Mister Satan's Apprentice: A Blues Memoir

14. Ball of Fire

BALL OF FIRE / was in my room and I bowed down to pray— then the blues came along and blowed my spirit away. —SON HOUSE, "PREACHIN' THE BLUES" ATER ON, AFTER WE? D BEEN T H R O U G H the cycle a few more times, I'd learn to have a sense of humor about Mister Satan's annual Countdown to Apocalypse. This first time all I could do was drive down to Shakespeare Flats, heart pounding, wondering what I'd find. We had a surprisingly cozy visit, the three of us. He pulled me into his tiny overheated back room, heady with cigarette smoke and a jangle of women's perfume. Miss Macie was lazing back on the bed, Kool in hand. He'd anointed himself, I gathered—blended half a dozen different scents from bottles guys had sold or given him on the street. He showed me the collection, rowed on his dresser: Opium, Obsession, English Leather, Charlie. "Get you a little dab of my rainbow cologne," he said, holding out the bottle. I hesitated, then submitted, trying not to wince as I sniffed the back of my hand. "Good," he chuckled. "I like that." 247 CHAPTER FOURTE E N L Mister Satan's Apprentice He had something important involving numbers to show me. Before doing so, he reached underneath his bed and pulled out a half-filled mason jar, clear liquid slightly wisped with impurities. "Back in Mount Olive, Mississippi," he said, fumbling with the two-piece screw top, "we used to send over to my cousin Joshua Magee's when we ran low. Corn liquor." He poured half an inch in a smudged glass and handed it to me, then topped off his own. I hesitated, sniffed. "Strong stuff." "Got to be!" he cried. "Hell, the times done got so effed up and messed up, Creation might as well go on and have a drink." Miss Macie held out her paper cup. "You could pour me one too, Mister Sa-tan." I ventured a sip. It tasted like paint thinner mixed with fermented hangovers. "Wow," I murmured as the heat flushed downward. "I'm amazed you can get this kind of stuff up North." His eyes blazed. "Creation bless me with that. Ain't nothing I gotta have can't be produced on time, in time, every time." "Yes sir," I murmured, suddenly tickled. "Hey everybody, Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas," Miss Macie echoed distractedly. Mister Satan's smile faded. "I got a very big surprise for my evil little world and Christmas ain't no part of it." "You talkin' a lot of damn mess now, Satan," she huffed. "Mister Satan," he corrected briskly. "Aw Satan, shut up." His frown suddenly melted into glee. "Whoo," he sighed. "Hey young man, welcome home from the Big River show. You enjoyed yourself, I gather?" "Oh man, I had a great time. The road wears you down, though." "Ain't it the truth?" Miss Macie lit up another cigarette, whipping out her match. "I might have to play guitar myself just to make the damn rent." "Ain't gotta pay no more rent," he boomed. "That's out." He took out a pencil and proved to me, on the back of an envelope covered with scribbled numbers, how it was theoretically 248 Big River impossible for Time to move past the last second of the last day of 1987. His calculations were dizzyingand relied on repeated transformations of one integer into another—sixes become sevens, fours blossoming out of nines. You had to take him on faith; that done, the Doomsday scenario made sense. He'd certainly convinced himself . "I got something I want you to hear, Mister Adam," he said excitedly, reaching for an old Panasonic tape recorder next to his bed. "Pm very serious. Two nights ago I got high—whoo I got so high! That white lightning kicked my behind clear into next week and threw away the bus ticket home." Miss Macie held out the ashtray; he tapped his cigarette, cleared his throat. "Thank you, baby. So as I was saying, Creation snuck up on me and spoke through me. Wasn't nothing could I do except turn on my tape recorder and let the mess come out. I call it my God Tape. Check it out." He pressed the play button and we sat there as it rolled. His voice...