27

"Aaaaaand that wraps up another solid hour of power ballads from the boys with big hair here at WKWK! Wokka Wokka! Now, loyal listeners, it's time to mellow right on down to melancholy; you all know what's coming! After some messages from our sponsors, we'll be back with the bluuuues! Some of the good OLD stuff! Right from old Robert Johnson! Right after he sold his soul to the Devil himself, if you believe those old tales!"

Deke flipped off the mic, swung the boom out of his way, and stood. The graveyard shift was starting to get to him, he suspected. It seemed to be developing a darker twist to his humor of late. He pulled his headphones off and began queuing the next hour's music up, and smiling impishly, led out with Johnson's 'Me and the Devil Blues.'

Some new wonder drug was being peddled in the commercial (sure to cure all your ills) with only the mild side-effect of sudden death. Deke wondered what kind of desperate people would trade an inconvenient condition for a cure that might kill them. He thought about the way things were in the world right then, everyone scared or worried about something, and decided he didn't blame them. Cured or dead, either way that what-ever-it-was won't bother them anymore.

He shook his head, to scatter those thoughts, and figured he may as well get to the rest of his job. WKWK was a small-time station, and he was the night crew. Just him. He was the 10 pm to 6 am DJ and cleaned the place overnight. Deke had discovered that if he worked like a madman the first couple hours, he could take it easy the rest.

Most nights, he would practice with his guitar, and dream of being one of the greats: Hendrix, Morrison, or one of the Stones. Up on the stage, in the lights, a sea of fans, a million lighters, he saw in his mind's eye, night after night.

Deke had just put away the vacuum when he thought he heard a knock on the station door. He stopped by the booth to queue up a few more songs, I'll tell 'em the Devil made me do it, Deke thought, and smiled. It withered somewhat, at the small strange black book that caught his eye.

He was about to pick it up when a voice spoke directly into his ear: "It's true you know."

Deke's heart immediately leapt into his throat, as his mind struggled to instantly process the unknown threat. He whirled around, while stepping back, and was face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. His mind had just informed him that her voice was also as lovely as her appearance. "It is? What's true?" Deke's sudden shock was gone, but this stranger held him in thrall.

She smiled, tilted her head, and flicked her eyes toward the speakers playing 'Love in Vain.' "Him, Robert Johnson. He sold his soul to me."

Deke had seen crazies in his life, people that were drunk, drugged, mentally unstable, or a combination thereof. This woman seemed lucid and coherent, despite her strange words, so he said, "Who are you? What do you want?"

He slowly backed away, keeping a careful eye on her every move. He wouldn't mention involving police until he was safely away from her, in case she was indeed a crazy. He had learned before that sometimes if you just kind of went with the flow with the crazies, you could get away before they freaked out.

"Call me Lillith," she said smirking, "and think whatever you will, but I'm not crazy. Your other question is wrong. It's not what I want. it's what YOU want."

Deke should be able to feel the doorknob by now, but his fingers found only air. Deke's mind was racing, he was trying to get a step ahead of her. Now why did that name sound so familiar? Wasn't Lillith Adam's first wife?

"I shut that door when I came in. Go on, give it a go, if you want. Here try your phone. You won't be able to reach your police. If I wanted to hurt you, that would've already happened and I'd be gone." She looked at the book.

Deke turned his head and saw the door was shut. No wonder he didn't find the knob. He reached over and gave it a twist; sure enough, no give. He turned around to face her, and said, "What do you mean, what I want?"

"Isn't that you in here every night dreaming of being a rock star? Having thousands of adoring fans just, well, adoring you?" Lillith picked up the book, ran a finger down the cover and tossed it over, saying, "Catch! Thumb through it. Tell me what you see."

Deke caught the book and almost dropped it, because it was warm to the touch and had a strangely supple quality that was completely unexpected. Much like this stranger's voice in his ear earlier. He opened the book partway, and there was Robert's signature. Alan Wilson, Brian Jones, Ron McKernan, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, John Allen Hendrix. One right after the other. Some of those big-time stars he was just dreaming about last night.

"They all signed it, then became famous, you see. The poor dears had such dreary dreadfully dull little lives, that they simply could not bear it any longer. They wanted excitement and meaning," her words flowed like silver, "and I gave that to them. I gave them bright and shining years for the dull and unremarkable ones. They were just throwing them away anyhow! Tell you what. I like you; you're a true dreamer. One of the last ones left out there. Not many remember who I am so I'll let you have an advance of twenty-thousand dollars. I hope coin will do."

The shock of it all finally caught up with him and his knees unhinged. Lillith's laughter followed him down into darkness.

Deke came to, sprawled on the booth floor. At least I'm a good cleaner, he thought confusedly. The fog cleared, and he remembered the last few moments. He scrambled to his feet, looked around him, and sighed in relief. She was gone. He closed his eyes, and heaved a sigh of relief.

He took a moment to compose himself, then carefully searched the station, but could find no sign of Lillith. He returned to the booth, settled in, and was reaching for the mic switch when again, the book caught his eye. He picked it up and there was a pouch full of handmade silver coins. He flipped the book open, and there was a blank space just waiting for him. A note fell out: Think of all those long years missing and wishing on your dream, and think of how different it can all be. -L

He thought about his life so far, about how empty and hollow it was, and thought about the dreams he had had ever since he could remember. He picked up the pen and brought it down. Sometimes, there really is no choice at all; sometimes your dreams chase you.