An Evening at the Opry

Jackson Morris is, without a doubt, the most gifted guitar player to ever grace this Earth. He could even be considered the greatest musician to ever grace this Earth. In fact, you could argue that no one has ever been better at any one thing than Jackson is at playing the guitar.

People come from all over the world to watch Jackson play, wherever he plays. And tonight, New Year’s Eve, 1937, he is playing at the Grand Ole Opry, his name emblazoned on the marquee. The famous auditorium is packed to the brim with the few lucky souls who were able to buy, cheat or steal their way in. The excited tension building this evening is threefold: It’s New Year’s Eve, it’s the mystery surrounding the phenom and, perhaps most importantly, Jackson Morris is black. He’s the first black man to ever headline the Opry. The conversations buzz almost equally between childish wonder and racist scorn.

Almost a bigger story than what is happening inside the theatre is what’s happening outside of it. Thousands of people are crowded around the building. But, despite the potential controversy of the show, the crowd is not there to protest. They have gathered for another reason entirely.

“Why wait on the street all night if you have no chance of getting in?” asks a reporter for the New York Times, who also can’t get in.

“Just a note.” Replies a man dressed in mere rags, “I heard him play four years ago in a little juke joint outside Chattanooga, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed. If I could just hear him play one more chord, one more note, I would be happy. So, I wait outside in hopes that one chord might just slip out into the streets.”

This sentiment is shared by the rest of the crowd, huddled as close to the doors as they can right as the show is about to start.

Inside, the audience has finally taken their seats. The roar of conversation has died down to an anxious murmur. The audience is struck silent as Jackson emerges from behind the curtain. He strides, guitar in hand, to the lone chair at the center of the stage. There’s no orchestra, no other band members, and no stand holding sheets of music. Jackson doesn’t need it; he plays from within.

The slapping of dress shoes on tile is the only audible sound in the whole theatre. The audience collectively holds their breathe as Jackson sits. A long, tenuous moment of silence lingers. Then, he plays.

Those who were there that night say that that air inside the Grand Ole Opry suddenly got warmer, the lights, brighter. The music sounded the way a hug from your mother feels. Each and every person in that audience was taken that night to a place that made them feel safe and loved on the back of the most indescribable sound. Smiles were painted, involuntarily, on every face in the room. Every face except one.

Standing in the very back of the Opry is a distinct man. He’s a man of obvious looks and style. He’s incredibly good looking with slicked back, jet black hair and ice blue eyes with a faint hint of red. His suit is a perfect tailored 3-piece pinstripe power suit. His tie is bright red. He stands out drastically, yet somehow went unnoticed the entire night. His piercing eyes look on with distain, and as Jackson’s last song comes to a close, he finally lets out a bitter smirk.

This mystery man flips through the pages of his distressed little black book until he lands on the desired page that reads only: “Jackson Morris. Guitar. January 1, 1937.” As applause explode and Jackson takes a humble bow, the villain slips out the back.

Jackson enters the green room. What would normally be a raucous party celebrating yet another astounding performance, complete with all of Jackson’s best friends, is now just an empty room. Per Jackson’s request, the only one in the green room is Jackson’s son Andrew, a fifteen-year-old boy.

Jackson rushes into the room and hurriedly puts his guitar into its case, lays it at Andrew’s feet, and scrawls on a nearby sheet of paper.

“Do you still have that dollar I gave you earlier?” Jackson asks, out of breath.

“No dad, remember? I bought a coke and a candy bar before the show.” Andrew replies.

Jackson asks how much his son has left, then finishes his quick writing. The piece of paper he hands to Andrew reads: “Bill of sale for one guitar and one guitar case to Andrew Morris by Jackson Morris for 70c on December 31, 1936.”

“Sign above where it says your name. Hurry.” Jackson demands.

Andrew, confused, follows his father’s instructions before asking: “What’s going on?”

“Give me the 70 cents.”

Andrew hesitates. It’s the only money he has, he’s not sure why his father is making him give it up so soon after giving it to him.

“Now, son, please! We don’t have much time. Give me the 70 cents and take the guitar.”

Andrew, now frightened, fishes the change from his pocket and hands it over to his father, who has now pulled in and knelt very close to Andrew. He whispers:

“I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but I need you to listen very carefully, do you understand?” asks Jackson.

Andrew, now terrified, musters up a small nod.

Jackson continues: “Take the guitar and go home.”

“Are you coming too?” Andrew interrupts.

After a long, labored pause Jackson replies, “Later. Now, listen. You know the spot in the backyard in the garden where nothing grows?”

Andrew nods.

Jackson continues, “Dig there. Go about six feet down and you’ll find an old suitcase. Inside that suitcase is twenty thousand dollars in cash. That’s yours now.”

Andrew now begins to tear up, his fear boiling over. “Dad, please tell me what’s going on, I’m scared.”

“I know you are, and I am too. I don’t have time now to explain, it’s almost midnight, but there is a black notebook buried with the cash. Read it, inside it I have explained everything.”

A crowd of elated partyers stand by a clock in the lobby of the theatre, not far from where Jackson and Andrew sit in the green room. The clock reads 11:59, the second hand is inching closer to the 12. The crowd begins excitedly counting down the last seconds of 1936. “TEN. NINE. EIGHT…”

Jackson hears this from inside the green room and he, too, tears up. He grabs his son with both hands and together they cry silently, sharing what Jackson knows will be his final moments with his son. He can only choke out the words “I did it for you. I love you.” Just as the crowd hits “ONE!” and more cheers erupt. This is Jackson’s cue. He holds his son tight for just another few seconds, then walks out of the green room and slips out a back door into the night.

Waiting for him in the darkness is the man in the suit. “Thirteen years goes by fast as hell doesn’t it?”

Jackson simply walks by him further into the dark alley behind the theatre without saying a word.

The man in the suit follows, “Of c’mon now Jacks, don’t be bitter. We both knew is day was coming. Here, I even wrote it down in this handy little notebook. Jackson Morris, guitar, January 1st, 1937.”

“I know what it says” Jackson snaps.

“Well then you know what has to happen now. Your time is up, Jackson. Was it worth it?”

Jackson stops walking and looks up to the stars. He takes a few deep breaths in, letting the crisp, cool winter air fill his lungs before answering: “That depends on how you look at it. On it’s face, no. I got a raw deal. Thirteen years and a magic guitar, and all I had to give up was my measly soul. Now, if I did it for the fame and the money, well I’d be feeling pretty stupid right about now. An eternity in hell with nothing to show for it but a few bucks and a fancy house. But I didn’t do it for the fame and the money. At least not for me. I did it for legacy. See, I recorded my playing and pressed it onto tens of thousands of records. My music will live on long after tonight. Music that heals people, mends the souls you try so hard to break, and now it’s out there forever. And I did it for my son, who has all the money he could ever need as well as the very tool that you gave me to build this legacy.”

The smile on the Devil’s face is dashed away, replaced by a look of confusion.

“Oh yeah.” Continues Jackson, “I sold him the guitar, just now. I know you don’t believe in much but contracts you must always honor.”

Fire burns in the Devil’s eyes.

“So yes, you can have my soul, but you can’t have my legacy, and you can’t have the music. Those will live on for eternity. So, when you look at it that way, I guess it was worth it.”

Ever a ruthless competitor, the Devil feels slighted. However, in a strange way, he respects Jackson. And with a smile and a snap of his fingers, the two of them leave this mortal plane, as equals.

Later that night, a sweaty Andrew finishes digging as he reaches the suitcase his father was talking about. He brushes it off, brings it inside, and opens it.

Sure enough, as Jackson had told him, the suitcase was filled with twenty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and a small black notebook. He sets the money aside and turns the cover on the notebook.

Once he finishes reading about his father’s Faustian tale, his teary eyes turn to the guitar case, not ten feet away. Despite his father’s massive talent and fame as a guitar player, Andrew had never once picked up a guitar himself.

Skeptical of what was in the notebook, Andrew removes the guitar slowly and sets it on his lap. He plucks a single string, the sound echoes throughout the large room. He plucks another. And another. And without even thinking, he starts to play. He plays it just like his father, maybe even better. He can’t believe his ears, the music pours out of the guitar and Andrew smiles a bittersweet smile, as he can feel the soul of his father in every tune.

THE END