was still waiting for the “Oh, there must be a mistake.” But the security guy gave me a nod. Then he looked at my friend.
“Did you get a text?” the large man asked, as politely as possible.
“No,” she said.
“I’m sorry” was all he said.
Now, my friend is dope as hell and also happens to be someone famous. You know her, and if I told you her name you would immediately know that of course she could hang. But Prince planned his invite list like a precision instrument. And I had the golden ticket that night.
“You have to go in,” she said.
“Okaythecarwilltakeyouhomeloveyou,” I said, because there was no way I was not going in. And I felt lucky to have a friend who understood what this invitation meant.
The first thing I noticed as I walked through the door was that this was definitely Prince’s house. Purple tapestries, music blasting, candles everywhere . . .
“Dearly beloved . . .” I said to myself.
To my right was a huge staircase, and to my left, just beyond the crowd, stood Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, and Mary J. Blige in a small circle. They were still in their Grammy party gowns, looking like my nineties soulful-pop fantasies come to life.
“Oh my God, Gabrielle,” Mary said, waving me over. “That picture we took at Quincy’s party, I have it on my mantel. I see you every day.”
“Really?” I asked, meaning it. Mary J. Blige had a picture of me?
“Come, come,” she said, drawing me into their circle. I don’t really get starstruck, but as I was doing air kisses with these icons, I thought, How in the hell is this even happening? These gorgeous, important women were in the middle of having a legit kiki. I think that word gets overused, but this was a kiki of epic proportions. Mariah was sipping champagne and telling a story about some guy trying to come on to her. She is an amazing storyteller—deadpan, but landing the details about this chump perfectly as Whitney let out that amazing roar of a laugh of hers. It was like being invited to sit at the cool table. I had grown up watching all these women, dying to meet them, and here they were, having girl talk like at a slumber party with friends and inviting me in. Just some normal superstars, talking about life. Stars, They’re Just Like Us, only not at all, because this was Prince’s house.
I spotted our host across the room, sitting on the stairs and talking intently to Anthony Anderson. I later asked Anthony what they talked about.
“Jehovah,” said Anthony.
Prince was, as he would say, living “in the truth.” As a Jehovah’s Witness rooted in his faith, he recognized that there were elements of his beliefs that could touch other people. You didn’t have to buy the whole faith, lock, stock, and barrel. But there were aspects that he found comfort and guidance in that he wanted to share. As he talked to Anthony, Prince moved his head ever so slightly. Even his smallest movements were musical.
I was mesmerized watching him, and it took Matthew McConaughey to break the spell, running by with a set of bongos. “Wow,” I thought, “that is a thing that guy actually does.” Then I saw my friend Sanaa Lathan talking with Hill Harper. I spotted Damon Wayans making Renée Zellweger guffaw, and Salma Hayek dancing with Penélope Cruz.
Suddenly, Prince just appeared in front of me.
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I said. Oh God, I thought, what am I supposed to call him? “Mr. Prince.”
He smiled. Stop! I screamed in my head. Shut up! I was petrified of saying something stupid. So I did.
“I feel like I should have brought a tuna casserole,” I said. Fuck, you idiot.
He raised one magnificent, exquisitely sculpted eyebrow.
“We’re both from the Midwest,” I said, unable to stop myself from talking. “That’s what we do, right?”
His face broke into a smile. “I love tuna casserole,” he said, in his low, deliberate voice. “And I liked you on that episode of ER. I really liked it.”
“How are you watching ER?” I said. “You’re Prince.”
“I see everything,” he said.
And I believed him, looking around the room at a completely random collection of faces from music, television, and film. His parties also included writers, directors, and producers of all types of content. There was always a random athlete or two in the mix as well. It was all over the place, and completely inclusive at the same time.