I pulled my hip flask out and took a drink. The night canopy was bursting with little pinpricks of twinkling light, and I tried to remember the last time I had seen so many stars. Must've been during that little Colombian jag somewhere outside of Cali, with Jasmine. I half wished I was back in that briar patch; this waiting by the side of the road in the dark was getting a little spooky, even for me. The night was hot (so second-skin close), said a little voice in my ear. I started. Then I smiled knowingly. I knew what this was, an hallucination. Yep, no doubt about it. Like that time I was blasting through Albuquerque during rush hour on I-40 after having driven all night, and the bumper of the car in front of me transformed into a mouth and began lip-syncing the words to a song I was listening to on the radio. Scared the living bejeezus out of me, I don't mind telling you. What I needed now was about a week of uninterrupted shuteye. Still, I couldn't help wonder what it is about the mind that demands a few hours of play in the sandbox of the Absurd. And if you don't allow it that playtime, it will move its sandbox into your back yard, and then car bumpers turn into mouths and begin singing Rod Stewart's "Handbags and Gladrags" to you. Something strange about those words, though: so second-skin close. If this was an hallucination, it was an hallucination I had had before. And recently. I was too tired to think about it now. I dragged the guitar case into the weeds, propped my head against it and fell asleep.

The morning sun broke over me like the First Wave of the Normandy Invasion. German troops and the Allies were recreating the battle inside my head. Nothing like a little hair of the dog that bit you for those trying "morning after" times. I took a swig from my flask and put it back in my hip pocket. I wondered what time it was. There was something to be said for being drunk before noon. I would heartily recommend that everyone try it at least once in their lives. It makes taking care of all those mundane yet necessary morning tasks, like buying lettuce at the supermarket, or standing in line at the post office to mail a package, so much more enjoyable and entertaining. And the spin that it puts on the rest of the day! Puts everything into its proper perspective: hazy.

I heard a car approaching. I stumbled out of the weeds with the guitar case to see a 1963 Chrysler Imperial, tail fins cocked high, said the little voice in my ear again. Where the hell was that voice coming from? The jet black Chrysler stopped in the middle of the intersection. The driver let the big block four-forty rumble low and easy at idle while I stood waiting at the front of the car. Then he shut off the motor, opened the door, and stepped out. The sun was in my eyes and I couldn't quite make out the tall slender figure as he sidled away from the car and patted down his suit. Then he began to walk toward me. Three steps later I could make out the face of a smiling black man, shaking his head from side to side as if in disbelief. From somewhere behind him I heard the strain from the car radio, "Come on in,
To my kitchen; and the little voice in my ear said, "Now what soundtrack should I play for My Blues?"

"Damn, dere you be, looking sho' nuff like something de cat done drug in, " said the black man, and he threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Sho' nuff." Then he began to look around.

"Shoo-wee, don' dis bring back some times. You don' know where you be, does you, ole man? You don' know where you standin' is de 'voodoo' groun'. Dey's blood runs like a river 'neath yo' feet, you jes' can't see it. Son, dis is where it all began fo' me - many, many long years ago."

I stood dumbfounded. I couldn't think of anything to say. Suddenly the instructions Kerouac gave me popped back into my head but the black man anticipated me.

"What you got dere, boy? Lemme see dat box," and he took the guitar case out of my hand. He opened the case and removed the guitar. "Hmmmm....ain' de bes', but it got some ring to it," he said as he deftly strummed a full-bodied chord. Soun' like de 'D' is a little off, though," he declared, and began to tune the string. I found my tongue.

"Who killed 'Three Hands' Washington?" I blurted. The black man looked up from where he had been squatting in the middle of the road. He seemed a little surprised by my question.

"Now, Blake, if'n I was to tell you dat straight off, why, it won' be right. It wouldn' mean nothing to you. You ain' had to do no real detective work yet. It's all been easy, what with you dreamin' and de ole ghost boys from de Tavern tellin' you what you got to do. Now it's time to pay up. It's time to settle wif de Man."

I thought I knew what he meant and reached for my wallet. "Okay, right...'there ain't no such thing as a free lunch,' I get it. How much is this going to cost me?"

The man just smiled. "You ain' got enough money to pay what you gots to pay for what I know. I ain' got no use for money, not no mo'. You's got to suffer de Curse."

"The Curse?" I was beginning to think I had stepped into the Twilight Zone. "What Curse?" I asked.

"You's got to know Love," the man said as he handed the guitar back to me. "Love like you's never known befo'. You know what I'm talking 'bout?"

"Sure," I replied. "You're talking about that itch you got to scratch. That urge to play 'Hide the Salami.'" The Curse. "When the little head does all the thinking for the big head." I was crestfallen. "Does this mean I have to get married again?"

No, no, Blake, you got it all wrong," the black man laughed. "Not jes' that. I'm talking about de kind of love you gets with the right woman. De one woman on de face of de eart' you know's right for you. De one dat when you meet her, you know she completes some part of you dat you didn' even know was missin'. De woman you takes the simple pleasures in, like seein' her firs' thing when you opens your eyes in de mornin', or listenin' to her breathe as she sleeps beside you. De woman you knows is the reason you was put on dis eart' to love. De one dat you live to make happy. De woman who inspires you to write poetry or sing songs, when you knows dat you ain' no poet or singer. De one you gets so deep into that you can' tell where you leave off and she begin. De one dat when you looks into her eyes you see worlds you didn' know existed. De 'one-of-a-kind' woman, one like you never met befo', an' you knows will never meet again. De woman you lose yourself in. And hopes no one ever finds you. Dat's what it's all about. Dat's gonna make a love like you never seen befo'. Den poof."

"Then 'poof'?" asked Blake, not understanding.

"She gone. One day she up and leaves, no reason. Jes' gone. Not dead. An' you know she out dere somewhere, you can feel her, but she not dere for you. And when she leave, she take the bes' part of you with her, she take the kernel an' leave you the husk. She jes' leave you with a big empty hole where you life used to be, an' you gonna try to fill it in again. You think you's got a healthy and hearty drinking habit now, you jes' wait. You gonna be swimmin' in Four Roses. Or maybe you try to fill it up wit' some other women's. But it ain' gonna be the same, and sad part is, you know it ain' never gonna be the same, but you keep tryin' anyway, jes' spinning your wheels, like some fool. Dat's de Curse. Dat's knowing you got a love burnin' a hole in your pocket, and dere's a woman you wants to spend it on out dere, but you can', 'cause you don' know where she is, an' she ain' never coming back. An' you gots to go about, to and fro, thinking on her, just this side of a breakdown, wit' dat river o' tears runnin' just behind your eyes, any minute ready to spill over its banks and onto your cheeks."

"Dat's de price you gotta pay for de answer to de mystery. Now, put your wallet away," he said gravely, "and get ready to pay some real dues."

"No," I said. "Not that. You're asking me to feel things again, and I don't know if I can take that, not after so long. It'd be too much of a shock."

"Too late," said the black man. "De fix done in. Congratulations, you got what's known as, da blues." And he tipped his hat as he smiled and began to walk back to the car. I looked down at the guitar in my hand and strummed a chord, an E, solid and definitive in sound. The chord seemed to say it all, but when it was coupled with the A7 that followed, I almost cried right there on the spot. Funny, I didn't know I could play guitar. Maybe when this was over I would follow the Beat ghosts over and jam a little with Memphis Slim.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Man, I'm de King o' de Delta Blues players," he said as he was getting into the car. "I'm Johnson. Robert Johnson." Hr started the car. The four-forty big block roared to life. I ran up to the window, guitar still in hand.

"But you didn't answer the question," I said. "Who killed Three Hands?"

"Want a lift to Memphis?" Johnson offered. "I ain' never seen Elvis' grave. It only be right one King ought to go pay his respects to another King. I'll tell you on de way."

I slid into the passenger seat and threw the guitar in the back, which was almost big enough for a king-size bed to fit in. Johnson stepped on the accelerator and spun us around headed northeast. I heard Woke up this morning, blues all around my head in my ears as the Chrysler's transmission shifted into second.