By James Gonda.
I wanted to see it for myself. My curiosity had gnawed at me, and I had never been to that part of the country. I asked my wife if she wanted to go and she said no. Traveling to Mississippi to see the Crossroads was not for her. I said we could ride our bikes to the site, for a more intimate experience, and she gave a hard NO. I did my best to change her mind. I described in vivid language Robert Johnson’s paranormal meeting at the Crossroads. “Imagine meeting the devil face-to-face and having a conversation, like Jesus did in the desert.” She thought I was over-selling the place.
Robert Johnson’s story is mythological. He started as a mediocre guitar player in the Delta. He tried to make a name for himself in local juke joints. Then he disappeared for a summer. When he came back, he played the blues like no one’s business. This metamorphosis astonished everyone. “Isn’t this the kid who couldn’t play worth a damn?” There was only one explanation. He had met the devil at the Crossroads and traded his soul for unsurpassed musical talent. The devil held up his end of the bargain; Johnson achieved fame and recorded 29 songs. But he would soon die an agonizing death after drinking whiskey laced with rat poison. But that’s another story involving a jealous husband.
Since my wife rebuffed my offer to see the Crossroads, and I didn’t want to go alone, I recruited our son, Andrew. He was hip to the idea; no persuasion was necessary. We requested time off from our jobs, made travel arrangements, put our bikes on the rack, and hit the road. We took turns driving. It took us two days to get there from upstate New York.
It was early spring and Mississippi was not yet super-hot. On our first full day, it rained. The weather put the kibosh on our ride to the Crossroads. This was a blessing in disguise. It gave us a chance to rest from the drive and take in our surroundings.
Day 2 dawned with overcast skies. Then the clouds moved out and gave way to sunshine. We ate a light breakfast, saddled up, and were off.
The Crossroads are in Clarksdale, Mississippi, where Highways 61 and 49 meet. The site looked innocuous. Two roads come together in the country, as ordinary as white rice. We took pictures from different angles, including a father-and-son selfie. I was pleased with what we found. Extraordinary people have sprung from humble places. Lincoln was born in a log cabin; Elvis in a shotgun shack. So, it made sense that Johnson’s life changed at a common crossroads.
After visiting the Crossroads, we set off to explore the Delta on our bikes. We visited antebellum houses and a Civil War battlefield. We struck up conversations with local people. We took over a hundred pictures. We finally peddled to a barbeque joint for an early dinner. We were starving and gorged on beef brisket, pork ribs, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. Pabst Blue Ribbon was the only beer sold. We stayed a long time; a blues trio was performing, and they were fabulous. We must have looked pretty worn out because a local gentleman offered a ride to our hotel. He had a pickup, and our bikes could go in the back. We said yes and thank you. Southern hospitality was alive and well.
We got back by nine o’clock or so. We fell asleep on our beds watching TV. After a few hours, I got cold and woke up. The clock said 11:33. That’s when I remembered: when Robert Johnson met the devil at the Crossroads, it was midnight. Should I go back? Heck, why not? I could jump in the car and be there by 12 pm. Should I invite Andrew? I decided to let him sleep. I covered him with a blanket and eased out.
At the Crossroads, I parked on the shoulder and climbed out. I looked up and down the highway and saw only darkness. It was a pleasant, clear night. A few armadillos scurried across the road. They were cute and prehistoric, at the same time. Then twelve o’clock came and went. I waited a few more minutes; by 12:15 am I decided the devil was not going to show. My bed at the Quality Inn was calling. I got back in the car, fastened the seat belt, and was about to turn the key when she tapped on the passenger side window. She was a black woman, young and beautiful. She wore a form-fitting, low-cut purple dress. I opened the window about halfway. She peered in and said, “Mister, can you carry me to town?” I thought it might be a trick. Were her friends nearby, ready to pounce? “Look,” she said, “I’m too tired to walk and my feet are killin’ me.” She reached down and took off her shoes and then showed them to me. They were purple pumps, the same color as her dress. Terrible footwear for walking on asphalt. “Hop in,” I said.
I asked where she wanted to go. “You from New York? What you doin’ here?” she said.
“Taking in the sights,” I said.
“You came to the Crossroads to meet the devil?”
I confessed that I wanted to see it for myself. And about the devil, well, one never knows.
She turned towards me. “Honey, don’t you know the devil comes to a man in the form of a woman?”
I snorted. “That’s not what they said in Sunday school.”
“You know, Mr. New York, you should take me to your hotel.”
I explained that wasn’t an option. Oh, she was tempting enough, and I considered her offer for a nanosecond. In a soft voice I said, “Thank you, no. I’ll run you home.” When we got to her place, she thanked me for the ride and said, “If you change your mind, you know where I stay.”
The next morning, I debated whether to tell Andrew about my encounter. Would he feel left out? But he called my bluff. “How was your adventure last night?” he inquired at breakfast. I laughed and recounted everything. “Did you get her name?” he wanted to know. “Yeah. Hot-Chick-In-A-Purple-Dress,” I said. “She was the devil.”
“The devil? That’s serious.”
“Yeah.”
“So, the Crossroads lived up to the hype. Did you take her offer?
“No.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “The devil has ugly feet.”