Michael Jackson, Thrill of the Hill

No one moves.

There's also a small, exceedingly small, contingent of fans standing and watching, armed with mini-cams and digital cameras and disposable cameras. They're being held back by a security guard, but they've got an unobscured view of the hallway and the Ungloved One, once he appears.

A good portion of the fans are made up by the very large and very well-prepared Swack family from Bowling Green, Ky. Among them is Perry Swack, who says he is a big fan, as much a fan as you can be when you're 11 and you just happen to be visiting your congressman and doing the tour thing and you happen to find out that -- guess what? -- Michael Jackson will be here in the very same building. So you decide to seize the day and hang out for a couple hours with your mom and younger siblings and your grandma and your dad and your uncle, because it's, well, you know, cool.

"I like his songs," Perry says. "And sometimes he's a good role model."

Sometimes?

"Sometimes he does good stuff," Perry explains, "and sometimes he does bad stuff."

This is the point where Perry's uncle Greg Swack steps in to explain about the bad stuff. Sort of. He's holding a camcorder, and he used to be a Jackson fan. Big time.

"I had a sequined glove," Swack says, "and sequined shoes."

His arm curls protectively around the neck of a young Swack standing next to him.

"That was a long time ago," he says. "Now I have concerns about him as a role model."

Then suddenly, Jackson jets out into the hall and past flashbulbs and shouted questions. We dash after him -- caught up in the excitement of it all -- past the security guards running interference, past the other scrambling reporters trying to get comments from assorted lawmakers, holding the slickly smooth pageboy in our sight. We run right up to the elevator, where our prey stands in the very back, obscured by his entourage.

"Michael!" we shout.

He looks around, peers past shoulders. Looks at us. Looks at us. We are no longer the infatuated third-grader. We are a journalist with the hard questions.

Um, "When are you going to Africa?"

A gloveless hand lifts to push aside a curtain of glossy prefab hair. We take note of the lipstick. It's matte. A little cakey, the way it does when you've had a long day and no time to reapply.

"Uhhhhh," he says.

We hover expectantly.

"Hopefully soon."

The elevator doors slam in our face. The Gloveless One is gone.