Beautiful.

My effing band.

From the look of it, Annette’s store opening was a smash hit. There were people shoulder-to-shoulder, al of them consuming cashews, olives and Ritz crackers spread with squirtable cheese and drinking Fat Tire beer like these were the finest of delicacies. A lot of those people carried brown paper bags with “Head West” stamped on the side of them in old Wild West style lettering, bags that held tshirts, bongs and posters, amongst other things.

It had been fun (thus far) and it was taking our mind off things which we al needed. That day, Shirleen had been shot at (and lost her couch) and my world had been rocked by al that had happened to Mace. A party, even if it had the weird mixture of olives, squirtable cheese and bongs (though the bongs weren’t in use), was exactly what we needed.

Annette was happy as a clam and sifting through the crowd, looking kick-fucking-ass in a cream boat-necked hemp top and khaki loose-fitting hemp trousers. Her feet were bare, al her toes painted in different colors of the rainbow. A thin cream, khaki and green hemp scarf was wrapped around her blonde hair but lots of that hair was poking out here and there, some of it twisted, some of it braided, some of it curled, some of it just hanging.

The store was one day old but looked like it had been there since the 60’s. The wal s were covered in Jimi Hendrix, Grateful Dead and Jim Morrison posters and big blankets decorated with Celtic symbols or pot leaves.

There were five big, round clothing racks fil ed with t-shirts, sarongs and hemp clothing. There were three flipping poster displays showing posters of rock bands, she-devils riding tigers and psychedelic everything with rol ed up, plastic-covered posters in numbered slots beside them.

There were shelves fil ed with books like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Jerry Garcia biographies.

There were glass-topped and sided display cases along the front and down one ful side of the store chock ful of bongs of every shape, size and color, one-hitters also of every shape, size and color, Zippo lighters, bumper and other stickers, incense of every scent known to man as wel as a variety of incense burners, candles and an assortment of other head shop paraphernalia.

The Rock Chicks and Hot Bunch were al in attendance except Mace who, Luke told me, was working and, for the benefit of the Rock Chicks (something Luke didn’t tel me, I just knew), keeping a distance.

The boys were there for security purposes and made this plain by having holstered guns at their belts alongside walkie talkies. Not to mention wearing identical “Don’t f**k with me” expressions on their faces (and, for your with me” expressions on their faces (and, for your information, these expressions were Hot Bunch Universal and, with the wide berth they were al getting from the customers-slash-partiers, effective).

The girls didn’t go the way of hemp but, at Annette’s demand, we were al displaying Annette’s wares wearing jeans and most of us wearing cowboy boots (except Ava, who had on flip-flops). Indy had on a Grateful Dead tee. Al y was wearing a peach and yel ow tie-dyed tee with a yel ow peace sign on the front. Jules had on a violet tee that said,

“Give peace a chance” across the front in psychedelic scrawl. Ava was sporting a vintage Jefferson Airplane tee.

Upon arrival, Annette had given me a pink tee with “Flower Power” written across the boobs in cartoon daisies and, like al the other girls, I’d changed in one of the dressing rooms. Roxie had on a kil er Indian-style tunic that was also sold in the shop.

Daisy appeared to have missed the dress code communiqué. She was wearing a white, denim mini-skirt, a backless, halter top made of what looked like tiny, silver beads and had a drape at the cle**age that was so low, on her enormous bosoms, it was vaguely threatening. She’d completed her ensemble with a pair of silver, platform go-go boots and her hair was teased out to there.

When I’d looked her from head-to-toe, Daisy told me. “I don’t do hippie, comprende?”

I just nodded, there was nothing else to do.

I watched as a scruffy-looking guy who I knew was a friend of the Rock Chicks because I’d met him at a gig some time ago (he went by the moniker “The Kevster”, FYI), shuffled up to Leo and Pong and said one word.

“Dudes.”

Then he lifted up both his hands in peace signs like this was going to work.

I closed my eyes in despair mainly because I knew this wasn’t going to work.

“Fuck off, hippie,” I heard Pong snap and I knew it was time to act. With an apologetic glance at Indy and Al y, I pushed forward to take care of my band.

As I made my way through the crowd, I watched The Kevster rear back in offense. “I’m not a hippie. I’m a pothead. World of difference, man.”

Leo ignored The Kevster and yanked on the tee. “Let go, Pong.”

Pong turned back to Leo. “You let go!”

Leo yanked again and shouted, “No! You let go!”

“Dudes, you gotta respect the vibe of a head shop,” The Kevster cut in informatively. “It’s like walkin’ into a Kabbalah Center and starting a bitch-slapping fight. You don’t do that shit. You’re kil in’ the vibe.”

“Fuck the vibe,” Pong yel ed just as I made it up to them.

I had bad timing. Pong lost hold on the shirt. He went flying backwards and since I was behind him, he slammed into me and we both went down. Our arms reeled out to find purchase and we took down two clothing racks with us.

They fel to their sides and crashed around us with loud bangs and then started rol ing, t-shirts and hemp clothes flying everywhere.

“Chaos!” The Kevster shouted, arms waving over his head. “Chaos at the head shop!”

Al y arrived and pul ed The Kevster back, ordering,

“Calm down, Kevin.”

Kevin didn’t feel like calming down. He pointed at Pong then at Leo. “Eject. Eject, eject, eject!”

“If there’s no chaos at the head shop, there ain’t no eject either,” Pong said from the floor but The Kevster was having none of it.

“It’s about respect, man,” The Kevster decreed. “No one brings chaos to a head shop. Everyone knows that!” Indy was behind me and she pul ed me up by my armpits as Hugo made it to our clutch.

He looked down his nose at Pong.

“Crazy honkies,” Hugo muttered, making it clear he wasn’t there to help.

Shirleen was al of a sudden close and looking at Pong too.