Creamy Bullets by Kevin Sampsell Page B

t-shirts,” he said. “You could donate thirty percent to the water buffalo foundation or whatever they’re called.”
    Libby’s patient smile turned to a grimace. “Thirty percent?”
    Up on the small stage, Hand Over Fist’s grinding emocore was plodding to an end. The singer rolled himself into a fetal ball behind the tall bass player, howling the last of his vocal cords away.
    Shane nodded in Rod’s direction. “How many restraining orders do you think he has?”
    “I heard he got one from Liz Phair.”
    “Really?”
    We took money from more people as the second band set up. They were called American Heritage. They had CDs with artwork lifted directly from the cover of the American Heritage Dictionary, fourth edition. They had a good following and played a weird kind of Bruce Springsteen meets Radiohead alt-rock. Out of the four guys in the band, two of them had either gone out with Libby or they were her cousins. I wasn’t really clear on which.
    Libby came over and worked the door with Shane as one of her friends took over the water buffalo table. I went outside to get stoned with the drummer of Hand Over Fist. I’d seen him in our store a few times but didn’t really know him. “These guys suck,” he said about American Heritage as we exited.
    “Good set,” I said. “The people of Tanzania thank you.”
    “The what?” said the drummer. He impatiently tried a number of keys on the back door of the band’s van before finding the right one. We climbed into the back and scooted cases and gear to make room for our smokeout. He pulled a classy J-shaped pipe out of a toolbox and started packing it. It looked to be carved from wood. The sort of pipe that Sherlock Holmes would toke from. The drummer inhaled the first hit and passed it to me with great care, his face reddening.
    “I shouldn’t be gone long,” I said. The pipe felt good in my hands though, like a saxophone. I felt like Charlie Parker.
    I walked back in during American Heritage’s last song. I didn’t realize I was gone for nearly an hour. Rod was working the door by himself as Libby and Shane hopped excitedly near the front of the stage. “We got ourselves two buffalos,” Rod told me. He held up a Swisher Sweets Cigar box with money sticking out on all sides. I gave him the thumbs up and smiled with eyes half-closed. He could probably tell I was baked. Libby ran over and gave me a hug when the song was over. She said something to me but I was distracted by her dreadlocks bouncing on my cheeks. I swallowed her scent and imagined my body melting into hers for five beautiful seconds.
    As we loosened, I was blindsided by someone wearing a horned Viking helmet. It was Rod, celebrating the night’s success too enthusiastically. The manager of the café, a former prison guard named Hector, thought we were fighting. He came over and pulled Rod off of me and told me I had to leave. “No, no, no. He’s cool,” said Rod, offering to help me up. Hector crossed his arms and served us a cold hard frown. Libby walked back to the stage and started talking to the American Heritage guys as they sold CDs to a couple fans. The last band, The Vikings, were setting up. They were the kind of group that dressed up in Nordic war attire and clomped through a short set of songs that they turned into epic improv freak-outs. Shane came over to me and asked if I saw American Heritage.
    “I had a meeting with the drummer of Hand Over Fist.”
    He looks confused for a second. “Oh. I think I understand. Did this meeting change your perspective?”
    “Yes,” I answered. “Changed it. Altered it. Made me like rock music.”
    The drummer for Hand Over Fist re-entered just then and gave me some obscure hand signal. It looked like he was talking to himself as he moved through the crowded room. He eventually stumbled over to us. “What’s shakin’?” he said to us as he pulled out a candy cigarette.
    “The Vikings,” Shane said. “The Vikings are about to