Rolling and Tumbling
Rolling and Tumbling
Song: Rolling and Tumbling, by Canned Heat
Chapter 2
As good intentions go, her plans to stop by the “Eager Beaver” were never realized. The reunion came and went, and then there was a trip to her grandma in Kentucky that had to be made, and when all was said and done, the memory of the handsome boy in the supermarket was nothing but a memory.
As she did every summer, this summer she was helping her Uncle Gus at his bar. She wasn’t twenty-one yet, so she couldn’t serve alcohol, so she was the “snack girl”, as the regulars called her. They all knew her for years, since she was a kid, running behind the counter and being lifted onto pool tables and gathering billiard balls. It was a pleasant place, full of people that she’s known for years.
Tonight, when she made her way inside, it was different. Smokey and noisy, overflowing with people. She’s never seen the place quite so busy before. Throwing her bag behind the counter, she asked her Uncle,
“What is going on here?
He looked hassled, and Gina, the waitress, came with another order.
“Cant he just take the bottle?” muttered Gus, pouring shots of Jameson’s. Gina pursed her lips and said, “He don’t need no more booze in him. None of them do, but he, for sure.”
At last, Gina hauled her tray away and Gus turned around.
“What’s going on here, Uncle? Why is it so busy?”
“The Followills are here,” he explained. “AND all their friends! A rowdy bunch they are…But they spend a lot of money on booze.”
“Who are the Followills?” she asked, not recognizing the name.
“Oh, you know. They have that rock band…Local boys. From Mt. Juliet.”
She shook her head.
“Never heard of them. A country band? Or a rock band?”
“A rock band,” he insisted.
Her brow furred. What rock bands were from Mt. Juliet?
“Their daddy was a preacher,” continued Gus, “back in the day. But it was probably before your time. I used to go to all his sermons. He was big time! But then they say he got into boozing and was defrocked. But who knows? The sons take after him. Especially that one,” and he pointed into the crowd.
She turned to see and was stopped in her tracks.
“Don’t want you hanging out with them, girlie,” continued Gus. “They are not someone a nice girl should associate with. You know what I am sayin’?”
She wasn’t listening, but nodded absently.
Seated in a booth was Caleb. He was wearing a ridiculous yellow sleeveless shirt, with some kind of flowers or birds on it—something a 5-year-old girl would be hard pressed to wear. His hair was sticking to his forehead. He looked thinner, more gaunt than she remembered him. Clearly drunk, slouching into the seat, a sea of glasses in front of him. Gina just set more shot glasses in front of him. He said something to her.
Turning back to Uncle Gus, she asked,
“They are in a rock band? Do they live here?”
“Yeah…they have a ranch about 5 miles from here. Come to the bar on occasion and gather all the pretty gals and take them there. Don’t want to be thinking what’s going on on that ranch of theirs!” he shook his head in disapproval.
Gina arrived with an empty tray.
“That one wants nachos,” she gestured towards a man with long black hair, geography-teacher glasses and an array of tattoos on his muscular arms. “That one wants wings,” she nodded at Caleb. “And more beer for everyone!”
In a few minutes, she got everyone’s orders, prayed that Caleb didn’t remember her and went to make the rounds. The crowd was loud, but controlled enough. The long haired one snatched her by the arm, once she set his nachos down, and twirled her in a quick, mad dance. He was handsome and had sky blue eyes, and the same nose as Caleb. Somebody called out “Nate!” and he released her, and joked. Picking up her tray, she made her way to Caleb’s booth.
He glanced her over, his eyes blood-shot, but still lucid.
“Your wings,” she said softly, and began clearing away all the glasses. He stared at her, his full lips stretching into a tight, mischievous smile.
“I know you!” he shook his finger to her, trying to remember.
She noticed that his yellow shirt had little red roosters on it. It reminded her of some “French Country” napkins that she once saw in a Sur La Table catalogue.
“How do I know you?” he kept muttering.
She sighed and said,
“We met once. In a store. Enjoy.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. The big hand with large, thick fingers closed over hers and he said, his voice tired,
“Sit with me.”
“I have to work.”
“I’ll pay for your time, if you sit with me,” he said. “Just sit down.”
She felt a twinge of pity towards him. Awkward, beautiful and somewhat out of it, he seemed desperate for company.
“Why don’t you hang out with your band?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the seat. She didn’t want Uncle Gus to notice, but he was already eyeing her ferociously from behind the bar.
“Ahh, they are all pissed at me,” he threw his hand in the air, “so fuck them.” His hand flew to his mouth and he muttered, “Excuse my language.”
“Are you related?”
“Two brothers, and a cousin. Why didn’t you come then?” he changed the subject. His voice betrayed a hint of annoyance.
“Got busy. Then when I came, you weren’t there. My uncle owns this place. I am always here.”
“Ahh, good to know.”
Time passed. More drinks were consumed. He drank steadily, with determination, yet maintained coherency for quite a long time. He told her about the band, their popularity overseas, and how it made him feel strange to come back here and have no one be aware of his success. He was shy when he spoke; tucking his lanky hair behind his ears obsessively, yet there was also a smoothness about him. She sensed that he didn’t like being denied, and was getting used to adoration, even if he was struggling with it. He swore a lot when he spoke, but it didn’t bother her. There was a hardness about him as well, in his appearance, in the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck, the heaviness of his hands. He liked the contact, and held her hand through the night, occasionally running his fingers along her arm, or over her shoulder. There were calluses on his hands, and the arms were thick with muscle, even though he was very slim otherwise. To her, even in his drunkenness, he smelled delicious—of whiskey and other alcohol, and tobacco, of grass and hay and baby oil. Once, he caught a stray lock of her hair and brushed it away from her face. And then he told her that he had a receding hairline and that he hope that she wasn’t turned off by balding men. She didn’t know how to answer, so she gently patted him on the head.
At last, Gina interrupted the flow of the conversation.
“Gus wants you back in the kitchen,” she said.
“I have to go,” she got up.
He sighed, but didn’t argue and said, “I’ll be here.”
Gus wasn’t happy.
‘What are you doing with him? I need you working! Didn’t I say not to deal with them? What are you doing girl?”
She listened to the ranting silently. What mattered more were not her Uncle’s threats that he was going to tell her Da, but the scent of whiskey, male sweat and hay that lingered in her nostrils, and the large hands that brushed against her skin. As she stood there, she also felt the shining, turquoise-blue eyes on her.
Uncle Gus agreed to stay open for the band. They were consuming a lot of alcohol and eating lots as well, and he found them profitable.
Caleb sat alone for most of the evening, getting up only to feed the jukebox with quarters, his walk unsteady. Girls approached him and tried to engage him in conversation, giggling and joking, but he was having none of it. They soon gave up and moved to the other band members—young, handsome Jared, cute, dimpled cousin Matthew, and another cousin, the long haired Nacho.
It was around 3am when Jared passed by Caleb and snarled,
“Hey asshole, are you coming with us?”
A middle finger flashed in Jared’s direction.
“Leave him be, bro,” cautioned Nathan. “Leave’m be. He’ll get a cab.”
“Like hell he will,” she thought. “Especially at this hour and so far from the city.”
“Girlie, will you lock up?” asked Uncle Gus. His face was red, and his considerable girth made standing on his feet until such late hour extremely unpleasant.
The crowd had thinned out considerably. A few couples were stumbling out the door. All the Followills were gone, except for Caleb, who was nursing a beer. His face was dark and the eyes no longer shone with that wild blue light.
“I’ll lock up, Uncle.”
“Send him on his way,” ordered Gus whispering in her ear. His eyes darted towards Caleb. “And don’t you be stayin’ here with him alone!”
“There is still a dozen people here! He seems harmless enough.”
“He aint harmless, girlie. I’ve seen him all drunk and puking and slobbering before. Not a pretty sight.”
“Go, Uncle, go,” she slapped his back. “I’ll be all right I am sure. Not the first time I’d be seeing a drunk.”
“This one is a mean one.”
She cleaned up, watching the patrons slowly leave.
“I should call you a cab,” she said at last. Caleb shook his head and said,
“What you should do, is dance with me.”
He staggered onto his feet and studied the jukebox for a moment. Then he made his selection and Canned Heat came on with “Rolling and Tumbling”. With fluidity that was unexpected in a man so drunk, he wiggled his hips and made a steady circle around her. She watched him, surprised, her foot tapping. “Well I really love you baby, come ‘n say you’d be mine,” he sang along, moving smoothly, seriously and rhythmically. All she could do was watch his long legs move and twist before her. “Oh, I roll and tumble baby, I cried the whole night long…” he sang, his voice completely different from when he spoke in his soft, Southern hush. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer, one hand resting on her hip, another threading his fingers through hers. “Oh, and if the river was whiskey, I’d want to dive into it,” he breathed into her ear, his breath warm and smelling of alcohol. His body was hot, and her breasts pressed and rolled against his chest, the long cross swaying between their bodies.
“You are a fucking beauty, if I ever saw one,” he muttered, his lips brushing her hair.
Shocked and dizzy, she swayed against him, enveloped in the moist heat of his body, inhaling the heady smell of him and feeling his hips against her, as a hard bulge of him smashed into her pelvis. She didn’t think that he was aroused, at least not nearly as much as she was, but then she had no experience with such things, so she tried to move cautiously, feeling a distinct , betraying wetness, between her thighs.
He twirled her, then pulled away, then pulled back in, into the embrace of his arms, his heavy hand squeezing her hip and holding her close.
“Didn’t think you were such a dancer,” she murmured, trying to keep a conversation going, and not lose her mind within the cage of his arms, willing her nipples not to poke him in the chest, stopping herself from running her tongue along a pulsating vein on his neck.
“I dance all the time,” he admitted jovially, and without embarrassment.
The song ended. He stopped and said,
“You should come and dance with me in my farm house.”
Then he staggered and she had to catch him, so he wouldn’t fall.
“Cant believe those fucks left me here,” he cursed, straightening out, “what the fuck?”
Anger flashed across his pleasant face and he sat heavily on a bench.
“Do you want me to take you home?” she proposed.
“Fuck, someone’s got to,” he huffed and lit a cigarette.
“Sit here and wait. I need to clean up and then I’ll drive you.”
In half an hour, they exited the bar. Caleb was hanging onto her shoulder, his walk unsteady. She wrapped her arm around his firm torso, supporting him.
“Are you going to be able to give me directions?”
“Yeah.”
She pushed him through the car door and he landed on the front seat.
“Okay, take this road, then turn left at the light,” he said.
She followed his directions and pulled the car out of the parking space.
He sat silently, but she felt that he was observing her.
“You got a man?” he asked at last.
After a pause, she answered truthfully,
“No.”
“Why the hell not? You are easy on the eyes. Nice body.”
She shrugged, being forgiving considering his state. Any other man would have probably gotten a kick in the teeth for this frank assessment of her.
“I guess didn’t happen.”
“Got to get yourself a man,” he concluded.
She thought, “why not you?”, but remained silent.
They drove through a myriad of back roads, until at last, she saw a large house, lit up with lights, standing on a vast piece of land.
“That’s it,” said Caleb.
“How big is this property?”
“50 acres, but we are going to buy more. Will build a stage over there, and a bar. And a recording studio.”
“Big plans.”
“And a barn,” he continued, excited, and clearly proud. Then he added, “You’ll have to help me up the stairs…”
“I will.”
With him draped over her, they made their way upstairs. She had little time and no chance to really take notice of the house, fearing that he would collapse on the stairs, or on top of her. He was heavy, his damp body all muscle and bone.
“There,” he pointed at a door and she opened it and found the light switch.
It was a surprisingly modestly furnished bedroom, with only a white wooden bed, unmade and crumpled, a sofa and a plain rocking chair. He squinted at the overhead light and she left him standing, while she turned on a bedside lamp.
“Well, here you are, safely delivered,” she said.
He nodded, his gaze floating around her, unfocused.
“I’ll be on my way. Good night. I’ll see you around.”
She tried to walk past him, but he caught her arm and stopped her.
She stood still, trying to calm her heartbeat down, since it was deafening her. His fingers traced a long line from her lips, down her neck, to her chest and then over her breast, stopping at the nipple.
“We are here. You and I…” he whispered.
She looked down, at his finger, and then watched as his large hand curled over her breast, feeling it gently. For a drunk, he wasn’t particularly aggressive, but neither was he pleasant. A shiver ran through her. A little bit of fear mixed with desire.
But this was insane. She wasn’t going to lose her virginity to a drunk guy whom she just met today. As desirable as he was, he was also wasted and probably incapable of performing anyway.
“Caleb,” she reasoned softly, “you need to sleep.”
“Yeah, with you!” he agreed flatly.
“You need to sober up. We’ll talk later.”
He squeezed her arm above the elbow, painfully this time. She remained calm and allowed him to push her towards the bed. There, she embraced him and lowered him on the wrinkled sheets.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered, his grip easing on her arm, but then his hand cupped her bottom and he pulled her closer. She sighed and slipped on the bed beside him. “I don’t want to do it…” he muttered. “Like this…with you.”
His body softened against her.
“You are pretty…and soft,” he added. She held his head on her shoulder. His eyelids fluttered, then closed. She shifted and he made a dissatisfied noise, but she only pulled his boots off and threw them in the corner of the room. Then she flipped her sandals off as well and let his arm circle over her, squeezing her possessively. And then…a soft, drunken, gentle kiss on her lips, his mouth covering hers and tongue caressing her full lips leisurely for a few moments.
“I can be your man,” he said sleepily and passed out.
