The Fly (U2 Fanfic)

Even Better Than the Real Thing

It must be wonderful having money. Being able to sit up onstage with ostentatious lights, wearing fancy clothes. I bet you one of their outfits cost more than my monthly rent, which I'll be late on in two days. Their instruments cost more than any paycheck I've ever earned. Oh, and believe me, I haven't been earning them lately. That's why it always baffles me when you get these musicians with beautiful, expensive instruments, and at the end of an intense song they destroy them like an empty bottle of cheap wine. It's infuriating, especially when the cheap wine costs too much.

This band isn't like that, thankfully. I've been listening to U2 since high school - those simple days when I had a sturdy roof over my head and parents pumping college into my burnt out head - and they've always been too genuine to do something so reckless, though these aren't the same guys who couldn't live with or without you. This new album - Achtung Baby - is much more edgy, gritty, or industrial, as the critics put it. I like the new sound. Less idyllic.

I didn't want to be here tonight. No, more like I couldn't afford to be here, but my friend - Nat - practically drug me out the door, dangling the extra ticket she bought over my head. Her boyfriend (ex) was going to accompany her, but he opted for his secretary. I don't feel worthy of being here. I need to find a job, take an ice pick through this writer's block, find out why nobody wants my work. It should be easy, too; there's always shit for a journalist to write about, but the election is like watching a wheelchair race at my grandmother's retirement home.

Most of my favorite U2 songs start off with kickass drums, and when I hear the familiar beat of this one my mood is lifted. Oh man, the memories with "Bullet the Blue Sky". Together, Nat and I start singing along so loudly I can hear us more than Bono. So can the people in front of us, who glare back at us, agony in their eyes, but it's a concert. Get over it, and I haven't been in this good of a mood since... I couldn't tell you. Belting out the lyrics, singing the instrument parts, reciting the monologue. It's such a liberating feeling. After the breathy "America" at the end, Nat says, "See, I knew this would cheer you up."

My pessimism is like TB: it lingers, but for Nat's sake, I force a smile and put my attention back on the show. Even with a boyfriend (pre-ex), she's been bearing through my unbearable, and she didn't have to bring me along. She could've brought another guy to make her ex jealous or another friend; I'm far from her only one. How do you pay back a friend when you can't pay your rent? That's when the sparks begin to crackle in my vacant head.

In a few more songs, the show comes to a close. Pushing through a magnanimous herd of sweaty/stoned/drunk people up the rows of seats, Nat tells me, "I need to use the bathroom. Wait for me by the car."

This is the routine. She always uses the bathroom after shows, and I never do. It's a madhouse in those tiny things, and it's impossible to take a healthy piss when someone's pounding stare is cutting through the stall door. Might as well hold it. "Okay." We part ways, but instead of going out the arena after descending the rows of stairs, I knock on the iron door that's not labeled and tightly locked, tucked away towards the side of the arena. A couple years ago, I dated a guy who worked as a guard backstage and he took me back during a Guns N Roses concert. I would've met the band, too, but Axl Rose went into a famous fit of rage in his dressing room. Fun times.

Holding my breath - hoping my old boyfriend let alone any guard won't answer the door - the iron slab cracks open and a blue pair of eyes level with my own peek out at me. "Who are you?" an Irish accent asks.

"I uh..."

The door opens more and a taller guy in a beanie appears next to the first guy - Larry Mullen Jr. - who looks like he lost his razor on the tour. "Are you that journalist we were expecting?" The Edge asks. Where'd his ponytail go?