A hot Mississippi sun beat down on a boy trudging west along a back road. The guitar he carried was impossibly heavy, yet he bore it with the determination of someone possessed. His face was streaked where drops of sweat trickled down. His legs burned from the effort of walking. Still, onward he went.
Finally, he came to a crossroads. Underneath a live oak stood a tall Creole man dressed all in white, holding a gold walking stick and wearing a white top hat.
“You don’t look like the devil to me,” the boy said wearily, “I have an appointment with him.”
“I here for you,” the man replied. “You no need sell your soul to him, mon.”
“You’re wrong,” the boy said. "I have to play and I can’t do it on my own. Let’s just say it’s not an option.”
“Play for me,” The Creole said.
Soon, a sweet blues tune rang like a bell at each note the boy struck.
“You go home. You no need him.”
The boy knew he was right. He turned without a word and walked away from the crossroads.
“Good luck, Elvis,” said the Creole man.