Dark Night of the Soul (Act II)

Geoffrey Holder tried to explain my psychotic break with humor.

“Tell me more, darling– I bet you looked fabulous. What did you have on?” The Un-cola, 7-Up soda spokesperson asked when I called to tell him that I was hospitalized for Schizophrenia.

“I saw the end, Geoffrey. I witnessed death.”

“Darling– you are reading from the Book of Life now. Read it,” he suggested.

“I’m not going to be able to work for you for a while,” I explained with my head thumping from the tons of psychotropic medications that had been dumped upon my psyche.

“What about my play? Who am I going to get to type it out for me?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I need to find another job,” I said trying to get out of a long strenuous day with Geoffrey picking my head for ‘one-liners’ to add to his script.

“I need you! What happened to your job with that woman Mary Redd at that place called Steinway? “Did she fire you?”

“Yes! She is such a cunt spelled with a ‘K’.  She canned me when she learned that I had plans to move with Shawn to Los Angeles right after he died. His loss, the loss of the job and so much falling apart in my life all at the same time was the cause of my hospitalization. I think the bitch put a curse on me, Geoffrey, and she’s a deacon at Convent Avenue Baptist Church in Harlem.”

“You should have called me, Charles. I know people. Don’t worry about a thing, sweetheart. I know voodoo. I’ll teach you the spell I put on Stephanie Mills that ruined her career after the Wiz. You’ll have to come over and help me write though. Can I see you this weekend?”

“I’ll call you back Geoffrey. The demons are here again.”

“Have you started painting like I suggested to you before? Do something, Charles. Do something artistic and take advantage of the blues while you still got them. Read from the Book of Life.”

Mr. Holder had no clue just how crazy I was at the time. I didn’t mention to him that I walked from the rat infested, trash covered streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant to the George Washington Bridge with no shoes on my feet. I crawled out of bed at 3 a.m. when the demons first started to take possession of my soul and I walked into the warm morning air of April searching for the Messiah. He was back– I could feel him. But where was he? I had to go searching for him.

For at least three days I searched. My journey on foot led me from the shores of Coney Island to the northern tip of Manhattan. I was running nowhere fast– trying to escape them and trying to decipher the codes that were painted in orange spray paint by city workers on the streets and sidewalks of the city.

Those little arrows and circles drove me mad. There were so many of them to try to figure out. The graffiti of city workers were painted everywhere and the markings led into a maze that eventually showed me the gates of hell. I followed them all looking for salvation.

Had I been smoking too much weed? I asked myself. I sure wanted some but gave it up when the demons came.

“Repent!” I shouted to people on the streets of Manhattan. Commuters ignored me and strutted by with their expensive purses and leather briefcases.

“The world is going to end soon, repent!”

They looked at me in a jaded New York way, not realizing I was stuck inside a shell and they themselves were trapped inside of me.

“Why me, God? Why me? Why have you made me a god?” I asked the sky.