The Devil's Contract (Johnson and Job, Part 2 of 2)

Melvin Whist made his way backstage, Norman Ray tagging behind him like a dog. Whist had come up from Hell and stopped time itself just to give this musician some advice. They were dumbing down a bit more every generation. How could you play with people like this who would sign away things of true value for things like money and fame? Sure, it made things easier for Melvin, but it just wasn’t as much fun anymore. Now it was just routine. He turned to see the tired performer straggling along behind him and waited for him to catch up. “Do you want to hear about Robert Johnson or not?”

Norman shrugged. Melvin sighed and began.

“Robert Johnson was a wonderful fellow, his whole life soaked in misery, you know. Still he kept his end up. Heavy drinker. Womanizer. Marvelous fellow.”

Norman had reached the door to his dressing room and tried to open it, but found it jammed. Melvin waved him aside, time flowed through Melvin’s fingers and he threw open the dressing room door for them and they entered. The place was plush, mirrors, leather beanbag chairs, posters and one gold-framed contract signed in blood hanging to the left of Robert’s platinum albums. Melvin threw himself in a bean bag chair.

“We met at a Mississippi Crossroads. The trip from there to here is exhausting, you know.”

“I’m not ready to die,” Norman pleaded.

“You don’t get it, do you. Death is too easy. What have you got in that liquor cabinet of yours?”

Norman demanded a fully stocked liquor cabinet at every gig. He demanded every form of liquor known, just because he could.

Melvin used the voice. “Pour me a bit of something, will you? A dry Martini.” And then, because he had a wicked sense of humor. “A Vesper.”

But when Norman opened the cabinet doors he was lost. He had no idea what most of the stuff was. And today there was even a tiny crisper with things like baby onions, lemons and olives, as well as an assortment of champagne glasses and little umbrellas.

“Johnson already had the basics when he came to us at the crossroads. We gave him that Voodoo he needed, that Legba up, so to speak. But it was all easy at that point, because he loved it.”

But Norman was struggling to assemble a drink for Melvin with what he could remember about martinis. Melvin chuckled and pulled a bartender’s chapbook from his breast pocket. “Catch!” he laughed, and Norman scrambled for the booklet, dropping the vodka and vermouth, which crashed to the floor. Melvin smiled, leafing to Chapter 7 in a dog eared copy of Ian Fleming’s “Casino Royale” and strolled over to Norman who groveled on the floor.

“It isn’t so easy without the voodoo, is it? Who said mixed drinks were easy?” He threw the paperback in the spreading pool of alcohol. “You gave up everything for this, Norman. Friends. Family. Nobody knows you. If you left music it would be as if you dropped off the planet, and your music would live on without you.”

Terror gripped Norman and held him to the floor as Melvin Whist stood over him. Because now he knew what Whist meant.

“No. Death is too easy. We deal in misery. Robert Johnson didn’t die, you know. He tasted success, and then he lost it all, beaten half to death by a cuckolded husband. Changed his name like his father who had abandoned him and on the run for the rest of his life, doing something he hated.” Melvin began taking bottles out of the liquor cabinet and smashed them on the floor around a cowering Norman. “You brought this on yourself, you know. Think of me as a job placement officer. I know a place perfect for a guy like you.”

*

An old exotic dancer writhed vainly against a pole at the far end of the room and an old drunk was half asleep at the bar, the only customer, empty martini glasses and half eaten onions scattered around him. The assistant bartender cleaned glasses and watched the news on the TV over the counter.

“Rock Superstar Norman Ray disappeared last month during a benefit concert. His dressing room was ransacked. Norman’s wife had recently left him and he was known to have a drinking problem. Police have speculated suicide…”

“That’s me,” said the bartender. The drunk looked up at him.

“Yeah, you should be so lucky.”

The End