The Crossroad

I went to the crossroad, and I fell down on my knees.

Lord. Mercy. Please. End this.

It was the only thing left to do. This patch of dirty asphalt was the only clear thing left in my rotting brain. If I had any hope left, it was here. Where it started.

I had only been here once before. Why would I have needed to come back? I had got what I wanted. The deal had seemed a good one.

I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

If only I’d known.

“Would that have changed anything?”

I opened my eye, a slow process by now. Once my lids had schlicked open, I found a pair of patent leather shows on the road in front of me.

“Oh my, we do look a sorry sight, don’t we Mr DeVere?”

That drawl. Christ, how I hated that fucking drawl. A slaver’s drawl, my Nanna would’ve called it. Lazy, arrogant, smooth as molasses, and as dangerous as a coiled snake.

“Ah, you’re not happy to see me.”

I tried to speak, whether to curse or beg I didn’t know. I didn’t find out either. Whether through lack of use, or because my vocal cords had finally started to decompose, my reply came out as a long rasping groan.

“Why don’t we take a seat?”

Careful not to touch me, he led me to a bench that hadn’t been there. I tried to get a look at his face, but it kept shifting. Shadows danced around it and the light of the moon seemed to slide around it. A memory stirred. It had been like that the last time, I was sure.

“Am I to understand that you have some questions regarding our contract?”

Another groan.

“I see. May I remind you that you came to me Mr DeVere?”

I had.

“And that I did not force you into anything.”

He hadn’t. My memory of that night at the crossroad was one of the only real memories I had left, and he hadn’t pushed anything. He had listened as I told him what I wanted. He had asked me if I was sure and that once the deal was made, he could not be held responsible for any consequences. He had smiled when I said, yes, I’m sure, damn the consequences, but it was not a malicious smile. If anything, it had been warm. He had told me to come back the next night and he would have a contract ready for me to sign. He had advised that I read the document carefully and if I wasn’t happy, I could withdraw from the agreement. If anything, he had been honest throughout the process, less eager than I had been to make the trade.

I had gone there because I wanted to be great, and I had realised that I couldn’t be great on my own. I was desperate and tired of coming up against my own limitation. And so, like so many other pathetic mediocrities before me, I had gone to that fucking crossroad, and I had sold my soul.

“Did I grant your desire? Did I grant you greatness?”

“I don’t suppose you remember, do you? Well, you were certainly something. I haven’t heard the trumpet played like that since Gillespie. Although, he didn’t have to barter for his talent, which I suppose puts him above you in the pantheon, doesn’t it?”

My answering moan sounded a lot like “Fuck you” to me, but he ignored it.

“So, what can I do for you Elias? You don’t mind if I call you Elias, do you.” That wasn’t a question. “I trust that you understand that there’s no going back on our deal. After all, you can’t give back what I gave you, can you?”

No. That memory was still a pretty clear one. Soon after I’d been killed, I had picked up a trumpet to see if I could still play. It was like someone else’s lips had been glued to my face. Not even a note. Even my fingers felt stiff, looking back, my muscle memory must have been the first to go. All of it had gone. Not just what he had given me, everything.

“So, what do you want?”

I moaned again, quiet and mewling, all defiance gone.

“I don’t owe you an explanation. It was there in the small print.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner pocket. Unfolding it and holding it close to his face, he read, “Following the mutual signing of the above contract, the provider of goods bears no responsibility for any consequences that may arise.” Lowering the contract, he asked, “You did read the small print, didn’t you?”

I let my head fall. Something tore in the back of my neck, but I didn’t care. He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly with a sigh.

“Well Elias, I’m not busy this evening and you do cut a very sorry figure. Let me see whether or not I can help you understand your predicament a little better. I assume that your chief concern regards your continued existence?”

No shit. I had been shot three times in the chest and dumped in a river over a year ago. And I didn’t fucking die. What other question could I possibly have?

“It is a rather fascinating phenomenon. You see, you bartered your soul with me for enhanced musical talent. I took receipt of your soul, leaving you without one. Now, souls are funny things. They contain your essence, that lovely little spark that makes humans who they are. We’re very jealous of them, I can tell you. Of course, the soul doesn’t act alone, they need to have a body with which to work. They’re like your engine. Without an engine, a car is just a body, but without a body an engine has no outlet for its potential. It’s trapped motion. Put them together, however, and what you get is a beautiful pairing, packed full of achievable dreams and hypotheticals. It really is quite a beautiful thing to –”

I groaned over his monologue. Even without words, frustration can be aired quite easily.

“I am sorry, the nature of the human soul is one of my favourite subjects, you might say that I have a professional interest. But, seeing as you don’t have one, I don’t suppose you care, do you? No… Let’s move on to the practicalities of dying then. Now, I can’t speak for you, but I imagine that when you signed our little deal, you were thinking that your soul was the part of you that might endure after death and that, being young and impetuous, you weren’t especially fussed about that eventuality. Am I correct?”

Silence.

“Well, you weren’t wrong. Your soul is alive and well. In fact, it’s turned out to be a wonderful addition to my collection, thank you.”

Smug son of a bitch.  

“It is less commonly known, however, that the soul plays quite an important role in the process of dying. You see, under normal circumstances, Mr Daniels filling you with lead and throwing you in the Mississippi should have forced your soul to vacate your body and make its merry way to wherever souls go. Except, you didn’t have a soul to do the vacating, did you? That’s important and set in motion the whole cycle of little unlikelihood’s that led you here. A soul leaving a body is quite a traumatic event. It works like a reverse defibrillator. It shocks your body into shutting down. More often than not, it’s the leaving of the soul that kills you rather than the actual cause of death.”

He leaned forward now, jabbing his finger at my chest.

“But you didn’t have a soul. You had what I gave you, which, if we stick with the cardiac health and safety metaphor, was like an artificial pump. A replacement soul that kept you going. The thing is, when that new pumper is forced to vacate your body, it doesn’t have the same calamitous effect on the rest of you. After all, your soul had already left much earlier, and the pumper eased that initial trauma and kept you alive, as well as making you rather good at the trumpet.”

A dull weight settled in my stomach. I was starting to see where this was going.

“And so, when you were thrown in the Mississippi, that artificial soul burst out of your system. Unfortunately, as I’ve said, losing an artificial soul is far less shocking than losing the original. And so, your lifeforce didn’t receive that big final push that it needed to definitively kill you off. Of course, the damage that your body sustained caused death, but you endured. It really is fascinating and, I hope, explains why you are sitting here in such an alarming state of decomposition.”

We sat in silence for a long time. He contemplated the clouds that were gathering above us, and I stared at the asphalt.

“I am sorry that you feel so aggrieved Elias. I did encourage you to study the small print at the time. You can read it again if you like, although I must insist that I hold it for you. I don’t want it getting mucky.”

I shook my head. There was no point rereading it. Well, not rereading it. Reading it. After a short time, I groaned again.”

“No, I don’t know what’s going to happen to you. I think that your body has small about of time left. The walk from St Louis to Clarksdale put an awful lot of wear and tear on top of an awful lot of previous wear and tear, but there looks like there’s some mileage left. When that gives up, you guess is as good as mine. A ghost is the imprint of a departed soul, and as we’ve established, you don’t have a soul. Ghosthood is out of the question for you, I think. In my experience, the personality and memories you still have is more of a vestige than an actual sense of self. Soon they will fade with the rest of you. Perhaps when your body fails you will be allowed to die. Or maybe you will become a revenant, an undead monstrosity dragging your remains across the face of America. It’s fun to speculate, but I’m afraid that I can’t supply you with anything definite.

It started to rain, large, soaking drops that lent an instant sheen to the crossroad. He stood and stretched his back.

“That’s my cue, I’m afraid. This is a handmade suit, and it can’t get wet. I hope that the future improves for you. I have enjoyed our little chat. Take care, Elias, I will be watching with interest.”

He set off into the darkness and soon his silhouette disappeared into the rain. 

“One last thing for you to dwell on Elias. If I’ve learned anything in my long career, it is that soul do not have be given willingly. It helps, it certainly makes it less messy, but it’s not essential. Goodbye now.”