Everybody in Mississippi knew the legend of ‘The Crossroads.”
Hell, anybody who ever picked up a guitar knew where Robert Johnson’s deal with the devil was made. They also knew the cost involved.
And when Bestor Teevens decided to go there, he did so with the full knowledge that he would gain a lot and lose a lot.
So, he gently laid his LSC1-WH white electric guitar into the back seat of his faded red, 2001 Ford Festiva, cranked the engine, and headed towards Clarksdale.
The trip would take maybe three hours – four if traffic was bad and he had multiple pee stops – and he sure didn’t want to spend all that travel time ruminating about what awaited at the end of his journey.
He did, however, think about what made him want to go.
He remembered that old toy guitar that he wore out as a boy, banging away at it for hours but never learning to make anything with it other than noise.
Then there were those play-by-number books he got through the mail – the ones that came from a special TV offer and pimped by a “famous” guitarist who he had never heard of.
As much as he wanted to master the guitar, picking and plucking just didn’t come naturally to him. The Crossroads was his last hope … it might have been his only hope all along.
But still, he dreamed, and the portable CD player plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter helped provide inspiration.
There was “Born Under a Bad Sign” by Albert King … “Live at the Regal” by B.B. King … “Texas Flood” by Stevie Ray Vaughan. And of course, there had to be some Robert Johnson.
Had to be.
So, once he figured he was less that an hour away from the intersection of Highways 61 and 49, he decided to play the compilation album released in 1961.
Appropriately enough, it opened with “Crossroad Blues.”
By the time Bestor arrived at his destination, “Hellhound On My Trail” was playing.
I can tell the wind is risin’, the leaves tremblin’ on the tree … tremblin’ on the tree. I can tell the wind is risin’, the leaves tremblin’ on the tree … tremblin’ on the tree. Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm. All I need’s my little sweet woman, and to keep my company. Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.
It was a breezy day and the leaves were, in fact, tremblin’ on the tree. Bestor didn’t really notice as he reached into the backseat, grabbed his guitar, and got out of the car.
Before he could close the door, he saw a mountain of man standing before him, wearing a fedora hat and flashing a toothy grin.
“You must be Scratch,” Bestor said.
“And you must be Mr. Bestor Teevens. Welcome to The Crossroads, my friend.”
Bestor walked closely behind Scratch, realizing there was no turning back. By god, he was going to learn to play the blues, and he was willing to pay the price.
“OK,” Scratch said. “We’re going to meet once a week here at the Crossroads Center, and the lessons will normally last 60 minutes. The cost of the first lesson is $50 due to our introductory offer, and after that it’s $120 per session. Now, I need you to sign this waiver saying you accept the fact that you have committed to eight consecutive weeks of lessons and the money is non-refundable …”