A quick trip to help housekeeping turned into a purple fever dream — the night I stepped into Prince’s world.
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I used to work in a hotel in Beverly Hills back when I was twenty-two.
I was a houseman.
Some of the stories from that place and time I’ll eventually share with you guys.
I say you guys… funny, I guess I should say for those few who care to read my stories.
Thank you if I entertained you enough to read even part of what I write.
So, back to the story for tonight.
For now, I’ll hit you with a simple one — quick and to the point.
⸻
One night, like any other cool night, I get a call from dispatch:
“Hey Roberto, can you go help Gerda?”
Gerda was this Haitian woman, about five feet tall. She could be loud and rambunctious, always clashing with the other women in housekeeping.
But to me she was cool as hell. She liked things done her way, so we’d argue all the time — not in a mean way, just that playful “come on, man” kind of arguing. I respected that she cared to do a good job.
Anyway, I said, “Alright, cool, I’ll go help her.”
When I get there, I’m like, “What’s up, Gerda?”
She goes, “Roberto, what are you doing here? Shoot, I don’t need your help. You think I can’t do this room by myself?”
Then she gave me that grin.
I said, “They told me to come help you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hurry, I’m so fuckin’ behind on my rooms. I had to fix one of the rooms one of those dumb lazy women tried to help me with.”
She was moving — fast — while she talked.
Then I look around and see all these pant tights — like every shade of purple you can imagine. Purple everywhere.
I tell her, “No… don’t tell me this is Prince’s fuckin’ room.”
She starts laughing. “Yeah, this is his room.”
And I go, “Are those his pants?”
She says, “Yeah, those are his pants.”
They were these little-ass pant tights, man. Every shade of purple.
And then I see his little-ass boots lined up — purple too. That’s when I said, “I hate this guy. He’s such an asshole.”
I’d already had an interaction with him before, so there was a reason I said that.
I’ll hit you with that one some other night.
Then I look to my right and see this guitar — his guitar — the one shaped like that weird symbol. You know, when he wasn’t Prince anymore, he was “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince.” Yeah, that guitar. Purple as hell.
So I sit down and start playing with it. I even see this medallion lying there with the same symbol. I put that thing on — it was heavy — and I’m just there, strumming the guitar like a fool.
Gerda freaks out, “No, Roberto! Stop doing that! He could walk in any minute and we’ll both get in trouble!”
I said, “Man, fuck that dude. He’s a pain in the ass.”
Still, I put it back — the guitar, the medallion, everything.
But I remember how heavy that medallion felt and how crazy it was to see that guitar in person.
I’m pretty sure it was the same one he used at the Super Bowl halftime show.
That whole room was like a shrine — purple pants, purple boots, purple guitar.
The man really lived inside his own color.
All true — every shade of it.
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