The Devil and the Crossroads

(Story and photos by Carl Gibson)

It's a sweltering September day, and I'm sipping burnt coffee in a hole-in-the-wall juke joint in Clarksdale, Mississippi, waiting on a late client. Robert Johnson's "Traveling Riverside Blues" blares over the speakers. The server mentioned Robert once played here. I daydream about this stuffy room crammed full of patrons weeping in awe as the legendary bluesman's spider-like fingers glide across the fretboard of his $12 Stella guitar.

Robert Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the devil in exchange to be the best guitarist to ever live. This exchange was allegedly made at the crossroads here in Clarksdale, on 49 and 61, after the devil tuned a guitar, played a melody, and offered the guitar to Robert. Damn shame he did that, because Robert was poisoned by a jealous husband at age 27. The devil cut him a pretty raw deal when you think about it.

I snap out of my reverie when my client approaches. He's a tall, well-built Black guy with a brilliant white smile and a soul patch. He looks like he's maybe in his early thirties, but it also looks like he could be a hell of a lot older and just hides it well with a big smile and fashionable clothes.

"Don't drink the coffee here. It gives you the shakes," he says, smiling.

I look at my left hand and see it quivering slightly on the table. I can't think of anything funny or witty to say back.

"I'm the furniture guy," I say, and then immediately regret. No shit. Of course I'm the damn furniture guy. I'm wearing my work shirt and hat. He looks me in the eye for a few quick seconds, like he's reading my thoughts. Just when it looks like he's sensing my discomfort, he changes the subject.

"You got calloused fingertips. You play the guitar?" He asks. I can tell he's a Delta man, the way he accentuated the first syllable of the word "guitar."

"I play a little," I say. He laughs loudly.

"Then you a good guitar player. Not like these young cats today. They say, 'yeah, brotha, lemme show you something,' and they never can play worth shit. But good guitar players wait they turn to blow your mind."

I laugh and feel myself loosen up. Over lunch, I learn my client books bands for Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero club in Clarksdale. The guy also has his own band that's about to go on tour across the I-20 casino circuit from Shreveport to Tuscaloosa. I tell him about the guys I play with. We call ourselves Slop, Biscuit & Gravy.

"I've got our demo in the truck," I say.

"My man! I wanna hear it." He says.

I was never a great guitarist. I've been playing for about six years. But I started too late, after I watched my kids grow up and my first marriage fall apart. I've gone from making six figures in the telecommunications industry in California to making nine bucks an hour in a hot and smelly furniture warehouse in Mississippi. I've lived on each end of the financial spectrum; from a three-story house near the beach to a beat-ass trailer in the woods.

One day 18 years ago, I found out my wife was cheating on me, my house was getting foreclosed, and my boss was laying me off. After a bonfire, a fifth of Jack, and a long nap, I took my three kids and aimlessly headed East. A couple cold nights later, my car broke down in the Arizona desert. We pushed the car to a vacant church parking lot. We had a half-eaten loaf of bread, some ham that was turning green, and a few slices of American cheese. We cut open an old coffee can, added some kindling and dropped in a match. My little girl collected a piece of runaway tinfoil, and we put that on top of our little fire and I made my kids some grilled cheese sandwiches.

Now, my sons are getting stoned somewhere in Texas. I haven't heard from them in years. My daughter is the only one who still talks to me after all I put them through. When I gave her a late-night drunken call after a band practice, she assured me that was the best damn grilled cheese she'd ever eaten.

I'm still sitting on a chunk of cash from my younger, richer days. I'll open a club on the up-and-coming part of town. I've got a buddy with connections to Derek Trucks. He'll play at our grand opening. I'll promote the best talent in town. Pretty soon I'll turn Jackson, Mississippi into a city that would make Memphis green with envy.

All in time, I keep telling myself. My wife, Libby, is a hard case, but she's why I decided to marry again. She gave me 6 years to make my dream a reality. I'll be 50 then. If I haven't made it by then, I reckon I'll keep moving furniture until retirement.

One morning, I'm first at the warehouse. Boss man hands me the keys to the truck that got loaded and ready to go the afternoon before.

"Chuck, you're goin' to Clarksdale today. Delivering nine pieces. Try to make it back by five."

I nod calmly, take the invoice, and hop in the truck after grabbing my band's demo CD. My heart did backflips in my chest. Boss man doesn't know I'm a blues addict. Sending me to the Delta alone is like sending a retired linebacker to a Vegas buffet.

The Mississippi Delta is barren, and as flat as it is hot. She's still beautiful in her desolation. I can't help but stop every five minutes and take pictures of the swamps surrounded by cypress trees, the sun-hammered railroad tracks that lead off curiously into the woods, and the rusted-out abandoned shacks that haven't been lived in for decades. When you drive through the Delta, it's like driving through the Great Depression. You finally understand why the blues was born here after you've been here.

My client helped me unload the furniture truck. I hauled a sectional, a recliner, a table, and two chairs. We assembled the sectional in his den without directions. After the ordeal, we lounged, drank sweet tea and listened to the demo.

"You three white boys are damn good," he said. "You want to play Ground Zero in January? No covers, though. All original."

This was it. Our first real gig. A guy who was somebody liked our sound. Who knows where we could go after Clarksdale?

"I really like this original track you and your singer wrote, especially. I'd love to take this on tour. If you work out a licensing fee, I'll pay you fair and square."

I sat quietly, stunned. But that still wasn't the blow that knocked the wind out of me.

"Ever been to the crossroads?" He asked.

"Highway 49 and 61, right?" I responded. The man sighed and shook his head.

"That's where all the tourists go. I'm taking you to the real crossroads," he told me. "The one nobody knows about."

I tried to follow where my new friend was taking me as we left town in his truck. I eyed my client's guitar case in the back, and told him I'd like to hear him play it. He just smiled and adjusted his stereo. After a few turns, we rode a dirt road that led to a crossing with another dirt road several miles ahead. The only thing at the crossroads was a bench under a tall pear tree.

My client shut off the engine. We got out, and he reached behind the seat for his guitar case. He opened it and I saw an exquisite Martin guitar. It looked like an older model, but restored to mint condition. It was stained a dark Cherry with angel wings etched in pearl on the back. Any collector would easily drop ten grand on it. We sat under the pear tree, watching the sun dip behind the horizon. The Delta countryside around us was bathed in an eerie tint of red and gold.

The man next to me on the bench tuned the Martin to DADGAD, my personal favorite string tuning, and began to play the most haunting blues riffs I'd ever heard. I watched his right hand strum while his left fingers effortlessly leapt over each other, dancing a ballet on the frets. He played with his eyes closed the entire time.

I've seen lots of amazing players. I saw B.B. King at his homecoming concert in Indianola. I got to see Stevie Ray Vaughan play "Texas Flood" in Dallas less than a year before he died. But this was simply the best performance I've ever witnessed. This guy here on the bench with the pretty red guitar was matchless.

"Just a little tune I've been working on," my new friend said quietly.

He hefted his guitar and extended it my way.

"Why don't you play me a little something?"

Just as I was about to take it, I stopped and looked around at the tree and the dirt roads that crossed paths. I'm not superstitious, but it's too coincidental to meet a phenomenal guitarist who takes you out to lunch, offers you a gig, money for your original work, and then drives you to the crossroads and offers you his guitar.

I wonder if Robert Johnson felt any trepidation when he took the guitar from the devil at the crossroads that night. I imagine the devil tuning up, blowing his mind, and offering Robert the world sounded pretty enticing.

What if he said no? How different would all recorded music in history sound today? Perhaps all of the greats - The Beatles, Elvis, Zeppelin - might have fizzled out before making it big. I wonder if Jesus felt the slightest bit of doubt when the devil offered him everything and he rejected him outright.

I looked at that pretty guitar, and at the devil who grinned at me as he extended it my way. I swallowed my fear and looked the devil in the eyes, as he offered me the future of all music in exchange for my eternal soul.

What would happen if I took that cherry Martin from the devil's hands? Would the beginner's tension in my wrists and fingers loosen up instantly? Would I be able to play with the kind of impeccable technique the devil just showed me? Is it worth it to give the devil my soul, if it means I can enrich millions of lives for generations to come?

"I think I need to head back to Jackson," I said, anticipating the devil's rage.

Instead, the devil shrugged and put the Martin back in the case. We drove back to my truck and made small talk. He scrawled his number and his first name on a Post-It note.

"Give me a call about the song after you talk it over with your band," the devil said with an eager grin.

A week later, I tell Biscuit, my lead guitarist; and Gravy, my singer, about the encounter. I pull out the Post-It with the devil's name and number from my wallet, my hand shaking like a leaf in December. Gravy asks to see it. I give it to him. Without hesitation, he takes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the note ablaze. We watch it burn in silence until it gets close enough to his hand. He lets it singe him slightly before dropping it in the sink.

I have an urge to knock his teeth out. I have a stronger urge to hug him. Instead, I pick up the guitar Libby gave me for my 40th birthday and tune to DADGAD. Biscuit starts playing slide while Gravy kisses his singed finger and picks up one of his harps.

We're writing originals tonight.