The following events occured in May. 2009, bookending several months in the south.
With the Porsche in mothballs and the need to return to Madison for work, we enlisted a friend of a friend to drive us back north.
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Wolff’s Buick had an impressive storage capacity, fitting three people’s worth of belongings, plus a 2x12 Sun Beta Lead guitar amp. Justin and I sat in the back seat, with a thick column of bags providing each our own nook.
We plotted a series of stops, somewhat against the agenda of Wolff. He had wanted a straight shot. The rest of us wanted insanity, and an attempt to compress the road trip that didn’t happen into the ensuing 36 hours.
At first, Wolff seemed okay with our plans. And then, as we neared the GA/MS border, he changed his mind. Instead of Memphis, he now wanted to travel the more direct route via Nashville.
So then, Wolff took an exit ramp, and headed right fucking back towards Atlanta. And for some reason, he turned onto some country roads, and we were then zigzagging, not headed in any useful direction.
A heated argument ensued between Aaron and Wolff.
Wolff claimed he was a dull person and had a dislike for adventure, not to mention fun. He didn’t come around until Aaron referenced a map, and explained that the miles were basically the same between our path and Wolff’s circuitous detour.
Our blood reduced to a simmer, and we headed back towards Alabama. We made it to Birmingham, refreshed ourselves, and I took over driving.
The ride through Alabama was smooth, and I had to glance at the speedometer to remember that we were doing 90.
We saw a foreboding cloud mass ahead, and within minutes, had crossed into a storm. What hit us seemed more like thin, heavy sheets, cascading over the hood and dispersing the headlights.
As the storm intensified, I could see little beyond the windshield wipers. And with our speed slowed to a crawl anyhow, I took the next exit.
We filled up at a gas station and stayed under a roof extending across the complex, while we watched the rain. I found it to be much more soothing, now that I was standing still on my feet, and my mind was free to wander.
One of the perks of a road trip is that one can generally drive long enough to escape inclement weather. Once the downpour lightened, we took to the road again and within an hour’s time passed the storm.
In our search for bluesman Robert Johnson’s grave, we decided to take the backroads, hoping for a more direct as well as scenic route. We found the location in the liner notes of a Robert Johnson boxset, so we found it on the road atlas and hoped for the best.
Nightfall came, which does tend to complicate the pursuit of an obscure cemetery in the deep country.
We went through several small towns, strung together like beads, along a continuum of about 25 mi.
We circled the last town along the string several times, taking a side road here and there, but always returning where we started.
Making one more pass, I spotted a house with its lights on, and urged Aaron to investigate. Since we had been unable to find the church on our own, I reasoned we could take advantage of some Southern hospitality.
After some additional urging, Aaron, Wolff, and Justin left the car to approach the house. I was to serve as getaway driver in case another Southern tradition - shotguns - came into play.
As they walked toward the porch, a dog barked intensely. A figure moved towards the screen door, flicked on another light, and grabbed the dog. Then, two elderly people stood at the porch.
Aaron asked for directions to the church, though after some deliberation between the couple, they did not know where it was. As Aaron got further along in conversation, he mentioned Robert Johnson. ‘Oh! Y’all looking for Robert Johnson?’ The elderly couple knew where that was! People apparently stop by quite often.
Back in the car, I watched for signs of trouble, but the nonverbal gestures I saw in the distance appeared cordial. And indeed, Aaron relayed the good news to me: take the road that had lead us into town, head back about two miles, and then take a sharp right at the yellow diamond diverging road sign. And then another 2 mi down a gravel road to a small pastel wooden church.
The sharp right on the road took us down a narrow road, which soon became a bed of gravel, flanked by thick trees.
We spotted a large dirt path with a pastel building looking over it. The air was still moist from the rain, and the fog hung low to the ground. The slight chill added to the ambience, and in the moment, felt appropriate.
A few of the graves had notable depressions, and I wondered just how far down these people’s coffins were buried. Perhaps the wood rotted through. I joked that, perhaps, we’d see a hand reaching out from down under below.
There was a light laughter from the others, underlining the desolation of this spot ripe with folklore and wandering spirits.
Standing prominently was a grey obelisk with a picture of Robert Johnson, and inscriptions of his accomplishments and influence.
The church, a creaky wood structure, seemed worn but not in frequent use. A pastor, however, was listed and Sunday services advertised.
Now, to complement the experience, we sought out the Crossroads. As the legend goes, the site where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for musical prowess.
A few towns over, the area was so highly developed that we almost missed it. I had been expecting something spookier, in accordance with the graveyard.
Instead, the intersection was highly lit. And just next to the Crossroads was my salvation, a BBQ joint. Abe’s Barbecue. And its ‘open’ sign was lit!
With a gleam in my eye, we ran to the front door.
It was locked. Another BBQ denial. The only response I could muster? Fuck you, Abe.
After a few pictures, it was back on the road to Memphis. It was now past 2 am, and the hours of driving had worn on me. Aaron and Justin didn’t have driver’s licenses, and Wolff was catching some much-needed rest after his past day-and-a-half of driving.
An hour away from Memphis, my mind collapsed. My eyes became dry, I saw strange flashes of light, and I gently swerved from edge to edge of my lane.
I attempted to pull myself together and plow through the last miles to Memphis, even if I did drive a bit below the speed limit.
We soon learn it was the weekend of the annual bbq festival. After parking, we walk into a bar, and are briskly escorted out. It was about 4 am, and they just closed. A denial of denials in the larger scheme of bbq denial.
We had just missed it! An hour before, and we could have made it. If we didn’t get lost looking for Robert Johnson; If Wolff didn’t stubbornly take that one-hour wasted detour back toward Atlanta; If...well, a lot of small nuggets of time.
So we wandered on foot aimlessly around town until the faint blue hints of sunrise came about.
Wolff, sleeping throughout our sojourn, was now rested and took over driving to St. Louis. I took a long nap in my little luggage-packed cove of the car.
