Road to Nowhere

It was a misty morning . . . thick and otherworldly. The kind of mist that covers everything and takes away all the markers of reality, creating a space devoid of time. I stopped on the road to take a picture. The year could have been now, but then again, it might not have been.

Amid a swirl of dust, an ancient car - the kind you don't see anymore - pulled up, and a young black man with a guitar got out. His clothes seemed old-fashioned. Atop his head sat a black fedora with a shiny silk band around it. The car pulled away, the windows so dark I couldn't see inside. It disappeared into the mist.

The young man said that he was looking for a crossroads nearby; did I know where it might be?

I could tell by the glint in his eye that he must be meeting Somebody Important. He looked around: left, then right, back again. He nervously strummed his guitar.

"No crossroads here," I said; shook my head; pointed . . . maybe a little further on up the road? The mist swirled. The sun appeared and disappeared. I took more pictures: the road, the fence, the poles. So many shades of gray.

The young man cleared his throat and I looked at him. He looked more closely at me. I could tell he had something more to say.

The young man explained that he had sold his soul to the Devil, and he was to meet the Devil somewhere near here to finalize the deal. He looked even closer at me, awkwardly choked out the words: Did I think the Devil might be a woman?

I thought long and hard before I answered him: "Young man," I said; "I don't think so, but then again I'm no expert. I do know that if it is, I'm not she."

And so he shook his head; turned away from me; waved a farewell. And then he walked on down the road into the mist, looking for that crossroads, strumming his guitar: a few notes of a beautiful, haunting blues tune.

He softly sang along: something about walking side by side with the Devil and how it was time to go. I think it went something like this . . .

(Listen to Eric Clapton's cover of Me and the Devil Blues on Youtube.)

The sound faded, quickly deadened by the mist. In a second he had disappeared, leaving not a trace. No man, no guitar, no car. I scratched my head. Did I dream it? Did it really happen?

I really can't tell you that I know the truth, but on a road like this, where time slips, and with the edges between the real and the not-real all blurry like that, I think anything could happen. Yessirree, anything at all . . .