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Crossroad Blew It
Howlin Ernie “Hoppergrass” Hicks wanted to be a blues singer more than he wanted his next breath of air. The only stumbling block on the path to his dream was that he had no talent. Mindful of the Robert Johnson legend, Ernie showed up at the crossroads, guitar in hand, on a moonless night. The following night, Hoppergrass presented himself at the stage door of the Golden Chitlin. Creamcorn Willie Make It was playing the Chitlin that week and Hoppergrass hoped to get the Blessing of the Blues from him. He stood out in the cold drizzle and wind for an hour and a half before Creamcorn Willie half danced and half fell out the stage door and into the alleyway. Hoppergrass noted that Willie’s sunglasses had three lenses, one for each eye and one that covered a patch of forehead between his eyes. Willie hastened to burn up eight from a book of matches, trying to strike fire to his marijuana cigarette. There was no flame to be had in that wind; his efforts yielded only a series of sizzles, smoke, and profanities. Hoppergrass pulled out his windproof Zippo and lit the little butane torch he carried for cooking crawdads. Willie’s head bobbed backward when the nine-inch flame appeared out of the dark. He lit the joint and said, “Where you been?” The tone of reproach indicated familiarity, but Hoppergrass, as best he could recall, had never met Mr. Willie. Hoppergrass hunched up his shoulders and said what he’d come to say: “Mr. Willie, I been to the crossroads.” Willie flinched at the unfamiliar voice and asked, “Boy, who are you?” “Who’d you think I was?” “I thought you was my guardian angel who’s been AWOL for a long damn time. I feel some heat like that I’m bound to think it’s ol’ Donkey Fry. Hell, who wouldn’t?” “Who’s Donkey Fry?” “That’s my guardian angel’s name. But that ain’t your name. Who are you?” “If you please, Mr. Willie, I am Howlin Ernie Hicks, better known as Hoppergrass.” Willie chuffed through his nose. “If you was better known as anything I wouldn’t be havin to ask who you are.” “You’re right, Mr. Willie. I ain’t nobody. That’s why I went to the crossroads. Now I’ve come to get the Blues Blessing from you.” Willie took a step backward and held up a halting hand. “Did He tell you to get it from me?” “No, sir. He didn’t specify nobody. I’m just a big fan of yours and I thought—” “You thought?!” Willie’s voice was like thunder. Something in that voice frightened Hoppergrass to the edge of death. The wind and rain stopped. Insects buzzed like Judgment Day. Hoppergrass took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. He didn’t know what to do. He felt prickly all over. He started to sweat and couldn’t catch a full breath. He wanted to run but knew he couldn’t. He hadn’t the strength in his legs to run. It was all he could do—All He Could Do!—to keep from wetting his pants. He fell to his knees, moaning and praying. Was he fainting or dying? He didn’t want to die here. Not here. “Get up, boy. You ain’t dyin.” Hoppergrass steadied himself against the brick wall of the Chitlin and pushed against his feet. He would have bet against it, but he was able to stand up. Willie was in his face, spitting the words. “Do you have the slightest idea, the foggiest notion what it takes out of a person to give the Blues Blessin? I only done it once before and it took me thirteen days to get myself back sane and strong enough to sip some soup. Now here comes a stranger, someone I don’t know or give two hoots in Hell about...” Hoppergrass winced at the word, Hell. “...wantin me to give him The Blessin because he’s a big fan of mine. Big fan, maybe, but you are no friend. You Are No Friend!” Hoppergrass started backing out of the alley. “Okay, Mr. Willie. Never mind. Sorry I bothered you.” Willie stomped to Hoppergrass, grabbed him by the lapels, and dragged him back into the alley. “Never mind? You dumb bastard, get back here before you get us both killed. Don’t you know that when someone who’s been to the crossroads asks for The Blessin I cannot refuse it? No, I’m stuck with your dumb ass now. Did you ever hear of Fanny Green, the Lemon Jellybean?” Hoppergrass was discombobulated and then some. “Do what? Oh, of course. Sure. Everybody’s heard of Fanny Green. Including me.” “Well she couldn’t even fart in the right key before she met me. When I give The Blessin it stays given, and it is sufficient unto The Day. Don’t doubt that!” His hands closed around Hoppergrass’s neck. “Are you doubtin that?” Hoppergrass’s voice sounded like ET. “I ain’t doubting that. I swear.” “Don’t you doubt it!” “I won’t—don’t!” “And you realize that part of The Blessin is me givin you your Blues Name, right?” “Right.” “And that I get fifteen percent of every penny you make from here on out?” (That wasn’t really part of the deal, but what the hell?) “Right.” “Wrong! It’s twenty-five percent. You tryin to hold out on me, boy?” “No, sir. It’s twenty-five percent and not a penny less.” “You’re damn right it is.” “Damn right.” “Now then.” Willie regained his composure, straightened his coat, and tilted his head. “Let me hear what you got.” Hoppergrass grinned and fumbled with the catches on his guitar case. He adjusted the strap, concentrated hard (chewing on his tongue), and picked out a halting, multiple screw-up rendition of “The Wildwood Flower.” Willie listened with his hands covering his face. He winced at every miscue. Once he thought it took Hoppergrass fifteen minutes to find the right note, as he searched for it up and down the neck of the guitar. The song ended, at long last, like the final piece of glass tinkling from a busted windshield. Blind Willie was silent for a full thirty seconds. Then, in a kind, calm voice, he said, “That’s not even a blues song. Damn, son. What crossroads did you go to?” “Farm Road 23 and HWY 48.” Willie shook his head, trying to look sad, trying hard not to laugh. “That ain’t the right crossroads.” “He said he was the Devil, and he did look like Hell. I gave him fifty dollars and my immoral soul...” “You sold your immortal soul for some shit like that?” “Yeah, I stood out in the rain ‘till midnight.” “Well I wouldn’t admit it! That’s just embarrassin.” “Can you get a refund on something like this?” “It’s the Devil, boy, not Wal-Mart. Come to think of it, there’s not a huge difference between the two; maybe you can swap it for somethin of equal value. A plastic apple slicer or a bag of them marshmallow peanuts. Did you save your receipt?” “I didn’t get no receipt.” “Ah, hell, son, always get a receipt. Always! Every time. Get a damn receipt.” “I really screwed up, didn’t I?” “I believe you did. I donno, let me hear it again.” He played it again. No better. No quicker. “Seems like for fifty dollars and your immortal soul he could have at least taught you how to tune the damn thing.” “So do you think I can still be a blues singer?” Willie smiled and placed a gentle hand on Hoppergrass’s shoulder. “Boy, I believe you can be exactly what you are. Every bit of it. And you are blind stinkin stupid!” Hoppergrass grinned. “So that’s my Blues Name, then?” Willie laughed/snorted. “Yeah, son. That’s your blues name. And if anyone ever doubts it, you tell ‘em Creamcorn Willie Make It said so.” Hoppergrass lunged and hugged Willie, his guitar bruising the blues legend’s ribs. “You bet I will, Mr. Willie. You bet I will!”
Blind Stinkin Stupid did go on to make a darn fine living in the entertainment industry. The agents and the audience think he is doing comedy. He thinks he’s sharing his gift with the world. It works out well for all concerned, including Creamcorn Willie Make It who continues to collect his twenty-five percent. Willie knows that Hoppergrass didn’t sell his soul to the devil that night. He gave fifty bucks to some wino, no doubt, but his soul is as safe as it ever was. He can’t tell Hoppergrass that, however, because it might undermine his confidence, and he needs all the confidence he can get.
Here is a recently recorded Hoppergrass gig: Announcer: He’s Blind! Audience: Hell, yeah! Announcer: He’s stinkin stupid! Audience: I know that’s right! All together: He’s Blind Stinkin Stupid! Hoppergrass takes the stage and sings
I woke up this mawnin I woke up this mawnin I woke up this mawnin an I weren’t asleep no mo’.
That woman of mine That woman of mine That woman of mine—she’s my gal.
Went to the whiskey stow Went to the whiskey stow Went to the whiskey stow and bought me some whiskey.
Got throwed in jail Got throwed in jail Got throwed in jail by the PO-lices
That was the very first time That was the very first time That was the very first time I’d ever been arrested.
Mister jailer man Mister jailer man Mister jailer man won’t ya tell me yo’ real name?
We had grits and greens We had grits and greens We had grits and greens—to eat.
You know I washed ‘em down You know I washed ‘em down You know I washed ‘em down with a 16-ounce rootbeer.
I done seen some things I done seen some things I done seen some things that interested me considerably.
This nine-pound hammer This nine-pound hammer This nine-pound hammer don’t weigh quite ten pounds.
Won’t ya bury me Won’t ya bury me Won’t ya bury me after I’m done dead?
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