Deadly Crossroads
It was 1939, a bright moonlit night. So, bright you could read from it. That’s how my grandpappy began the story. He and his friend Sam went to the crossroads with Sam’s older brother Junior and his friend Willie. Junior and Willie loved the blues, but neither was any good. Junior was tone deaf sounded like skinned cat bakin in the sun. Willie had no dexterity in his hands. It looked like Nosferato’s deformed digits on his acoustic guitar. The sight was grotesque. They went down them crossroads the same one they tell Robert Johnson sold his soul. Well, these boys knew Robert’s story. Knew all 29 songs he wrote and believed the deal he made. But, they was smarter. They wouldn’t make his mistake.
See my grandpappy knows the story so well cause he was there. He saw the whole thing play out. Junior and Willie invited my grandpappy and Sam to meet a man they called the stranger at the crossroads. Junior was going to sing like Louis Armstrong and Willie would play like Lead Belly. That’s what they said all afternoon and evening while we waited. Maybe four cars drove past the entire time, but none stopped. It got dark and the sketters started eatin us like a full course meal. Me and Sam were tired and wanted to go home. Willie said if the stranger didn’t show by 11:00 we’d all go home.
Part of me thought they was playin me and Sam for fools. But, the darker it got the more Junior and Willie got angry. They was slappin sketters then each other over whose fault it was for draggin everyone there. Sam tried to break it up and got a whopping. I figured anyone mad enough to stay was serious or crazy. I ran off. Willie tried to stop me, but I was faster. Sam stayed. He didn’t believe them and wanted to prove his brother wrong.
I didn’t actually leave. I circled back and hid in the tall grass just down the way from the crossroads. That’s when it happened. Lord ol mighty. He came. I saw a man appear from nothing, he moved silent through the air then suddenly pebbles crunched under his shiny wing tips.
He was dressed in black from head to shoe. His clothes and hat were perfectly clean. Not a pinch of dust. I caught a glimpse of his handsome face in that bright moonlight. His black skin was creamy smooth and well featured like a movie star without a bead of sweat. How can that be travelin in the delta heat? And not once, not once did he have to chase away any damn sketters. He turned his head in my direction. That’s when I saw, lord, no eyelids no pupils neither. His eyes were brilliant eggshell white balls, solid and unreadable. He greeted them in a clear and friendly tone. Junior and Willie didn’t axe who he was. They were so excited they told him what they wanted. The man listened politely. All the time I knew those bright eyes were searching for me. When they finished their excited rant the man simply replied.
“You’ll get it, but it ain’t free.”
Willie quickly offered him $5.00 in jest. The man snickered.
“You boys ought to know how this work. You waited here all day.”
“You need a soul.”
The stranger nodded.
“Here you go,” Junior said as he pushed his little brother forward.
“What’s this?”
“My little brother Sam. Our daddy beats him cause he won’t do chores.”
“That true boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“You ain’t lyin are you?”
“No sir.”
“Well ok. Junior why don’t you hmm a few bars and Willie strum a few jazz chords.”
Junior suddenly had Louis’s gravelly voice and Willie’s once strained hands played smooth and silky. They glided up and down the fretboard with ease.
Junior and Willie danced about and looked like their heads would explode.
“Alright boys. Make sure you’re at the Jazz house on Saturday night.”
“Why?” They asked together.
“Cause your little brother Sam will have an accident. Can’t have you two anywhere near.”
“Yes sir.”
It’s 2002, two weeks ago, Floyd and Harold Simmons invited George and me to the crossroads. They promised we be their new bandmates. George didn’t believe my grandpappy’s story.