My Dark Night of the Soul
By Rob Jacklosky

Last night I got up to have one of those dark nights of the soul. Great men like me are always having them. Maybe you've read about them, but unless you're a great man or great woman yourself, you've probably never experienced one. I, on the other hand, have had so many I've gone ahead and made a little investment in bedroom slippers.

You know when you're having one. Suddenly you're out of bed pondering the course your life has taken up that point. For example, whether you should have quit the job at the WaWa. The graveyard shift wasn't that bad and you were wide-awake and getting paid for the dark nights of the soul when they came. Plus, free beer. You'll sift through other regrets too: lost potential, the great loves you've never had. That pair of pants you lost. Deep stuff mostly, but pants will always creep in no matter what.

The reason to prefer post-midnight thinking? Deep thoughts that never occur to you in the day come easily after midnight. Like these: when I call Miss Cleo, the TV fortune-telling lady, or Lauren the sexy co-ed on the Naked Friends Network, how do I know I'm getting the Miss Cleo or Lauren I see in the commercial and not some other Cleo, or maybe some other person entirely? Sometimes it even sounds like a guy. You see what I mean? it has to be pretty late.

Anyway, I had one of these dark nights of the soul Thursday night. I got up and went out to the fridge. When you've had enough of them, the first thing you learn is that they can be long and dry if you're not careful to stock up on beer ahead of time. As luck would have it, my dark nights on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, and a long dark day and night Wednesday had pretty well depleted my supply. I think for a second that I might run down to the WaWa to get a six pack, but I figure I'd run into Ray, who'd razz me for going down hill since my glory days behind the counter there. He's right, but I don't need any more grist for my dark night mill. I've got plenty already. I settle on the cranberry juice, to get the show on the road.

I sit down in the old papasan chair. I only own the one chair, so it's not like I'm going to exhaust myself on this choice. And it's here that one of those small nighttime blessings occurs to me. If I had bought the matching blue velour La-Z-Boy recliners I had my eye on, would my dark night be running so smoothly? No. I'd be wasting valuable time deciding which one to sit in. Or reading the manual to figure out how to use the adjustment lever thing. Or worse yet: I'd be sleeping in one of them. Right now, I sleep on cushions I stole off my ex-wife's sofa while I was visiting the ex-kids.

I can afford a sofa or a sofa bed. I just can't make up my mind. Classic Early American or the molded plastic modular? Having furniture is a big step; it defines you. And once you're defined, kiss the dark nights of the soul goodbye. The only thing worse for dark nights is a job. In fact, if I had a high quality chair or a job, you might not even be reading this. And then where would you be? No closer to personal enlightenment, that's for sure. So, I have the cranberry juice in my hand, because there's not even a Zima in that damn refrigerator. There's no use looking a fifth time.

I settle into the papasan, and I must have sat on the remote, because on pops the television. What I see on the screen at 3 a.m., thanks to my premium cable package, is soft-core pornography. This is called serendipity and you have to be on the look out for it. I'm told that in novels, dark nights of the soul are quiet, and usually take place in front of fireplaces or while staring out windows. This is patent nonsense. In the olden days, cable was hardly even a dream. It'd be foolish to reject modern innovations when they might get you to the nub of the old dark night all the quicker. At first, it seems Cinemax has outdone itself with that classic tale of a bachelor party where things get a little out of hand. It even has several ex-members of the Brat Pack and the ugly Baldwin brother. What better way to contemplate one's own mortality than by watching grizzled St. Elmo's Fire stars in a low budget sexploitation vehicle? But would you believe it turns out to have a plot and dialogue? "Twelve Angry Men" attend a stag party. I watch it anyway, hoping they stop arguing and start getting their laps danced on. No such luck. In desperation, I spring for pay-per-view, and promise myself to return to my deep thoughts right after "Hot Vixens III."

Now I'm hungry and I'm back at the refrigerator trying to decide between the olives or the cheddar cheese, and trying to figure out how I might combine soy sauce and parmesan cheese into a tasty spread. No use. I figure the fast food drive-thrus are open, and it's probably the lack of nourishment that has stalled my dark night so far. So minutes later, I'm at the window ordering a "Happy Meal," and the guy tells me I can't have one because it's way after 10 p.m. and I'm way over 40. A wisenheimer is what we used to call guys like him. I'm ready to get sore. Then he says only kids can have happy meals. And I think "hey, that's true" - but in a profound way. And it makes me think of my ex-kids, and right then and there I resolve not to call them ex-kids anymore, at least to their faces. I'll think of them as regular everyday kids, as long as it doesn't get me into a child support situation. Also, I resolve to return their "PlayStation 3." I broke the damn thing last month anyway, so what's the difference? And just like that: bango! an uninterrupted string of Dark Night of the Soul-Type Personal Revelations! I order two Big Macs, fries, a coke and a hot apple pie. He asks me if I want to super-size it, and I say why the hell not? Don't I deserve it?

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Rob Jacklosky's work has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Sonora Review, and Konundrum Literary Engine Review. His unpublished novel, "Nazi in the Living Room," was a finalist in the Faulkner/Wisdom Fiction Competition. He's on Facebook, but he's not happy about it. He's a professor of English and chair of the department at the College of Mount Saint Vincent in the Bronx.

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