bumba

	The first show was about a thousand miles away, including en route meandering. I left a day early in case I happened upon something, which I usually do.  

First night was spent about halfway there at a motel I’d reserved online. When I arrived, I discovered that it was also a drive-thru beer store, just attached to rooms. Free beer at check-in. 

The next day lost its morning, not far away, in a small town known as an artist’s birthplace. I researched at the library’s local history room, but there wasn’t much in the collection. There was no plaque or monument in town, but I found a quiet three-block street named in their honor. I also found a hot dog restaurant on the way to the turnpike. 

	First-shows of tours usually begin cash-strapped. Luckily, this one had a guarantee. The venue was rich with mementoes of its history, but the Wednesday night draw didn’t make it & I left with a check from a community bank in a small town about a half hour away.

The following morning, I zig-zagged through farmland on county roads in a loose direction towards the town with the bank & stopped on the way at a strip mall thrift store. I almost left with nothing when I spotted an object on a shelf near household items. 

At first, I thought it was a beer tray — then a tamborine. When I picked it up by its attached stick, I realized it was both. There were springs inside the tambo-tray portion & a percussion block on the handle. I turned it over looking for a price & found a taped business card. 

On the other side of the card, a portrait.

Ten dollars later, I put the bumba in the minivan with my guitars. It seemed strangely important, like a regional treasure — something special. Driving in silence on the rural two-ways, I still felt bad about not making the guarantee the night before. 

I decided the artifact should stay with its people. Since the check was from the only branch in a small town, I figured they’d know the payor & I could leave the bumba at the bank as a gift to the club owner.

	It was late morning when I pulled into the bank lot. A patrol car was parked alone at the far edge of the lot. I checked my pocket for the check, grabbed the bumba & headed for the main entrance. 

Looking down, I noticed my shadow — a two-legged shape with a thin appendage, like a profile of a figure with a long-gun. The sun was behind me. I wondered what the cop saw — a shifty silhouette with a rod like a rifle barrel, a percussion-block stock — walking into a bank. I saw it all in my head & moved a little faster. 

Inside, the bank was bustling with customers at teller windows & bankers at desks. No one noticed when I entered with the bumba. In fact, I went to an account manager’s desk & asked if I could cash the check & leave the bumba for their customer. The employee seemed unfazed by the object, like it wasn’t unusual, & welcomed me to leave the bumba propped against their desk while they left to get the cash. 

When they returned, the bank employee said they would call their customer to let them know the bumba was waiting.

I left, more at peace with my guarantee. 

I didn’t hear back from the club owner.