"You can just call me Jeb," Barksdale said.
"Fine. And you can call me Lonnie." The young man proffered a hand to shake. "Name's Lonnie Thompson."
They shook hands as the bus rolled back onto 55.
"Is there a gig waiting for you in Memphis, or are you going to try busking on the street to drum up interest?"
"Oh, both," Thompson said. "Gotta promote the gigs and if I get extra money in the hat during the day, it's all good!"
"When will you find time to sleep?"
"Ah, coffee and what-not."
"I'll give you some free advice, son. Stay away from the what-not," Barksdale said. "It didn't do me a lick of good in the long run."
Thompson nodded.
"I mean that. You're heading to Memphis to play and you've got a career ahead of you. Me? I'm heading to Memphis because I'm on my way through and maybe on my way out. Now, maybe I'd be on my way out anyway. But the bad stuff's got a strong way of hurrying the process."
"I do understand," Thompson said. "You say you're just going through Memphis, though? Headed to Nashville?"
"Nashville?" Barksdale barked a bitter laugh. "Nashville is a young man's game. Or maybe it could be an old man's game. But a burnout's game? Not really. I'm headed to Branson."
Branson. Barksdale could barely admit it. The place where performers go to die. Well, maybe not die. The place performers went to fade away even more than they already had.
Barksdale saw pity in Thompson's eyes. Anger must have flashed across Barksdale's face, because Thompson dropped the pity and looked away out the window.
Barksdale sighed.
"Yup, it's Branson for me." Barksdale spoke quietly, forcing the anger to go away. "Washed out."
"Does calling it 'the Oldies circuit' make it better?"
"No, no it doesn't."
"I didn't think it would." Thompson gave Barksdale another friendly smile, and Barksdale grinned, too.
"Lots of tribute bands, too. I guess I'll be my own tribute band, until someone comes along who is better at singing me than me."
"If it gets you on your feet and gets you paid, it can't be all bad," Thompson said.
Barksdale thought about that. He had drummed up the gig himself. No agent. No manager. It might have been the hardest work he'd done since he walked away from his father's leather trade and tried his hand at singing for a living. He felt a touch of pride.
"Enough about my fading star," Barksdale said. "Tell me about your blues. What style?"
"Style?"
"Jump blues, Texas blues, Jimmy Reed shuffles, Piedmont, Delta?"
"For a country fellow, you know something about the blues. I'm impressed."
"Now, don't you confuse country boy for country singer. Country singer might or might not know about some blues. But I am a country boy from Mississippi, too. I heard plenty of blues growing up. Not just the records. I watched old men wail out blues on their porches, too."
Thompson nodded vigorously. "That's the way to learn! The records are good to listen and learn but nobody can get you inside the blues like the old ones. They can let you in on secrets."
"There are still secrets in the blues? I thought they'd all be played out by now."
"It's the old men who can tell you how to make the deal," Thompson said.
Barksdale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. As far had he had come, as much as he had seen, as long ago as it had been since he set foot in a church, Barksdale believed in his heart he was a good ol' boy, and he still held an overall belief in a higher power of God in some fashion. Any talk of the Devil made him alternately jumpy, angry or defensive of whatever good faith in God he might have left.
"Now, don't tell me you went down to the cross road and sold your soul to the Devil, Lonnie," Barksdale said. He tried to make it sound like a joke. Could a man really meet the real Devil in the middle of nowhere? Barksdale wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Not at all! Devil's too much of a trickster and all he does is tune the strings. Spanish tuning! Anybody knows that these days. No sir!" Thompson flashed a smile and a laugh. "Nyarlathotep is the one who tuned my guitar. Not just the strings. He tunes the instrument. See, the devil, you know, he just tunes up the strings, hands it back to you. Nyarlathotep changes the wood, the neck, the curve, the tuners. It all just resonates like nobody ever heard before! Make a lot of people hear your music."
"Nyarla...-?" Barksdale asked. Had he heard the name before? A demon or another name for Satan or some heathen god's name buried in the Bible somewhere he'd forgotten. Or maybe it was one of those voodoo devils. Barksdale recalled some of the odder blues lyrics he'd heard, and he recalled learning some of the imagery was voodoo related - John the conquerer root, hot foot powder, power over wind and sky.
"Nyarlathotep," Thompson said, slowly sounding out the name for Barksdale. "The guitar just vibrates when you hit the right note. Like nothin' you ever heard. Shakes with the whole fabric of the universe."
"Son, I'm just a country singer, but it sounds like you've moved out of the blues and into some hippy New Age shit."
Thompson gave a courteous smile. "I'm just searching for that note, you know?"
"What note?"
"Everybody knows the saying, right? Blues takes five minutes to learn, but a lifetime to master," Thompson said. "Well, imagine the idea on smaller scale. There's a note out there. Somewhere between the frets of a guitar, somewhere between the holes of a harmonica. One note. If you play it, you own it. One note, you make the people cry if you want to. One note, you decide to be happy and they're happy. You want the crowd jumpin' up and dancin', you got that, too. But you need to find the note. Find that note, you'll be as famous as you want to be."
Thompson glanced around, shifted in his seat to get a better view at the back of the bus. After he completed his observation, he turned to Barksdale again. He leaned in close to Barksdale, over the back of the seat.
"I think I know where to find that note," Thompson said.
"Really?"
Thompson nodded.
Barksdale glanced out the window, barely noticing the the sunny day clouding over as the bus rolled north.
"What's this Nyarlathotep look like? Not everybody can say they met the Devil - a devil, anyway. What's he like?"
"Oh, he's all kinds of shapes and things. Could be birds, or mushrooms, or shadows in the woods," Thompson said. "Like the Devil, though, he takes human form when he needs to. Tall, thin black man - African maybe but more like an African Egyptian, your know? Big head, tall forehead. Look right at home you put one of those pharaoh hats on his head!"
Barksdale laughed at himself. He felt nervous. Was he upset about the talk of deals with the Devil? Well, a devil, anyway. Whatever the hell this Nyarlathotep was. The cross road deal story was always just a way to drum up publicity. It might have also been a way to keep other bluesmen off your back. Back in the day, fierce musical competition meant men died in all kinds of seedy fights and disagreements. Sonny Boy Williamson - the "first" Sonny Boy - stabbed to death with a sharpened screwdriver. Then again Robert Johnson's deal with Satan didn't keep him alive. Someone hadn't been frightened enough. They poisoned his drink, and it took Johnson three painful days to die.
But it was an old story and young bluesmen needed new tricks. So Thompson had created his own spin on the old story. Why not? But it was just a story. And if the young man had talent, he didn't need stories.
"I tell you what. Not a whole lot of people on this here bus. How about you play a song for me, Lonnie? Everybody else, too."
"What if they don't like the blues?"
"Don't like the blues?" Barksdale feigned incredulity. "Then I'll sing 'em some of my country songs after. We're in the South, aren't we? Fifty-fifty chance they'll go for one or the other!"
"All right then," Thompson said. "I'll play for anybody, anywhere!"
Thompson unsnapped the latches on the hardshell guitar case. When it opened a hint of stale cigarettes, spilled beer
and a strangely reminiscent damp earth scent reached Barksdale's nose. It took Barksdale a few moments to identify the earthen smell. Mushrooms. Wild woods fungus, earth and rotten leaves.
Although Barksdale only ever strummed a few chords for fun and stage presence, he knew craftsmanship when he saw it. The guitar was a custom make. No brand name or logo appeared on the headstock. Barksdale did not catch a glimpse of any lettering or designs on the body - either back or front - as Thompson pulled out the instrument.
The guitar sported an unusually dark sunburst finish, with bright shiny fret markers. The frets did not appear to show any wear, but Barksdale could sense the guitar's antiquity.
One blemish marred the guitar body top, near the upper edge. Something gray and sickly white, like fungus, with a strange shining black and purple swirl in the center of the blotch. Fungus would have explained the mushroom scent sure enough. The bright, light shellacking had been applied over the blemish. Not as a repair, though. The guitar had never been re-shellacked. It had been crafted and finished over the blemish originally. The blemish appeared fungal and wet under the shiny reflective surface.
"Beautiful guitar," Barksdale said. "But that spot sure is a damn shame."
"It's the mark of Nyarlathotep," Thompson said. "Don't affect the sound any."
Thompson slid an old oversized glass aspirin bottle onto his left little finger. His right hand cupped the guitar strings without aid of a plectrum or fingerpicks. The fingers started a walking descent measure to intro the song.
As soon as the first lyrics spilled from Thompson's mouth, Barksdale understood Thompson's mastery, despite Thompson's youth. The spirit of an old bluesman hovered around the song. Barksdale could feel it, feel the utter confidence in Thompson's performance.
Early mornin', fishin' to get you off my mind
Early mornin' now, fishin' to get you off my mind
"That's it, Lonnie!" Barksdale grinned. "Sing it!"
Thompson smiled, nodded at the encouragement.
But when I got to that creek, lord
Stone sentinels in the pines
An odd direction for simple blues lyrics to take. But Barksdale couldn't deny the words power. He'd heard some haunting blues in his day, but the reference to stone sentinels chilled him to the bone. He was inside the forest, inside the song along with Thompson, and he wouldn't get out until the song finished.
Sticks in the pathway, owls hoot in day
Sticks in the pathway, owls hoot in day
Crows are cawin'
Lord, lord. Bound to lose my way.
"Play that guitar!" Barksdale shouted. "Play that note!"
Thompson's voice fell silent as he let his guitar and his hands tell the story. His thumb worked the rhythmic bass notes while his fingers plucked out a solo - alternately reflecting the melody and improvised notes. With each pause between measures, Barksdale grew more excited.
"Where's that note, Lonnie?" Barksdale teased. "C'mon, we've got to hear it!"
Thompson ran the glass slide up the neck.
And found the note.
The note rang out from somewhere between the strings, someplace askew from the sounding body of the guitar. The note came from nowhere and everywhere, a single note containing a hidden symphonic cacophony bursting out from between the atoms of the air. Barksdale smelled sulphur, saw cavorting demons, strange beasts among cold stars, and colors seared his mind.
An emotional tempest slammed through Barksdale. He seethed with anger, wailed in anguish and wanted to jump into the aisle of the bus and dance for pure joy. The conflicting feelings threatened to tear his mind into pieces. The harmonic frequency of the note carried bone-pulverizing low tones. The note held a siren's song, inviting obliteration on jagged rocks of derangement.
Someone screamed, someone cried. The bus driver convulsed but somehow retained some measure of control. The brakes slammed hard, tires screeched, the bus crookedly swerved into the breakdown lane. Some passengers tumbled out of their seats.
Then the note and its madness faded out at last. The note had only held for one or two seconds. Barksdale gasped in relief. He had been convinced the ringing lunacy would never end.
Except for the idling engine, the bus fell silent.
No one appeared hurt, but they might all have been in shock. Those who had tumbled to the floor stumbled back into their seats.
No one applauded. No one smiled. No one requested another song. No one could look each other in the eye. Everyone retreated into their own silent thoughts.
Barksdale looked out the window. The road signs indicated the 55 and route 82 intersection. They were somewhere around Winona. Droplets of water ran down the dark glass. "I don't recall rain on the radar."
Thompson's looked at the window, out the window, like he could see further into the gathering night.
"No, not at all," Thompson said, his voice betraying a shaky nervousness. "Ain't right. Ain't right!"
The rain hit the window with fury, getting heavier. Thunder and lightning crashed.
Thompson muttered. "I don't think I was supposed to play that note. Not now. Too soon. Time ain't right. Time ain't right!"
Barksdale preferred not to think about that musical note ever again. He had decided it had been the tires. Wheels whining over slight ruts in the pavement. Strange harmonics. Nothing more. His mind wouldn't let him consider the details any deeper.
Barksdale heard wind, and a low throbbing rumble. Trees flailed violently. Barksdale hadn't heard the sound in years, but he instantly recognized it. So did some of the other passengers and panic etched over their faces. The sky darkened as though night had arrived.
"Tornado!" someone hollered.
The whirlwind tore through the trees and slammed into the bus. Windows cracked, splintered into tiny fragments and safety glass still gave way under the pressure. The bus tires on the left side lifted off the shoulder of the road, and then the wind got underneath. The bus flipped and rolled.
It felt like a giant hand had picked them up in an equally large tin can and started shaking. At one point, the bus went end over end.
Barksdale felt soft heavy objects with the occasional hard angle slam against his body. The other passengers. Elbows, knees, chins painfully colliding. His back exploded with pain as he crashed down onto the top of a seat back, nearly cracking his spine in half.
All the fury and movement stopped. Barksdale didn't move for a long time. The sound of howling wind retreated. Barksdale heard sirens in the distance, groans, sobbing and hysterical screaming inside the bus. Too terrified he might shift a broken bone, Barksdale remained motionless until he realized he wasn't one of the screaming people. Surely if he'd broken something he'd be screaming. He stood up, looked up through the window hole.
Someone urged him upward, he clambered over seats and he felt his body lifted up and out through the bus window. Through his daze, he found himself standing on top of the side of the bus. The bus had rolled over multiple times across the highway and had come to rest on its side. Police, fire and other rescue personnel had arrived. Some civilians stopped to help, too. Someone with a pickup truck brought a step ladder, which Barksdale used to climb off the bus. He sat down heavily on the wet ground by the roadside.
Hands put a shiny reflective space blanket around his shoulders. Barksdale glanced up to see a paramedic - one who had helped lift him clear earlier.
"Just take deep breaths, keep the blanket on. The rain's cool. Keep the shock away, stay with us."
Barksdale could not find his tongue. He nodded his thanks and understanding.
The accident scene solidified into reality around him as his shock waned. Red fire and ambulance lights, orange tow lights and blue police lights, road flares and police spotlights lit up the night. He scanned the stunned faces as they milled around the roadside.
"Lonnie?"
Jeb didn't see Thompson. He glanced at the bus and saw no more rescue activity. On the roadside, someone pulled a sheet over the driver.
Whether the man had been thrown clear or dragged there to die, Barksdale couldn't determine. He saw no other bodies. Stretchers bore some people.
A face drew Barksdale's attention. He felt a chill. The regal man from the Jackson terminal. The man mingled with the bus passengers. Probably performing the duty of condolences and promises of investigations. How had he arrived on the scene of the accident so quickly? Strange coincidence the man had been in the vicinity.
Barksdale took a long look at the man. Tall, regal. Tan-skinned with a high forehead. A forehead that would not appear out of place beneath an Egyptian pharaoh's headdress. The man's gaze fell upon Barksdale. Barksdale thought the man's eyes flashed in a strange, deep black and purple swirl of sickening color. A trick of the flashing lights, certainly.
Maybe the man would have a roster of passengers, and Barksdale could bring the disappearance of Thompson to his attention. Like the driver, a freak flip might have thrown Thompson clear of the bus and no one appeared the wiser.
Barksdale approached the man, turned his attention briefly to the woods. When he returned his gaze to the crowd of injured and their rescuers, the regal fellow was gone. Out of sight around the back of a vehicle, probably. Barksdale desperately wanted to believe he didn't feel a chill climbing over his soul.
Barksdale grabbed the large arm of a paramedic. The man's hair had grey at the temples and Barksdale could feel muscle under the dark skin.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Can't find the man I was sitting with. Thompson. Lonnie Thompson. Had a guitar. Would've held onto it to the last if he could have. Young fella. Blues player."
The paramedic's eyebrows lifted.
"Lonnie Thompson?" The paramedic shook his head. "The only Lonnie Thompson I know playing the blues 'round these parts died fifteen years ago. He was young then, but he's long dead. Died young."
"Dead?"
"Shit, sure!" The paramedic gave a rueful smile. "Died around here. Poisoned by a jealous girlfriend, they figured. Classic stuff. Real Robert Johnson, right? Thompson's gal cooked him some cream of mushroom soup. Only it was more cream of toadstool." The paramedic shook his head. "Bus driver kicked him off the bus right around here. Thought he was just another stumblin' drunk. Someone found him by the highway side, called it in. Never forget that one."
A Lonely and Curious Country Page 26