He heard through word-of-mouth that Christian had helped other employees with problems, so he gave him his hospital records and told the doctors he would discontinue his treatments. The oncologists told him he would not survive six months. That was in April 2009.
Within two weeks, Christian delivered a herbal remedy that Soloman said cleared away all traces of the cancer. The numerous tumors that had spread to his liver appeared clear as day on the MRI. “All I saw were little ones by my liver—he [Christian] gave me something for that, I drank it, went back and all they saw was holes where the tumors were,” Soloman says. “I’m good now, I don’t take anything,” he says. “Colon cleanser, that’s about it.”
The doctors were amazed. Christian says he used four different formulas to purify the tumors since Solomon’s spleen was no longer functioning to filter out the carcinogenic compounds. “It should not take four years to get rid of any tumor,” he fumes. “And $520,000 on top of it? That’s bullshit.”
Soloman grins. “They [the doctors] swear it’ll come back, but it ain’t come back yet!”
Christian takes a moment to philosophize on his work. “All these things—asthma, cancer, diabetes, they’re like big bad animals I’ve been fighting all my life,” he says. “But I know how to beat them.”
After Soloman heads back to work, a mailman stops by on his route through the building. Visibly jolly, a broad man with a thick mustache, he introduces himself as Jim Carroll.
“He’s unreal,” Carroll says, pointing to Christian. “My son was dying of diabetes.” James Carroll Jr., the son, was in heart failure and by last year was going to dialysis four times a week. “They told him, ‘you need a new kidney or you’re out of here,’” the mailman says. His son’s kidneys were operating at 3 percent efficiency.
Carroll too had heard of Christian’s skills, so he decided to feel him out. “I had my doubts when I first met him,” Carroll says. “But there was something about the way he talked—not bragadacious, but informational.”
Carroll decided to trust him, and gave his son a Christian-made formula to take for a month. “The turnaround was unreal,” Carroll says. “His spirit has been renewed and rejuvenated.” Later on, Christian produces the younger Carroll’s medical chart indicating that his kidneys are functioning normally. “The doctors told him he was an anomaly, one in a million, that his kidneys started again,” Carroll says.
“Diabetes is a nasty one,” Christian says. “He’s big and he’s brutal. When he’s young, he’s mischievous—makes you pee a lot and drink a lot of water. But he’s vicious when he gets full grown. What I gotta do is pull the legs out from under him.”
He explains his technique. “In most cases, cells say ‘sugar, let’s put you to work.’ For diabetes, the cells close up, say ‘you on your own,’” he says. “You need to bust those damn hatches open and get sugar from the bloodstream into the cells.”
Whatever he did, it worked for Carroll’s son, so the mailman hooked Christian up with other family members, including his 92-year-old, bedridden mother. Christian made her a blood purifier to help her feel better. “She took it, came out of bed and we can’t keep her home to this day,” Carroll says. “She just came back from seeing her brother in Georgia.”
To Carroll, Christian’s remedies are a welcome break from the repressive influence of big pharmaceutical companies. “There’s a sick conspiracy going on in this country,” Carroll says. “Drug companies control the FDA and have influence over medical schools and doctors.” “We’ve become nothing more than a way for them to make profits,” he laments. To him, Christian’s methods are far less compromising. “Here you come with root knowledge that circumvents the need for prescription drugs,” he says. “No endless lists of side effects. It doesn’t sit in your body.”
Carroll himself now takes Christian’s blood purifiers and colon cleansers. “I’m 65 years old and I’ve never felt better,” he says with a laugh.
After Carroll gets back to his mail route, next to stop by is Ernest Simmons, Christian’s supervisor in the Curtis Center. Simmons, 66, light-skinned with a thin white mustache and friendly demeanor, has worked at the Curtis for more than 30 years. Two years ago, doctors found a brain tumor in his head, but told him to wait six months and come back for another exam to find out if it was growing. But in the meantime, the tumor was causing problems. “I used to get dizzy,” Simmons says. “There was no warning, it would just come. I would lose my balance, have to sit down 25, 30 minutes.”
“It was scaring me—I didn’t know if it would happen when I was driving.” Simmons heard that Christian had helped Carroll and Solomon, so he brought his medical records into work and showed them to him. Christian looked them over and made him a formula that Solomon took over six weeks starting in March 2010. “I haven’t gotten dizzy since,” Simmons says. He got another MRI that showed the tumor was still there, but hadn’t gotten any bigger, but later the doctor told him the test was in error, and the tumor might be entirely gone—they are waiting to get new tests to confirm.
After several hours chatting with his friends and co-workers, Christian moves out the front door of the Curtis, stopping to greet George Eshun, the security guard at the front desk. George is 45 years old and looks like a bouncer—big, swollen arms and an air of confidence that says he knows he’s stronger than anyone else in the room. In part, he says, thanks to Christian.
“He made me a concoction,” Eshun says. “It gave me a lot of strength—and kept me regular.” Since he’s been using the strength potion, he says he can lift more weights and not get tired as easily. And there’s more—“It helps for life at night too, if you know what I mean,” he winks.
There’s only one problem. “The taste—oh my god,” Eshun laughs as Christian heads out the door. Leaving the Curtis, Christian braves the cold and wind of the late December day to make his way over to the Gallery. He walks with a slight limp, weighed down by a heavy briefcase of empty bottles he will later fill with potions and tonics. Confidently and unapologetically jaywalking across the busy downtown streets, back on the sidewalks he stops several times to rest the bag and to indulge a horrible, hacking cough. “I’m an herbalist and I don’t take care of myself,” he says ruefully. “I still smoke cigarettes,” he admits, though he hasn’t had one all morning—he’s cutting back.
Across Market Street to the Gallery, he walks straight through the mall and out a back door to Filbert Street. Just across from the Reading Market inside an open garage door he finds Steve Byrd, working security. Byrd was suffering from diabetes in 2006.
Savage Love: Sondheim is solace