He knew it would cost him

The devil told him so.

Telling a boss no. A mob boss, that gives you access to your livelihood. He knew it would come to an end.

And so it did the very next day, as clients were a no show. His venue, an empty room, with nothing but empty space that made no sense.

Looking at the numbers there was a steady increase in business for him. He was hopeful. The numbers showed consistent engagement and he was gaining an audience. They liked his music and his charm was inescapable.

But he had said no. No to a person who was a gate keeper. And so his musical career was over in one small word.

Starting over wouldn’t be easy. The only thing he knew was his performance in this restaurant. A corner location and the perfect spot, as the crowds were enough to get paid.

They had made sure no one would frequent his business again, a flood in the dining room. Then a remodel unannounced until his big event that weekend. He had spent all his earnings on new equipment, even hired another musician on the keyboard.

He packed up and left town, bitter and resentful that corruption had touched even his independent entrepreneurial spirit and won.

He wasn’t the first or the last to see his dreams and musical career close overnight, no more guests for you.

Perhaps he could write, he thought. Surely no one would hold him hostage in the literary world. No shake downs here in the world of Hemingway and F Scott Fitzgerald.

He started small, not wanting to speak out of turn he kept his writing light on purpose so as not to disorient any others. Playing it down he kept to himself.

Until one day he was invited to a community if he paid a price.

It’s as simple as that. It started all over again.

He packed up his writing tools and stored them away, losing another turf war his writing was shunned and isolated after saying no again.

It is said he lives off the land now, up in the Rockies somewhere, having learned to hunt and kill whatever he would eat.

People say they’ve caught a glimpse of him, with a full beard so beautiful you’d think he was born in those hills and will die there too. No big fuss.

He’s part of the landscape now, of rugged terrain, mountains, and crystal clear bobbling brooks, so pure, the water is just like him. Too clean for the city. Too pure for the average soul who would bend to a crooked way, just to be a part of it.

Legends are a thing of myth born from a truth. A kind of truth that lives on for centuries. A story as old as time that repeats with the seasons, in a biblical way.

What a man to say no to the devil.

I’d sure like to meet him one day.

2023 All Rights Reserved Julie Handy