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.