Handshake at the Crossroads

by Steven French

Maybe it was a mistake to have the new Bruce Springsteen on the cassette player while I barrelled down some back road in the dark, no lights, no landmarks anywhere to be seen. Songs of letting fugitive brothers escape across state lines just added to my sense of apprehension as the fields rolled by out there in the “bootheel’ of Missouri.

I’d been a member of the History Department at the local college long enough by then to know what “community outreach” entailed. I’d found myself presenting a talk given many times before, in a school hall in a two-street town, to a scattering of clearly less than fascinated locals.

Most times, people like to hear about the history of their place, especially if it’s spiced up with tales of outlaws or local kid done good or supernatural weirdness. But not this go-round it seemed; even the question and answer session was a desultory affair, and my hopes that at least I might get a good meal out of it faded when the audience drifted away and the chairwoman stood by the door with her hand pointedly on the light switch. “So,” I asked, “where might I get dinner?”

“Nowhere ’round here,” she replied then turned off the lights.

And so there I was, leaning over the wheel with nothing but the void beyond the headlights when I came to the crossroads, with the diner conveniently placed just before the intersection.

I half-expected conversation to stop abruptly and all heads turn my way when I stepped through the door but what few customers there were scattered about the place paid me no attention at all, and the waitress told me, “Sit anywhere you like, hon, and I’ll be right with you.” Then she bustled away with a jug of coffee.

The place was set up with a long counter opposite the door. The counter became a bar at one end, with a small stage across from what could become a dance floor in a pinch. I found a table closer to the stage than most and ordered chicken-fried steak, which was good, and homemade blueberry pie, which was even better.

And then while I was ordering coffee, a tall grey-haired man appeared on stage, guitar in hand and started playing. Now I’m not a blues aficionado but I know my Blind Lemon Jefferson from Charley Patton, and I could see that this guy was good or had been. Every now and then he’d stumble, as if his fingers had forgotten just where to hit the strings, but he gave a good account of a bunch of old tunes, from Mosquito Blues, to Come On In My Kitchen, and, of course, Crossroad Blues.

After thirty minutes or so he stopped and stepped offstage and went to sit by the bar, to a smattering of applause. Finishing my coffee, I went over. “That was great! May I buy you a beer?”

He looked at me appraisingly. “It wasn’t that great. And I think maybe you know that.”

“Well,” I replied, awkwardly, “for someone who hasn’t had the best of days and has gotten himself lost on the way home, it was pretty good. And kinda what I needed, so I’d like to say thanks for that.”

He laughed softly and nodded. I asked the bartender for a couple of bottles and sat down next to him. “Bill Patterson,” I said, introducing myself. “I teach history. More or less.”

He smiled. “Sam McPherson. I play guitar. More or less. What’re you doing this deep into the bootheel, Bill?”

I told him of my feeble attempt at community outreach and explained that I must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.

“It happens,” he said, nodding.

“So, I have a question.” I paused before continuing. “How come you changed the lyrics to Crossroads?”

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” he replied and looked at me appraisingly again.

“Well,” I said, “it’s maybe not a big change, but originally it went: ‘Didn’t nobody seem to know me, babe, everybody pass me by’. And you sang, ‘All those people used to know me, babe, now they all just pass me by.’ I was just wondering why you did that.” I waited while he took a long pull on his beer.

“You know the story about Robert Johnson, right?”

“Sure,” I replied. “He was an okay guitar player at first, then he disappeared for a year or so and when he came back he was amazing. And the story was that he met the devil at a crossroads and sold his soul to become an incredible blues musician.”

Sam nodded, just as I would if one of my students had given the sort of answer to a question that was on the right track but hadn’t really got to grips with the fine detail.

“Yep, that’s the story” he said. “And Johnson himself wasn’t averse to playing it up. Growing up, my grandma tried to scare me away from the blues and into church with that story. So, to keep her happy I sang in the choir and studied hard.” He smiled and took another pull on the beer bottle.

I signalled the bartender for two more.

“But the thing is, sometimes just the telling of a story like that is all it takes... Anyway, I never gave up on the blues. Or maybe it just never let me go. I used to practice all the time. And I was pretty good, y’know. But I felt I could be... not better so much as different. That I could do things differently, and the way I could do that was there but somehow just out of reach. And it felt like if I just stretched a little further, or maybe with a little help, I could bridge that gap.”

He paused and I raised my eyebrow. “No,” he continued, “there was no pact made on some dark and stormy night. Nothing as dramatic as that.” He sighed and nodded thanks to the bartender when she handed over our beers. Lifting his and embracing the whole diner in one sweep, he said, “So, while all my friends were partying or whatever at college, I used to come out to places like this. And one night, after I finished my set, there was an old guy sitting at the bar.” He nodded at me, “Pretty much where you’re sitting now.”

I looked over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone there and shifted uncomfortably on my stool.

“And he complimented me too.” He paused again and seemed lost in thought, stepping back into the past for a minute or two.

“Then he asked me” — Sam started again — “he asked me if I knew that old Robert Johnson story. Of course, I said, and I told him how my grandma used it to try and scare me away from the blues and into church. And he laughed, rich and deep and long. I’ll never forget that laugh of his.” Sam took another drink of his beer. “Then he asked if I knew what the deal was that the devil had offered.

“I told him the usual, and he shook his head and then fixed me with his eyes: here’s what that deal was, he said. The devil told Johnson he could make his fingers fly but there’d be a price. There’s always a price.

Robert Johnson thought, a poor black man in the south, always having to watch where he was, what he said, what he did, he knew that and he figured he was already paying so why not add another item to the bill?

And so he shook the devil’s hand and the devil, he didn’t let go. He squeezed and pulled Johnson’s fingers and kept pulling, even as Robert screamed in pain and tried to wrest his hand out of that fearsome clutch. And when the devil finally let go, Robert Johnson had those long slender fingers you can see in the photographs, fingers that could fly over the frets and make him seem like he was an orchestra all by himself. That’s what that old man told me.”

I didn’t know what to say; I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. “I heard one of Hendrix’s roadies say one time that he had ‘hands like massive spiders.’”

“Ha!” Sam laughed. “Maybe Jimi met the devil as well! Running round that chitlin’ circuit like he did, I wouldn’t be surprised.” He paused again. “Anyway, that bridged the gap for Robert Johnson. The rest, as they say, is history.” And he took another pull on the beer bottle.

I peeled some of the label off my own before asking a little hesitantly, “So, what happened to you?” Sam gave me a long hard look and finished the last of his drink, before speaking up again. “When the old guy finished telling me that story, he kinda looked at me expectantly. So, I told him of my dream, of bridging that gap to greatness. And he nodded slowly, as if he understood completely. And then he just held out his hand, as if to say goodbye. For a second or two I looked at it, and then I went to shake it.”

Sam paused and licked his lips. “Well, he took my hand in his and I felt this tremendous pain, pain so bad I almost fell off my stool. Really, I couldn’t stand it. After what seemed like minutes but must’ve been just a few seconds, I dragged my hand free. And the old man just shook his head, finished the last of his beer and took off, waving goodbye to the waitress as he went.” He paused once again, looking off across the diner.

“Well, it seemed to take forever for that pain to subside, and I thought maybe I was ruined as a blues player. But when I picked up my guitar the next day, it did seem like my fingers were longer and faster, so I could make the kinds of sounds I never could before.”

He sighed, and shook his head, and brushed his hand over his eyes. “The rest of my story, well it’s an old, familiar tale really. I was playing in a club, and this guy was sitting at the back, and he knew this other guy who used to be Eric Clapton’s manager back in the day.

“The next thing, I’m touring with a whole bunch of bands, and playing better and better clubs, staying in nice hotels and...” He smiled. “It was good, y’know? I mean really good! I was making a name, starting to get noticed, picked up on by some of the music magazines... I even cut a record, back when those things mattered. Got great reviews too. Man, I was hot!”

“What happened then?” I asked and immediately regretted it. Sam looked down at the bar counter, his gaze fixed on the beer stains, and sighed. “When it came time to promote the record, there was a whole tour planned with me headlining this time. But when I picked up my guitar again, it was like my fingers were off somehow. Just not as nimble. I figured it was just a matter of putting them through their paces and sure enough, after a lot of work, it seemed like I could play just as well as before.

“But I knew something wasn’t right. And as the tour went on, it got harder and harder and sometimes I slipped and stumbled over the notes. Most people didn’t even notice, but some of the reviewers did, by the end. And I could even see it in my hands, I could see my fingers had changed.” He held up his hand as if I could see that myself.

“Maybe it was all that playing,” I suggested. “Maybe it put too much stress on your hands?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “It was because I pulled my hand away from that old man’s grip.” he stated, bluntly. “The doctors told me to take a complete rest. And I guess I fooled myself into thinking that would do the trick. But when I went back in the studio to make the follow-up album, I could see it on the faces of the sound engineers.” He sighed again.

“Anyway, the reviews were not so enthusiastic this time and the tour less grand, smaller venues... And this is where I’ve ended up.” He looked around the bar again. “I know, maybe I should just stop. But like I said, the blues have got me in their grip. You know how it is...”

I nodded in agreement.

“Well,” he said, sadly, “some might say I got off light. Johnson died early, poisoned, or from syphilis or, what was it I read? An ‘aortic dissection’? And we all know what happened to Hendrix, of course. So at least I escaped all that. But you know what?” He stopped and looked me in the eye. “Sometimes I think I paid a worse price. I crossed that gap, made it to the other side, at least for a time. And then it just went and opened up again and I was back where I was. Maybe it would’ve been better to ...” but he didn’t finish.

I was saved from having to think up something to say by Sam getting up off his bar stool. “I need to send this beer back to the earth.” He held out his hand. “Maybe I’ll see you around?” My own hand reached out automatically, as if drawn to his by a thread but then before they touched, I snatched it back. Sam pretended to look hurt then laughed. “That’s okay,” he told me, “It’s always good to be cautious at the crossroads.” And with a slap on my shoulder, he walked off to the bathroom.

I figured it was time for me to leave, too. I paid the bill and got directions from the bartender and drove home. Stepping out into the dark, I wondered if I’d take that kind of deal. “Better to burn out or fade away?” I asked myself. And then shook my head. Better still not to think such things, not with the crossroads just ahead. Over the years, though, sinking down as I was in my own career, I would drive out through those flat fields and pass back and forth through more crossroads than I can remember. But I never found that diner again.