Clunk!
The lights on the black BMW’s dashboard lit up like a demonic Christmas tree. As the $100,000 sports sedan sputtered to a stop, Bob Johnson looked at his cellphone. It was dead, too. Great. No lifeline; and he really wasn’t sure where he was. All he knew was that he was on Highway 1 south of Rosedale, somewhere in the depths of the Mississippi Delta. And he looked at his phone again, and then realized he was in big trouble. Earlier in the day, he had signed a deal with a client in Clarksdale. Now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere The sound of cicadas and a wet, wool blanket of humidity greeted him as he climbed out of this Beemer. Steam poured from under the hood and from Bob’s ears.
Why now? Why in this Godforsaken place? Bob shook his fist at the sky
Bob Johnson was one of the nation’s most successful attorneys and entrepreneurs. He also was a lot like his car. He had traveled fast, had not done much in the way of maintenance and now was breaking down. He kicked the car’s left front tire out of frustration and felt a sharp pain radiate up from his toes.
“OK,” Bob thought, “That was stupid.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
A voice boomed from a nearby creek bank.
The Mississippi Delta, which once had been a giant swamp, was tamed by man in the late 19th and early 20th Century. Or at least man thought he had tamed it. Since then it had become a battleground for great good and great evil. Another Bob Johnson had once allegedly sold his soul to Satan himself in exchange for Eddie Van Halen-worthy guitar skills. This Bob Johnson, though, wasn’t interested in musical skills. He just wanted to get home. As the man rose up from the creek bank, Bob turned and watched a white Air Tractor plane performing a mesmerizing aerial acrobatic routine as it dusted a nearby field.
“Can I help you?” the old man said, using his fishing pole is a walking stick.
He was African-American, maybe 80, and wore a pair of worn overalls and a clean, brilliantly white shirt underneath.
“Not unless you are a BMW mechanic.”
The old man smiled, “I didn’t exactly bring my toolbox. But I live close by and have a phone.”
Bob realized that this was the best deal on the table and reluctantly accepted.
“So tell me about yourself,” the old man asked.
“Well, I guess you should tell me your name first if I’m going to burden you with my life.” Bob replied.
“My name is Gabriel. I have lived here my whole life and I have seen incredible beauty and horrific pain. My wife died of cancer three years ago and our only son died in the Iraq War. It’s just me now. Me and these fish I try to catch.”
“I bet,” Bob replied. Bob knew of the history of the Delta. In the middle of its great beauty was also incredible pain. That pain been like an irritant in an oyster; it covered and turned pain into a pearls. A good example of that was the Blues. Bob continued, “My name is Bob. I grew up in Atlanta, became a successful attorney and am one of the best in my field.”
“So you are humble,” Gabriel said with a smile.
“It ain’t bragging if it is true.” Bob shot back.
“Then why are you so unhappy, Mr. Successful?” Gabriel replied.
Bob didn’t know how to answer. That hit him squarely in his very carefully hidden heart. How did this man know that his life was a wreck? But Bob did not answer as they continued to walk toward Gabriel’s house.
The two men came to an intersection — a crossroads you might say.
“Let me guess, this is where you offer me something for my soul.” Bob sarcastically said.
Gabriel shook his head.
He then said, “No, I don’t need your soul for you to be in Hell. You’re already there. And you know what? You put yourself there. You don’t need Satan here to temp you. You’re miserable voluntarily. And you know what? You have the key to get out in your own pocket.”
Bob fumbled around in his pocket and just felt his BMW’s key fob. “What do you mean?”
Gabriel continued, “I sense great fear in you. And no, I am not Yoda. But when you live around here long enough, you understand the cancer that trauma is.”
Bob looked silently into the old man’s eyes. He had grown up with a mentally ill mother who drank. One minute she was the best mom ever. The next, she was the Devil herself. Bob had blamed himself for the fact that the woman didn’t love him. So he became an overachiever and a control freak. That control, though, had started to unwind as he got older. And today, deep in the Mississippi Delta, his ability to be the master of everything in his life had broken down.
He felt sweat trickle down his back.
Gabriel looked back at Bob. When Bob lifted his eyes and looked at Gabriel’s face, he saw his mother’s face. And when Gabriel spoke it was her face. “I am sorry, son. What you thought was evil was me trying to survive. I didn’t know how to get help. But you can. You don’t need to continue on my route. This is your crossroads. You have the freewill to choose a different path.”
Bob was convinced it was the heat of the Delta. But he looked at the old man’s face again and it was back to, well, an old man.”
Gabriel looked Bob and said in his mother’s voice, “Love, forgiveness, service. That’s the path you need to take. And you should also think about taking up guitar. I think you’d be good at it. I love you.”
Bob said, “You aren’t the Devil?”
Gabriel laughed, “Do you think the Devil would be named Gabriel?”
Bob’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was working! The BMW dealer had gotten notice that his car had broken down and was sending a tow truck.
Gabriel said, “My house is nearby. Let me get you a bottle of cold water and I’ll take you back to your car in my truck.” The two men walked towards the modest old house tucked in the shade of four oak trees.
The crop duster buzzed overhead. As the pilot looked out his cockpit canopy, he only saw one man in a suit walking out of Hell and toward a new life.
