One Last Lunch

by Erica Heller

  I’ll skip watching the death scenes, though. Enough is enough.

  Kate O’Toole is an Irish actress. Her credits include John Huston’s The Dead, The Tudors, and Titanic: Blood and Steel. She was nominated Best Actress at the Irish Times Irish Theatre Awards in Terry Johnson’s Dead Funny and won Best Actress at the UK TMA Awards in Edward Albee’s Three Tall Women. She is board chair of Ireland’s Oscar-accredited film festival, the Galway Film Fleadh. She lives in Connemara with her three donkeys, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  — 37 —

  “So, today, I write a new song about a lunch with Prince. The song title is . . . ‘A Royal Lunch.’ ”

  TAJA SEVELLE (PROTÉGÉE, CLOSE FRIEND) AND PRINCE

  Detailed plans with Prince are not announced. They unwind within the moment, with ease. To the outliers of his mind, the “wheres” and “whens” may seem to unfold as a series of clues, rather than scheduled details. To me, it’s normal.

  This lunch is no exception. . . .

  I am riding the short ride between the Viceroy L’Ermitage, where I am staying, and the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Polo Lounge—our lunch destination. On the ride, I recall first meeting him, in 1984. We were on the second level of First Avenue, the famed nightclub in Minneapolis. He asked me my name, and after my reply, I teasingly asked him for his name. As though I didn’t know. He laughed. My hair was big, like Angela Davis’s. I was just starting out. My get-up: gray leggings; pink, ribbed, sleeveless tee; shiny gray pumps. His get-up: Cool. He was cool, like the essence of the word. Our encounter felt natural. It was the beginning of a thirty-year-plus friendship. Of playing pool, walking by the lake, basketball, meals, long conversations, creative plans, songwriting discussions, jam sessions and recording, performing, movies, nightclubs, parties, roped-off corners, and circles with a circus of people surrounding us and asking me for my autograph before they even knew me—just because I was with . . . Prince. And, it was the beginning of my recording career.

  All of this runs through my mind for some reason, as I’m perched in the back of a black Rolls, traveling west on Burton Way headed to our lunch. I am forever thankful that Prince gave me my first record deal. He told me a few years later that he had given me more creative freedom than he’d given any artist he’d signed at that time. I had purchased a small recording studio right after I signed the deal, and I began writing songs for my debut record. “Love Is Contagious” was the first real song that I had ever written. Prince heard it and was originally considering it for his next movie. But the song stayed with my debut album. I moved from Minneapolis to Los Angeles to record my first album. Shortly before the record was released, Prince weighed in on which song would be the first single: “ ‘Love Is Contagious.’ We’ll put that one out first,” he proclaimed. It charted Top 7 in Europe, and in many cities around the US it went Top 5 on the R&B stations. I flew to London in the spring of 1988 and performed “Love Is Contagious” at the Royal Albert Hall. I fell in love with London. Life was a ball.

  I was off to the races.

  Now, riding up North Rexford, I’m off to create another fantastic memory with Prince—another lunch that will inevitably be fabulous. After my lucrative seven-year deal with Prince had ended, he and I found out a few years later that we shared even more in common than we had known. We had read many of the same books, about spirituality, metaphysical concepts, humanitarian interests, and so on and so forth. Our conversations became deeper and more meaningful. I signed two more record deals, and soon I started a 501(c)(3) called Urban Farming. The organization began by planting community gardens of free food for people in need. Prince became a huge supporter. He loved the cause, the gardens, and the healthy principles. It was another shared passion—helping others. I know that we will discuss strategies at this lunch . . . ideas of how to help the world. Ideas that would really come to life—not just evaporate in a sea of good intentions.

  On North Crescent Drive, as the car draws closer to the Beverly Hills Hotel, the song “Try to Remember” runs through my mind. The part that says, “Try to remember the kind of September, when you were a tender and callow fellow . . .” It’s the kind of lyric that captures the part of life that’s tough to capture. Prince is uncapturable. He is the live wire of creation. He rides it with fervor. His life depended on it because he knew that riding the creative wave was life itself. And it is best served on a forward motion. No looking backward.

  Thus, “Try to Remember” would not strike his fancy. Simply because, “No dwelling allowed.” He knows that creation is an onward march. He does not allow talks about how great those high school years were. I can relate. So, in this lunch, there is no dwelling allowed. Or Prince will leave and I will, too.

  The driver crosses Sunset Boulevard and turns into the hotel. Moments later, I float up the famous Beverly Hills Hotel wide red carpet, under the long black-and-white canopy, framed with tropical foliage and stunning flowers. I enter the majestic lobby. No care of the day or the hour. I think about the trait of time suspension that both Prince and I carry. Only now is relevant. What are we creating now? Well, now I am creating a lunch with Prince. I would rather that our lunch today be a collage of meals that we’ve shared, all wrought together within a new, fantasy lunch which has been granted to me, like a new song. So, today, I write a new song about a lunch with Prince. The song title is . . . “A Royal Lunch.” As follows:

  Meals in private settings, always. Restaurants shut down for us. Always.

  Yesterday lunch at Paisley Park. Today . . . the B. H. Polo Lounge b4 Brunei Sharia law.

  Front desk, secret code, “Here to see Strong Heart.”

  I’m ushered forward.

  I walk through the green and white, polite, and silent.

  I disappear behind that magic light. Secret room.

  This is where the big decisions are made.

  I take some, but not much notice of my surroundings. Moments with Prince are edged with fabled, secluded wonder and magic, and they are the only enchanted surroundings worth taking in . . . quite simply, nothing compares. It’s a cocoon of dance and dazzle, brilliance and wit, creative, storybook fun. It’s the “Tomorrowland” that we’re all supposed to have.

  Spring water is poured. Silver rows of sparkling cutlery. Bespoke menu. Formal with ease. The waiter silently travels about the room, almost invisible.

  Prince is the consummate host. He is wearing a black, silk, custom-designed Jasmine Di Milo tuxedo jacket, looking fine as usual. Cool as usual. He politely gestures to the waiter—we’re ready to order—his hands clothed in the triple fluted silk, diagonal cuffs, with prominent matching flutes on the pockets. It’s the moon—to see him again. Every time, it’s the moon.

  “Is that broth vegan?” Details. He’s looking out.

  “Yes,” the waiter replies. Prince gives him the okay. We both order salad, soup, and water with shaved twists of lemon. A simple and easy start. The waiter exits.

  Prince turns to me. “I like how you live the way you want,” he says. “You’re free.”

  I state the obvious. “So are you.”

  “Okay, good point.” He laughs. Then he gets serious. “Let’s talk about Urban Farming. Where does Urban Farming go next? What’s the next level?” he asks. He’s on a mission. He jumps right in. “How about a community center? I want to buy a building and make one. You and Kathy will find a building in North Minneapolis.” He’s referring to Kathy Adams, who had been working with him for years. A sweetheart of a soul.

  “I love it! That’s a great idea!” I answer enthusiastically. I am in a really light, happy way. This is the stuff on which I thrive: bringing dreams to life as soon as they’re imagined.

  “We’ll put a garden beside it,” he declares.

  “Oh, yes! And we can teach about the guiding principles,” I contribute, and I am gleeful.

  “Like honesty. Love. A supportive place,” he adds. He is also in a happy way.

  “Yes. But . . . not preachy.” I made a subtle referen
ce.

  “I agree.” He understands. “I want you to run it . . . ,” he adds.

  I pause.

  “I’d love to but . . . I’m fully loaded with the charge of Urban Farming right now, and I’ve not put my singing on the back burner forever . . . and besides, winter’s no fun unless you’re playing in it.” I’m torn in that moment, because I would love to run it, and I know he really wants me to.

  “We can change the weather anytime we want. That’s just a plane ride.” He opens up the world. An enticing offer.

  Our waiter returns. Serves. Attention to detail.

  We begin to eat.

  “Do you like your salad?”

  “Yes!” I am resolute, thoroughly enjoying my customized request: baby field greens with thinly sliced roasted Portobello mushroom, avocado, palm hearts, and pine nuts. “The palm hearts are delicious.”

  He smiles. I ask, “How is yours?” He has ordered a similar salad, without the Portobello mushroom.

  “Almost as good as watching you enjoy yours . . .” He flashes me that look—the kind, playful one that melts the world.

  “Do you remember the Lewis brothers?” I wonder out loud.

  He reacts with a slight move back from the table and a laugh.

  “Pierre?”

  “Yes! And Andre.”

  “You knew them?” He’s surprised.

  “I worked with them when I first started out with Morris Wilson. Morris said he used to change your diapers.”

  He laughs. “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes he did.” I giggle.

  “They are all really great musicians,” he comments.

  “Yes. Excellent. But Pierre really only got down when there was a fine girl in the club. No girl, you can’t really tell how brilliant he is, but let a girl walk in . . . and he’s up on the piano bench playing behind his back, doing tricks, all fluent,” I say, laughing as I recounted the times in Minneapolis when I was just starting out, singing in saxophonist Morris Wilson’s four jazz bands and one R&B band. The Lewis Brothers were in all of them. They were all well-known musicians in Minneapolis back in the day. And Pierre and Andre had bass and piano on lock.

  Prince is rolling. We’re both cracking up, in a real bellow.

  That was our “Try to Remember.”

  Now.

  We immediately land back on the now.

  More food arrives. Somehow, he placed an order for us that I didn’t know about. When? Artisan vegan burgers. Mine is smothered with vegan smoked Gouda with a hint of orange. How did he know? It’s ambrosia in my mouth.

  “What are we doing to create love?” He gets right to the point. He is a seasoned angel by now. I realize that I am now in the part where I’ve been granted my fantasy lunch. The room feels suddenly more elegant and ethereal. I’m in a bit of a daze. A lovely daze. A thought runs through my mind, one that I would give to a seraph. It rolls off my tongue: “I sometimes have to keep reminding myself to focus only on what I want.” My remark is more of a question than a reveal.

  “Why is that hard?” The inquiry is lobbed back.

  “Well . . . you’re in a storied place, for real, now . . . so, can you relate to my struggle here on earth?”

  “Why do I need to relate to it? Why do you need to relate to it? You don’t even have to think about struggle. Think only about where you’re creating love.” He passes me that gem, along with the pink sea salt, for my side order of sliced organic beefsteak tomatoes that unexpectedly taste like celestial candy—as though they were just freshly plucked from an Italian Garden of Eden.

  “Yes . . . ‘Think only on good things’. . . That’s the real point, right?” I agree.

  “Of course. That’s all that matters because that is God. So that is the only focal point,” he states, with a firm belief.

  “Redirect my thoughts,” I share, as I raise my glass and slowly sip my lemon water.

  “Don’t even get to that place where you have to redirect them. Don’t even let that happen. And then pretty soon, it’s not a struggle.” He is steadfast. He continues. “But you know that really well. You’ve been free since I met you.” His words are purposeful deposits of wealth. He is so kind to me. He always has been, and I tell him so. He tells me that he appreciates hearing that.

  “And, by the way, thank you for reminding me,” I say.

  “Reminding you of what?” he asks.

  “That I’ve always been free . . . ,” I reply.

  “You don’t need me to remind you.” He laughs. “You wrote it. ‘Love Is Contagious,’ ” he decrees, in sync with the timing of dessert. Where did the server come from? Proficiently silent, he places silver plates of heavenly vegan strawberry cheesecake on the white linen. The sweet is topped with cloud-wisps of homemade coconut whipped cream.

  Divine.

  After the last bite . . . it’s time. A quiet mutual understanding passes between us that our lunch is coming to an end. We push back from the table. Our forks are situated upward on our plates and placed along knives in the ten and four o’clock positions. Proper etiquette for the completion of a Royal Lunch.

  “Now that the meal is over, I’ll be gone like the wind . . . but never really gone.” He flashes me that supremely fetching doe-eyed look again, along with his disarming smile. He always was enchanting—a charming, true Prince.

  I’m a bit sad.

  It’s too soon . . . the finale. Much too soon.

  But no dwelling.

  So, instead, I say: “Thank you for this lovely lunch.” We stand and share a hug. I whisper, “You know I love you always . . . Strong Heart.” I smile, my eyes moist but bright.

  “I love you, too, Good Heart.” He gifts me with that extraordinary look once more.

  It’s been a blessed friendship.

  And he’s flying. And so am I, as we exit the Polo Lounge, floating past the décor of green and white and wood and stares, as royalty wafts through the moment . . . with ease.

  Taja Sevelle was offered her first record deal from Prince in the same week that she was accepted into the Berklee College of Music. Opting for the record deal, she recorded two CDs for Paisley Park/Warner/Reprise and subsequently recorded with Sony 550. She has written songs with several legends including Burt Bacharach, Thom Bell, and Nile Rodgers. Taja founded the global nonprofit organization Urban Farming. Her work with Urban Farming has been featured on The Ellen DeGeneres Show, CNN, Fox, Good Morning America, the BBC, and NPR, among numerous others. Taja is an inventor and an author. Her most recent book, From the Root: A Memoir and a Philosophy for Balance in Our World, was released in 2019. In 2017, Taja’s song “Little Diva” spent eight weeks on the Billboard Dance Club Charts, reaching Top 30. For more about Taja, go to www.tajasevelle.com.

  — 38 —

  “I love you now and then, baby girl.”

  RAIN PRYOR (DAUGHTER) AND RICHARD PRYOR

  My lunch with Dad takes place at the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset. Well, it used to be there. It was my favorite lunch place with either my dad or grandpa.

  It’s lunch hour in Los Angeles, and Dad and I decide to hit up our favorite burger spot. It’s a weekday afternoon, and the joint is bustling with Hollywood executive types and real estate brokers. You won’t find many celebrities there since most want to be seen down in Beverly Hills at the Ivy. This place is for the confident money-makers, and it’s noisy. You can make out bits of conversations by the ones with the most boisterous voices. I guess they’re the real dealmakers.

  We are seated right away, because after all, Dad is Dad and I am me. The hostess in her crisp burgundy-and-black outfit seats us at our favorite booth near the windows. We enjoy people watching. Here, the noise seems to fade as if someone has control of the volume. It’s now muffled tones with clinking china in the background.

  Our window booth gives enough light to a gorgeous amber hue that settles on us both. Dad is looking healthy and has that radiant Pryor smile. There is no sign that he ever was sick with multiple sclerosis, or sa
dness. I smile back, just because this lunch means the world to me.

  We begin our conversation with the usual small talk. Dad looking at me intently, “So how’s it feeling being a grown-up?”

  “It’s actually pretty great, Dad, other than the politics. How’s it wherever you are?”

  The waiter arrives and takes our order. We order our usual. Cheeseburgers well done, crispy French fries, and Cokes.

  Dad says, “You still eat like a teenage boy.”

  “They have this stuff where you are?” He doesn’t answer that. “So, what’s it like there?”

  He chuckles. “You had to go there, didn’t you?” I nod. “It’s interesting looking at all this shit here, realizing how fucked-up people really are. You think, I lived in a serious asshole time, and didn’t wind up in prison.” We laugh.

  I show him pictures and videos of my now ten-year-old daughter, and he says, “Shit, she has that Pryor gene. Damn, you in trouble, baby. She knows things. Ya know what I mean?” He’s right. My daughter, Lotus, is like a hyperaware, deep, precocious kid who makes grownups uncomfortable. Kinda like her mama. Me.

  Our food arrives, and between bites and sips, I tell him about my now amazing life and how I wish I knew then what I know now: that happiness takes patience and there is no rush to the finish line.

  I find myself staring at Dad and secretly hoping our lunch and moment together will never end. I miss him.

  Dad picks up the check, “Let me get this one. With the way shit’s going, I’d like to treat my baby to lunch. I’m proud of you, Rain. You keep turning shit into lemonade and muthafuckas into your ass kissers. Ya done good. Now, don’t mess it up. Be better than me and your mom. Tell Shelley I’m sorry I was an asshole.”

  We smile our Pryor smiles, reaching across the table to hold hands. He feels ethereal. “Daddy Dude, I love you.”

  “I love you now and then, baby girl.”

  As our hands separate, he vanishes, I look out the window of Hamburger Hamlet onto the Sunset Strip, smiling because I got to have lunch with my Daddy Dude, and he was at peace.