Fuckin' Bono
Date: Sometime in the late 1990s or maybe early 2000s.
Fucking Bono.
He can take his little leprechaun platform shoes and shove them up his ass. As for his bouncer, isn’t he embarrassed being sent out into the crowd as a messenger boy to find the broad his boss singled out?
“Do you want to come backstage and meet Bono?”, he shouts above the music, leaning a little too close into my wife.
“Did he send you out to pick me specifically?”
“Yeah, he told me the black-haired beauty in section 2 about 5 rows up.”
Alyssa shot her best friend a look. A grin that betrayed her typical cool demeanour. Taking a little too long to answer, she suddenly remembered where she was. She looked quickly over at me. She wasn’t some 20-year old at a U2 concert getting asked backstage by the lead singer, but a late thirties mom (not forty though!) with her husband and another couple trying to enjoy the show. Everyone knew why Bono was asking, and her pause was just long enough to be awkward.
“Can they all come?”, she finally asked, pointing to us, but already knowing the answer.
The bouncer, looking over Sean’s wife a little too obviously, said, “yeah sure, she can join us, but no blokes.”
My wife smiled. She was back in control. Years of getting hit on had taught her how to deal with these situations.
“You tell your boss that I am flattered, but that I’m going to stick with the fellows who brought us here.” She wrapped her arms around me, patting one hand on my chest, trying to make up for the almost imperceptible transgression.
And just like that, the bouncer shrugged and disappeared into the darkness to find Bono’s number two pick.
No one in the crowd even noticed. They were too busy singing along with Bono;
“He set my feet upon a rock
And made my footsteps firm
Many will see
Many will see and hear"
It was a great song to end the night. Especially in their hometown of Dublin. I knew how much Alyssa loved U2, so it was my idea to surprise her with a trip to Ireland. I had booked the jet with some extra NetJet points that were kicking around, and a broker we dealt with in London had set me up with the tickets. Heck, I had even booked two of the best rooms at the Clarence. I went all out.
"Turn the lights out Sparky," Bono ordered over the Edge's bass playing as the crowd kept chanting.
"How long? How long? To sing the song?"
Usually, guys giving my wife a whirl didn’t bother me. I don’t want to seem like too much of an asshole, but they were usually not as rich, nor as good looking. But in this case, it was Bono. That “fookin’” bastard was not only a rock star, but also a savvy businessman. Sure, he’s more than a little funny looking, but he could probably buy me over ten or twenty times.
I consoled myself that he looked about five foot five, and that he wouldn’t seem as sexy looking up nine inches to chat with me, but I couldn’t shake the look of excitement on my wife’s face.
“How long? To sing this song?"
You could barely hear Bono’s “thank you Dublin. God bless and good night” over the crowd singing.
As the house lights went on, the chanting, “How long? To sing this song,” continued as people began exiting. Even in the parking lot, it continued. There was something captivating about thousands of people keeping the song going for so long after the concert.
The four of us made our way over to the Temple Bar area to keep the party going, but I wasn’t in the mood. I couldn’t stop replaying the look Alyssa gave her friend when the bouncer asked if she wanted to join Bono backstage.
Would she have gone if I wasn’t here? What does she do on her “girls' trips?”
We flew back the next day. A little hungover, none of us felt like speaking much.
When the jet landed, the girls packed up their magazines, while Sean and I scooped the piles of research reports into our bags, and headed to the customs area. We’ll be home soon enough, I thought to myself.
Sean and his wife went first, handing over their passports to the customs officer. In no time, they were cleared by a friendly smile and a “welcome back to Canada.”
Alyssa and I were next. Handing over our passports, I noticed she was acting strange. Must be the guilty feelings from last night.
“How long were you out of the country?”
“Just two days,” I responded.
The customs officer furrowed his brow as he stared at his screen.
“Anything to declare?”
“No, nothing. We were just in Ireland to see U2.”
“You sure? You bought absolutely nothing that you are bringing back?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I responded, but that answer didn’t seem to satisfy him.
“Ma’am, could you please come with me? And sir, someone will be with you shortly to take you to your room.”
Room? What the fuck is he talking about?
“I don’t understand. You’re separating us? On what grounds?”
“Sir, right now, you’re been detained. That’s all I can say.”
Holy shit. I looked at Alyssa as she was escorted away, but she wouldn’t make eye contact.
The next day at work, I beat Sean to my trading turret. I liked getting an early start and knowing what was happening in Europe before I started trading. When he finally wandered in, equipped with an extra large coffee in hand, he said, “hey bud. What the hell happened at the airport?”
“Ahh fuck. What a shitshow.”
“Why did they separate you and Alyssa?”
“Don’t ask.”
“C’mon. You can’t leave me hanging. What happened?”
“Well, you remember how Alyssa went to New York last month?”
“Yeah, thank eff'ing god Marnie had that kids’ school event that stopped her from tagging along. Saved me a fortune in shopping bills.”
“Guess what Alyssa did?”
“Not a gawd damn clue.”
“She bought a twenty-five thousand dollar handbag, and tried to sneak it past the customs pretend-cop. Claimed she had bought it the previous month, but they weren’t having it. After an hour in the room with the bright lights, she buckled. But it was too late. They charged her.”
“Holy shit! What happened?”
“Alyssa called her dad. Rich girls always run back to daddy. He hired the city’s best lawyer for this kind of crap.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“Nope. Thought her and Bob and could fix it all up and I would be none the wiser. Meanwhile, she has to go to court next month, and now I'm on the arrogant-rich-guy-watchlist..."