The Price of Fame || Prince/MJ

The Price of Fame || Chapter 1

1984

Rochelle Davis

"Please welcome Prince and The Revolution!" An emcee shouted loud from the darkness, giving this crowd an introduction.

Nothing, absolutely nothing could've prepared me for what happened that night. With First Avenue almost reaching capacity, strobe lights brightened overhead all throughout. This extremely captured audience had squealed in the name of joy.

As a collective, our eyes glued to front ends instantly, holding every single breath for him. I awaited His Royal Badass. The man, the myth. With five albums already clipped to his name, we knew. We all knew that he still took over show business.

And yet, something felt different. Fake smoke had billowed from the stage, and Prince stepped forward to reveal his presence.

The crowd cheered for this man with nothing short of hometown pride. Our man of this late yet brilliant hour dressed in this flowered jumpsuit with dark boots. Prince strapped this bass guitar across his chest, blinding his eyes with matching fabric.

Drink in hand, I lifted this brief shot toward the ceiling and drowned that whiskey, taking in my only alcohol planned for tonight. Even if I took a cab home, there was still no other choice, especially since I refused to deal with hangovers by morning.

From "17 Days" to "Something In The Water," we jammed all night. He deemed electric again, shredding with chaos, funk, and musical anger. Even I couldn't help cheering to encourage as he walked on stage, acknowledging the crowd for sure.

By the time this gig ended, I nearly danced my way out the door. While other folks lingered to possibly "see" Prince again, I knew that he wasn't around, having specifically told us "we gotta go" once "Possessed" stopped the birthday concert.

I stepped outside and faced this summer air, thankful to reach the sidewalk without much fuss. Not that people could recognize my face like other reporters, but anything might've happened. I knew better than to make a scene.

Just when I aimed to lift my hand and hail a cab home, someone opened the door behind me.

I almost zipped my head around and realized that a small entourage flagged Prince, especially this one heavy-set man with a Santa Claus beard and big-time arms. This cat probably worked as a bodyguard tonight.

By some miracle, Prince had changed clothes. In place, one leather jacket had layered over this white shirt. While this cross looped around neck, I slyly noticed that a large patch of facial hair peeked from the white shirt to center his chest.

Dark pants hugged that slim waist and famously black hair seemed to veil one end of his face. It wasn't long before I almost gasped out loud.

"Hey, girl. You all right?" Prince snatched off these sunglasses and folded both arms, clearly humored by my own shock right now.

"Oh, shit! I'm so sorry for staring." My mind quickly shook out of the trance, hoping that I wasn't too unprofessional right now. Members of his entourage laughed anyway.

"You're cool." Prince nearly strutted away from the sidewalk, finding this nearby motorcycle and settling his weight down. While just glancing over one shoulder, he smirked at me, palming the clutches without just zooming right away from here.

"The show was great!" I smiled, planning to wave goodbye with sense during this rare moment.

"Thanks. Come back next time!" Yelling through his own answer, Prince revved that motorcycle away and left everyone behind in Mill City dust.

___________

"What's your name?" Prince asked me. Not long after the birthday show, I returned to First Avenue, but he didn't exactly plan another concert.

After handling one of those infamous rehearsals, we cornered in his backstage dressing room, tossing questions back and forth.

"Rochelle." I smiled, sitting near his vanity mirror without touching any cosmetic products. The irony of the mirror's title wasn't lost on either of us now. Press outlets made a big fuss when Vanity left, especially when Prince wanted a future movie.

"You got a tape recorder? Heard some things." Prince lowered his voice, clearly relalizing to the fact that I was a journalist.

"Don't worry. I'm not dumb. If you don't need me to speak up, I won't. Do you want me to interview you someday?" I told him. Prince had every right to think about news outlets describing him incorrectly. Not that he cared much anymore, but he was still his own person.

"Maybe." Prince said, looking at me without much enthusiasm. I understood that somewhat comfortable silence. "What kind of background?"

"A college degree and music in my heart." I promised, giving the scout's honor without using hand gestures.

"You play instruments?" Prince scoffed through my cheesy answer, but I accepted the response.

"No, but I learned how to sing." I offered the truth.

"Typical." Prince rolled both eyes after taking off those rounded sunglasses once more. "Dames come over here lookin' for a dream all the time."

"And?" I defended myself.

"Thought you'd be better." Prince offered reality.

"At least I'm not a groupie." I answered back.

"You're not, but singing through albums with a pretty face won't get you far out here." Prince said.

"I know. That's why I headed towards the magazine route." I said. "Dropping out of high school to make music wouldn't be good."

"One day, bring one of your articles." Prince seemed to encourage me without really saying,"Congratulations."

"All right." I laughed slightly, gathering my jacket to leave.

"Where you going?" Prince asked, almost furrowing his brow.

"It's late. Heading home. I'm flying out in the morning, and I've got work tomorrow night." I beamed.

Before I could walk out of the dressing room, Prince stood up in this dark tank top with black pants and took off one gold bracelet that looped around his wrist.

"Thanks for not tripping." Prince said to me, latching the bracelet onto my wrist without a second thought.

We ended another rare moment in silence as he closed the door away from me.