Table of Contents
Part I: Those Who Criticize You
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
Part II: The Harmful Things
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
Part III: What Any Other Person Has
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
SELF-ESTEEM
a novel
by Preston David Bailey
Copyright 2012 by Preston David Bailey. All rights reserved.
Edited by Martin Williams
Cover by De Waal Immelman
Self-Esteem: A Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author. Portions of Holy Bible printed without permission.
Self-Esteem: A Novel / Preston David Bailey.
ISBN: 978-0-9859662-0-1
Published in the US by Preston David Bailey.
www.self-series.com
[email protected]
1. Thriller—Fiction
2. Dark Comedy—Fiction
3. Social Satire—Fiction
4. Mystery—Fiction
5. Self-help—Fiction
for Bill Hicks
The knowledge of yourself will preserve you from vanity.
— Cervantes
Self-knowledge comes from knowing other men.
— Goethe
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
— T.S. Eliot
FIRST, AN EXCERPT FROM JAMES CRAWFORD’S UNFINISHED NOVEL, “TALK IS CHEAPER THAN THE PLAGUE.”
He was walking through the garden and it could have been any garden, but it wasn’t. It was a garden like no other, like
Part I:
Those Who Criticize You
CHAPTER 1
THE INCIDENT AT MOTHER GOOSE was the first thing he could remember. That’s what he told a crowd of people at a book signing, which is now considered the event that began his most serious descent into psychosis. Drunk on a flask of Scotch he had hidden in his suit jacket, he started by extending the wicked smile of a stand-up comedian about to tell his dirtiest joke, all just to sell Self-Esteem.
“Let me tell you about my first memory,” he said. “It’s my favorite story.” It was neither his first memory nor his favorite story, but every time he told it, a new element emerged, a detail regarding how he acted or what he thought. No matter. He was an expert on human behavior — at least officially so — and he knew that it is perfectly natural to tell a story the way the story itself wants to be told, especially when you’re messed up on liquor.
“Stories really have a remarkable authority all their own,” he once wrote in Self-Confidence. “It’s best just to let your stories go. Let them live the way they want to. It will help you live life the way you want to.”
As he most often described it, Mother Goose Land was a nursery school on a lonesome two-lane highway north of the small Texas town where he grew up. It was an old wooden house, probably built in the thirties or forties, that otherwise might have been a friendly place if it weren’t for that terrifying Hansel and Gretel story that his impetuous Uncle Jerry had told him. The dwelling was a cottage, more or less, with a large porch that had a giant gingerbread awning above it. It was at once creepy and hospitable, which is the scariest thing to a child — like a house made of sweets with a witch inside.
Dr. James Crawford was about to tell the Mother Goose story for the last time. He spoke as dramatically as an evangelist, even though he knew his wife Dorothy found it nauseating. “When I was a little boy, my mother worked during the day, so she had to take me to a nursery school called Mother Goose Land. And there was a boy there, a boy who always seemed to be there, an older boy. And for whatever reason, he harassed me. I don’t think he had it in for me in particular, you see. I just think he knew he could beat me up and get away with it. I was, well, very shy. And that little bastard kicked me, beat me, abused me.”
Dorothy rolled her eyes when she heard the word “abused.” No more than you’re abusing your body right now, she thought. Occasionally she would try to point out that we all get picked on as children and it’s a terrible part of life and all that, but Jim never listened. He never skipped a beat. She decided not to say anything this time. This was his gig. And besides, it was the nineties in America, and the most evolved people in the world no longer took human suffering lightly, however small.
“He would scratch me. Scream at me. Throw things at me. And it went on without end,” Crawford said. “Seemed that way at the time anyhow.”
The detail he could remember best was the toy radio: actually just a block of wood painted to look like a radio, with a small springy wire coming out of the top imitating an antenna, a toy that would now seem obsolete, but not completely useless in the right circumstance.
“As he was hitting me, calling me a sissy, I felt I wasn’t going to take it any more. I finally got tired of it. Yeah, and this radio was nearby. Nothing but wood, just a blunt object, right. You can’t tell me humans don’t have animal instincts,” he said with a nod.
A few people laughed.
Then Dorothy wagged her head from side to side, mentally lip-synching the sentence that always came next: For some reason my animal instincts took over.
“Between punches he asked me how I liked it.” Then Crawford would nod, pausing for effect before releasing a verbal stream that rose to the act of liberating violence. “He was beating me. And I saw that toy radio. I saw it lying in the corner and I knew I could use it. And I grabbed it by the antenna and I swung that son of a…” His eyes always became tense, his breath shortened. “I swung that thing as hard as a baseball bat into the side of the little bastard’s head.”
His small audience became quiet. Crawford sat back and spoke more evenly, his face glowing with contentment. “The boy immediately started crying, screaming in pain. And for me, it felt good. It felt really good.”
Dorothy could see the flask peaking through Jim’s jacket like a gangster’s pistol, casually holstered.
Crawford’s tale plunged to a grave whisper. “Then something happened. Soon after, I don’t know how long it was, but soon after I came to realize that I didn’t feel so good. I thought I was going to throw up or something. And that afternoon when my mother came to pick me up, I was pale and weak. I felt terrible.” A dramatic pause, then “I had come down with the mumps, you see.”
Crawford described his mother and an older woman at the nursery school talking to each other as he waited in the foyer. From a distance he watched his mother nodding while the old woman told the story. The thought of his mother’s embarrassment frightened little Jimmy Crawford, but the thought of her anger frightened him even more.
“I was in trouble. I just knew I had done something terrible, something my mother would punish me for. And feeling terrible was just a confirmation of what I already knew. I had been bad, and I was going to be pu
nished severely — not just by my mother but by God himself. It was Him, our Heavenly Father, that I thought was making me sick. Before we even left Mother Goose, God had already started punishing me. It was just a matter of time before my mother would cause me further pain. Then, perhaps, I would die.”
Crawford stared at the floor as he described his mother driving him home that evening, his ailing little body doubled over in the backseat. “But she got me to our house and didn’t punish me. She never punished me. She never rebuked me, which was even more torture than being confronted. Eventually, I forgot about it. I thought I did. But you know what?” he said raising a finger. “I didn’t forget it.
“Years later — far too long a time — my mother told me the woman at the nursery school was glad I had finally stood up for myself, that I had suffered too long at the hands of that aggressive bully. I didn’t realize until I got much older that getting sick that day had nothing to do with hitting the boy. God wasn’t punishing me at all. I was just sick because I had gotten sick that day. Just a bug going around the nursery school, that’s all.”
“I thought I knew God’s ways for many years, but I was wrong,” he concluded. “I was just punishing myself. And all that time my behavior was influenced by those feelings, by that defining moment. The way I thought of myself, the level of inhibition I experienced when confronted by other people — it took me years — and I mean years — to realize that that kid, that little bastard — he had it coming. He really had it coming,” he said.
Giving a thumbs-up he added, “At least that’s the way I remember it.”
His audience applauded.
Crawford picked up the freshly printed hardcover copy of Self-Esteem that sat in front of him. A woman rushed forward and started snapping pictures as Dorothy stepped to the side. Crawford didn’t mind the flash. He was thinking about how he couldn’t wait to get loaded and have sex with his mistress that night.
The glare of the TV screen was bright. That flickering image, that precise sequence, now a regular event in millions of households on weekday mornings, was scary to Crawford, something he turned away from. But there was more to this pattern of lights. It was a collaboration he was involved in. Something he made money from. Something he had created. Something he now dreamed of escaping.
The puppets started dancing.
Those damn animal puppets.
And then the melody, that insidious melody, that clinking and clanking children’s song that rose from the silence like a sputtering jalopy begging to be repaired. Then the sing-song singing.
Happy Pappy. Happy Pappy. He’s so happy to be our pappy.
Then a close up of the eyes, those dark, empty doll eyes.
“Yesssssiiiiirrrrreeeee!” he screams, his distorted features coming into the frame, a drunk at a party trying to get your attention. “Hello kids!” he says, his head barking out the words in a bizarre staccato. “Welcome to the Happy Pappy Show! You know who I am, don’t you?”
All the puppets surround him.
“You’re Happy Pappy!” they say, their heads bobbing.
Crawford once had a nightmare that Happy Pappy was actually TV puppet legend Howdy Doody transformed into an ogre by the work of an evil scientist using a malicious concoction created by Crawford himself.
Happy Pappy wasn’t just Howdy Doody minus the puppet strings and Buffalo Bob. Yes, Happy was also a cowboy. He wore one of those big, rustic hats. He wore overalls. His yellow-gloved hands were as bright as the midday sun. And yes, he too was happy. But no, it wasn’t Howdy Doody Time. Happy Pappy was too strong for that. He had real confidence.
The backdrop was surreal, distorted but difficult to say how or where. It made Crawford think of some remote cartoon land where real people were devoured by their animated creations. A barn with painted knotholes. A fence leading from one side of the frame to the other. White clouds resting in front of a blue-lit backdrop. The entire setting formed from an incomprehensible emptiness — like the crossroads along the yellow brick road.
“And why do they call me Happy Pappy?” he says, his buckteeth wrapping around his corncob pipe like the legs of a spider around its prey.
And the puppets respond, “Because you’re soooooo happy!”
Their leader is taken aback. “And why am I so happy?”
“Because you like yourself! That’s why!”
“That’s right,” he says, his stare zeroing in on the camera. “You know kids, you always have to be a friend to yourself first.” His head then jolts to one side, to a puppy named Sandy. “Why is that?”
“Because that’s what makes you feel good!” Sandy says with a toddler’s voice.
“That’s right, Sandy. And we know a song about that, don’t we?”
Happy Pappy nods as the puppets surround him, groupies to a rock star.
And then the song again, complete with a libretto at the bottom of the screen (in case you want to sing along).
Be kind to yourself.
Be fond of yourself.
If you’re not a chum you’re a bum to yourself.
“Come on!” Happy screams.
Be a friend to yourself.
Without end to yourself.
Remember it’s the best thing to do for your health.
“Please,” Crawford said, or thought he said. “Turn it off.”
She was sitting on the bed, her hair draped over her neck, reminding Crawford of Eve, the Garden of Eden, the fall of Man, Sin with a capital S.
“So you’re going to be a novelist now, is that it?” she asked with vague disrespect.
Crawford saw Happy Pappy jumping up and down, even though he wasn’t looking.
“Going to be Hemingway, are you?”
“I don’t like Hemingway. Please. Turn it off.”
She laughed softly. “You’ve always got your self-esteem.”
Her laughter became bigger, louder — like an audience. Then there was applause.
“Don’t you?” she asked giggling. “Don’t you have your Self-Esteem?”
“I don’t know,” Crawford said, taking another drink. “Do I?”
Written across every housewife’s afternoon TV screen, Jan Live had become an icon of elegance and sophistication. Its beautiful calligraphy, floating above the immaculate studio of greens and oranges, somehow let everyone know that Life could provide sanctuary once in a while, that Life could always be better than it really was.
Everyone needed Jan Hershey. The audience of mostly middle-aged women clapped and smiled and cheered as they did everyday at 2pm Eastern Time, 11am Pacific. It was their expressions that revealed the most, revealed their hopes and dreams, as well as the bliss they felt in the presence of their host.
Jan was perfect. Everything about her worked in harmony to form a picture of loveliness and womanhood. Her suit — business-casual — spoke confidence with its effortless design and pastel hue. Her eyes sparkled, her teeth shined, and her hair was more beautiful than silk — a blonde in her late thirties only God could make.
The audience watched attentively, but something was different. She wasn’t saying hello to the home viewers. She was looking straight at Crawford.
“What is the definition of self-esteem?” she demanded.
Crawford felt like he couldn’t speak. “Well,” he began slowly, “it’s essentially the view we have of ourselves.”
Jan nodded. “And you say this is a significant component in our lives? Perhaps the most important in terms of our happiness? Our prosperity?”
Crawford didn’t know why, but he felt like he might throw up. “Yes, of course. I…”
Looking icy, Jan leaned toward him. “And where does this Happy Pappy character fit into all of this, Dr. Crawford?”
Almost in unison, the audience started laughing.
“Isn’t this the kind of nonsense created by someone with low self-esteem?”
“But I…” Crawford couldn’t speak.
The audience laughed louder. Some held their sides
while others fanned in Jan’s direction, delighted by her audacity, encouraging her to go further.
“What’s the matter, Doctor?” she said stepping closer, her chin creeping over the top of her microphone. “Cat got your tongue?”
Deafening laughter, Crawford couldn’t breathe.
“Just making a buck, aren’t you!” she yelled. “You’ve fooled the poor and the innocent into supporting your drunkenness, your skirt chasing and your hypocrisy. Isn’t that it, Doctor?”
Crawford was drowning. “I didn’t… I…”
“Answer me, Dr. Crawford!”
Her face was so close she was almost inside his eyes. That’s when the studio vanished.
“I…”
“Answer me, fucker!”
A screeching bell sounded.
He breathed. The air came in like a tender breeze through a rickety house and then went out again. And Crawford was back home.
It sounded again.
Dr. James Crawford was to turn fifty-three in two weeks, but this morning he was almost ninety. Reasonably tall and bulky, Crawford had a broad jaw and a high hairline that made him appear more masculine and more confident than he was. Many thought his appearance scholarly, yet almost everyone considered him a tough sort — the type of guy who wore turtleneck sweaters but could still kick your ass.
That is, of course, if he wasn’t too drunk. This morning Crawford had a hangover, and it was a bad motherfucker. It would take him a moment, like it always did, to realize where he was and what he had done the night before. But first he needed to know what the hell that noise was. He finally realized it was the telephone next to the bed and reached over and answered it.
“Hello?” Crawford grumbled. He sniffed quietly then waited a moment. “Yes?”
“Dr. Crawford?” The voice was staggering, unfamiliar.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“How’s your self-esteem?” someone asked.
“What?” he said, still only half awake.
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