Bono Rings My Doorbell

Because he’s wearing sunglasses I can’t tellif he can see me peering through the blinds.

It is 98 and sunny in Lawrence, Kansasand Bono is wearing a leather jacket.

One hand rings my doorbell over and overand the other holds a 12″ vinyl record.

He turns his head toward me and I duckbehind the couch. I’m as still as I’ve ever been.

All is quiet.

I know you’re in there, Bono says. I saw the blinds move.Just open the door and let me give you our new record

for free. Go away, I say. I can’t, he says. Why not, I say.He says, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for—

what I’m looking for is getting this record to as manypeople as possible. He rings the doorbell again.

Danny there’s no use hiding, he says. I will followyou until you take it, he says. I will follow.

I say, How the fuck do you know my name? He says,I move in mysterious ways. I say, that’s not funny.

He says, in the name of love open the door.I say, not funny either. He tries the knob.

I jam a chair against the door. He triesthe knob again, harder. I call the cops.

I tell the dispatcher what’s going on. She says,the album is actually pretty good. I text my mom

and tell her I’m safe, I’ll be in touch soon. I grabmy favorite box of 45s and crawl out the window

into the backyard and run. It’s a beautiful dayand I want to run. I want to hide. I want to tear down

the walls that hold me inside. And when I go there,I’ll go there without you and without your stupid record,

Bono, to a place where the streets do have fucking names.