The Glam Slam

Prince, the Prince — the one who needs no other name — died earlier today.  This reminds me the time I met his purple majesty.  OK, well, not so much met as boogied his floorboards.

In younger days, I traveled frequently for business, and upon one occasion, found myself in Minneapolis with several associates, all of them several years my senior.

Somehow, I managed to convince the reluctant colleagues to visit Prince’s club, The Glam Slam, a funkadelic palace which has long since shuttered its paisley portal.

Although The Artist himself was out of town, the house band was hot hot hot.  The musicians were a rainbow of satin pastel jumpsuits blaring brass instruments into the crowd.  The patrons were pressed together into a perspiring pirouette.  And this was a weeknight!

I danced with the co-workers, one by one, until sweat streamed down each partner’s face, at which point I summoned the next contestant to my mini-marathon.  Everyone knows I can dance anyone under the table.

All too soon, the companions wanted to call it a night.  We strolled a few blocks and caught a cab back to the hotel.

The next morning, I was getting ready for my meetings, but I could not find my shoes.  I searched everywhere, but they were nowhere to be found.

Apparently, sometime during the evening festivities, I had — literally — kicked off my shoes.  And somehow, I had failed to notice my barefooted condition.  What can I say?  Like Prince, I get delirious.

Fortunately, the hotel had a boutique where I was able to purchase a new pair of pumps.  Unfortunately, it was a rather fancy hotel and the shoes were most definitely not expensable.

© 2016 Jaclyn Schrier. All rights reserved.