A continuation of my homage to Robert Johnson. A short excerpt from my short story about meeting the Devil at the crossroads:
He slowly tastes the whiskey, not the best, but it burns nicely going down and loosens up his limbs and his arms and takes the kinks out of his neck from the all-day drive. Thinks about the guitar in the trunk of his car. Time for that after the whiskey, and he can talk to the woman again, offer to play a few dances tonight when the sun goes down and more people start flowing in.
Drums his fingers on the table, feeling the callous and liking the clicking noise it makes on the wood. Taps out a blues lick. Feels the music creeping up on him, from the heat that coils around him, the smell of the booze and smoke and the creaking of the floor every time someone walks. The sounds and the swaying of the magnolia in the yard, all part of the flow of the blues, always right below the surface, always ready to be drawn out.
Closes his eyes … the woman comes back to his table and plunks another whiskey down on the table. He looks up puzzled; I didn’t order that, he says. She gives him a look he can’t quite interpret. Gestures her head slightly toward the bar. That man on the end, he buy you a drink, she says and moves away quickly.
He looks. A tall thin black man, lighter skinned than is usual around here, lighter than himself, he notes automatically. Even features, black framed glasses, suit and tie. Clean, good shoes. Suddenly aware of his own dusty shoes, his wrinkled clothing and the wetness and funk under his arms.
[…]
from “The Crossroads” (c) Shirley Braley 2015
