After nine years of being attached at the hip, Lyric and Prince finally split. Now, on the road to recovery, she learns a new way to view life as Prince is forced to face the music of a song he never wanted to played aloud. Join them as they learn a...
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April 6, 1993 Chicago, Illinois
I set down the bottle of Advil on the counter top. The sound of the pills moving around create a sense of nostalgia. Deep within my mind I can hear Lyric's voice echoing. 'Prince, you need to go to the doctor. What 28-year-old needs a cane?' I've kept my oath to allow her solitude, but I still see her in my dreams. I can feel her presence as I've spent much of my time here with her biological family. I hear her in their laughter, singing the love spell of a thousand angels raised by cupid. The worst of it comes in the presence of Thaila. Her mother and aunt are identical, though how much of an influence the latter has on that child is undeniable.
But I've taken it in stride, my biggest problem today being the aching of my left hip.
The cane is pretty damn cool, if anyone asks me. What could be tighter than having a matching cane? Oh, come on. I'm clean and you can't convince me of anything else. I was walking down the long hallway. I caught wind of Buffy wanting to stop by the show, telling me they've been in town longer than I knew of. She's avoided me all this time on purpose. Tonight's the last show and I can spot a chance of her arrival, causing me to slam the hammer down on the band harder than I have in weeks. They better be tight. These mothafuckers better put their hearts, souls, toes, minds, and guts into this shit.
"Yo, yo, yo! We're here live on–"
I stopped the catastrophe before it even began. "I need you to get off the damn mic and go stand where you 'posed to be." I command Damon. He groans, walking back to his destination. "Really, huh? You tryna' buy us all dinner tonight?" A fine is something I've reintroduced in a heavier effect for this tour. The boldness of these new musicians and dancers coming up is something that needs to be whipped into shape. Don't worry. I'll shut all that down.
And I dare another mofo to make a damn noise. If someone even breathes the wrong way I'm on that ass!
"This mic was a little dark last night. Somebody check that..." The tiny angel on my shoulder, brown skin and a pixie cut, reminds me of my manners. "Please," I add, looking around my stage. I catch a glimpse of Mayte to the left of me, standing in the dingiest baggy, army fatigue green sweatpants I've ever seen. "After this, you burn those." I point to her. "I mean burn."
Her wardrobe hasn't been finished yet. Anything I'm knocking down needs to come wrapped in a pretty pink bow. Since that shift occurred, I've had them start altering her wardrobe little by little. Sometimes I think to myself, 'We're never going to fix this poor girl up' because that's how much work she needs at times. She has the potential to find her true standpoint of beauty. She just needs my guidance. We can pluck, stuff, and pump her in all the right places. I hadn't had to put in this much work since prior to meeting Carmen.
It's been an agonizing drag that I, frankly, ain't got much time for. In a minute, I'm going to let the beauty gurus of Paisley handle it all by themselves. Call me when it's done and show me the merchandise. Then, I'll let you know if you have to go back and restart.
