Bluesman

My name is Azrial.  I’m a guardian angel.  Many souls have been remanded to my care. Kind of like a parole officer. Everyone comes into this life and is assigned one of us.  It’s how the system works. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s rewarding work. When you get to be around for eternity, you really have to seek out something that’s going to make you feel good. 

I was hanging around the Mississippi area when I got the call.  It was May, 1911 and a new life was coming into the world.  I had to hustle over to Hazelhurt as fast as my wings could carry me.  Little Robert Johnson would be one those souls remanded to my care.    His parents were sharecroppers, but he never took to farm work. He didn’t like being behind a plow.  Robert always had the gift of music in his soul. When he was just a little guy he played the harp. Made it himself.  I watched him when he played his first notes. He was just a kid, but damn he was good. Even my fellow angels would come by once in a while to listen to him play.  We’d sit around and talk about how he had a great future in store for him, as long as he made the right choices.  We angels can only guide our charges.  We can’t make ‘em do anything.

As he grew older he took up the guitar, and man, could he play that baby.  I watched him spend a lot of time perfecting his craft.  He had this ability to listen to a song and play it flawlessly.  Not many people get that kind of gift. He must have been standing in the front of the line when the Boss was handling out talent.  He had a pretty good voice too.  Robert was kind of a little guy, handsome, with delicate fingers, and beautiful hands and always dressed to the nines.  He was good with the ladies too.  I don’t know how many times I shook my head in dismay when he took advantage of those gals.  They just clung to him like ticks on a dog.  He married a couple of times.  His first wife died in childbirth.  I was there.  He cried like a baby.  After that he married again, but it didn’t last long.  He took off one night and never came back. I think he just kept getting bad advice from the other side.  I practically screamed in his ear some times trying to give him the right information, but he just didn’t listen.

Robert wanted to play music. He wanted to do more than just play those local jook joints.   Ol’ Scratch was playing with him, tempting him with promises of greatness.  That’s when things started to go south.

 Legend has it that if you go down to the crossroads at midnight there’ll be a big black man waiting. And if you give him your guitar to tune, you’re also giving him your soul, but you will play like the devil. When you’re in the trade you KNOW it’s not legend. I remember our journey to the crossroads.  The dirt beneath his feet swirled with each step.  I walked behind him whispering into his ear, “Go home, Robert, and all will be well.”  But he had an aching inside to be more than what he was; an aching that forced him to put one foot in front of the other further into the night.  The road was narrow and vanished into the darkness. In the silence the sound of the gravel beneath is feet was like the sound of crushing bones.  Bones of the dead.

The crossroads came into view.  He glanced over his shoulder, as if he could see me, still wondering if he was making a wise choice.  “Turn around now,” I whispered to him again.  He paused and thought about the magic he could possess.  He’d never have to play in jook joints again, working for small change and anonymity.  He could meet Scratch, sell his soul and gain his immortality.  He shifted his guitar case in his left hand, adjusted his sharply creased fedora with the black hatband and walked on.  Leaning up against a gnarled old tree was the big, black man.  At that point I was jumping up and down in front of Robert and screaming at the top of my lungs for him to stop, hoping he’d get some sense into that head of his. Of course you can’t see your guardian angel, but you can sense him every now and then.  Sometimes I wish we had more power.  But the Boss wants everyone to make his own decision, be it right or wrong.  It’s in the manual, and we go by the book.

That night Robert gained his immortality. He nodded at Scratch and said, “Evenin’ sir.  Mighty fine night tonight.” “Yes it is,” said Scratch.  “Is there something I can do for you, son?”  “Yes sir,” Robert answered, “I’d like to have my guitar tuned, if you please.” Scratch smiled as Robert handed it over. “You sure you know what you’re doing, son?” “Yes sir,” was the answer.  Scratch made a couple of adjustments.  It didn’t take much effort on his part, being the Devil and all.  It wasn’t just the mechanics of what he did; it had more to do with the power.  He handed it back to Robert who shook his hand and thanked him.  Old Scratch just smiled and said, “No, thank you.” At that moment my job was done. He belonged to someone else now.  But just out of curiosity and maybe a sense of responsibility I hung around.

 After that, nothing could stop Robert.  Sort of.  Well I don’t know if you are aware of this, but when you make a deal with Scratch it’s a double-edged sword. He gives you what you want, but in exchange he also takes something away.  He’s got a wicked sense of humor, the Devil.  Robert now played the blues better than anyone else around.  Unfortunately it didn’t last long.  That was the catch.  There’s always a catch.

Musicians envied Robert, not only for the way he played but for his way with the ladies.  Women would come from far and wide to hear him.  He traveled from town and town taking advantage of them. He’d find the homeliest woman, flirt shamelessly with her and end up with room and board, and a little more.  Most of the ladies were single, but every now and then he’d take up with one that was married.  I’d be on the sidelines smacking myself in the head wondering what he was thinking.  I knew a woman would be his downfall, but he didn’t. 

It happened in Greenwood, Mississippi. He struck up an acquaintance with a lady and, of course, she was taken by him.  She never let him know that she was married. One night  while Robert was playing in the local club the lady in question was showing Robert a little bit too much attention much to the  awareness of her husband who happened to be the bartender.  That bartender had gotten wind of the fact that Robert had been making time with his wife for about a week or so.  Jealousy overruled logic that night.  Robert was playing really hard and good  that evening. The crowd was swaying to his blues and crying out “Amen” every now and then.  The room was packed and full of energy.  It was a hot summer night. The waitress brought a bottle of whiskey to the stage just for Robert.  It went down smooth and easy. But something happened.  All of a sudden he couldn’t sing.  He started coughing and gasping for breath. He got up from his chair and headed across the room towards the door. Just before he opened it he stumbled fell to the ground.  Everyone gathered around him in a circle until finally someone called for a doctor.  Ended up the whisky had been poisoned.  No one ever found out who did it, but I knew, being an angel and all you get the inside information on things.  The Boss was really angry.  That bartender was in for a disappointment when he showed up at the Pearly Gates.  A cheating wife is no justification for killing a man, even though the Old Testament would disagree with that.

Robert lasted a few more days, and then the Old Scratch called him home. Me, well, I was out of work for a while until I got another call.  No one else I’ve guided since has had that kind of talent.  Sad to say, but I feel like I failed somehow…maybe, and then again, maybe not.

Once in a while, when my current charge is sleeping or when I’m in between assignments, I go down to that crossroads.  I stand beneath that tree and listen to Robert play.