Clarksdale Curse

Author's note: All ideologies are welcome to enjoy this fictional work.

You ever heard the joke about the atheist who made a deal with the Devil?

Let's just say he had a hell of a time.

All kidding aside, I fear retaliation for telling this story, but I need to warn you all to stay away from the crossroads at the U.S Routes 61 and 49. Yes, in Mississippi. Yes, the same place where Robert Johnson got famous.

My name is Trevor Johnson. I happen to be a descendant of that famous musician, more on my mother's side, but please do not ask for verification. I have been trying to separate myself from that man, despite the both of us being residents of Mississippi. Both of us were aspiring musicians, but he was actually good. He got better; I didn't. Oh, I did the studying and training, but I suspect that the atmosphere gets to me more than the stage fright; it gets hard for me to breathe around a crowd. I don't think it's as severe as it sounded, but I ended up making it so much worse.

I was an atheist, which riled up my Catholic mother, even upsetting my Protestant dad. They both still loved me, but they're always talking about how I would meet my Maker one day and that I would have to explain why I rejected him, blah-blah-blah. I just want to believe that everything was always left to chance, that we should just live our lives for ourselves and not in fear of the unknown. I excelled at science and math, I was formidable in writing and drawing, and I could construct a poem from my heart in an instant. Despite all this, my parents still held onto the faith that I would accept God one day, even after I showed them how far I have gotten without him.

My parents did promise to aid me should I ever get in trouble, and my mother told me that she would pray for me. I told her she didn't need to, her love would be enough. She merely straightened out my shirt and said, "Child, you just be careful out there. You're a good son; Lord knows the Devil will come for you."

Well, something was out to get me; despite landing work, I struggled to keep both my job and my classes. I thought back on my writing and my drawings, but such would not get attention out here. Pondering upon my ulterior options, I came to realize that music was a great attention-grabber; making money with it was good, but it was the reputation that really sold the person if you will pardon the phrase. Now, practically everyone was on the piano or the drums, and the guitars were done to death, but hardly anyone touched the saxophone. A difficult instrument to handle and play, they say, and it was true. Whatever time that I could spare on the brass beauty, it just wasn't good enough; the tutor I had to come over and teach me showed me where to place my fingers, how hard I should blow into the instrument, and how exactly the saxophone works with the human throat. For some reason, my vocal cords fatigued in a couple minutes.

It didn't help that I also got easily frustrated with all that was going on in my life, which is probably why the tutor finally quit with this statement: "If your temper was metal, you could make yourself an instrument that you might actually be decent with!" I did apologize to him a few days later, but he remained affirmed to not teach me anything except where I could stuff the brass.

I was ready to head home after a long day and get some rest. Life came to get me again, as the usual road that I took was suddenly swarmed by hard-hat workers already breaking apart the asphalt. One told me, "Sorry, sir, but it's that time for maintenance. You're gonna have to take Route 61."

I really did not want to. See, everyone keeps bringing up my ancestor and how he had his famous moment at "The Crossroads". Because of that, I avoided Route 61 and Route 49, seeking any alternative paths, even a lawn or two, ANYTHING to avoid those roads. As I glided around the workers and took that cursed road, I made a note to try not to look anywhere else except at the exit signs. That's it, I told myself, don't look anywhere else, ESPECIALLY at the blue billboard! You know the one, the wooden poster outlining the story of Robert's night.

Curse the universe again! How does this happen? One road gets maintenance, and everyone decides to travel the same direction that I am going? Are you freaking kidding me? And my radio was not getting any signals either, so I don't get to pass the time listening to the one thing that eludes my grasp. I was desperate to just get home. Hell, I was desperate for a lot of things, but I would settle for music right now.

Night came and lingered, the cars were steadily moving a little faster, and my car clock went from 11:59 P.M to 12:00 A.M. I was just arriving at the Crossroads when it happened; the dreaded "Engine Service Soon" light came on. It's the oil, I thought, I'll get it changed. But then, as if the universe heard my tiny squeak of hope, the car started shuddering. Immediately, I pulled over at the corner of the Crossroads just in time to see, hear, feel, smell, and even taste my car suddenly die in my hands, meanwhile the exodus of metal and rubber passed over me. I popped the hood, I got out and slammed my car door, and I almost forgot the stick to brace the hood.

You know what I did forget? My keys.

I almost cried. I was so sure that I would not get home, that I would lose my job, that I would get kicked out of college and my apartment, and I almost walked into the street in the oncoming path of a huge pickup truck.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

This horn didn't sound like a truck horn; it was reminiscent of a carnyx that ancient Celtic warriors used for battle...or ritual. Either way, it was haunting and, combined with the sudden appearance of the vehicle, almost had me pee my pants. The sickening green lights, temporarily blinding me, were now black as the surrounding night. The great beast roared and was silenced.

"Sir, are you alright?"

I couldn't answer. Everything had gone wrong, and I just almost died. All I could do was raise my hand. The figure moved onto the road, shutting his door and stood in front of me. A sudden red explosion erupted from his hands, and I actually yelped.

"Whoa, there, calm down! It's just a road flare."

I shielded my eyes and tried to look at the figure before me; I could make out blonde hair and a leather jacket, but then he hucked the flare into the road, leaving a black barrier between us. "For any other car coming", he explained. "So, you have a problem with your vehicle."

I squinted, still trying to make him out. "How do you know that?"

"Not many people pull their car over in the dark of a route unless something's wrong with it."

"I think it might be the battery."

He turned his head to look at my car, hood open and doors locked. "Well, why don't I take a look at it? Maybe I can help."

I doubted it, but I nodded. He then walked over to the car, peering at the engine and the surrounding components. With the back of his hand, he felt around, then he turned to me. "You wanna start it up, sir? We'll see what's wrong?"

I closed my eyes. "I would, but my door's are locked."

He then walked over to the driver's side, gripped the latch, and pulled. The door opened.

I was flabbergasted. It was locked, I was sure of it!

"Maybe you thought it was locked, sir", reassured the stranger. "It's all right, happens to a lot of people. Come on, give it a turn, and I'll see what's wrong."

I got back inside and turned the key, expecting nothing. The car screamed to life, and the shuddering was tenuous. Confused, I walked around to where he was, and his pale demeanor vaguely illuminated by my operational headlights glowed with his smile. "No problems here, although I suspect that you might need a new air filter if that noise is anything to go by."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about, so I actually turned my head to listen. Sure enough, there was a sound almost like coughing coming from the air filter's residence. I turned my head back to the stranger, who was nowhere to be seen. I looked around, thinking he had disappeared without his truck, but then I found him staring at my saxophone case.

"Oh, hey sir, I don't mean to pry, but is that a saxophone case?"

He catches on fast, folks, doesn't he? I nodded; "Yeah, that's my instrument. I was going to take it home, and then to a pawn shop tomorrow."

"Why?"

That look he gave me seemed to melt my heart; was he a fellow musician. "I can't play it. No matter what I tried, I can't play it."

"Well...can I hear you play it?"

Now I am turning my head in confusion. What a night! I looked back at him and smiled; he did stop to help me, even though it was literally nothing beyond a future air filter maintenance, so I might as well humor him as recompense.

A couple minutes later, he removed his hands from his ears. "Wow, that does sound awful."

I frowned. "Dude, I told you, I can't play it. I know the layout, but the vocals are just not cutting it for me."

He stared at me. "You really believe that?"

"I..." and it was then that I couldn't help but notice how beautiful this man really was. I'm not a homosexual, mind you, and I don't have anything against homosexuality; I'm just remarking on the exquisite splendor standing before me; a living alabaster masterpiece. He walked closer to me, and my heart suddenly started racing. What was going on?

"I can help you."

Instead of a confident and practically commanding voice from earlier, he just cooed like a dove to me. My mouth hung open, as I tried to find the words to say.

Then he kissed me.

Again, I have nothing against homosexuality, but you don't just go up to a guy and kiss him like that!

"Ptoo! Ptoo! Gah, what the hell, man?!" I shouted, wiping my lips. I felt like gagging; I think he stuck his tongue down my throat.

"Sorry, sorry!" he laughed, holding up his hands. "I'm just breaking the tension here! You had a bad day, and I wanted to make light of the situation. Full confession, I may have gone too far."

"Agh, you think?!"

He still held his smile even after I gave him a dirty look. "Hey, why don't you try again?"

If my face could have contorted any further into confusion, I would end up being my own modern-day sculpture. "I am NOT kissing you again!"

He laughed. "No, no sir!" He held apart his hands. "Blow."

My eyes widened.

"Your saxophone, sir!" he laughed again.

"Oh."

I took the saxophone, and I blew into it, expecting the same godawful sound. Instead, what came out was real music. I moved my fingers, and the sound would change, but it was music regardless. I blew slower, and the blues erupted. I blew faster, and I was Jelly Roll Morton, with my audience of one clapping his hands to the beat. A couple minutes later, I was breathing hard, and the stranger was clapping and cheering: "Bravo! Magnifico!" He then approached me and clapped me on the shoulder. "And that was a taste of what I can do for you."

I balked. "Wait, what do you mean?"

He grinned. "You just needed to loosen up, sir. I helped you with that, and you implemented what you have learned to a few moments of a wonderful bliss with my aid. The clapping, remember? But I can do more."

I lowered the instrument. "I...I still don't understand. Like, what, you a music teacher or something?"

He tilted his head, keeping the grin. It almost looked unsettling. "Yes to both."

"You don't look like a music teacher."

"I can look like anyone. And I've been playing music before man came into being."

I scoffed. "Let me guess; you're God-"

DON'T.

I heard him say the word, but his mouth didn't move. I looked at his eyes, but he immediately closed them; I could have sworn that something within them swirled, like a blackened fog. He inhaled deeply, his hands falling slowly to his sides. Then he opened his eyes, and lifted up his hands. There was a calmness between us, and though I expected a chilling atmosphere to billow up from nowhere, the night air seemed warm and peaceful. He moved, practically gliding to me, and he gently gripped my shoulders.

"Trevor, I like you. You're ambitious, poignant, and a tide ruthless. But don't ever call me...HIM."

I could have sworn that last word vibrated. "H-how do you know my name?"

"It's on your case."

I looked at my case. Strange, I though, I don't remember my name being printed on it, but there it was; it looked like a blowtorch carved the letters into it.

"And my name is Lucifer. Pleasure to meet you."

I looked back at the pale, beautiful man. He was just standing there, seemingly carefree yet hauntingly adamant upon his words. "N...nice to m...meet you, t...too..."

Then I shook my head. What am I thinking?! "Hey, wait now, you're playing with me!" I opened up the shotgun door, placed my saxophone back into its case, and shut both away upon the seat. "Look, you helped me out, and I appreciate it, but I need to go to work tomorrow morning, it's past midnight-"

"It's still midnight."

Again, that adamant mood. I smiled and I checked the clock in my car.

12:00 AM.

Bewilderment beset me, and I looked upon the being bequeathed the name of the Beast. I approached Lucifer slowly, confusion and fear balanced better than my footing. Lucifer, in turn, approached and held fast to my forearms. I wanted to yank out of his grip, but I was too weak and wanted to fall. I couldn't.

"Easy."

I breathed and found my footing. I regressed my limbs from this being's hands. He just released me as if I was a bird. I looked back at my car, at the saxophone. It felt like I reconnected with a friend that was gone for so long...

"So...what? How should I repay you?" I wanted to joke about giving him my soul, but I bit my tongue on that.

He snorted. "Your ancestor promised me his soul. Right here, actually. But you know already know that story. No, my friend, I don't want your soul; I want your time." Seeing my stare as an unsatisfying answer, he stretched his left arm around to my right shoulder and turned me, walking me around to the driver's side as he laid out the reimbursement:

"You can now play without fatigue or screwup in vocals - you're welcome, by the way - and if you pursue this path of music, all that you will need to worry about is what to do with the money you make! In return, all I want is one song played to me for every successful performance no matter where, when, or with whom (even a solo will count). Just come back here to the Crossroads, at midnight sharp, and play your fee."

We stopped between our vehicles, and he stood in front of me and held out his hand. I did hesitate, to which he replied:

"Or you could just go, right now! Forget about the help I gave you, just go! Back to a mundane job that you might lose! Home to a tiny apartment resounding the screams of the undisciplined spawn and their adult-children parents!" He smiled again, and I expected some sort of terrifying threat, the sweat betraying my thoughts. But his smile seemed reassuring, and he approached with that harmonious radiance. Who could deny such a friend?

I shook his hand and accepted.

He opened the door and held it open until I entered. Before he closed the door, he proclaimed: "You're gonna do great, sir! Now, get home safely, fix that air filter, and quit that job; you won't need it anymore."

He then waved to me before returning to his truck. As I stared ahead at the Crossroads, I heard his truck pull ahead, but no vehicle came around in my view. I looked around, alone at the Crossroads. I revved up my car and went home.

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Another long day. Another successful performance in New York City. At least, it was until I decided to walk out due to feeling nauseous. The crowd seemed disappointed to see me go, but the next band basically came to my rescue and got the crowd's good graces back whilst I vacated the lot, getting into my corvette and heading back to my hotel room. It was already dark...

The clock went from 11:59 P.M to 12:00 A.M.

I expected quite a drive back, with my nausea making things more drawn out. I didn't realize that the roads would go on and on...

Wait...

The Crossroads?

And that pickup truck?

A familiar carnyx horn called out.

I slowed down.