On a June Solstice night, a young woman was in the midst of a particularly intense labor in the deep bayous of Louisiana. Accompanied by a midwife and a houngan priest doctor, she was determined to give life – even if it meant sacrificing her own. This was a sacrifice not exclusive to Haitian culture; mothers throughout time have braved the same tribulation. But this child was different, the houngan priest found it rather peculiar that she was birthing three weeks early – and on a solstice.
Even before this night, the fetus had many anomalous qualities observed by the locals. He was an incredibly still fetus, only kicking when men of the blues came through town, playing their amplified guitars through the thin stilt-house walls. Friends of the mother had even reported that, during her slumber, the fetus would oftentimes make strange noises within the confines of his temporary home – almost as if he were singing.
But perhaps the most significant mystery surrounding the child seemed like a question not even science could answer – who was the father? The mother was adamant that she had been practicing celibacy for years prior to this miracle. The houngan had prescribed such measures, due to her history of miscarriages – it was believed that the act of long-term celibacy would help her build fertility. But when questioned about the fatherhood of this child, she was unhesitant to state that such a paternal figure simply didn’t exist.
“Push! We’re almost there!” the midwife yells, with both hands on the head of the child. The mother takes one deep, painful breath – as if sucking in the very power of her being to deliver this final push. As she exhales, the rest of the infant is forced out. The midwife gives a great smile and the houngan raises his hands, praising the incarnation before him.
“He is gorgeous, look at him!” The midwife says while presenting the baby to his mother. The baby’s head is full of black, curly hair. He has big brown eyes, and his espresso skin glistens in the candlelight.
“That’s my baby boy, just how I pictured him.” The houngan kneels down beside the newfound mother and holds the baby’s face, examining it closely.
“This is a fine young boy, indeed. He will cause lots of trouble with the ladies. I hope you have something to tie him down with.” He smirks. The mother gives him a joking glare.
“I would like to call him Nate. New Orleans Nate.” She says.
The priest turns to her, with a surprised look on his face. Just as he’s about to say something, he stops himself, nods, and gives a heartfelt smile.
“I believe our business here is done unless the midwife has anything left to tend to. Otherwise, we shall allow you bonding time.” The midwife glances over and shakes her head. The two exit the room. Moments later, the mother and child fall asleep embracing each other.
Almost eighteen years later, Nate walks into a Bourbon Street bar – ready to seduce the audience with his Fender-Strat guitar. On this particular night, Nate breaks three strings – each time a new woman lets out a yelp. Nate is a natural, he’s a beautiful, suave man who has a way with words. Even Elvis, upon watching him play, had deemed Nate “King Creole.” But Nate kept to himself, he only enjoyed the spotlight when it meant he could play the blues. It was his life’s purpose, every time he touched the guitar and got on stage it was as if he was channeling some sort of God-like power to make people tap their feet, dance, and have a good time. The drinks help, of course. And his friend, Tajuan pours heavy on the brandy.
As Nate sits on the stage preparing for his final song, he spots an ominous figure in the crowd. At a glance, it appears as though he has red eyes – but he’s ultimately unsure if this is a creation of his own mind from a night of drinking. Nonetheless, this guy is giving Nate “the look” – the one you give when you’re waiting for a singer to step into a dark alleyway after his performance. He turns around and consults with his band – he’s going to send this asshole a message. His guitar riffs out a godly resonance, and he begins to sing one of his originals – a song called “Gunsmoke.” By the end, the bar is roaring. Coins rain down upon the stage and Nate wonders if he shouldn’t give the mean-mugger in the back a split – because this is enough for a few month’s rent alone. But as soon as the crowd dissipates, the man is nowhere to be found.
“Damn, was hoping he’d a’least stay to collect his share.” Rodriguez, the drummer says.
“Yeah, no kidding. Could’a at least bought ‘em dinner before lettin’ ‘em eye-fuck me.” Says Nate.
“You dirty for that one, Nate!” Tajuan chimes in.
“Heh, well if there’s one thing my momma taught me – it’s that you ain’t never mess with no guitar man.”
Nate and the band help funnel the tourists out of the bar for close, then stick around a bit longer for drinks. They spend the next hour summarizing their night and exchanging stories about the people they’ve met. By midnight, the men lock up and head home. All the men, save for Nate, live in the City. Nate still lives in his mother’s house within the bayou – it’s the only thing she left for him before she passed.
As Nate begins his walk through the French Quarter, he passes Congo Square where policemen are patrolling the area with flashlights. He ducks down, but it’s too late. They shout out to him.
“Hey, boy! Come over here!” Nate pops his head up and begins walking towards the two men. As he gets closer, they put their right hands on their belts – as if preparing to draw their pistols out at a moment’s notice.
“The hell you doing wanderin’ out here this late at night, boy? You trying to steal some shit?” The officer with the mustache asks.
“No, sir. I just got off work and I’m headin’ to my house in the bayou.” Says Nate. The two officers squint at him.
“That right, boy? Where you work then?” The clean-shaven officer inquires.
“I work at the Sazerac bar off Bourbon Street, sir. I play the guitar.” Nate responds, pointing at the stringed instrument on his back. The mustached officer’s eyes widen – and his beer-gut sticks out like a woman in her third trimester. He reaches for his handcuffs with his short, nubby hands – which are shaking with anticipation.
“That’s a nice guitar you got there, boy. A little too nice for someone like you.” He says, pulling the handcuffs out and pacing to Nate’s flank.
“C’mon, boy you’re coming with us,” says the slim, shaven officer while approaching Nate from head-on.
“No, sir it’s late. I gotta get home!” yells Nate in a panic whilst backing towards the French Quarter.
“If you haven’t done nothin’ wrong then you ain’t got nothin’ to be scared of.” The mustached officer says. They lunge at Nate like two lions attacking their cornered prey. Despite Nate’s lack of resistance, they throw him to the cobbled ground head-first. Nate’s vision flashes, his ears ring and he screams in pain. They lift him up like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum and lead him towards the nearest police station – the mustached officer whipping him in the back with his baton whenever Nate begins to slow. White families throughout the neighborhood gawk – one older man laughed and yelled, “he’s back in chains, where he belongs!”
Upon arriving at the police station, he is thrown into a dark, dilapidated room. A detective in a trench coat and bowler hat walks in and begins questioning Nate.
Where are you coming from?
Where do you work?
Where did you get that guitar?
What do you mean, you can’t read?
“Might as well just ask me why I’m black!” Nate yells at the investigator. He smirks and leaves the room. A few moments later, the two officers from earlier enter the room and escort him through the cold, damp hallways. The mustached man turns to Nate.
“Boy, we ain’t getchu this time. But you best bet you try anything the next we gonna put a hole through that monkey skull of yours!” His goblin partner laughs, but the obese, mustached officer wears no smile. He means every word.
Finally, Nate arrives at the front of the police station. The two men give him one last punch to the face and throw him down the flight of stairs at the entrance. As he gets up and recovers it dawns on Nate that all of his possessions are still missing – including his $300 Fender-Strat guitar. But he’s relieved to realize that they never took his watch – which he always keeps tucked away in his sock when he’s walking home at night. It reads 2:00 a.m. Nate debates whether or not to re-enter the police station to claim his belongings, but soon decides it’s not worth the further abuse. He high-tails it out of the city – into the deep, dark, bayous of Louisianna.
As Nate exits the outskirts and enters the dark, misty wetlands he gets a shivering sensation down his spine. The cold night’s dew hits his face at every step and the dirt path flanked by viney, unnatural-looking trees appear to creep closer and closer to the road – almost as if slowly reaching toward him. Nate hears the crickets chirp and the frogs ribbit. But suddenly, footsteps – and a snapping twig from behind the encroaching trees. He’s not alone. He’s being followed. By whom? He doesn’t know. Could be cops. Maybe highwaymen. Or even the Klan. He picks up his pace to a light jog. But just as he does so, he hears whispers and quick, shifty footsteps behind him. Before he realizes it, he’s in a dead sprint toward his village. He repeats a protection spell he’d learned from his houngan as a child:
I ask for protection from my ancestral Loa, protect me from the evil that lurks near to corrupt my ti-bon-ange.
The footsteps get louder. Faster. He clasps his hands around his watch, it’s his Veve charm depicting Loa Papa Legba at the center of the dial.
I ask for protection from my ancestral Loa, protect me from the evil that lurks near to corrupt my ti-bon-ange.
The whispering is so close – as if whoever is talking is right behind him. But he can’t make out the words. Faster, closer, louder it all comes.
I ask for protection from my ancestral Loa, protect me from the evil that lurks near to corrupt my ti-bon-ange. Please, Papa Legba pass this message to my ancestors!
Time seems to stop.
Nate falls to the ground from sheer exhaustion. He’s on all fours, panting into the dirt. He got away. That was close. But then, a cigarette butt flies past Nate’s face and into the ground – like an asteroid hitting the earth. He jolts up and finds himself standing face-to-face with the red-eyed man from earlier. He’s whiter than snow – almost as if covered in a layer of white ash. He’s hairless, and wears a sinister smile – but seemingly not one of insincerity. He stands in the midst of a crossroads, well-dressed and leaning upon a cane.
“Nice show back there, kid. Word of advice?” The man says while taking out another cigarette and lighting it up.
“You can’t win out here on your lonesome. The world’s rigged against you at every turn. Those white folks hate to see a black man ascend.” He looks at Nate, studying him like artwork.
“I apologize for being so frank, I can tell you’re a bit shaken up. Wasn’t the one trailing you back there. I took care of them, don’t worry.” He smirks and then signals to Nate to walk with him.
“How do I know you’s tellin’ the truth?” Nate asks. The man walks away from the center of the crossroad towards a downed power line. He pulls out Nate’s Fender-Strat guitar and hands it to him.
“They were planning to make it look like an accident.” Says the man.
“Didn’t want any loose ends, so they brought all your stuff to plant on you.” He continues. Nate looks at the man in disbelief.
“Why the hell they take it from me in the first place, then?” Nate questions. The man rubs his index and middle finger into his thumb.
“They were going to sell it for a lot of cash. Then they read your signature. Realized you were really from the Sazerac bar. Hated to see a black man with such a…white respectability walk away.” He continues.
“Come on, let’s walk. I have a deal for you.” Without waiting for Nate’s response, he turns toward the direction of his village and begins walking. Nate realizes this and decides he doesn’t have much of a choice, and catches up to him to continue their talk.
“If you lookin’ to be my bookie or bodyguard I ain’t need one.” Chirps Nate.
“No, no. None of that. I guess you could call me a social worker of sorts.” He argues. Nate looks down only to realize the man is limping, he walks with a hand-carved wooden cane in his left hand. It appears to be elder tree bark, judging by the beautiful veins of blood-red streaking down the cane.
“Admiring the cane, yes? It’s a family heirloom of sorts.” He smirks.
“Now, about this deal I’m offering you…” He stops and turns towards Nate, his eyes matching the red streaks of the ancient staff.
“I have sympathy for you, really. You’re a talented artist. But these white Dixies – they won’t ever take you seriously.” He perks up his lips and looks at the sky. He leans in towards Nate and whispers.
“And if we’re being honest, the ones up there? They’re pretty impartial about it all. This whole thing? Just one big show for a bunch of elitists.” Nate looks at him, puzzled. The man looks back and realizes this.
“Listen, I’m not one for labels. Some call me a spirit, a demon, or just a stranger. Doesn’t really matter what I am, what matters is the deal. Shall we?” He signals forward.
“Demon? Like, you the devil?” Nate’s eyes widen.
“Nate, please. Don’t fear me. I’ve been watching over you since you were but an infant. You have a fine gift. Your music, it reaches people’s gros-bon-ange soul. Changes them, teaches them to love.”
“I don’t understand. Why me?” asks Nate.
“Because both of us are demonized for being different. You see, they’re up there allowing people like you to be persecuted for the way you look. I challenged them. Told them that such indifference towards man would only end in pain and misery. But instead of showing empathy towards their children, they instead cast me down to be the mediator!” The man’s eyes are reflecting fire and his cane is burying itself into the ground. Nate sees through his fury, however, and behind that fire lies pain, sadness, grief, and love.
“Never thought a demon could be so understandin’.” Says Nate. The man’s fire dissipates, and the cane emerges from the soil. He straightens his blazer and scoffs.
“Demon, negro? They share the same connotation. Evil, tainted, inferior. The truth is… we don’t know who others truly are. We assume based on our perception, but I digress…” The man says, candidly. He clears his throat and continues.
“I am offering you a chance to be immortalized, but such status requires sacrifice.” He continues.
“Tomorrow, the president will come down to the Sazerac bar and listen to your music. He’ll fall in love, and will make a public speech about the Jim Crow South.” He says.
“I don’t understand, what is the sacrifice?” Nate asks.
“I am granting notoriety, but I cannot change the hearts and minds of the people. Such power only comes from God and man. They will ultimately decide your fate.” He holds out his cane, offering it to Nate.
“Think about your mother… Poor woman died a nobody – working for the white man.”
Tears begin to form as Nate recalls his mother’s last words. Whenever you play them blues, everyone; black, white, Mexican, and Indian all come together to listen to you, Nate. You can change the world, but you gotta get your hands dirty, son. Nate takes a deep breath and meets the pale man’s eyes. Without hesitation, he grabs the blood-red cane. The man smiles and then vanishes. Nate looks around and then down at his sock-watch. It reads 3:33 a.m. The cane begins to crumble into ash.
From there, Nate continues home – questioning everything he was taught growing up in both the Haitian faith and in an all-black Catholic school. He questions whether or not this stranger was sincere in his words. But after some thought, Nate saw the look in the man’s eyes – the one beneath the fire. He saw the pain, the betrayal, the love. But he stood up for what he believed in and was outcasted because of it. Maybe things aren’t as black and white as Nate had been taught. Maybe whatever this thing was meant well. Then, Nate thinks about the “sacrifice.” It’s tomorrow night. He didn’t even know the president was in town. But if what the man said was true, then he’d better be prepared for anything. Nate finally arrives in his quaint village, and the sound of cicadas and birds fills the air. He walks up to his mother’s house to find his Houngan sitting on the porch. He’s brushing his long, black beard while humming a meditative mono-tone. As soon as Nate approaches him, he stops to speak.
“My boy, I am glad to see you. I dreamt of a great evil falling upon you. Two white men in the swamps.” The Houngan is gazing blankly at Nate’s feet, his eyesight has been poor since the death of his mother.
“It wasn’t nothing, mon gangan. Just some police trying to hassle me is all.” Nate says, sheepishly.
“My son, I may be blind but I am not tone-deaf. I hear the fear in your voice. Papa Legba gave me the gift of hearing my disciples’ gros-bon-ange soul.” He shifts his head and makes direct eye contact with Nate.
“Mon gangan, I-I think I met someone. At the crossroads. A demon who offered me a deal…”
“My boy, there are no demons. Only the demonized. But, what is it he offered you?” The houngan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath into his nose – as if smelling the air for deception.
“He say the president comin’ to the bar tomorrow. That he’s gonna make a big speech about us black blues players.” He says. The houngan smiles and nods, brushing his beard.
“And he dawned a cane?”
“Ye-yes, mon gangan. How did you know?” Nate begins to tremble.
“Worry not, my boy. Your fate is in good hands. Just know, that your ancestors are watching you… Now, go to bed. You have a big day tomorrow.” Nate embraces the houngan before entering his home. He tries to fall asleep, but his head is still aching from earlier. Regardless, he closes his eyes and begins counting down from one hundred. With each passing of a number, he gets flashes of memories. Jumping through time, they repeat like a broken record.
Mamma, who is Mr. Johnson?
Hi, Nate. I bought you a guitar, your momma says you can sing.
You don’t need a father, Nate. You’re better off treading your own water.
Fate is an illusion. The result is yours, my boy.
His consciousness eases into darkness, the exterior noises fade away whilst the interior chaos of his psyche begins to amplify. He finds himself sitting on a stool in a dark room. A single spotlight shines above him. A guitar is in his grasp – but not his. The instrument seems familiar, but from where? Just as Nate is about to find the answer within his mind, his fingers begin to glide across the strings. No longer are they scarred and twisted from years of hard labor and guitar playing – they’re smooth, unaged, and peculiarly small. The realization comes to Nate that he is sitting in the body of his childhood. He looks up and realizes that there is an audience in front of him, barely noticeable in the low-key lighting. Nate squints along the front of the crowd, searching for a familiar face – all while slowly playing a familiar, yet unidentifiable tune. Just as he nearly finishes scanning the front row, his eyes lock with an ominous face. It’s him. The man from the Sazerac bar, the man from the crossroads. And beside him? Robert Johnson – his long-deceased idol. Just as Nate begins to comprehend what he’s looking at; the two promptly smile, look at each other, shake hands, and clap. Nate gets off of the stool without thinking – as if his body is merely a puppet to some unknown mechanical master. He sets his guitar down, and bows. Just as his head begins to rise, he falls into darkness. His consciousness fading into the void.
Nate awakens the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and frybread. He gets dressed and ventures out towards the village commons to share a meal with everyone. One last meal. He sips the coffee ever so slowly, appreciating the initial creaminess which transforms into a dark chocolate back note. He bites into the frybread, embracing its greasy puffiness. In the midst of enjoying his meal, a couple of police cars roll into town with their sirens blaring. He looks down, burying his face into his breakfast. The houngan greets the officers who begin questioning him. They’re asking about a few policemen who passed through searching for a man last night. The Houngan remains poised and informs the officers that no authorities have come through the town. But they aren’t pleased with this answer and begin scouring the area for their suspect. Nate recognizes one of them – the fat, mustached officer from the previous night. Nate gives his coffee one last gulp and ducks out of town amidst the chaos.
He takes the backroads through the bayou – wondering if the strange man will pop his head in. But he doesn’t. He presumably made his end of the deal, and now it’s time for Nate to fulfill it. He continues his trek to the city conjuring what songs to play in front of the president. He reflects upon his dream and the song he was playing. Crossroad Blues by Robert Johnson. He nods his head and takes note of this song choice for later.
It’s noon when Nate arrives at work. It’s chaos, Nate’s friends are running around like Catfish out of water and customers are rolling through to get a taste of the drinks and music before the president arrives. Nate’s boss, Phillip is there – and sober at that. Upon seeing Nate his eyes widen and he runs towards him.
“Boy, you know the police is lookin’ for you?!” says Phillip.
“Yessir, we got into a tussle last night. Was afraid I wouldn’t get a shot at playin’ for the president tonight so I been avoidin’ them.” Nate responds.
“Nah, nah, none of that! You ain’t in no trouble. They just wanted to apologize and give you back your guitar. They didn’t realize you was who you says you was.” Phillip smiles. His teeth are bright yellow from years of smoking cigars and drinking – but his mustache conceals the most abhorrent parts. Out of all of the white men, Phillip was the only one Nate trusted. Something about his broken, yellow smile and brandied breath reminded him of home.
“Well, I see you gotchu guitar back anyhoo so go on up stage and get ready. President just landed and he’s soundin’ pretty thirsty!” Phillip smacks Nate on the back, and proceeds to mingle with guests. Nate gets up on stage and looks at the crowd. He notices, strewn about them are a few men with bowler hats and trench coats – probably the secret service. Nate then looks towards the bar to see his bandmates having a quick drink and Tajuan behind the bar mixing sazeracs for thirsty customers. Then, in Nate’s peripherals are the eyes.
The red eyes. The smile. It’s him. He’s sitting right in front of Nate and he didn’t even notice. Nate snaps his head towards the man and meets his gaze with a look of terror. The man signals his finger towards him, and Nate leans over the stage and listens.
“He’s here. Be ready to put on a show he won’t forget.” His whisper resonates in Nate’s ear like a fly’s buzz. Nate jolts back up onto the stage and the man is gone, he looks everywhere for him but he’s disappeared. But before Nate has time to panic, Phillip jumps up on stage with Nate’s band and grabs the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is truly my honor – as the best Creole bar in New Orleans – to welcome President Lyndon B. Johnson!” The crowd roars, and the president enters from backstage and welcomes them. After a brief greeting, he takes his seat off to the side, surrounded by the trench-coated men. The last words of the demon-man still ringing in Nate’s mind, he looks at his band, nods, looks back towards the crowd, and begins playing.
As the night goes on, Nate orchestrates a series of soulful blues music. Pictures being taken of the president nodding his head and shaking his foot to the music will surely be in the papers for weeks. As Nate wraps up for the night, he signals the band to stop for a moment. The crowd is silent. Nate takes the microphone.
“Back before I was born, there was another black man from ‘round these parts. His name was Robert Johnson. The story goes, he made a deal with the devil for fame. White folks love that story, but why do y’all think a black man needs to make a deal with the devil to be famous? Why ain’t our music good enough for y’all? When Elvis do it, y’all kiss his feet. But mine ain’t so kissable from the roads I walk every night to get home. Anyways, this one goes out to all my brothers and sisters out there strugglin’ to be seen.” Nate steps back from the microphone and takes a seat on his stool. Like in the dream, his fingers thoughtlessly glide across the guitar playing the somber tune. The crowd is enamored by Nate’s effortless ability to change chords, bend strings, and scream. Tears begin flowing down women’s cheeks within the crowd, they gaze upon Nate’s smooth, glistening espresso skin and oak-brown eyes. He breaks into a guitar solo, bending the strings to their limit. The crowd roars when he finishes his solo, the drums crash signaling the end of the finale.
The president remains seated in his chair; eyes widened, jaw dropped, and speechless. He looks at Nate as a child might with their favorite superhero. He slowly applauds Nate and gets up out of his chair, all while his secret service team darts around, carefully examining the location and searching for threats. He walks to the stage, shakes Nate’s hand, and takes the microphone from the stand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for far too long talented, remarkable individuals like Nate here have been subject to racial prejudice under the United States government. If Nate here can’t convince you that we need to affirm these fine, young blacks then let me be the one to tell you that we do. When I get back to D.C. tomorrow morning, we will continue our talks regarding the racial disparities in the United States and what ‘we the people’ can do to begin leveling out the playing field.” And with that, the president promptly exited the building and entered his limousine.
That was it? I was expecting a fucking Nobel Peace Prize for that performance! Nate thinks to himself. Everything went by so fast, it had hardly felt like he’d said anything at all. The crowd begins pouring out after the president. Just as Nate arrives at the bar at the back of the room, the place is empty. Nate hardly speaks the rest of the night, he instead drowns his sorrows in sazeracs and old fashioneds. It isn’t until Tajuan is completely hammered that he thinks to turn on the TV. On it, is a news broadcast of Nate standing next to the president giving his speech. The whole crew is in disbelief. But before they take shots to celebrate they go to the back office to get Phillip. They find him passed out on his couch with a brandied-tooth smile. They opt to cover him up with a few blankets and leave him to rest.
As they return back to the bar, they are stunned to find ten police officers sitting on the stools – helping themselves to drinks. Nate recognizes one of the men – that same mustached officer.
“Heard you boys got to see the president today. Well, don’t let it get to your head. This town ain’t never gonna be yours.” The mustached officer says while sipping on a shot of whiskey.
“And you, boy.” He aggressively points at Nate. “You why we came here. I see you got the guitar, but the problem is that I had two of my men attached to it.” He pulls out his revolver from his holster and cocks the hammer back.
“I’m just gonna be honest. I ain’t like you people in this country. And as much as them Yankees up North like to pretend, they ain’t like you either. Maybe Sam Cooke was right, a change gonna come. And it’s right at the end of my .45.” The mustached man fires a shot which lands in the center of Nate’s skull. He dies instantly. Nate’s bandmates attempt to fight back, but the police make quick work of the unarmed men.
Phillip awakens the next mourning to find his boys dead on the bar room floor. He drops to his knees and hugs each of them, apologizing for not being there with them. He calls the authorities, who promptly cart the bodies out of the building and clean up any evidence on the scene.
A week goes by and the murders are dismissed as “Gang mischief.” That is, until one morning, the involved officers don’t show up to work. Investigators, upon arriving at their homes are shocked to find their mutilated corpses in the midst of pentagrams – and all of the clocks frozen at 3:33. Initially, the FBI deems this a “cult-linked murder” but upon further investigation, finds that the fingerprints on the weapons link back to the officers. The case is closed as a “cult suicide.” During the process of the investigation, detectives find incriminating evidence of violent crimes linked to the officers in question. Despite their efforts to cover the story up, the press inevitably catches wind of it. The New Orleans Times front cover reads:
Satanic Police Cult Linked to Murder of Young Negro Musicians in French Quarter
Ashton Writes 