Intersection of Hwy 82 and Hwy 49 E

Greenwood, Mississippi

June 1929 

Midnight

            Robert sat on his guitar case. He was strumming a tune that had been in his head for quite awhile. His fingers moved swiftly over the strings. The blues that came out of the guitar was almost magic, almost. Robert kept hitting a snag as he tried to close out the song. He had been toiling over it now for weeks. Robert knew he was good but he wanted to be great. He paused playing for a moment and took a sip from his bottle. Then he went back to playing. Behind him in the bushes he could hear something rustling. Robert was neither a big man nor a manly one. It was late and he was black sitting on the side of the road in Mississippi. He was afraid but the whiskey gave him a little more courage than he would have normally had.

He slowly reached into his front pocket and pulled out his blade. Robert loved many woman and many a woman with a man loved Robert. So it stood to reason Robert would need a blade, because he surely wasn’t going to quit loving the women.

If the sound happened to be white folks, well then maybe he could play them a song. Robert had learned that when around stupid country white folks, a black man had best be dumber or else. Robert was smart enough to play real field hand dumb.

Robert slowly stood up. He pretended to stretch. Then he quickly spun around and threw his empty whiskey bottle in the direction of the noise. He heard the clunk of the bottle connecting with its’ target.

“Owe!” a scream came from the bush.

“Who is there? I’ll cut you. I aint playin. Show yourself,” Robert commanded holding the open blade tightly in his hand.

A young black boy came out from behind the bushes. He could not have been any older than 10 maybe 12. Robert relaxed and smiled at the boy. The boy was holding his head. He looked mad.

“You hit me with that bottle.” The boy said.

“Why you hiding off over yonder,” Robert asked.

“I heard you playin the guitar. I want to learn. They call you R.L.” The boy said.