Soothing the Savage Beast

We're nearing the end of the first set, and that asshole Pat was pissing me off. It was bad enough he'd made a scene when James 'Jolly' Rodger, the owner of Gushers, informed him I was going to be playing with his band tonight, but for the last forty-five minutes, he'd taken every opportunity to slight me. I'm a professional, so I held my tongue, swallowed my pride, and did my part. The Drillers weren't a bad band, for amateurs, but they weren't nearly as good as Pat seemed to think they were, and while Pat had a descent voice, he didn't have much range. I didn't sing at all, so who was I to criticize? Their technique was fine, if simple, but they played the music straight, unwilling or unable to make the songs their own.

"We're going to close out our first set with one of our favorites," Pat announced to the crowd that'd been more or less ignoring us all evening as I arranged my sheet music for the final song. "I think y'all know this one." He glanced at me. "Try to keep up," he muttered as he turned from the mic, but not before it had picked up his words.

I pursed my lips in annoyance. Nobody was going to belittle my talent unless they were better than me, and that asshole wasn't.

We ripped through Devil Went Down to Georgia and finished to a smattering of applause. The Drillers took their bows and began to step down from the small wooden stage for a break. I made no move to follow and kept my seat behind my digital piano, shuffling papers until I found the sheet I wanted. As soon as Pat, the last to leave the small stage, stepped down, I begin to stamp my foot, hard, my shoe thudding loudly on the wooden platform. I set an upbeat tempo then launched into Orange Blossom Special. While originally written for violin--excuse me--fiddle, I took it and ran with it. I layered in my own nuances and flourishes while pounding the shit out of the keyboard to bring the song alive. I'd picked Orange Blossom Special specifically because it was written for fiddle, just to rub Pat's nose in it, because when he wasn't singing, that was the instrument he played.

I spared a quick glance at The Drillers standing just off stage as I quickly switched the instrument between organ and piano to make train sounds while blowing air from puffed cheeks, playing to the crowd. Pat was standing there, mouth agape while Craig, bass, Mike, guitar, and Harken, drums, grinned like Cheshire cat. I gave them a smile and wink in acknowledgement before I launched into the second verse, playing the tune faster than before and with even more embellishment... before ramping it up again for the final verse and pushing myself to my limit.

As soon as I finished the room erupted into the loudest and most sustained applause of the night. I noticed a group of Hells Angels wannabe's apparently laughing at Pat as he stomped to the bar... all except the guy sitting at the end of the table nearest the stage. He wasn't joining in with the razzing, instead watching me with an intensity that I found mildly off-putting.

All were wearing the same well-worn leather jackets, and of those I could see, on the back of each was an embroidered patch that tagged them as members of the same gang. It was hard to tell, but it appeared the patch was wings, opened to the width of their shoulders, joined over a black triangle with stripes of white down its middle that may have been a road at the wing's center. As they offered mock salutes to Pat with their various beverages, Craig stepped back up on the stage. Craig was the oldest of the four men at perhaps fifty. As I rose from behind the keyboard, he held his arms out before pulling me into platonic embrace with a big smile. After the briefest of hugs, he released me and held his hand up, a huge smile painting his face as I slapped his hand with my own.

"Maybe it's us who should be worried about keeping up with you. Where'd you learn to play like that?"

"UISM." There was no recognition in his eyes, and why would there be? UISM wasn't Juilliard. "University of Iowa School of Music," I expounded.

"Craig Jenner," he said while extending his hand as Harken and Mike joined us on the stage. "This is Bobby Harken and Mike Castello."

"Andrea Buehler," I said as I shook hands all around. "People call me Andi."

"Don't let Pat get to you," Harken said, glancing at Pat as he sat at the bar scowling at me. "He's an alright guy once you get to know him."

"Yeah... he seems like a real sweetheart," I muttered as we moved to the end of the bar where I sat when not performing.

"Listen, let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a drink. What are you having?" Craig asked. I was suspicious of the offer and I guess it showed. "C'mon," he encouraged. "I'm happily married with twin girls not much younger than you. You've got nothing to worry about."

I couldn't help but grin. "Sprite, please." I didn't drink often in any case, but I never drank when I was playing because I was afraid it'd make me sloppy.

"Oooh, a wild woman," Craig teased but ordered my Sprite.

Craig, Mike, Harken, and I sat and talked at the end of the bar. I found out the The Drillers were four friends that played local gigs for fun and a little pocket money. The band took their name from the fact that all four worked in the oil industry in one capacity or another.

After some encouragement I told them my story. I explained how after I'd graduated with a music degree from UISM, I bounced around, playing piano where and when I could, until I got my big break and landed a seat with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic.

"That's awesome," Mike cheered softly. "So what are you doing hanging out in this two-bit joint playing with losers like us?"

Gushers wasn't the New York Symphony, but I'd played worse when I was trying to get started. If Hollywood ever wanted to film a movie in country bar, they could save a lot of money on sets by simply renting Gushers. The small stage fronted a sawdust covered wooden dance floor that was maybe fifty feet square. Along one wall was a long, polished bar where Christine served drinks with practiced efficiency. She was in her mid-fifties and always wore tight jeans, cowboy boots and hats, and western shirts cut to show off her ample cleavage. She was Jolly's wife, seemed to know everyone, was always ready with a quick smile, and I suspected she got good tips. The rest of the establishment was full of wooden tables, neon, talking, and laughter. Gushers was a happy place, and everyone seemed to wear either cowboy boots, cowboy hats, or both.

I considered lying, but I'd done nothing wrong, and I'd be dammed if I was going to act like I had. "I played there for about a year, until the holiday's just past as a matter of fact, when they fired me over a scandal."

"A scandal?" Harken asked.

I looked down, my face heating. "The orchestra was featuring the music of Vince Guaraldi and I was front and center as the featured performer for the first time. After a show Friday night, and two shows each on Saturday and Sunday, I guess I was well liked. I still have the review I clipped from the newspaper." I paused, my face heating even more.

"And...?" Harken nudged.

"And... then I bashed the conductor over the head with a music stand."

The three men began to chuckle. "Oh, this I gotta hear," Mike said.

I sighed, trying to let the bitterness go. "Gino, Giovanni Pasquini, the conductor, had a reputation as a lady's man. I'd been warned by some of the women not to let myself become alone with him, but when he asked me to his office to discuss my performance after the last show on Sunday, I was so jazzed the warning didn't even cross my mind." I looked down. "When he wouldn't take no for an answer, and got a little too grabby, I whacked him with the closest thing I could get my hands on, a music stand, and got the hell out of there."

"Good," Craig said firmly. "Sounds like the asshole deserved it."

"I lodged a complaint, and a couple of days after that, I was called into the president's office and summarily expelled. The entire time I begged and threatened, Gino sat there with a small bandage on his head and a knowing smile on his face... the smug bastard."

"That sucks! Why didn't you go to the cops, or the papers, or sue them for wrongful termination or sexual assault, or something?" Mike asked.

"And say what?" I asked softly. "I couldn't find even one woman willing to come forward to corroborate my contention because they were all afraid they'd lose their seats too. It'd have been his word against mine, he's a big name in the social circles, and I was a nobody. Oklahoma City isn't exactly New York, you know, and the president warned me if I pushed it, they'd make it known I was a troublemaker and I'd ever get a seat anywhere else."

"What about the knock on his head?" Craig asked. "How'd he explain that?"

"He claimed the reason he called me to his office was to chastise me because I wasn't following his instructions, I went nuts, and hit him with the stand in a fit of rage... which is officially why I was expelled, for attacking the conductor."

"What a douche!" Mike snapped.

"So, now I'm back where I started, playing gigs where I can find them until I can find something that'll pay the bills."

It'd been hard at first. After being unexpectedly tossed out on my ass, I'd had to scramble for a job. I was still getting on my feet, had just bought my car, and I hadn't had time to build a nest egg. Desperate, I'd found a part time job at a Wal-Mart that allowed me to scrimp by as I tried to find something else. I supposed it'd surprise no one that professional musician jobs were about as plentiful in Oklahoma as they were in Iowa. One good thing about working part time was it gave me plenty of time to knock on doors. Now I was in Whippleton, Oklahoma, a small town of between three and four thousand that supported the local oil industry, located about two hours outside Oklahoma City. It wasn't much, but at least I was able to do what I loved while supplementing my income by working a register part time at the Pump & Sack, the combination grocery store and gas station in town. I wasn't getting rich, but I was no longer starving.

I played seven to midnight Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday for a hundred a night, and seven until two Friday and Saturday for two hundred a night, plus tips... not that anyone had left me any tips so far. When Jolly hired me, he'd said I was part of his plan to 'give Gushers some class.'

"Well, you've obviously got more talent than this place deserves, so I'm sure you'll find something," Harken said.

"Thanks."

"In the meantime, will you still let us amateurs play with you?" Mike asked with grin.

I snickered. "Sure. Anytime."

Movement from the wannabe's table caught my eye as the man I noticed earlier kicked a chair out from under his feet and sauntered in my direction. "That was some bitch-slap you put on the fiddle player," the man said as he coasted to a stop between me and Craig, ignoring Craig as if he didn't exist.

The man had to be nearly a foot taller than my own five-three, with narrow hips and a muscular upper body that the leather couldn't completely hide. He had the most amazing blue eyes and a strong chin covered in a no shits given shadow that was an interesting contrast to his neatly trimmed hair. I couldn't put my finger on why, but the man radiated a dangerous aura that made me slightly nervous, and I was very glad to have Craig, Harken, and Mike nearby.

"Yes, well..." I began but ground to a halt, not sure what to say. This was only my third night, my first Friday, and I hoped I hadn't already messed up with my little stunt. I needed this paycheck for a while to get back on my feet.

"He deserved it," the man continued. "If he'd started doing shit like that to me, I'd have kicked his fucking ass."

"Hey... you should watch your language in front of the lady," Craig said firmly, putting a hand on the man's shoulder.

Though his words were supportive, the man's tone put me on edge. "Yes, well, uh, thank you Mr....?" I began, trying to hurry him on his way.

As I answered, the man's gaze shifted to Craig. "If you want to play that bass again, I suggest you remove your hand." His voice was calm, but the threat was clearly heard. The moment Craig removed his hand, the man's attention returned to me. "McKenna. Evan McKenna."

"Yes, well, thank you Mr. McKenna."

He held my gaze a moment longer as an almost unnoticeable smile touched his lips. "I'll be seeing you around, Fingers," he said as he casually moved back to his table.

"What an asshole," Craig muttered as the Jenni approached to place another order.

"I see you met Evan," she said as she jiggled to a stop at the bar and handed Christine her drink order.

Jenni was the waitress that worked the floor. I hadn't seen her Wednesday or Thursday, but she was already here when I arrived tonight. She was blonde, older than me, probably in her late forties, and she had some miles on her, but the male clientele clearly liked her, probably because of her bubbly, flirty personality, not to mention her big boobs nearly falling out of her top. I'd noticed she often bent at the waist, or squatted, when taking orders, probably to give the men a good look. Like Christine, I suspected she also made good tips. I had a more athletic build than either Christine or Jenni, and while I wasn't flat chested, I wasn't as well-endowed as Christine, and certainly not as Jenni. For perhaps for the millionth time in my life, I wondered what it'd be like to have breasts that made men drool.

"Yeah. What's his story?" I asked.

He hadn't been in before. None of the wannabes had. I'd have remembered them if they had. Though it seemed everyone knew them, the wannabes stuck out in the cowboy boot and hat wearing crowd like, as my dad often said, 'the NBA at a jockey convention.'

"He's a regular," she explained. "Him and his crew come in nearly every Friday and Saturday."

"They look like the Hells Angels... but with better haircuts," I observed, my tone clearly telegraphing what I thought about them.

She giggled. "The Blacktop Eagles. They're wildcatters for American Eagle Oil." Jenni paused as she watched the table. "That Evan... there's something about him," she said, a hint of wistful longing in her voice. "I'd certainly be willing to give him more than the occasional ride if he wanted it."

"You've got to be kidding!" I exclaimed, unable to completely hide my distaste.

She grinned as she picked up the tray loaded with beers and shots. "Hey! Don't knock it until you've tried it. Trust me. The nice thing about wildcatters is... they know how to drill." She gave me a lascivious wink before moving off to distribute the drinks.

"What's a wildcatter?" I asked as I turned to Craig.

"Independent oil men that drill where there's no known oil. Quickest legal way I know to go broke. If you're a wildcatter, you have to have a pair of big brass ones."

Before I could respond Pat walked by and glowered us as he jerked his head toward the stage. "C'mon... Fingers," Craig teased. "Let's go rock this joint."

Saturday night The Drillers were back... well, three of them were anyway. Friday, The Drillers were wearing what appeared to be dirty work clothes, going for a certain look I guessed. Tonight, Craig, Mike, and Harken were dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts, neatly matching what I wore when I performed. Just before we started our first set, Craig leaned over and whispered into my ear they'd follow my lead. Where Friday I was background, tonight I was front and center as I covered for the fiddle.

I had a great time, maybe the most fun I'd ever had. Mike and I performed dueling banjos, though neither of us were paying banjo, riffing on the other with impossible to duplicate sequences to make the crowd laugh. We did some up-tempo country, a bit of swingy jazz, a little rock-a-billy, and just because I wanted to be a bitch, we closed the set with Devil Went Down to Georgia followed by Orange Blossom Special.

We were setting up for our second session when the Blacktop Eagles arrived, the heavy rumble of bike engines heralding their arrival before they come through the door. While the rest of the Blacktop Eagles dragged three tables together, being loud and boisterous, Evan walked straight to the stage.

"Seems like someone is missing," he rumbled, his comment clearly directed at me. "I guess he knows his betters when he sees them."

"I wouldn't say that Mr.... McKenna isn't it?" I demurred, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion.

"It is, but call me Evan. And I would. So tell me, Fingers, what are you doing in a place like this?"

"Just lucky I guess," I said, still trying to avoid talking to him without being rude. "If you'll excuse us, we need to get started." Evan smiled and made a go-ahead motion with his hand before he turned and idled back to his mates.

We started our second set. Now that we were settling in and getting comfortable with each other, we jammed, each of us taking a turn to showcase what we could do. By the end of the second set we had the audience eating out of the palm of our hand. As the crowd broke into loud applause, Jolly, the owner and cook, appeared in the door to the kitchen to beam at us. I guess I hadn't screwed the pooch last night. As we thanked the audience and left the stage, Evan rose to intercept us. Craig and Harken moved in front of me, shielding me from Evan, as Mike shifting to the side for backup.

"Relax cupcakes. I just want to buy the lady a drink, if she'll join us, to apologize for my language last night," Evan said, his voice conversational, as if their silent move to protect me was of no more concern to him than a fly.

I thought a moment before deciding to nip this in the bud. "It's okay guys. I'll be fine," I said as I gently pushed my way between Craig and Harken. "Just this once, okay?" I continued, my tone making it a statement.

"If that's what you want," he replied with his maddening self-assurance. He led me to the table while motioning Jenni over. "Give the lady whatever she wants." I could tell Jenni wasn't thrilled that Evan invited me over. I was probably cramping her style or something.

"Sprite," I said then sat quietly, not knowing what to say or do as I glanced around the table. There were eight men, not counting Evan, along with three women, and I strove to project confidence I didn't feel.

"Unless you want me to call you Fingers all night, why don't you tell me your name," Evan said as Jenni moved off.

"Andi."

"Andi, let me introduce you to the Eagles," he began. "This ugly mug belongs to Curtis," he said, looking at the big man to his right, "that's his old lady, Beth. Next is Dutch, Toes, Will, his squeeze Pam, Tony, Rick, Chains, and lastly, Siphon and his old lady, Liz." Each man and woman greeted me with a word or gesture as he rattled off names. "Eagles, this is Andi. She's a lady, so I expect you to be on your best behavior around her."

"Fuck that!" Curtis spat immediately, causing the entire table to laugh, myself included.

While rowdy, being able to put some names to faces removed some of their menace, not that I could remember them. "Jenni tells me you're wildcatters," I said after Jenni dropped off my pop.

"That's right," Siphon said. Because he was the last one named, his was the only name I could remember other than Evan's. "We're the mother-fuckingest wildcatters in Oklahoma. We can practically piss crude."

"Seems like that would sting." The resulting brief silence made me uncomfortable until everyone burst into laughter.

"Fucking-A," another man said hoisting a beer in my direction. "I like her already!"