It took him back to Texas, to his teens, to the lakes and country roads where he used to spend Saturday afternoons drinking two-dollar twelve packs with the Cherokee boys who were always up for it. It took him to California, to his undergrad years, when he could drink a fifth of rancid bourbon and not be paralyzed by a hangover the next day. It took him to his early twenties, to his first European trip, downing wine with a bunch of Algerians in southern France, or drinking ouzo with a bunch of old fisherman in northern Greece. But the best years to remember — and therefore the worst for his condition — were the ones just before he got married, his graduate school days. Oh, yes, when his closest buddy Cecil occupied a small lake house that could have been in the middle of nowhere but was just an hour’s drive from his alma mater. When a variety of alcohol — beer, wine, spirits — was always in great abundance. When young women came out in droves and he could ignore them until he chose not to. When John Coltrane and Shostakovich and Miles Davis and Bartok and Frank Zappa and Stravinsky and the Rolling Stones and (of course) Dark Side of the Moon accompanied conversations of philosophy and politics and theater and literature and sex and life and death and (of course) mental illness. And when he could take walks by the lake and enjoy a peace and quiet that, like a good night of lovemaking, was best appreciated in contemplation.
All those wonderful memories made a good argument for surrender.
Then…
The rebuttal. Ugly words like responsibility, duty and cirrhosis popped into his mind — vain, ineloquent attempts to keep him sober.
Yes, it’s difficult to make ugly words romantic.
Then a more frank attempt. Sentences like Don’t do it, This can’t go on, and You’ll pay for it later, all of which made Crawford thirstier. Those arguments turned desire into rebellion, thirst into defiance, and sobriety into an abrasive Victorian governess who needed to lighten up.
All this internal quarrelling made Crawford realize there was nothing glamorous about being a drunk. It merely was — like standing straight or wearing shoes. Sobriety required a kind of religious faith that he couldn’t accept. Crawford was an atheist before the God of Sobriety, an unholy deity who demanded unrelenting devotion. But the God of Inebriation, well, he only required the keys to the car. You shall have no other gods before me.
I’ll save my soul tomorrow, he thought as he put on his shoes.
As he backed out of the driveway, Crawford’s eyes were trained on the bedroom window, as they often were when he was going “on a run.” If the light came on, it would be like a siren going off during a prison break.
Backing slowly… slowly… there… is… no… light… no light…
He made it. He got away undetected. This time.
There was something disheartening about escaping so easily. It triggered more paranoia.
She’s going to find out. She’s going to be pissed. She’s just waiting until I get back so she can smash the bottle and cry a little.
Until the cash hit the counter at the liquor store, he might as well keep arguing with himself. It made the drive less painful.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Turn around. Go home. Go to bed.
Happy Time Liquor was pretty run down, the store that marked the end of Easy Street (relatively speaking) and the beginning of Hard Luck Boulevard. Crawford couldn’t go to the “exclusive” deli and wine dealer that served his community. It closed at nine. He wouldn’t have gone there anyway. The owner, and often times the patrons, knew who he was and what he supposedly hadn’t done in years. The little Indian man at Happy Time was not so well-informed and Crawford wouldn’t care if he was.
The place was empty and would have been quiet if not for the TV playing behind the counter.
“Is that all for you?” the Indian man asked with a heavy Hindi accent, putting the requested fifth of Lowlander Pure Malt on the counter.
“Yes.”
While the Indian was ringing up the purchase, the sound of the TV behind him grated on Crawford’s overburdened nerves.
There were three young black men, all wearing knit caps and dark clothing, pounding their fists into the low-angled camera. The beat was hard and deep. Boom. Boom. Boom. The setting was an urban wasteland with burning oil drums barely illuminating surreal, grim structures. The lyrics, from what Crawford could tell, were fuming with violence and hatred of the white power structure and anything else they could think of. Damn, what the kids listen to these days.
Here and there we are in the ghet-to
That’s me and JB, your worst [bleep]in’ foe
I’ve got a [bleep]in’ nine, I got [bleep]in’ [bleep]
And I’m ‘bout to let go on your [bleep]in’ [bleep], [bleeeeeep]
Crawford thought about the sense of power these slum fantasies tried to convey. He thought about the discontentment it contrived to relieve. But why was this Indian listening to it? It was really getting annoying.
“You like that stuff?” Crawford asked.
The Indian, wrapping the sack around the neck of the bottle, was caught off guard. “I don’t drink.”
Crawford gestured toward the TV. “No. I mean do you like that kind of music? You have it playing pretty loud.”
“Sir, it’s for the customers.”
“Some clientele,” he said to himself.
The Indian handed Crawford the sack with his change. “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that these musicians try to look like criminals or something?”
Crawford looked at the TV again. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the criminals who are trying to look like them. These guys are artists, you know,” he said holding up four fingers as quotation marks.
“Uh huh,” the man said. Then he added, “Low self-esteem, perhaps?”
Crawford laughed and the man looked puzzled.
“No. I don’t think so,” Crawford said.
“I’m glad to hear that. Good night,” the man said.
Crawford scanned the street. His mission was to be undercover and unrecognized from home back to home, from study back to study. Sometimes he was afraid that a tabloid photographer might get a picture of him leaving such a place, but then he remembered that he could always say he had a relapse. But he always double-parked his car in the alley next to the store, just in case.
He walked around the corner, and without a sound, a car passed in front of him abruptly, causing him to stumble back to the sidewalk.
“Shit!” he yelled.
He had slipped and fallen into a small puddle of something, cushioned only by the base of his right hand.
“Goddammit!”
He got up and inspected the bottle to make sure it wasn’t broken. He looked down the street only to see taillights that didn’t identify the car.
“What the fuck,” he moaned, picking himself up off the pavement. Fucking kids, he thought.
He brushed the dirt from his hands onto the sack then reached in his pocket for his keys.
After tonight, this is it, he thought as he walked to his car. This is the last time.
Then there were headlights behind him again. He turned to look. It was the same dark car — a sedan of some kind — traveling fast. Crawford staggered out of the way, back onto the sidewalk, almost falling again. He looked over his shoulder to the driver’s side of the car. He meant to give the finger, but the car went by too fast this time, taking the next turn before Crawford even saw the taillights. He couldn’t even see the make.
“Goddam asshole,” he yelled. “Goddam!”
Goddam Happy Pappy.
Goddam. Happy Pappy. Happy Pappy? The driver was wearing a Happy Pappy mask. That piece of shit was wearing a Happy Pappy mask!
He stopped and took a deep breath. His heart was racing. He looked down the alley, then back again.
That’s the only thing I saw, he thought. Just the face, smiling.
No. He stopped himself. Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him.
It was him. I mean, it was a guy wearing… I saw it. No. You didn’t see anything. You’re imagining things. Do they sell those damn things? They don’t sell those things, do they? No. Wait. Surely I’m seeing things. Light plays tricks on you sometimes, especially when you need a drink. It was probably just some other ugly bastard.
Crawford tried to forget about it, putting the bottle safely under his arm.
“I must be losing my mind,” he said as he got in the car.
Crawford looked over at his purchase, sitting in the passenger’s seat. He started to wonder if maybe his mind wasn’t going. Just following his liver’s lead. Would I go crazy and not know it? Shit. Isn’t that what madness is? And is this kind of madness caused by alcohol?
Better just get home.
The bedroom light was still off, and everything looked the same. It was calming. The guilt wasn’t going to be too bad.
Crawford went through the side entrance where he grabbed a towel from the laundry room to clean his faintly soiled pants. While rubbing the small wet spot on the back of his leg, he noticed one of Cal’s “uniforms” lying in a hamper next to the dryer. Black. All of it. The same color as those rappers on TV, but stylistically worlds apart. Was this his way of trying to get attention? Or trying to wield power? Maybe it was low self-esteem.
Fuck it. Who cares?
Crawford threw the towel into the hamper then looked at the bottle he was cradling. What could he criticize Cal for? He was a teenager. He had an excuse. Should I talk to him like Dorothy says? And if so, what about?
Crawford went to the kitchen and got a glass and a small bucket of ice. He walked down to his study thinking about how dark and remote it was, and then sat down at his desk. He thought he could almost stop right there and just go to bed, just stay sober. It seemed that way — so close and so easy, but he just couldn’t do it — or wouldn’t. In times like this he wasn’t sure there was a difference.
He looked at the tape, then at the note.
I’m going to follow your program to the very end.
Love, Happy Pappy.
Crawford closed the door and poured his first drink.
CHAPTER 7
Mumbling voices.
You know, Jan, people are strange animals. I think… actually helped the book… it communicates to people… give up.
“Huh?”
Crawford remembered playing late Shostakovich string quartets (8, 9, and 10), but he couldn’t remember pushing in the videotape. The incoherent voices were a dream, but the sound of the TV snow woke him up.
He looked at the violent sparks of light bursting in front of him. He looked over at the bottle sitting next to the TV — half empty.
No, half full. The glass is always half full.
The bucket now held nothing but water and a few small pieces of ice. He put his hand on his temple. He couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. He was so saturated with alcohol that his mind was more than intoxicated. It was numb.
He stared ahead blankly, watching the tiny lights on the TV screen dance like crazed fireflies. It might have been a few seconds or an hour.
Then he saw Happy Pappy.
The Happy Pappy Show was coming on.
Did I see this?
It was the same unbearable song, but something was different.
Crawford leaned toward the screen, his forehead contracting slightly to lift his eyelids.
The image was blurry. Or is it my eyes?
There were no dancing puppets and the set didn’t look right. It looked like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. The lines ran in every direction except up and down, and just looking at it made Crawford feel faint.
What the hell is this? Crawford thought, squinting his eyes.
Then the face popped into the frame from the upper right corner, looking down sideways, but with a smile more intense.
“Hello, Dr. Crawford!”
Crawford sat up.
“You’ve come a long way in just a short while, haven’t you?” Happy Pappy says, nodding sarcastically. “Doggone it, that program works!”
Crawford laughed at his confusion. It was so ridiculous.
The set looked mocked up, but the host looked exactly like the one on the show — same plump body, same ridiculous costume, same insidious voice.
Happy Pappy stepped aside, revealing a man tied to a chair. He was wearing a dark suit and had a pillowcase or something draped over his head. Crawford’s laugh melted, and he could feel his body shaking.
What the hell? What is that?
He could barely make out the man’s mouth, the only part of his face that was exposed.
Whatever was tied around his midsection looked unlike the rest of his clothing. It was like a grotesque form of modern art professing to convey hidden beauty.
“Like you always say! One stage at a time is the best way!” Happy Pappy screeches.
He holds up a copy of Self-Esteem, filling the frame beautifully like a professional photograph in Jan magazine. He opens the book with the authority of a minister ready to read scripture. “Your introduction to the first stage is so wonderful and true,” Happy says, his grin climbing up the side of his face like a vine devouring a derelict house. He holds up a finger to emphasize the point. “Stage one. Silence those that unjustly criticize you.”
He moved to the side again and Crawford could see the bound man struggling.
Berry and Scott? Did you…
Happy’s face jumps back in, filling the frame even more. “And that’s what this sourpuss has been doing! He’s been badmouthing you on TV and everything.” He moves closer like a monstrous marionette, his face half eclipsed by the shadow of the camera. He speaks softly. “He thinks your show is hooey! Can you believe that, Dr. Crawford? He thinks you’re full of shit.” He shouts, “What the fuck does he know?”
“What the fuck?” Crawford barked, his head bobbing toward the screen, his breathing heavy.
Happy Pappy holds up a large kitchen knife, the kind used to slice bread. It shines brightly, casting a hotspot on the lens.
Crawford felt a small vibration course through his body. This isn’t real.
“He won’t be putting down our show any longer!”
Happy Pappy reaches inside the small hole that exposes the man’s mouth. Crawford thought he heard the faceless person moan.
“No,” he is trying to say. No.
“Shut up, sourpuss!”
Crawford saw the tongue. Yeah, he’s definitely holding the guy’s tongue.
Happy Pappy’s body leans forward seductively as he lifts the knife slowly, enticingly. In his other hand he pinches the man’s tongue with his thumb and forefinger. He looks over his shoulder — to his one-man audience.
“Stage one complete,” he says, nodding serenely. “Stage one complete, Doctor! Silence those that unfairly criticize you. Thank you for your time.”
The screen went to snow.
Does this require a response? Crawford was thinking. He let the tape run.
He picked up the bottle and filled his glass. Then he hit stop on the VCR.
Comedians, he thought. I get them all.
Then the text appeared.
The techniques set forth on the “Happy Pappy Show” are based on the principles of Dr. James Crawford, whose Self Series™ has helped millions improve their lives.
These principles have been modified to accommodate the self-esteem needs of a younger audience.
Crawford lifted the glass and took a sip. He took a breath, taking in the bouquet, before downing the rest. It felt good and warm for the moment. Looking at the bottle, he knew he would be feeling pain very shortly. God, that’s too much, he thought. What am I doing?
And why did those fuckers send me this tape? I’m not going to respond to this.
He hit the eject button and pulled it out. The small movement made him grab his abdomen. The liquor was turning on him, but it was still doing its job as far as confidence went. He threw the tape in the wastebasket
next to his desk.
“Fuck you. Fuck you all.”
What if it’s a stalker or something?
No. Hell, no.
“People are going to try to get at you, take away your confidence and purpose. Jealous people. Find a way to avert them. Just find a way.”
God, my shitty books.
God, I better get some sleep.
“God, I need help.”
“Jim.”
Yes.
“Jim?”
Crawford’s eyes opened wide, allowing a current of light in, one that gave life to his vile hangover. He closed his eyes. He was face down on the living room couch, still in his clothes, with a large pillow just under his chin. He turned over on his back and instantly felt a horrific soreness in his neck. He looked at the empty bottle of Lowlander, lying broken on its side on the coffee table, its last lifeblood emptied into the basin of a large candle.
“Jim,” Dorothy said again.
Crawford opened his eyes to see his wife upside down, standing over him.
“Are you awake?”
“I think so.”
“So did you enjoy it?” she hissed.
“I think so.”
The tone of Dorothy’s voice made Crawford cower much more than the pain of withdrawal. It wasn’t the anger but the disappointment that made it so difficult to take.
Dorothy sat in a chair next to the sofa. “Why, Jim?”
Crawford turned on his side, away from her. “I don’t know.”
“How many times have we been through this, Jim?”
Crawford took a deep breath. “Please, no cliches.”
“Help me to understand. Why does this happen? Have you been upset about something? Is it something that I did? Was the banquet last night so terrible?”
Crawford rolled on his back again then sat up. “I can’t explain it to you. Okay? I just can’t. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by this feeling that I would rather die than not drink. Okay?” He leaned back wearily. “Difficult to understand?”
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