THE FIRST LINE OF MY NOVEL

      I was in Zagreb the day that Michael Jackson died.

      When I heard the news, the first thing I thought was, “That’s it. That’s the first line of my novel. ‘I was in Zagreb the day that Michael Jackson died.’ ” It seemed exactly right – odd, bizarre even, incongruous, an appallingly sad event viewed from an eerie state of helpless remove. It encapsulated all the feelings I’d been wanting to get off my chest, without having any actual story to attach them to.

      I’d been toying with the idea of writing fiction – probably as a way of avoiding the real task at hand, which was my academic writing. Given the economic climate and the disconcerting contraction of the university job market, the old saw “publish or perish” was taking on a new urgency. It was making me a little anxious. So sometimes when I sat down at my computer, I’d find myself fantasizing about writing a novel instead.

      That first line fell in my lap, but it was entirely true.

      I was in Zagreb the day that Michael Jackson died.

      I got the news in a text from Sven. “omg did u hear mj died.”

      All I could answer was, “no way wtf?!”

      It was 1 a.m. when I got the text. I went down to the lobby of the Arcotel where I was staying. I was there for an academic conference. It was the 15^th annual meeting of PSi, Performance Studies international. The lowercase “international” is not really intended to distance the organization from any Marxist associations. But according to the official website, it’s a kind of self-ironizing deflation of any political claims the membership might make for itself. The field of performance studies is definitely left-leaning, but it tends to embrace its own failure. In fact, the conference’s theme that year was “Misperformance: Misfiring, Misfitting, Misreading.”

      Still, while it can be self-deprecating, performance studies claims virtually everything as its object of study – from Indian classical dance and bel canto to the “performative” aspects of race, class, and gender. This is referred to as the broad spectrum approach. I locate myself on the more literal and slightly less fashionable end of the spectrum: I study concert dance.

      I’d arrived in Zagreb that day, somewhat flustered. There’d been a little confusion with my bag at the airport. For some reason, everybody else from my flight seemed to retrieve their stuff without incident, but after they all filed out, I was still standing there waiting for mine. Just as I was heading to the Croatia Airlines counter to get some help, I spotted it circling around, alone, on an unmarked carousel with the little purple ribbon I’d tied on it for easy identification. It looked like a forlorn dog waiting for its owner. I have no idea how it got on that other carousel. I felt vaguely responsible even though it obviously wasn’t my fault.

      Anyway, once I got to the hotel and ascertained that all my stuff was indeed in there, I collected myself, washed up, and headed out to check out the conference action. There was an opening reception being held at the Zagreb Youth Theater in the evening. The conference packet said there would be some wine and “traditional Croatian delicacies.” Also DJ Chassna would be spinning. Since I didn’t really know anything about the restaurants in town and I was trying to economize, I thought I’d call this party “dinner.” But when I got to the Zagreb Youth Theater, things looked a little bleak. Apparently quite a few people had opted out of the opening reception and the “turbo-folk” musical performance. There were a few confused-looking graduate students who’d evidently made the same “dinner” plans as me, plus some older members of the faculty of the University of Zagreb Academy of Drama Arts. There were two feuding factions at the Academy – postmodernists vs. social realists. Dan Ferguson, an acquaintance of mine working on a dissertation on the history of the flea circus, whispered this bit of gossip to me as we watched two paunchy, bearded guys tussle over a wine jug. That was apparently it for alcoholic beverages, though there were many cartons of lukewarm “juice drink.” Two long folding tables with paper spreads held plastic platters filled with what appeared to be triangular slices of Spam. There was a paper sign taped to the wall saying, in English, “CROATIAN MEAT SPECIALTIES.”

      DJ Chassna was having some trouble with her sound system. She was pretty, pierced, with a cigarette in her left hand and a cell phone in her right, texting vehemently. Probably trying to get some technical help. She looked pretty pissed off. The soundscape in the lobby of the Zagreb Youth Theater,