Sometimes when remarkable, special things happen in life, some irony and incongruity come along for the ride. I was reflecting on this when I remembered the time I met Michael Jackson.

It was remarkable because it was Michael Jackson, and ironic because I never set out to meet him, and wasn’t really even a fan.

MJ was touring Bad in the late 80’s, and my friend Tim played the album quite a lot, although I think he preferred older collections. I put up with Bad, liked some of Off The Wall and respected MJ as one of the great stage performers of our time. So when Tim suggested getting tickets I agreed. We bought them two days before the concert, which was at Parramatta Stadium in western Sydney. We arrived late for the concert, I forget why, maybe because we were surprised how far away Parramatta was from central Sydney. Anyway, it was our good fortune to be late.

Oddly, the entrance to the stadium was from near the side of the stage, which meant that those arriving entered right in front of the stage. While we were in a disorderly queue, waiting to get into the stadium, we were standing next to the gate that led to the backstage area. The huge security guards lording it over that gate must have thought we were waiting to get backstage, and they asked us for our passes. We told them we didn’t have passes and were waiting to get into the main concert. Perhaps we didn’t look like average MJ concert-goers – we certainly weren’t attempting to imitate his style – or maybe the conversation just got lost in the loud, thumping music of the warm-up act, but the guards were convinced we were backstage patrons who had lost their tags… and gave us new passes. “See you after the show!” Tim and I were thankful, but didn’t celebrate our luck until we were in the stadium. We had a closer look at the passes, and laughed.

The concert was spectacular. MJ did some magic tricks, which seemed to be a theme, danced for hours, and sang perfectly. The crowd was good natured and appreciative. A great concert by a performer at his peak.

We felt like fakes as we went through the gate to the backstage area. We had to wait outside a wooden door for a few minutes with four or five others. I recognised one of them from TV. The host of a pop music show. After a couple of minutes I proposed to Tim that we leave – it’d been a great concert and I didn’t want to spoil the experience waiting around for a meeting that might not eventuate. Tim suggested we wait a while longer.

Inside was actually pretty tacky. We were underneath a temporary wooden and steel stage, I suppose, but the walls were large sheets of white plastic and the seats were cheap and wobbly. There were copious amounts of wine, fruit, donuts and chocolate on a trestle-table at one end. When we walked in there was no MJ. There were about ten people sitting and standing near the table. I was surprised the room wasn’t full. We got a drink, sat down the other end, and observed. The women were gorgeous and the men were golden. I recognised about half of them from TV. I knew one was a semi-famous musician. They were quite loud. Laughter.

Tim and I chatted.

The wooden door opened and three huge guys in bandanas and muscle shirts came in. They were a spectacle – those muscles were genuinely enormous, and the men had a swagger, a special walk. They glanced around the room. One looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. Now this was interesting. What had been like afternoon tea time at a school reunion just became intriguing.

And suddenly Michael Jackson was sitting next to me. Looking at me. Sitting on the edge of his seat turned toward me.

He must have popped out from behind the muscles. I was taken aback. He was smiling. I rallied. I stuck out my hand. “Hi Michael”.

That voice you associate with MJ, that breathy, high voice. That voice asked me if I enjoyed the concert. Asked me if I lived in Sydney. Asked me what I like to do. I answered nervously, short sentences, honestly but almost without thought, preoccupied with the fame before me. I rallied again. I wanted to make the most of this. I wanted to be memorable. Make a statement. But what? I didn’t want to be a dick – whatever happens in Neverland and whatever insanity surrounds my host, all the reportage and reputation – but MJ was, at this personal level, being genuine, interested and caring. I wasn’t about to ask him about monkeys or his relationship with his father.

“Are you happy? Are you where you want to be in your life?” I asked, quietly and simply. Michael Jackson just stared at me. I thought he was probably trying to work me out. Was I a religious nutter? A new age evangelist? But it wasn’t that. He was truly engaged with the questions. He was reaching for an answer – not the polite small talk, but the actual truth. Another second or two passed in silence. One of the big guys swiveled around to see if MJ was alright. He saw his boss tearing up, just a little, before smiling, laughing briefly, and telling me I caught him off guard. Then he said “I know I have no reason to be unhappy. And yes, when I’m on stage I’m exactly where I want to be”. I didn’t want to let him get away with those half-evasions, so I pressed “And offstage, in your hotel room or in your home?” He smiled at me, back in control. Quieter now: “Thank you so much. But I hardly know you!”

He was right. I was being provocative. And a dick.