A Deal with the Devil
His hands began to shake as the blues guitarist on stage played the final chords to an original number that had the audience on their feet with applause. The waiting was always the worst part. Pacing back and forth, worn out guitar in one hand, strings needing only the slightest encouragement to pop. It was always worst right before he went on. Despite the nerves, he decided to peek around the corner at the crowd.
About seventy-five black faces stared up onto the stage, cigarette smoke rising towards the rafters. The faces looked happy; more than half were clapping to the beat of the blues music emanating from the young man on stage. A man half his age. A man who hadn’t been at this game as long as he had but with twice the success. The anger and anxiety threatened to overtake him as he slipped back behind the wall dividing the Clarksdale, Mississippi, juke joint stage from the closet sized space they called backstage, and suddenly, Robert Johnson had an extreme urge to visit the lavatory.
Emptying his bowels, he washed up past his wrists in the dirty sink and studied his face in the mirror trying to will a calm expression to appear. He splashed some water on his face, hoping the shock of the cool sensation may relax his nerves. He almost screamed when he looked back and saw a hooded face staring back where his brown eyes should have been.
“Nervous?” the hooded man asked, the first hint of a mischievous smile appearing below the shadowed part of his face.
“What are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Johnson replied.
“The rush of the crowd always does get your heart racing doesn’t it boy?” The man continued. “Never have quite made your big break either. Wonder if you ever will.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?” Johnson asked, the volume of his voice rising in fear.
“I’ve been known by many names in many places,” the hooded man said cryptically. “That’s not important now. What is important is that you’re going on that stage in about three more minutes, and you don’t think you have it in you. You’ve played for crowds all across the Mississippi Delta, and not once have you gotten the kind of reaction that kid who just finished up got after his new song. You’re starting to doubt if you’ll ever make it in this business, if you should just give it up and go back to working the same plantation that your family has since they were brought here 300 years ago. That sound about right?”
“What the…”
“Now, listen and listen good. I’ve got a deal for you, but since you’ve got to be on that stage in a little over a minute, this is a now or never kind of situation.” The hooded man spoke faster and faster, his words mesmerizing the musician as if he had no choice but to listen. “I can make your wildest dreams come true, kid. People all over the world will know your name and buy your records. You’ll be the Beethoven of Black music in America, and everyone from New Orleans to Chicago will know the story of Robert Johnson. All this can be yours.”
“How? How could you possibly make that happen?” Robert asked with visions of his past failures dancing in his head. “How can you guarantee something that I’ve never been able to make happen?”
“All you have to do is sign here,” answered the hooded man, and he produced a contract and feather pen from his robe and somehow passed it through the reflective glass of the mirror that had long since stopped performing its most basic function. “Sign on the line and everything you want can be yours.”
Without hesitation, Johnson took the pen and signed. A sharp pain in his forearm under his shirt accompanied each stroke of the pen, but Robert paid it no mind. He was about to be famous. As soon as his name was on the line, the hooded man snatched the parchment back and disappeared, and a familiar pair of deep brown eyes stared back at him.
Robert Johnson exited the bathroom a new man, a swagger in his step, and he quickly picked up the guitar he had leaned against the backstage wall. It felt new, something he had never felt before, like it was an extension of his hand. As the manager finished his introduction on stage, he strummed a chord and a sound sweeter than any he ever made came forth. He walked on stage with a new strut, confident for the first time that he would succeed. As he settled onto the stool and rested his guitar on his thigh, he looked down and noticed a red trickle from the sleeve of his shirt to the neck of the guitar. “Must have cut myself in the bathroom,” he thought, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. He had bigger fish to fry. Soon, he began to play and sing in a way that he never had before. He blew them away. From the first chord they were on their feet, and it never slowed. For one hit after another his smooth fingers and silky voice hypnotized the crowd. Robert Johnson had never felt so good. Everything he wanted was finally in front of him.
With a standing ovation, amid screams for encores, Robert Johnson rose from his stool, lifted his guitar in the air in triumph, and the screams and cheers turned to fear as the crowd noticed his blood drenched sleeve and leg. He basked in the moment, mistaking their fear for the joy that had for too long been denied him. This was his moment. With a burst of excitement, he lifted the guitar higher and suddenly collapsed backwards. His guitar still raised in his hand and a familiar, mischievous grin forever on his face.