J. M. Blaine - Midnight, Jesus & Me: Misfit Memoirs of a Full Gospel, Rock & Roll Late Night Suicide Crisis Psychotherapist

for the misfits

I didnt come for the religious people. I came for the misfits.
Luke 5:32 (BLE translation)

Foreword

After reading Jamie Blaines notorious new work, this collection of true tales of a rockin ride of a life, of being everything from a roller-rink DJ to a late-night psych guy trolling the streets amid the freaks and forgotten, I wanted to write an endorsement. I wanted to say, You must read this book because it is ugly and raw and beautiful and forlorn and hopeful and all those things about the human race that make me proud to be counted a part of that clan. But I was struck with a peculiar challenge. Words kept escaping me or kept rising to the surface out of order and untrue. Elusive. Lacking the depth of what I was feeling or the wisdom of what I wanted to say. So, here, listen now.

Its come to me like the backside of a jungle tree where the ghost orchid grows silent and unseen. A place you must discover in dreams with your hearts eye. And thats the way I would have you discover Jamies book Midnight, Jesus and Me. In the secret places where you let few enter but you must begin.

Ive been pondering a few things in todays mish-mash angry culture of snark and sarcasm, where rote diatribes have replaced true believing. I was wondering lately where Id find my red-letter Jesus. Where would he be hanging out these days if this were his first time around?

And I was thinking...

If I had reached the end of my rope, the edge of my hope, and darkness was prevailing. If I stood there on the ledge of lost and losing still and somehow I managed to crawl to some dark barstool corner of the world for one last shot before I gave it all up and caved in, I hope it would be this Jamie and Jesus that walked in behind me. That they pulled up a seat and told me a story and that their telling of it found me right where I was, drowning in this sea called life. And that their story would perform its magic, one funny, dark, raw, honest, loving, wild word at a time and in so doing revive my soul.

And so they did.

This is that book.

Read it.

River Jordan, bestselling author of The Miracle of Mercy Land and Praying for Strangers

Disclaimer

Midnight, Jesus & Me is a work of creative nonfiction and features stories from rehabs, mental hospitals, counseling centers, emergency rooms and prisons. Names, places, faces and sexes have been changed and in some cases combined in the interest of protecting myself and others. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional.

From Texas to Louisiana to Georgia to Tennessee, begins as high school ends, through college and grad school. God and psychosis and the glory of rock and roll... dive bars and psych wards and Sunday night church... jail cells to bridge rails... roller rinks to single-wide trailers at the far end of the gravel lane... late-night grocery stores and that place over the levee where Jesus laughs and walks through the cool, dark night...

Is it fiction? a friend asks after reading. This really happened?

Well, I tell her, the end of the rope gets a little surreal. But yeah, its true.

Your people sure do smoke and drink and curse and talk about God a lot.

Yeah, I answer, after giving it some thought. That sounds like my people.

Rhythm & the River of Words

Anytime I read a piece that rings true or moves me, I wonder what music the author listened to while they worked the words. Everything is lyrical. I write and read out loud, to the cadence and feel of a song. So I included the soundtrack in a separate section at the end of this book.

Follow along if you wish. Cue up the accompanying song and read to the beat to which the words were originally conceived.

PART I

Fall Back

We are here and it is now. Further than that all human knowledge is moonshine.
H. L. Mencken

Plan G | Life Is What Happens

Sunday, 9:35 p.m.

36 y/o white male, history of paranoid schizophrenia and intermittent explosive disorder. Staff unable to control clients outbursts and request assistance.

Im sitting in my car in the parking lot of a group home for the mentally impaired near Darbys Mini-Mart, far back in the hills of Tennessee.

Earlier tonight, the client threw a TV through the bedroom wall, brandished a kitchen knife and told Jena, the night tech, he wanted to cut both wrists and die. She called the crisis line and dispatch sent me to intervene.

The drive up was pleasant enough: horse farms, hay fields and rolling hills. Alabama singing about Tennessee River and the changes coming on. Soon as I pulled into the driveway, I saw shadows waving wildly behind the blinds.

What am I doing here?

Fifteen years now on late-night psychiatric crisis. Suicide, homicide, psychosis, addiction. Jail cells, bridge rails, emergency rooms, rehabs. Group homes.

Why am I in the middle of this? I was just the DJ at the skating rink....

Theres a crashing sound and shouts from the house. Im tempted to leave. Im always tempted to leave. The Mini-Mart has a Subway inside and their fountain cokes are crisp and super-cold. Just come back later. A man with broken teeth and hound dog jowls stares at me like a jack-o-lantern from the bedroom window. I breathe deep, say a prayer and walk up the front steps to ring the bell.

This is Mr. Ralph, Jena says, pointing to a patient with bird-nest hair, a Vikings beard and the physique of an off-season Santa. Hes leaning against the wall with both arms behind his back, rocking and lightly banging his head. I hold out my hand to shake and suddenly he seems fearful and meek, his eyes shining back at me from the shadows of the hall. I keep my hand out, the way a stranger approaches a stray dog. When he finally steps towards the doorway, I notice his bloody arm.

Accidentally scratched him, Jena says, taking away the knife.

Shes late teens/early twenties, wearing carpenter jeans and a stiff denim shirt. Built like a fire hydrant with the same haircut as Ricky Schroder in Silver Spoons. Uh, good work, I tell her, Sorry it took so long to get here.

Thats okay, she says. Do you need the knife?

I dont need it, I reply.

A smaller man with a furious unibrow storms the hall with his fists balled and bottom lip poked out. The cable of a hearing aid trails down his left shoulder into the pocket of his shirt.

And this is Geof, Ralphs roommate, Jena says. Geofs upset about the TV through the wall thing. When Ralph gets out there, hes bad about throwing stuff.

Geof walks to Ralph until the tips of their shoes touch. I hate you, he seethes.

Geof, Jena says, in a schoolteacher voice. This man is from Crisis.

Good! Geof shouts to Ralph. Hes gonna lock you up in the crazy house and stick an ice pick in your brain!

Shoulda gone to Darbys.

Ralph throws out his arms and makes a panicked face, like hes playing to the cheap seats in a small-town production of Oklahoma! Theres a bookcase in the hall filled with old encyclopedias. Grabbing a thick one, he smashes the dens sliding glass door, jumps through the hole and vanishes into the night.

Ralph, no! Jena cries.

Caught in the adrenaline, I give chase and tackle him in the tall grass past the gate. He screams like a panther and elbows my nose. Ive got him in a half-nelson when I feel another arm throttling my neck. Geof. We flounce around the pasture like the Three Stooges at a UFC free-for-all. Finally, Jena grabs a roll of Geofs belly fat and pinches it until he rolls away crying, Oww!

Dont hurt him, Jena, Ralph pleads, slack now. Geof aint done nothin to you.

Jena pulls Geof to his feet. I release Ralph and we lie back in the weeds and catch our breath. Theres blood and sweat and broken glass and ants....