New Year’s Eve Again

New Year’s Eve Again

by Franklin “Berkley the Artist” Davis, IV

It was New Year’s Eve, mid-afternoon, when my phone began pinging unmercifully. At first, I thought something malfunctioned, but soon I realized it was the aftermath of Oprah’s latest post. When Oprah says your name out of her mouth, on Instagram, everything changes. You can be sure that your day or year for that matter is going to be epic! What a way to ring in 2020.

By mid-March I was lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance headed to the hospital due to complications of COVID. My head was hurting so bad and my arm was being suffocated by the blood pressure cuff. Every single pothole decorating the New Orleans streets jolted a bolt of pain through my body. I quoted scriptures in my head and prepared to die. So, this is how it all ends, I thought.

Excerpts from “How I Got Over; The Red Sofa.”

March 14, 2020

I never made it to my bed. The red sofa had become a friend. My clothes were sticking to my body when I woke up the first time around one a.m. “Is this a headache? Am I awake?” My thoughts were louder than usual. Back to sleep. By two a.m., I was soaking wet and cold. No, I was HOT. My body was shivering.

Three a.m. “Why do I keep waking up every hour?” There was a failed attempt to stand. No energy. My mouth was dry, my head had an unusual hum above my left eye. Dizzily, I fell asleep and this time I had a dream. “You need to go to the hospital. Tell them to check something in your blood.” I hadn’t heard my grandmother,

Doris’, voice since Hurricane Katrina. I perked up and felt the blood rush through my face. “Was that real? Did I just see Maw Maw?” My mind was foggy, but I focused in on what she said. “My blood? Am I having a heart attack? Cancer?”

I got nervous. “Lord, should I go?”

March 24, 2020

I made it to the toilet on my hands and knees. The saliva under my tongue was becoming increasingly salty and thick. The vomit would come soon, so I positioned myself to aim in the bowl. I passed gas. My stomach was churning like a hurricane brewing over the Gulf. With my phone in my right hand and the other against the bathtub, I pushed with all my might to stand and turn around.

I made it! Sweat was dripping from my forehead onto my nose, then to my mustache. Pulling my underwear down my legs, I unlocked the phone and pressed the call key. That’s when I experienced the split between my mind, body and spirit. The mind was a boisterous, erratic voice screaming ‘Pull up, pull up!’ The way you’d hear a pilot shout in a war movie as the plane is swan diving to the ground. My body was a lifeless and heavy shell. Then my spirit spoke with clarity and supreme stillness, “Dial 911.”

March 27, 2020

With my feet planted on the brown carpet, I rubbed my eyes and shook my head. The dream felt like an answer to the question from my prayer last night. “What is this sickness about? What’s really going on with me?”

In the dream, I saw a massive hand appear in front of me as I slept on the red sofa. Then, there was a voice that felt familiar but unwelcoming, “Oh, so you’re feeling better now, huh? Let’s try this demon on you.” Inside of this hand was a capsule. It looked like one of the Echinacea pills from Whole Foods. The fingers from his hand planted the seed through the carpet of my living room floor into the earth under my house. There was a little mound of dirt prepared to help the seed grow. Next, I saw a name appear above the mound as if a magical text box was dropped into thin air. ABADDON.

By the time I awoke, it was evening. The sun would set in two hours, so I walked out to the porch and took a seat. With my head in my hand, I prayed for help. “Lord, something is going on. I need someone to pray for me.” There were many people I could have called, but I was seriously frazzled after that last dream. Sometimes, you have to know when to be still and let God do the movement.

Forty-two days later, I was gaining my weight back. My face didn’t look gaunt and hollow anymore. It was flushed with color and my lips were pink and kissable again. For the last month or so I had been journaling my experiences with the virus on Facebook as excerpts from the book I would eventually write. In my heart, I knew I’d get this book churned out, but procrastination spoke louder. She’s been a very familiar and unwanted guest.

I hired an editor and created a cover but ignored the book every day. The fear of rehashing my experiences, not only from the illness but also from my entire life, kept me from clicking the “publish” button on Amazon. Eventually I prayed that God would give me courage to release what He’d allow me to escape, overcome… survive.

Suddenly, I received a text that Chadwick Boseman died. What in the hell just happened? This guy was young and driven. He seemed and anointed! He was in his prime, but obviously God had other plans for him. Urgency became my energy. I knew I had to do my work. Complete my task!

I reluctantly went back to the hidden internet page where the book was prepped for its release. It was time to get out of the way and finish the work God planted in my heart. The year had been a whirlwind of extremes and with each one the dust settled with me still standing. My first book, How I Got Over; The Red Sofa is more than a recounting of my battle to stay alive during the vicious Coronavirus attack. It’s my part of the Neo-Testament Bible that God is creating as I live and breathe today.

After reviewing the manuscript, a final time, I sighed and made peace with my vanity. To God be the glory; I surrendered my story to the entire world. If God ends things better than He starts them, I am certainly going to be blown away by New Year’s Eve 2021. Oprah is a pretty huge cookie to outdo, God.

Berkley the Artist is a singer, songwriter, author and contributing writer to TCP Magazine. His debut book, “How I Got Over; The Red Sofa” is available in paperback and eBook on Amazon.com. “A hipster professor survives COVID 19 and his demons, alone, while clinging to his faith and red sofa during 42 days of quarantine in New Orleans.”