“I don’t want you to think I’m that person who’s—”
“You’re not that person. Relax.” He got on the phone to the business office, and his voice was tight with irritation. “Can you tell me how much Mayte is making?” There was a pause while he listened to the person on the other line. “Okay. I need to see a list of what everyone else is making, too.”
The following week, my pay had been tripled. Daddy was proud of me for standing up about it, and I was glad to think that the net result was a significant pay raise for everyone. I knew Prince wasn’t being miserly; he had so many people doing so many things for him, it was impossible for him to know what was going on with all the people all the time. Sometimes an individual he cared about had to step up and say something, and people weren’t always willing to do that.
I felt like an idiot that I hadn’t said something eighteen months earlier, but I was glad I’d proven my worth as a dancer. Being Prince’s friend—or girlfriend—was not enough to keep you employed by him. I’d seen that during the Diamonds and Pearls Tour. After a week in Japan and three weeks in Australia, Carmen and her band joined the tour and opened for us in the Netherlands and Germany. They showed her video for “Go Go Dancer” before her set, and I thought the set was good, but the reviews weren’t what one dreams of, and Prince wasn’t happy with the audience reaction. As we were setting up for the first show at Earls Court in London, word went around that Carmen’s slot had been omitted. The Pasadenas and Shakespeare’s Sister replaced her the following week in Manchester and Glasgow. Indra and Trio Esperanza did a couple of shows in Paris. Other than that, the tour played out with no opener. Carmen went home, and at the end of the Diamonds and Pearls Tour, Lori and Robia were let go, too.
“Had to happen,” was all Prince said about it to me. “But I’m gonna ask Morris to join NPG.”
Morris, aka “Mr. Hayes,” had been around for a while. He replaced Jimmy Jam in The Time and was co-founder of the house band at Prince’s nightclub, Glam Slam, in Minneapolis. He’d been in Carmen’s band on the Diamonds and Pearls Tour, playing keyboards, including a bulky Wurlitzer that sounded like a whole orchestra in his hands. He’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. Prince was always saying he should do comedy. Morris was one of Prince’s most durable musicians and a longtime friend who stayed with him for twenty years. He was grateful and kind, and I never heard him complain or backbite on anybody.
Over the years, Prince worked with a lot of different artists, and that constant evolution was part of the rare energy he created. I always operated on the assumption that my employment was seasonal, but I hoped my season would last awhile. And more than that, I hoped our friendship would survive whatever professional ups and downs fate had in store. Romantically, I wasn’t counting on anything. There was flirtation, but nothing below the belt. He kissed me one night when we were in Australia, and I let him know I didn’t hate that, but I had no desire to be part of the harem. I remember a big party in London where Carmen was wearing a super cool little outfit with these sexy great boots, and Lori told me, “I turned down that same outfit when Prince bought it for me. Now Carmen’s wearing it.” This took the “bitch stole my look” drama to a new level. Ain’t nobody got time for that, but my hormones were in high gear. When Prince sensed my frustration, he just said, “Good things come to those who wait.”
I was glad when Christmastime rolled around, and Paisley Park became the ghost town it had been the first time I saw it. This time I was one of the people going home for the holidays instead of a Nutcracker mouse tiptoeing in when no one was there but the Prince and the Christmas tree. Mama and Daddy were in Puerto Rico, so I went there, too. Prince went to Miami to get away from the cold, but after a few days, he called me and said, “I’m coming to Puerto Rico.”
“No, you’re not,” I laughed.
“No, really. I am.”
The idea of him rolling up in the ’hood where Grandma Mercedes lived was kind of ridiculous, but the following morning, there he was. It was so strange to hear the jangle-click of his boots on the tile floor where I’d danced to his music when I was a little girl. Somehow the sound made me feel even more at home there. He met my grandmother and all the relatives, chatted with my parents for a while, and then went to his hotel. I went over to hang out with him that evening and found him sitting on top of the piano in his hotel room, looking out over the ocean.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “These mosquitos are eating me alive.”
“They do that.” I climbed up and sat dancer style beside him, breathing the ocean breeze coming in through the open balcony doors.
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about it all day,” he said. “I’m going to change my name.”