My voice is hoarse by the time the guys walk off the stage, leaving the crowd roaring like the ocean during the road trip. "That was fucking awesome," I croak out.
Bono tips his gold hat as a thank you, while the rest of the guys look just as elated. "Wow, your voice sounds worse than mine," he also croaks out, except his croak sounds much nicer paired with the accent.
The Edge chortles. "This is why I stick to backing vocals."
"This is why I don't talk," Larry says.
I smile, and I would laugh but my voice is too shot. "No, really, that show was amazing. Like, this is the best one out of the three I've seen."
"We should celebrate," Adam suggests, packing up his bass. "Where's the nearest pub?"
"Oh no," Bono says, coming out of the dressing room as the Fly instead of Mirror Ball Man. It's a look I've adapted to in four days. "Not after yesterday."
"Yeah, Bono doesn't have his voice. How will we ever get out of such a pickle?" the Edge jokes.
"Oh come on guys, it's just the pub and back. No wandering or exploring," Adam replies, almost pleading. Man, the Irish and their liquor. Just when I thought Americans were bad.
Nevertheless, I side with Adam. "He's right. I mean, I know I'm only a journalist and I don't have much say, but it wouldn't hurt if we don't wander."
Bono peers over at Larry as he lights up cigarette. "Larry, you're the tie-breaker."
Larry rolls his blue eyes, a shy smile on his face. "They always do this to me," he tells me. After minimal thought, the verdict comes out as: "Eh, we'll give it a try. Besides, I want to see June flip another shoe if worse comes to worse."
Once the instruments are packed up and the guys are in comfier, cleaner clothes than what they performed in, we slip out of the iron door, tip-toeing through the remnants of the mob pouring out of the Tacoma Dome. It reeks of pot, which they must have great up here considering the climate. I don't think anyone of us has a clue where the nearest pub is, but nobody expresses that dilemma, until the lack of conversation begins to bother me. "Where is the nearest pub?"
"June, don't worry. I can sniff out a pub in five mile radius," Adam says.
The Edge adds, "And he can sniff out pot in ten."
"Hey, let's not talk about that." A wooden sign hangs over our heads, reading O'Reilly's Tavern written in turquoise lettering. "See, told you I can sniff them out."
This place is deader than my bank account, the only people in here are the five employees. Usually, that's a bad sign, but who knows? Maybe it's one of those hidden gem places, but then I realize it's a Monday. It feels like a Saturday. The girl behind the bar - who looks just old enough to work back there - stops dead in her tracks once we enter, and her blue eyes widen. "Oh my God, you guys are U2!" she exclaims. Me too, girl, me too. "Sorry, I'm just such a big fan... and we don't get too many famous people around here. Anyway, what can I get for you guys?"
We all glance around at each other. They seem to come to an unspoken consensus as to what they want, so they all stare at me for an answer. I don't drink very much (can't afford to, never got off on it. Don't know how other starving artists manage), so I shrug, and Adam tells the girl, "Five Heinekens, and could I get your number to go with that?"
She blushes as she gathers the five beers. I nudge Adam on the arm. "She's, like, younger than me," I say.
"And how old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
He shrugs, and the beers come down on the table. "It's legal." Next to his beer, rests a tiny white piece of paper with cute blue digits written down along with the name Emily. I wonder how many other girls he does this to? He's lucky he's charming.
"So you are the only single member of U2?" I ask.
He nods, and the Edge answers, "Believe me, if you saw him in high school, you'd see why."
The other two guys chuckle, and Larry mentions, "That afro was the first thing I saw when he walked in the door."
"Oh my God, that afro." The Edge is almost losing it at this point.
Adam - casually sipping his beer and looking down at the counter - gets a smug expression on his face. "At least I can grow hair."
Bono bursts into laughter a couple seats down, and there's a smile on Larry's face. Hell, the Edge even finds this amusing. "That was good," Bono says, taking a swig of the Heineken. "Probably one of your best."
I want to get some journalist shit in, but the environment's too relaxed for that. Besides, I have two more shows with these guys; plenty of time for questions. I swig some beer, the bubbles and bitter taste filling my throat, and Bono asks, "So June, what's your story?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. You've been asking us questions this entire tour, so it only seems right to return the favor."
"Well, what would you like to know?"
The Edge interjects, "You never answered the favorite song question a couple nights ago."
It takes me a second to recall what he's referring to, but I figure it out. He really is deserving of his famous nickname. "'So Cruel'. My God, the writing in that song is absolutely beautiful." I take another gulp of beer. "You make a break up sound so beautiful and delicate. I disappeared in you, you disappeared from me. She wears my love like a see-through dress. Ah, it's your lyrical supreme, to be honest."
Bono smiles. "Why, thank you. It means a lot to hear positive feedback on the lyrics. It always takes courage to write something with such meaning, and there's always some uncertainty behind it."
I nod. "Yeah. I could never do poetry. I don't have the... eloquence for it, and I always feel so pathetic dumping my emotions on a piece of paper."
"Well, you make a fine journalist."
"Thanks." Ugh... if he only knew. If only the rest of the industry felt the same way he does, though he probably said that to be nice.
The next question comes from Adam. "June, do you happen to know how to play Quarters?"
"As a matter of fact..."
Six shot glasses come out - the extra one being for the quarter - and a bottle of Irish whiskey. Each of us have a full shot as we begin the first round of trying to get the quarter in the glass. The only one who succeeds in the first round is Larry, and he appoints Adam to the first shot. Actually, Larry makes most of them, which I find impressive. I don't play this game too often, but when I do I'm not that good. My aiming skills were always sub-standard, and I could never get the perfect bounce, though I do get the quarter in a few times. The amount of quarters I land doesn't hold a candle to all the shots I consume. Every time I turn around, one of them is saying, "June, drink." At this point, my tongue has become numb to the taste of whiskey, but I feel great. We all do. I think we lost track of turns, so we're just randomly bouncing the quarter in, and we're on our second bottle of whiskey (halfway through). I've never drank like this before. I guess this is what happens when you drink with a bunch of Irish men. True, most of my mom's side of the family (Russians) can put it away, but they would be no match for these guys. Wow, that would be the drink-off of a lifetime. That could make ESPN, for Christ's sake.
I take the quarter and smack it down on the counter - next to the numerous dibits our game marked the counter with - and the thing bounces up so high it whacks Edge in the forehead. "Damn," he mutters, soon turning to laughter. "Nice aim, June."
We're all laughing. I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt. "Bet you wish you had an afro now," Adam comments, laughing with the rest of us.
Collecting myself, I say, "Edge, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine."
Shortly after, we head back to the hotel. I'm not sure how we got there or when we left because it was so dark outside and my head was spinning, but my eyes strain under the lighting in the lobby. Thank God there's an elevator. I could not imagine myself or any of us using the steps right now. I'm lucky I still have a vague idea of where my room is.
Speaking of which, I get into my room and right as the door shuts I hear, "Oh shit, I'm in the wrong room."
I turn and see Bono in front of the door. I chuckle, flipping off my shoes to the side of the bed, then I walk closer to him. "Ha, it's alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Right. Yeah. It's been fun tonight." His hand's on the door handle, and I swear I hear it click and open, but I'm too distracted by the fact our lips end up pressed together in this grand, drunk, sloppy kiss. I can't tell you who begun it, and - frankly - I don't know if it ever ended. I don't know much of what happened after that.
Hey guys,
I know it's taking me longer to update, but I've been super busy. Just know that I haven't abandoned this story, and the next chapter is gonna be epic. So stick around. I appreciate your support so much.
Much love,
Gabi