man with a thick mustache sat beside him.

“You shouldn’t drink so much on a night like this,” his neighbor said. There was something off about him. Arthur hadn’t really paid much attention to his face, and at first he assumed it was just the alcohol making him see things.

The man swept his empty glasses aside and put a hand on his shoulder. Arthur glared at him in annoyance. “What do you think you’re—”

“Time to go, Pendragon,” the man said. “We’re shooting the series finale tomorrow. You can’t afford to be hungover.”

Finally, Arthur understood. Obediently he allowed the disguised Merle to lead him out of the bar and into his car. Once he was in the driver’s seat, Merle ripped off his false mustache, hissed in pain, and started the engine.

“You really shouldn’t drink like that.”

Woozily, Arthur muttered, “Why do you care?”

“If you turn in a shoddy performance tomorrow—”

“Is it because of Mom?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’m the one who got you your first drink, and I feel responsible for starting you on the path to alcoholism. Or maybe it’s because I’m your friend, possibly the only one you’ve got at the moment. Or maybe I’m just feeling kind.” He glanced at Arthur. “What about you, Pendragon? Are you drinking because of your father?”

“Maybe.”

Merle made a humming noise of acknowledgement. They drove in silence for a few minutes, then suddenly Merle asked, “What do you know about Orson Welles?”

“Uh… Citizen Kane?”

“Exactly. The so-called greatest movie ever made. He directed it, produced it, wrote it, starred in it, all at the ripe old age of twenty five. But he made it a mockery of the life story of William Randolph Hearst, the guy who practically invented tabloids. That pissed Hearst off, so he did everything in his power to make sure the movie failed and Welles was ruined. It started out as simple stuff—paying critics to write bad reviews, blackmailing the studio, getting theaters to boycott the film. But the worst was yet to come.

“One night, Orson Welles was having dinner at a restaurant when a policeman walked up to him and asked him to come outside. Once they were out, the officer told him, ‘Don’t go back to your hotel room. There’s an underage girl in the closet undressed and two photographers waiting for you outside.’ He knew it was Hearst’s doing, part of a smear campaign,” he sighed, “Not that I’m saying Michael Jackson was as great as Orson Welles, but they both had similar experiences. There’s nothing new under the sun, is there?”

“Pull over,” Arthur mumbled.

“Sorry?”

“Pull over!”

The tires screeched. Arthur stumbled out and threw up on the grass.

***

With Xeno finished, he needed a new job. His agent found a superhero movie called Neuromancer. Since superhero movies were all the rage, it seemed like a good idea.

While he was waiting his turn for the audition, he happened to see a magazine with an article about himself. The basis of the report revolved around heteropaternal superfecundation—an extremely rare occurrence in which twins are conceived by two different fathers. In other words, they were insinuating that Tobias was Michael’s son and Arthur was someone else’s. The long list of possible candidates for Arthur’s “true paternity” included Merle Sinclair.

The audition was excruciating. He walked out with his head hanging low, certain that he had blown it. Snatching the magazine up on his way out the door, he drove to a park downtown, cut the engine, and sat there with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

It was easy for Tobias; he didn’t care what other people thought. But Arthur couldn’t help caring. All the world could see what they wrote, making his mother into a whore and his father into a monster. He was sick and tired of it, but worse—he had no way of knowing what they would do next. It was only a matter of time before they went after him...

The magazine was on the seat beside him. He wondered who had sold them the story. Maybe it was one of the crew of Xeno, overhearing what Merle had said four years ago. Anger began to flare in him. He snatched up the magazine, got out of the car, and threw it in the trash.

A week later, he got the part.

***

He could remember the day, the hour, the minute he walked into the blue room. There was a round table at the center, with three seats taken. Two men and a woman—the director, the producer, and the screenwriter. He shook hands with all three, but locked eyes with her.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” she said with a smirk. Her name was Morgan DeMille. She was three years older than him, originally from Milwaukee, and had astonishingly poor timing.

Case in point: Three months later, when he was being fitted into an overly-complicated black suit covered in cage-like glowing neon lights, she marched into the dressing room and hissed, “I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait a few minutes?” he asked, gesturing at the haggard assistant pinning and zippering him into the costume.

“I’m pregnant and you’re the father.”

In that moment he felt a million different pathways to the future open up. But he was afraid to say anything, so he just stood there, staring at her in silence.

She informed him that she didn’t believe in abortion or marriage; they were both misogynistic burdens placed on women by the patriarchy in an attempt to shame them for being sexually independent. With that in mind, she imagined he would want to share custody with her, correct? That would require a legal settlement, which meant they would have to go to court. Most likely he would see the child every other weekend and on a few select holidays. Did that sound good?

He nodded mechanically, and she walked out of the dressing room. Once she was gone, it occurred to him that he didn’t remember sleeping with her. Then again, he had plenty of gaps in his memory thanks to his booze problem, and he hadn’t always been careful in the past...

“Should’ve kept it in your pants,” the assistant muttered, snapping the last piece of the suit into place.