The various plights of society had Black Fields overwhelmed and he was finding it hard to cope. “I CAN’T TAKE ‘DIS (bleep!) NO MORE!” he shrieked.
He dug into his pocket for the prescription bottle he carried around for occasions when he just couldn’t bear the pressures he perceived himself to be experiencing. “It’z time fo’a chill pill.”
The bottle rattled as he removed it from his jacket pocket. He noticed there were only three pills left. Medicaid would only cover one prescription a month.
“GOD(bleep!)” he huffed.
Black met monthly with his psychiatrist at an agency called Community Connections on Pennsylvania Ave., SE. He was involved with a program for returning citizens. With the help of Dr. Palazzo, Black had been able to experiment with a number of psychiatric medications.
The first one he was prescribed was Remeron. He enjoyed the mild sedation initially and was really pleased with the effects when he drank a 22 oz. Steel Reserve behind a couple of pills. “This ain’t half bad – especially fa’ free,” he thought.
However, Black noticed something wasn’t the same when he awakened the next day. He couldn’t remember much from the previous day or what he had planned for that day. He also felt much more anxiety and shame than normal.
It took him two days to get up the nerve to interact with others. If it wasn’t for his need to satisfy his habits and addictions, he’d still be hiding in the back of the library. The last thing he needed was agoraphobia.
“Doc’ – this here ain’t right!” Black pleaded. So Dr. Palazzo took him off Remeron, and prescribed Seroquel.
That night he took a Seroquel, then drunk a 24oz. Bud Ice. Over the course of 20 minutes, he gradually slipped into sedation. He was all smiles as his body relaxed and his mind began to feel at ease.
Then, BAM! As if he had been hit by a Mack truck, Black’s vision suddenly blurred and he began to feel warm. His body stiffened and he couldn’t move. His breathing was constricted, and an eruption of stomach acid filled the back of his throat. He began to think death was imminent. “OH LAWD!” he squealed through clinched teeth.
Black had always envisioned dying in a flurry of bullets or by a blade to the heart. Overdosing on medication was not an honorable way to die. “Please God – DON’T DO ME LIKE THIS!” he pleaded.
Eventually, the effects subsided and he fell into a coma-like sleep. When he awakened, he felt drugged. All day he was sluggish, irritable, and could barely keep his eyes open. Coffee wasn’t strong enough to eradicate the effects of Seroquel. In order to feel normal again, he turned to his usual drug of choice – PCP.
“Wat ‘da (bleep!) wuz ‘dat you gave me?!” he challenged the psychiatrist upon their next meeting. “This (bleep!) like street drugs. Maybe worse.”
Dr. Palazzo just smiled. “Did you find the medication too strong?”
They began to move from prescription to the next. Combined with alcohol, marijuana, and PCP, the side effects were vicious: blurred vision, impotence, dizziness, confusion, constipation, irregular heartbeat, sweating and fevers, skin rashes, and white patches and sores in his mouth and on his lips.
“Doc – I don’t think medication can solve my problems. I got more problems now than before,” wailed Black.
“You have to give the medication time. It doesn’t work overnight,” Palazzo replied.
Black found the psychiatrist’s demeanor suspicious. As he looked around the office, he couldn’t help but to notice all the promotional materials from different pharmaceutical companies. “’Dis killa’ on ‘da payroll,” mused Black.
Palazzo pulled out his notepad and asked, “So what’s going on with you?”
Black discussed his thoughts of suicide, homicide, failure, being ostracized, the dark place he was in, Revelation and the New Testament, and the side effects he experienced from the various medications. The psychiatrist listened, took notes, and offered a casual word here and there.
“Let’s try something different,” said Palazzo. A prescription for Thorazine was written. Black was instructed to stick close to a safe resting place when taking this medication.
“Okay,” he nodded.
Later that day, he was hanging out over Tim’s apartment with another acquaintance, Cornbread. He began to feel antsy, so he figured he’d pop a pill. “This a safe enough place,” he thought.
Being that Thorazine is a sedative and PCP is a stimulant, he hoped they would cancel each other out. This would turn out to be a bad decision.
About 30 minutes later, the three of them had almost finished smoking the second dipper and Black was telling them about the food at Ooh’s & Aahh’s on U Street. Black was midsentence when Cornbread interrupted, “Man, you smacked, ‘cause you slurrin’.”
Cornbread looked again and said, “You droolin’ and (bleep!). Your face look stuck. LOOK LIKE YOU HAVIN’ STROKE!”
Black suddenly experienced cramping sensations in his limbs. Then he began trembling uncontrollably and his bladder seemed to quickly fill. He tried to move for the restroom but couldn’t steady his legs. He dropped back down on the sofa. Then, SPLASH!
Cornbread jumped and hollered to Tim, “OH (bleep!) MOE! ‘DA (bleep!) DONE PISSED ALL OVER HISSELF AND YOUR COUCH! HE GOT TO GO!”
Black was unconscious when they drug him out into the hallway. After a few minutes of debate, the two decided to make an anonymous 911 call. “We don’t live here ‘n we don’t kno’ who he iz. The (bleep!) jus’ laid out like he dead. He need help. N’ we gonna be gone when you git here.” CLICK!
When Black awakened, he was catheterized and strapped to a gurney. “What the (bleep!)?” he asked himself.
Eventually, he was diagnosed with tardive dyskinesia. The emergency room doctor strongly admonished him when it was discovered he had mixed PCP and Thorazine. “Are you crazy? You don’t do those two things together. You’re gonna kill yourself if you try that too many times,” the doctor frowned.
After this episode, Palazzo decided to prescribe Oxcarbazepine, which quickly became Black’s psych-med of choice. To him, the effects were similar to smoking high-grade marijuana. He was able to put all of his problems into perspective when taking this medication.
The only drawback was the effects weren’t long lasting – a few hours at best. So, he tended to take several a day, instead of just the one that he was prescribed. His ration rarely lasted beyond the second week of the month.
About a half-hour passed since he’d popped a pill and his trepidation had subsided. He knew the Oxcarbazepine was working its magic. For a short while, he’d have no worries.
Then his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and saw his mother’s number on the screen. Midday was an awkward time for her to call and he felt inconvenienced by the timing. “What could she possibly want right now?” he scowled.
“Hello – wussup ma’?”
He could hear her breathing deeply as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Baby, I just got back from the doctor… The mammogram showed two tumors. I might have cancer…”
The effects of the pill totally vanished and full-scale panic set in. “WHAT THE (bleep!) AM I GONNA DO NOW?!” he fretted.
Black knew that life would never be the same…
To be continued. This is an excerpt of Duane Foster’s manuscript “The Black Fields Chronicles: THE HOBO.”
