Fiction by New Breed Leader: "Call Me Michael", Chapter 2: All the Critics Love U in New York

“Ms. Simmons…” the college professor intoned as he looked up from his desk. Michelle had just bounded through the double doors to the 9 a.m. class, The History of Breaking News in Journalism. The cab ride from Kennedy Airport was nearly an hour long, and Michelle didn’t get a chance to get to her apartment to shower and change, which meant she didn’t have her textbooks and class papers. She was still rolling her suitcase. Her hair was disheveled. The last shower she took was back in Minneapolis at the hotel. She was a mess, but she was present.

“You are 30 minutes late”, Daniel Rosenkranz, Professor of Journalism, announced.

“I’m so sorry Professor, Michelle said, red with embarrassment.

She clumsily shuffled to a seat near the middle of the auditorium and sat down, trying not to drop her heavy suitcase. She remembered that she had brought a notebook with her to Minneapolis so she could journal about her trip. She unzipped the suitcase and pulled it out, along with a pen, so she could take notes.

The professor continued his lecture on the news coverage of the assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan.

“What were the flaws in the news coverage?” he asked as he stood up from his desk and paced back and forth. “What did they get right?”

Michelle had done all of the reading, including the newspaper coverage of the event from the School’s extensive media library; but she didn’t get to watch much TV archival news coverage in the school’s lab.

“Ms. Simmons”, Professor Rosenkranz lowered his glasses, looking directly at her. “Do you have an answer for us?”

Great, just great, Michelle thought. Put the tardy one on the spot.

“Well”, Michelle sat up straight and cleared her throat, not knowing what to say yet; she hadn’t even had her morning coffee. “As was usually the case with these major events, the coverage was divided along political lines”, she managed to say.

“That is correct”, Rosenkranz walked toward his desk. He was a middle-aged man, about 6’3, with bushy hair and thick coke bottle glasses. He wore a black V neck sweater on top of a powder blue shirt and black slacks. His eyes were emerald green. It was the most striking thing about him.

“Can anyone here tell me why that was not necessarily…a bad thing?” he sat down at his desk.

Michelle made a sigh of relief. He was giving someone else the responsibility to answer the question.

Another student raised his hand, and the Professor called on him. As they bantered, Michelle zoned out. Her thoughts drifted to D’Angelo. She wondered what he was doing right now. She still had the sticky note with his phone number on it inside of her bag.

But she was way too exhausted to call it when she got home. The first thing she was going to do was collapse on the bed and sleep for 12 hours.

When she finally got home – a student apartment off campus in the Bronx – Carl, her roommate, was there to greet her. She could tell he had slept plenty during the day.

“Mi amor!” he said as Michelle dropped her bags at the front door. “Did you make it to class?”

“Just barely”, Michelle said. “Professor Rosenkranz decided to make an example of me”.

“Ouch”, Carl said as he placed a bag of popcorn into the microwave.

Michelle plopped down on the couch, pulled off her too-tight winter boots and wiggled her toes.

“I just need to sleep”, Michelle yawned.

“Are you hungry? I can order us some Chinese takeout”, Carl snatched the bag of popcorn out of the microwave and slammed the door shut. When he sat down on the couch, he saw that Michelle was fast asleep.

“Mi amor”, Carl said softly. He lightly brushed his hand across her cheek. “You’ve had a busy day”.

“Yo, n***…I met this girl”. D’Angelo squinted his eyes through a plume of cigarette smoke as he sat at the keyboard inside Electric Lady Studios in Greenwich Village.

Ahmir Thompson, aka Questlove, sat at the drums, sticks in hands. They had met not long ago, but the two young musicians became fast friends.

“Word?” he said.

“Yeah…at Paisley Park. Her name’s Michelle.”

Questlove tested the kickdrum. “Is that all you know about her?” he said.

“So far”. D put his Newport down in a glass ashtray that sat atop the keyboard. and began playing the keys. “I gave her my number. I hope she calls me. I don’t even know where she’s from”.

“Well good luck to you, brother”, Questlove said as he started a basic drumbeat.

“Wish you could’ve seen this girl. She was…different”, D’Angelo obviously wanted to keep talking about her. “She loves Prince like me”.

“Was she with somebody?” Ahmir said, increasing the tempo of his drumbeat.

“Nah…she was with this n*** and some friends”, D said. “I don’t think he was her boyfriend, though”.

“What we got going on today?” Raphael Saadiq bounced into the room.

“Sup, man!” D lept up from the keyboard and dapped him. “We just jammin, man”.

“Cool”, Raphael picked up a bass guitar.

The three musicians started a random jam, Questlove keeping a steady and funky beat, D’s nimble hands trickling across the keyboard, Raphael plucking a staccato bass rhythm. No one even had to ask what key they were in, they just instinctively knew. They played all afternoon and into the night.

The next morning, Michelle woke up slowly…and sorely. Her whole body ached. She was in a contorted position on the couch. Her left leg was draped over the back of the couch, while her right leg was dangling onto the floor. Carl had thrown a blanket over her, a green and yellow Afghan, knitted by his grandmother.

She creaked her way off the couch and hobbled to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

She switched the light on and looked in the mirror. Her hair was a hot mess, strands going this way and that way. She had sleep crust in the corners of her eyes, and her mouth was dry.

She hated the way she looked. She was overweight and unattractive. She wore big bulky clothes to hide her rotund body and flabby stomach. Her glasses were large, black-rimmed, like DMC’s. Why in the world would D’Angelo kiss me? She thought. Ugh. That was enough self-scrutinizing for today. She had class in two hours, but she also had a meeting with some other students in the library to work on their Masters Project.

“Buenos Dias, mi amor!” Carl shouted as he suddenly appeared behind her. Carl was not Spanish, nor was he from a Spanish-speaking country. But he did love Latin men. They were his weakness. A southern belle from New Orleans, Carl loved to dance. He attended The Alvin Ailey School, where he studied ballet. Back in DC when Carl met Michelle, she was a history major at Howard University and he majored in dance at the University of Maryland. They both excelled at their respective fields and received scholarships for their post graduate education in New York: Michelle, the Rhodes scholarship to attend Columbia University School of Journalism, and Carl at Alvin Ailey’s professional dance program. Carl advanced so far in fact that he began teaching classes while still a student.

It was love at first sight for both of them. Michelle loved Carl’s humor and vivacious energy, and Carl loved Michelle’s wit and intelligence. Although he was gay, Carl felt this need to protect Michelle like a boyfriend.

“Is that still all the Spanish you know, Carl?” Michelle garbled as she brushed her teeth.

“Excuse me, Miss ‘Speaks Four Languages Fluently?’ It’s not like you’ve been helping me or anything” Carl rolled his eyes.

“I’ve been too busy”, Michelle spit into the sink.

“Oh, spare me the excuses, missy” Carl said, leaning against the bathroom doorway. “Anyway, I’m learning more and more words every day! You know Javier is teaching that free Spanish class over at la biblioteca on the weekends”, Carl said.

“Ah, Muy bueno, Carl”. Michelle was in her bedroom now, peeling her clothes off so she could take a shower. “You’ll be asking Ricky Martin to marry you in Spanish before you know it”.

She wrapped her bathrobe around herself and opened her bedroom door. Carl sprinted past her, nearly knocking her over as he slid down the hallway towards the living room on one knee. He was all legs.

“Ricardo,” Carl clasped his hands pleadingly as he looked up at an imaginary Ricky, “¿quieres ser mi esposo? (“Will you marry me?)

Michelle doubled over in laughter.

“I’ve been practicing”, Carl announced as he walked back to his bedroom. “Hurry up and get showered so we can get out of here, chica, he said as he closed his door.

Michelle arrived at Columbia University an hour later. Journalism Hall was a large structure boasting stained glass windows and natural lighting. After looking for her project partners, she found them sitting at a long table near the corner.

“We heard you pissed Rosenkranz off yesterday for being late” said Amanda Frost. “Was it worth traveling nearly halfway across the country to see ‘The Artist Formerly Known as Prince?’” Amanda’s voice dripped with malicious sarcasm.

Ah, here we go again, thought Michelle. Being teased about the Name Change. It came with the territory of being a devout Prince fan in the mid-nineties.

“Hello to you too, Amanda”, Michelle quipped. “Not only was it worth it…I plan on doing it again”.

“When? You need to focus on this project…not chasing Prince around”, Amanda shook her head judgmentally.

“And you”, Michelle slowly pulled out a chair and sat down, “need to mind your business”.

Amanda rolled her eyes. She was somewhat jealous of Michelle because she was smarter than her and she knew it. Michelle didn’t remember when the rivalry started. All she knew was, it was one-sided.

“This is my business”, Amanda snapped. “This is a group project. If one of us isn’t here, it affects our grade”.

Michelle sighed with exasperation. “I’m here now” she conceded. The graduate students were more than halfway done, they just needed to discuss last minute changes and updates before they turned their thesis in to the Project Advisor.

As everyone debated and talked, Michelle’s thoughts drifted to her other assignment, the Masters Thesis on Prince. It was near completion, but she pondered what else she could add to it.

Michelle Simmons had only one professional goal: To have a conversation with the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Not an interview: a conversation. A real one, where the questions didn’t insult his intelligence. She’d read every single print interview the man ever did, and time and again she came away frustrated that each one was nothing but surface stuff. Inane questions about things that never got to the heart of who Prince was. Michelle felt that Prince deserved better because he was such an amazing artist. The virtuoso guitarist was notoriously guarded about his private life, but Michelle believed she could get past that hurdle. Call it youthful arrogance. It worked for Prince when he was 21, why not her? Besides, she had the credentials to back up her confidence. An award for a surprisingly in-depth interview she did with the Mayor of Atlanta back in college was more revealing than anything Charlie Rose ever did.

Later in the day, when her classes were done, Michelle stepped down from the subway on 238th Street. The 20-minute walk through the fall-flavored Bronx took her through Riverdale Avenue to 239th Street, past golden-leafed trees that lined streets with old, red-bricked apartment buildings with rectangular windows, some with air conditioners jutting out of them. Past sandwich shops and dentist offices, until finally she turned left onto a circular walkway in front of two massive red-brick buildings nestled in a park-like setting. An all-glass lobby attached the buildings. Michelle buzzed herself in using her security key card and walked over to her mailbox. She opened it to find a bulky beige package stuffed inside. She gasped with glee because she knew what it was.

The new Prince bootleg.

Michelle snatched the envelope out of the mailbox and sped toward the elevator, jabbing the button with her index finger. She got on and went up the 5th floor. Jumping off, she ran just across the hall to her door. She nearly dropped all her stuff, she was so excited as she fished out her keys and stuck them in the door. She turned the key and pushed the door open, nearly tripping as she ran in. Just inside was an expansive and bright living room, painted all in white. Underneath her feet was parquet wood flooring, partially covered by a red and orange area rug. To the right was a black couch draped with an orange cover. To the right was a large coat closet. In front of it was a long rectangular white coffee table. Several fashion magazines were stacked on top of it. The living room extended to an eat-in kitchen that looked out onto three large rectangular windows. The long wall behind the couch was lined with framed Prince posters.

Michelle didn’t bother to hang up her coat or put anything away. She dropped everything on the couch and tore the envelope open. Inside was a 3-CD set with a black cover. It had elaborate artwork on it with a picture of Prince’s face from the “Parade” period (When “Kiss” came out).

The typeface on the CD cover said “Cosmos”. Michelle held it up and admired it. Then she opened it. A thick booklet was tucked inside. Full of more colorful photos of Prince & The Revolution. It smelled like fresh plastic and paper. She turned the CD set over to the back where the track listing was. Listed were songs she had never heard of before, outtakes from the recording of the Purple Rain, Around The World In a Day and Parade albums. Her stomach pounded with excitement. Next to the coat closet was a floor-to-ceiling ebony bookshelf. In the middle was a hollow space. Inside the space was a large stereo system with a 6-CD changer. Large speakers were on either side. Michelle walked over to changer and pressed a button. A carousel with 6 slots slid out. Michelle scooped a disc out of the set and popped it into one of the slots. She pressed the same button and the carousel slid back in. She pressed play, and the opening notes of "Electric Intercourse” started to play.

Michelle closed her eyes and let the music transport her to Prince’s world.

“Feel some kind of love for you…don’t know your name”, Prince sang with lusty conviction. “It’s the kind of love that takes to…want you and I’m not ashamed…”

“Hola, Mi Amor!” Carl burst through the door.

Michelle’s eyes flew open with a jolt.

“Hey, Carl” she said.

“Ooooh what is that I’m hearing?” Carl danced over to the stereo, dropping his bags and dance gear. “Did Prince come out with a new album?”

“No”, Michelle laughed. “This is a bootleg collection of unreleased songs”

“Oooooooh”, Carl said like Michelle was being called to the principal’s office.

“Oh hush, boy” Michelle said as she took the CD out of the changer.

“Alright, now…I don’t want la Policia busting through these doors”.

“You mean like you just did?”

“Shut up” Carl laughed as he went into his bedroom.

“What are you doing home?” Michelle slipped the CD set back into the crumpled envelope.

“I forgot something when I left out this morning”, Carl said. He reappeared back into the living room, still wearing his dance clothes, ballet shoes, tights, leg warmers. “Are we on for drinks tonight at the bar?”

Michelle looked at the package. “I don’t think so. I want to listen to my new CD”.

“Oh well, have fun with Mr. Artist Formerly Known as Prince tonight”, Carl shimmied out the door.

Michelle laughed as she locked the door after him, then settled back onto the couch. She reached back into the envelope. Her fingers sensed what felt like another CD. Her brows furrowed. She spread the envelope open and peered in. She saw another CD in a thin plastic case. Clipped onto it was a written note. Michelle unclipped the note and read it. “For being a loyal customer. Enjoy this bonus CD. Signed, The Vault Avengers”. She smiled. There was no booklet in the case so she could see through it. It was a concert Prince and his band the New Power Generation did in a small nightclub in April 1993 in San Francisco. She decided to play that one first. She got back up and put the CD in the changer then plopped back down on the couch. The sound was muffled, but she could hear crowd noise. It got louder and more boisterous which meant that Prince had just appeared onstage. “DNA, can you hear me?” Prince’s deep voice said to a roaring crowd. Michelle squealed and smiled wide. She listened to the CD attentively, taking in every guitar lick, every groove, every Prince scream. D’Angelo suddenly entered her mind. It would be cool if he were here right now to hear this with me, she thought. Leaning on her elbow, her head in her hand, Michelle nodded off to sleep. The phone rang. She awoke with a jolt. The CD had stopped. She saw out the window that it was dark. “I slept a long time”, Michelle said groggily said to herself. She slowly got up and walked over to the kitchen where the wall phone was and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Wassup?” said the deep smoky voice.

Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Who is this?”

A beat, then, “This is D’Angelo”.

Michelle stood stunned. “Oh. Hey”, she walked over to the cordless phone sitting on the kitchen table and picked it up. Then she put the wall phone back on the wall. "Um…how did you get this number?”

D coughed and giggled. Weed, no doubt. “I looked you up”.

“In the phone book?” Michelle said. “I’m not listed”.

“Yeah? Well…”. D trailed off, another weed induced giggle. “I called information”, he drawled.

“Wow”, Michelle sat on the couch. “Talk about coincidence”. Michelle knew D’Angelo was lying, because if you weren’t listed in the phone book, you also couldn’t be found through 411.

“What you mean?” Michelle heard the sound of blowing smoke.

“I know you won’t believe this, but I was just thinking about you”, she said.

“Oh, word?” D said.

“Yeah”.

“Then how come you ain’t call me?” he coughed.

“Because I fell asleep”, Michelle laughed. “Sorry”.

D laughed. “Aw, shit”, he said. “I ain’t mean to wake you up. I can call back”.

“No-no, it’s fine” Michelle failed to subdue the sound of panic in her voice. She walked over to the stereo, silently cursing herself. “The reason I was thinking of you was I ordered a bootleg Prince CD from Europe and it arrived in the mail today”.

D’s voice suddenly perked up and became sober. “Oh word?” he chirped.

“Yeah. Hey, by the way…where are you calling from? Oh, and also: how did you know I was in New York? And how did you find my number?”

She could hear his nervous laugh on the other end of the line.

“I’m in New York too”, D said.

“And the other questions?” Michelle tapped her foot impatiently.

“I asked around”, he said. “I didn’t know if you were going to call me or not, so, I wanted to find you”.

Michelle wasn’t satisfied with that answer. In fact, it sounded downright suspicious. In spite of herself, she was flattered that D'Angelo tracked her down.

“Do you live in New York too?” Michelle said.

“Yeah. Manhattan”.

“I’m in-“

“The Bronx. I know”.

“Oh. Right. Because you looked me up. I still don’t understand how you knew to find me in New York. Back in Minnesota I never told you where I was from”.

D’s weed giggle had returned. “Nah. Well. I asked the hotel clerk where you were from” he lied.

“And she told you?” Michelle’s brows shot up. That had to be against hotel policy, asking hotel staff to reveal where other guests were from. Not very good for safety. But then again. He was D’Angelo. Exceptions were made for famous people.

“Uh…yeah”, D said. Awkward silence.

“Well”, Michelle said, “Now that you’ve found me…can I invite you over to listen to this Prince CD with me?”

Maybe while he’s here, I can ask him a few questions. Make it an unofficial interview, Michelle thought.

“Yeah”, D blew smoke. “That’d be cool. I can be over there in about 20 minutes”.

They hung up and Michelle jumped into the shower.

As D’Angelo hung up the phone, Gerald Duke, Private Investigator, sat across from him.

“Yo”, D extended his hand to the elder African American man, a former detective with the NYPD. “’Preciate it, man”, he dapped him.

“It’s my pleasure, young man”, the PI returned the dap. D asked his manager about finding Michelle, who in turn reached out to Gerald Duke. The tab for his services was paid for by D’s record label, EMI.