Six Strings from Mr. Switch

SIX STRINGS FROM MR.SWITCH

The rain pelted down, sticking his already tattered clothes to his weary back. He had been walking for days it seemed now, but the walking was almost done. Just up ahead stood a copse of trees, maybe enough cover to get out of this sick wetness, and stay out of it once and for all. As he pulled what was left of his shoes through the dense Mississippi mud, all that could be heard was the rain. The rain pouring down, pounding the road, and the rain thump, thump, thumping down on his now stringless guitar. It was playing the last morose tune Robert Johnson would ever hear.

Robert stumbled into the trees, a one-man procession of the damned. Lightning ripped across the sky causing him to snarl, and to curse the very god that created him. He had had enough. He had seen enough.

He tossed his guitar down and reached down in his waistband to pull out a small black oil cloth. A carbine, just one shot left. The storm was gaining intensity now, masking Robert’s tears as he stared at the carbine with both wonder and horror. Robert fell to his knees, he had had dreams, but they were over now.

“I’m sorry Momma,” he said, as he drew the revolver to his temple. Thunder shook the Earth, sending a tremor through Robert’s body. He took a deep breath in, and pulled back the hammer, “I’m so sorry.”

“Young man? I say, young man” a voice shouted out from behind him. Robert quickly shoved the revolver in his waistband to hide the shame of what he was about to do.

“Who’s there?” Robert retorted.

“I say, young man, I have a carriage on the crossroads here. You’ll catch your death if you stay out in this weather. Come with me. I can help.” The stranger’s voice sounded welcoming and calm over the storm.

“Can’t nobody help me, mister,” Robert said trembling.

The stranger came closer, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, rain pouring off all sides.

“Young man, I think I can. You must come with me now, please! But, of course, the choice is yours.”

“Who are you,” Robert shouted over the crack of thunder.

“I can be anyone you want me to be, but tonight, just a friend.” The stranger laid his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Come, my son, let me help you.” As if compelled by some unnatural force, Robert felt himself rise from his knees.

“But why?” Robert pleaded.

“Oh, the things we do for companionship! Here, let me help you with your belongings.” Swooping down with unnatural grace, the stranger picked up Robert’s guitar. “Come with me now, son.” Grasping his waist, they moved effortlessly from the trees toward the imposing carriage in the road. The carriage seemed as an extension of the man, dark, mysterious and powerful, but warm. Two oil lamps burned furiously on either side of the carriage through the storm. Their flames reflected in the eyes of the powerful stallions pulling the ominous box. The stranger swung open the door of the carriage, “After you, Robert.”

Robert entered into a world of darkness, the sound of the storm gone now, nothing but silence and the dark.

“Shall we begin?” the stranger spoke. A match flared in the abyss, finally illuminating the man’s narrow, but handsome face.

“It’s dark in here, mister,” Robert spoke, the remnants of a tremble still evident in his voice.

“Ah, allow me,” the stranger said. The flickering of the match light drifted calmly past Robert’s head to ignite a single oil lamp inside, then back to the man’s cigarette. “Care for a smoke?”

“No sir, I don’t smoke. You’re very kind but I got nothin’ to give ya for it,” Robert responded.

“Son, you misunderstand, inviting you here is the same as inviting you into my home. And when you’re in my home, you must make yourself at home.”

Robert reached for the cigarette with his still damp hands, noticing the dry warmth of the stranger’s, and put it to his lips. “Why you doin’ this mister? What do you want with me?”

“My boy,” the stranger said, bringing the match to Robert’s cigarette, “the things we do for companionship can seem quite strange, quite strange indeed. I myself was alone on this night, and could not help but notice a lonely wretch as you. Now we are not alone, we are together, and it is quite as simple as that.”

“Well, I thank you for that. I thank you for being out of the rain.” Robert’s voice cracked.

“It’s no problem at all, Robert.”

“I never told you my name, mister,” Robert recounted their meeting and up to this point. He had not told the man his name.

“But, of course you did. When you cursed your own maker, it was then that I knew you. It was then that you called to me, and told me your name, your story, your desire. I can do that.”

A dreadful sense of unease fell upon Robert as he placed his hand near his gun.

“I NEVER TOLD YOU MY NAME!” Robert protested through gritted teeth.

“Now, now my boy, let’s not be hasty. I’ve known you since the day you were born. For every thought you have had, and every moment of despair, I have been there. For every wicked desire, I’ve been there. For I am the one that always told you that you could. Every voice that drove you to the power and respect you crave, was me. And I can give it all to you now.”

“What are you, then?” Robert’s unease settled as he knew the answer but wanted to hear it said aloud. He had asked for this.

“You know me, my son. I’m Mr. Switch. I’m a man of many names, Robert, but the moment you saw me you knew who I was and decided to follow me. With that being said, I have something to offer you.” The lamp flared in the carriage elucidating the black hollows of Mr. Switch’s eyes while Robert gazed on with intrigue and apprehension.

“What can you offer me mister? I’m a nobody, and nobody wants nothin’ to do with me.”

“Two things. Two things for the price of one, Robert. The contents of this box, and some new strings for that guitar of yours,” said Mr. Switch.

“For what, though?” Robert asked. “What could I possibly have to give?”

“Why, for the very thing you were about to give, Robert. Your life.” Mr. Switch seemed sincere, but terrifying at the same time.

“My life ain’t worth nothin’ to nobody. You got the wrong guy.”

“Oh no, I’m very sure I have the right guy. You see, I always find the right guy.” Mr. Switch smoothly picked up Robert’s guitar. “Watch closely now, son” he said as he laid the weathered beast across his knees. Robert looked on in amazement as Mr. Switch ran his hand over the guitar, starting at the neck, and felt his jaw go slack as the once beaten and string-less guitar now took on a bright new finish, and six golden strings. Mr. Switch offered the restrung guitar to Robert with a twisted grin. As soon as Robert touched the neck, the strings glinted a blinding light. A great swelling filled Robert’s mind and senses, and it seemed now that he could faintly hear music as well.

“How? How did you…” Robert trailed off. Flicking the strings, he noticed his dingy nails were pristine. Moving his gaze up his arm where his once bedraggled shirt clung with moisture, Robert now saw crisp white linen. He sat the guitar next to him, taking in his newly furnished attire.

“Quite simple, my son. Quite simple indeed, but our work here isn’t done. No, not done at all! There’s something more I’d like to give you as well.” Switch offered a bespoke wooden box to Robert, and pulled a small black notebook from his waistcoat. “This is for you. All I need is a simple signature in my book.”

Robert opened the box and gasped with a tear, beaming his white teeth through full lips. He had never seen so much money. In this moment there was no question. Robert snatched the notebook from Switch and scribbled his name in a manic state of joy, leaving his thoughts behind. When he finally looked up from his future in the box, Mr. Switch wore his true nature. Rows of jagged teeth protruded from thin lips, and dark sunken eyes peered into Robert’s very soul. In those eyes burned the fires of Hell and Robert knew he made a mistake. Panic stricken he reached for his gun.

A single bullet could end this nightmare. As he pulled the carbine out, Mr. Switch laughed a sinister laugh, and the gun underwent a metamorphosis in Robert’s hands. Robert gasped in abject horror as the carbine started to squirm around his closed fist. He couldn’t let go. He heard the rattle first, then saw the snake head peering directly at him.

“A deal is a deal, Robert,” Switch hissed, mimicking the rattlesnake wrapped around Robert’s hand with a poisonous gaze. In one moment, the snake and Mr. Switch were one in the same. They moved in tandem and with the snap of Switch’s fingers, as the snake struck toward Robert’s face, it disappeared. Robert grabbed Mr. Switch by the collar of his black coat and pleaded, screaming, “I didn’t mean it! Take it back! I don’t want this mister!”

Mr. Switch overpowered him and leaned in, nearly nose to nose as the carriage door fell open. “As I said, a deal is a deal,” Switch laughed maniacally. “All I’ve given you is exactly what you wanted. The world is an oyster, and you, my boy, are the pearl!” Switch’s shark-like teeth gleamed pearlescent in the amber glow of the lamp light. Thunder shattered the sky above them, and with one big shove, Robert was plunged through the threshold of the carriage.

Robert was falling, and falling, and falling through blackness until he fell hard on the dry dirt road. Hurriedly, Robert jumped up from the dust still clutching the box and guitar looking around frantically for Mr. Switch’s carriage. The midday sun shone bright in stark contrast to the abysmal carriage.

He was now as alone as he was when he embarked down the once muddied road. He made for the cluster of trees where a day earlier he intended to end it all. Leaning against a large old Oak, he counted out the cash in the box, $20,000. “A black man can’t have this much money walking around Mississippi,” he thought to himself, Now it was a place of rebirth, of new beginnings. He cleared away the earth and dug furiously with his clean hands, and the power of a god, to conceal his fortune. One thing was certain, though, his guitar would stay by his side. Vowing to return for his prize, Robert strode back toward his home. He plucked at his newly strung guitar, and the words came effortlessly:

**“Early this mornin’

When you knocked upon my door

Early this mornin’ whoooo

When you knocked upon my door

And I said ‘Hello Satan’

I believe it’s time to go.”

**Lyrics from Robert Johnson’s Me and the Devil Blues (Take 1); recorded in Dallas, Tx in 1937 by Vocalion Records, American Recording Corporation