Singles Going Steady: Prince, "Purple Rain"
When I first met A-Track, it was in fall of 2000 at a staff meeting. Her shoes were falling apart. She had these long, ridiculous fake nails and was twirling her pen across her knuckles like a baton, smacking her gum, and twirling her hair around her finger. I was mesmerized at her multitasking ability.
I'll totally cop to judging her based on her looks and demeanor, thinking she was probably in sales or was an admin, so I was quite surprised to find out that A-Track was an editor, too. What also surprised me was just how good A-Track was. When we started working together, I learned more from her in a few short weeks than I'd learned in all my previous editing jobs. She was one of those words people, a person with a complete grasp of the English language, usage, structure. She never cut corners with her writing—even her e-mails were grammatically perfect. None of that "RUOK?" "I h8 the weather," "Wnt 2 go 2 lnch?" nonsense for her. I liked that.
A-Track was definitely a little ... nuts. But nuts in the way that scary-smart people are allowed to be. Sure, it drove me bonkers that she'd show up to work wearing mismatched socks, or had her shirt on inside out. I hated how she insisted on drinking wheatgrass shots at lunch, how she was chronically late, that she was always a little dirty. She sometimes seemed to not be listening, but would surprise me by offering cogent advice or commentary on whatever we were talking about, always following up later to see if everything was okay. A-Track made even the most banal work things seem interesting. She could find art in almost anything. And she was generous and open, had no filter, told me everything—good and bad—about her, without a hint of self-consciousness. In short, we became fast friends. Insta-friends. Friends based on circumstance and locus.
Her brother was a concert promoter and was able to get us into shows for free, which was obviously awesome. The one show he couldn't get us into for free, however, was Prince. Now, when A-Track and I heard Prince was coming to town and playing at the Riviera, we lobbied hard to at least get on the list to possibly, maybe get a ticket. Her brother couldn't make us any promises, and as of the morning of the show (his Hit 'n Run Tour, for you historians), we still weren't sure if it was going to happen. Finally, at around 2:00 PM, A-Track calls me, tells me she needs $80, and that she'll be back in an hour. It was on!
We got to the Riviera as quickly as the Red Line would take us, leaving our coats and scarves at the office, opting instead for being warmed up by booze. We stood as close to the stage as was possible, which wasn't very, what with the crush of rabid Prince fans forming a wall at the front. After about 10 amazing songs, but still 10 songs of being slammed into, stepped on, and groped, we decided we'd had enough and went to stand near the back. It was too loud to talk, and our voices were hoarse anyway from all the "EEEEeeeeeee-ing" we'd been doing, so A-Track and I communicated with hand gestures: "Another smoke?" "I'm getting a beer—do you want?" "Did you see that girl's outfit?" "That guy is hot." "Too bad he's gay…" "Good point."
A-Track was pretty loaded at this point and had taken to swaying back and forth instead of dancing. She was wearing this tank-top thing with straps that wouldn't stay up. She'd been fussing at them for most of the night, but had given up on getting them to stay put and instead let the straps rest just below her shoulders. When "Purple Rain" started, she closed her eyes, started swaying with more energy, raising her arms in the air like it was a revival, totally on some other planet. I felt embarrassed watching her and looked away. Then I heard someone behind me say, "Damn, girl!" I turned around and saw people pointing toward A-Track—her top had fallen down to her waist and she was swinging her pale, slightly droopy breasts in the breeze. Mortified, I ran over to fix her shirt, but she stopped me and shrugged, "It's just gonna fall down again anyway." And topless she stayed for the rest of the song, boobs moving in time with Prince's "Oooh oooh ooh oohs," oblivious to everyone and everything around her.
Prince, "Purple Rain," from the album of the same name, June 1984
I'll totally cop to judging her based on her looks and demeanor, thinking she was probably in sales or was an admin, so I was quite surprised to find out that A-Track was an editor, too. What also surprised me was just how good A-Track was. When we started working together, I learned more from her in a few short weeks than I'd learned in all my previous editing jobs. She was one of those words people, a person with a complete grasp of the English language, usage, structure. She never cut corners with her writing—even her e-mails were grammatically perfect. None of that "RUOK?" "I h8 the weather," "Wnt 2 go 2 lnch?" nonsense for her. I liked that.
A-Track was definitely a little ... nuts. But nuts in the way that scary-smart people are allowed to be. Sure, it drove me bonkers that she'd show up to work wearing mismatched socks, or had her shirt on inside out. I hated how she insisted on drinking wheatgrass shots at lunch, how she was chronically late, that she was always a little dirty. She sometimes seemed to not be listening, but would surprise me by offering cogent advice or commentary on whatever we were talking about, always following up later to see if everything was okay. A-Track made even the most banal work things seem interesting. She could find art in almost anything. And she was generous and open, had no filter, told me everything—good and bad—about her, without a hint of self-consciousness. In short, we became fast friends. Insta-friends. Friends based on circumstance and locus.
Her brother was a concert promoter and was able to get us into shows for free, which was obviously awesome. The one show he couldn't get us into for free, however, was Prince. Now, when A-Track and I heard Prince was coming to town and playing at the Riviera, we lobbied hard to at least get on the list to possibly, maybe get a ticket. Her brother couldn't make us any promises, and as of the morning of the show (his Hit 'n Run Tour, for you historians), we still weren't sure if it was going to happen. Finally, at around 2:00 PM, A-Track calls me, tells me she needs $80, and that she'll be back in an hour. It was on!
We got to the Riviera as quickly as the Red Line would take us, leaving our coats and scarves at the office, opting instead for being warmed up by booze. We stood as close to the stage as was possible, which wasn't very, what with the crush of rabid Prince fans forming a wall at the front. After about 10 amazing songs, but still 10 songs of being slammed into, stepped on, and groped, we decided we'd had enough and went to stand near the back. It was too loud to talk, and our voices were hoarse anyway from all the "EEEEeeeeeee-ing" we'd been doing, so A-Track and I communicated with hand gestures: "Another smoke?" "I'm getting a beer—do you want?" "Did you see that girl's outfit?" "That guy is hot." "Too bad he's gay…" "Good point."
A-Track was pretty loaded at this point and had taken to swaying back and forth instead of dancing. She was wearing this tank-top thing with straps that wouldn't stay up. She'd been fussing at them for most of the night, but had given up on getting them to stay put and instead let the straps rest just below her shoulders. When "Purple Rain" started, she closed her eyes, started swaying with more energy, raising her arms in the air like it was a revival, totally on some other planet. I felt embarrassed watching her and looked away. Then I heard someone behind me say, "Damn, girl!" I turned around and saw people pointing toward A-Track—her top had fallen down to her waist and she was swinging her pale, slightly droopy breasts in the breeze. Mortified, I ran over to fix her shirt, but she stopped me and shrugged, "It's just gonna fall down again anyway." And topless she stayed for the rest of the song, boobs moving in time with Prince's "Oooh oooh ooh oohs," oblivious to everyone and everything around her.
Prince, "Purple Rain," from the album of the same name, June 1984
posted by Iseult at 4:21 PM
2 Comments:
Hoo boy. I bet she cringes at the memory of that now.
Aw hey! My first comments. Thanks, ladies.
A) I don't know if she's embarrassed about it because I had to break up with her about a year later. She got a little too bananas even for me.
B) Slummy, where you been all my life?
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