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Authors: A. L. Summers
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“The Neon Hawks. They’re wildcatters for Hawk Oil. The Neon comes from their bikes. Lit up like a sign, with neon lights all over them.” Bobbi pauses and looks at the table. “That Charlie… there’s something about him,” she says slightly wistfully.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I exclaim, unable to completely hide my distaste.
Bobbi giggles as she picks up her drink-covered tray. “Hey! Don’t knock it ’til you try it. The nice thing about wildcatters is, they sure know how to pump.” Bobbi winks lasciviously and moves off, distributing the drinks.
“What’s a wildcatter?” I ask Rudy.
“Independent oil man that drills where there’s no known oil. Quickest legal way I know to go broke,” Rudy explains. “If you’re a wildcatter you’ve gotta have a pair of big brass ones.”
Before I can respond, Jack walks by and glowers at Rudy, Stockton, and me. “C’mon, Fingers, ” Rudy teases, “let’s rock this joint.”
Saturday night The Drillers are back. Well, two of them are, anyway. Friday The Drillers were wearing what appeared to be dirty work clothes–going for a certain look, I guess. Tonight they’re dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts, neatly matching what I wear whenever I perform. Just before we start our first set, Rudy whispers that he and Stockton’ll follow my lead. Last Friday I was in the background, but tonight I’m front and center and covering for the fiddle.
We do some up-tempo country, a bit of swingy jazz, a little rock-a-billy, and just to be a bitch, I close the set with Devil Went Down to Georgia followed by Orange Blossom Special. We’re just setting up for our second session when the Neon Hawks arrive, the heavy rumble of bike engines heralding their arrival before they come through the door. While the rest of the Hawks drag tables together, loud and boisterous, Grieg walks straight to the stage.
“Seems like someone’s missing,” Grieg begins. “I guess he knows his betters when he sees them.” He doesn’t call me by name but his comments are clearly directed at me.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr.… Grieg isn’t it?” I demure, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion.
“It is, but call me Charlie. And I would,” Charlie says. “So tell me, Fingers, what are you doing in a place like this?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I say, still trying to avoid talking to him without being rude. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get started.” Charlie smiles and makes a go-ahead motion with his hand before he turns and idles up the bar.
We begin our second set. Now that we’re settling in and getting comfortable with each other, we jam, each of us taking a turn to show what we can do. By the end of the second set we have the audience eating out of the palm of our hand, and Tango, the owner and cook, is beaming at us. I guess I didn’t screw the pooch last night after all.
As we thank the audience and leave the stage, Charlie rises and moves to intercept us. Rudy and Stockton step in front of me, shielding me from Charlie.
“Relax cupcakes. I just want to buy the lady a drink, if she’ll join us, to apologize for my language last night,” Charlie says with quiet confidence, as if their silent move to protect me is of no more concern to him than a fly would be.
I pause, and then decide to nip this in the bud.
“It’s okay guys. I’ll be fine,” I say, moving between Rudy and Stockton. “Just this once, okay?” I say to Charlie, my tone making it a statement.
“If that’s what you want,” Charlie replies with maddening self-assurance. He leads me to the table and motions Bobbi over. “Give the lady whatever she wants,” Charlie says, and I can tell Bobbi isn’t thrilled at Charlie inviting me over. I’m probably cramping her style or something.
“Sprite,” I say, then sit quietly, not knowing what to say or do as I look around the
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I exclaim, unable to completely hide my distaste.
Bobbi giggles as she picks up her drink-covered tray. “Hey! Don’t knock it ’til you try it. The nice thing about wildcatters is, they sure know how to pump.” Bobbi winks lasciviously and moves off, distributing the drinks.
“What’s a wildcatter?” I ask Rudy.
“Independent oil man that drills where there’s no known oil. Quickest legal way I know to go broke,” Rudy explains. “If you’re a wildcatter you’ve gotta have a pair of big brass ones.”
Before I can respond, Jack walks by and glowers at Rudy, Stockton, and me. “C’mon, Fingers, ” Rudy teases, “let’s rock this joint.”
Saturday night The Drillers are back. Well, two of them are, anyway. Friday The Drillers were wearing what appeared to be dirty work clothes–going for a certain look, I guess. Tonight they’re dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts, neatly matching what I wear whenever I perform. Just before we start our first set, Rudy whispers that he and Stockton’ll follow my lead. Last Friday I was in the background, but tonight I’m front and center and covering for the fiddle.
We do some up-tempo country, a bit of swingy jazz, a little rock-a-billy, and just to be a bitch, I close the set with Devil Went Down to Georgia followed by Orange Blossom Special. We’re just setting up for our second session when the Neon Hawks arrive, the heavy rumble of bike engines heralding their arrival before they come through the door. While the rest of the Hawks drag tables together, loud and boisterous, Grieg walks straight to the stage.
“Seems like someone’s missing,” Grieg begins. “I guess he knows his betters when he sees them.” He doesn’t call me by name but his comments are clearly directed at me.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr.… Grieg isn’t it?” I demure, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion.
“It is, but call me Charlie. And I would,” Charlie says. “So tell me, Fingers, what are you doing in a place like this?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I say, still trying to avoid talking to him without being rude. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get started.” Charlie smiles and makes a go-ahead motion with his hand before he turns and idles up the bar.
We begin our second set. Now that we’re settling in and getting comfortable with each other, we jam, each of us taking a turn to show what we can do. By the end of the second set we have the audience eating out of the palm of our hand, and Tango, the owner and cook, is beaming at us. I guess I didn’t screw the pooch last night after all.
As we thank the audience and leave the stage, Charlie rises and moves to intercept us. Rudy and Stockton step in front of me, shielding me from Charlie.
“Relax cupcakes. I just want to buy the lady a drink, if she’ll join us, to apologize for my language last night,” Charlie says with quiet confidence, as if their silent move to protect me is of no more concern to him than a fly would be.
I pause, and then decide to nip this in the bud.
“It’s okay guys. I’ll be fine,” I say, moving between Rudy and Stockton. “Just this once, okay?” I say to Charlie, my tone making it a statement.
“If that’s what you want,” Charlie replies with maddening self-assurance. He leads me to the table and motions Bobbi over. “Give the lady whatever she wants,” Charlie says, and I can tell Bobbi isn’t thrilled at Charlie inviting me over. I’m probably cramping her style or something.
“Sprite,” I say, then sit quietly, not knowing what to say or do as I look around the
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