Self-Esteem

by Preston David Bailey

  Anyone could see that Sharkey had lost his right arm and his left leg (from the knee down) in Korea, but his soul? Crawford could never tell if Sharkey was being serious or just eccentrically droll.

  “Yep, parts of me are still over there,” Sharkey would say in his thick Brooklyn accent. “My soul’s somewhere around the thirty-eighth parallel.” He’d take a giant gulp of Irish whiskey and then guffaw wildly. “I ain’t going to hell. Lost my soul already. Damn. Hot damn. Soul’s in Korea,” he’d say slamming another shot. “Life’s just filled with irony, ain’t it?”

  Crawford was never sure if Sharkey was punning or if he truly believed his spirit had died in the Far East. Either way, Crawford found Sharkey’s penchant for talking about losing his soul rather than his limbs refreshing.

  But Crawford wasn’t really interested in seeing the bar again, or old Sharkey O’Neil for that matter. He just needed a place to sit down and have a drink. Or two. Or four. As morning traffic was just starting to mill around the downtown area, drinking from a paper sack in the car was probably not a good idea.

  Crawford thought he would have trouble finding the place; after all, it had been years. And the last time he’d been there he wasn’t exactly in the frame of mind to memorize directions for a trip back two decades later. Crawford started to think it was possible (hell, probable) the place was no longer open. The police couldn’t be happy with such a dive. And the way Sharkey drank, it would have taken a miracle and a liver transplant for him to still be alive. Crawford was ready to give up when he looked up and saw the place directly in front of him, its neon sign hanging at a 45-degree angle from the base where it once sat.

  “Oh yeah,” he thought. “That’s what it looks like.”

  Crawford pulled across the street to park and immediately noticed a man lying face down just in front of the ramshackle front door. He thought it was a man. Crawford got out of his car, and as he walked closer, he could see the person was lying with his (or her) forehead resting on a rubber doormat that graced the entrance. He (or she) had short, dark hair and eye-catching red spots on the back of his (or her) neck. His (or her) clothing was of a western style, popular with both rural men and inner-city lesbians. Crawford crouched down to look at the spots on the neck. They looked like bee stings or something. Perhaps they were liver spots from excessive drinking. Didn’t matter. Nothing he could do. So he stepped over him (or her) and thought about nice it was the bar was open.

  Crawford walked in hoping to find the old bird that left his soul in Korea, but no such luck. A brawny man who looked more like a bodyguard than a bartender — too dumb to pour a drink but smart enough to bash someone’s head in — sat behind the bar watching TV. There were just two customers in the place, old men, both wearing suits with large lapels (probably from the forties) sitting at a table sharing a pitcher of beer. It was perfect.

  I guess when you get older you got to take it easy in the morning.

  Crawford bellied up to the bar, getting an unusual look from the barkeep.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A shot and a beer,” Crawford said. “For starters.”

  “What kind of shot?” the man said with a deliberately unpleasant sneer.

  “Irish whiskey.”

  The man lazily reached for the bottle.

  “So where’s Sharkey this morning?”

  “Sharkey?”

  “You know, Sharkey O’Neil. Like the name of the place.”

  “Oh. There ain’t no Sharkey, man. The guy that bought the place just didn’t change the name.” The man poured Crawford his shot.

  “So you don’t know what happened to him? Sharkey, I mean.”

  The man pulled out a pilsner glass, looking annoyed. “No, man. Don’t know what happened to Sharkey. Sorry.” He gave a sarcastic smile while he filled the glass.

  Maybe the old guy was dead, Crawford thought. Then he wondered if Sharkey ever met up with his soul again.

  The bartender put the beer in front of Crawford. “Three bucks.”

  Crawford pulled out a fifty from his wallet and put it on the bar. “Keep ‘em coming,” he said.

  As the bartender took the bill, Crawford noticed something hanging on the wall behind him. It was Sharkey’s prosthetic arm, dangling by its strap from a nail. Crawford lifted the shot in a silent toast and downed the warm whiskey in one big swig. “Sharkey,” he said under his breath. “I hope you got your soul back.”

  The bartender settled into his TV show again, a local morning talk show that he watched with limp eyes.

  His indifference bothered Crawford for some reason, perhaps because Sharkey was always so attentive. That was how he remembered him.

  “You know,” Crawford started, “I haven’t been in a bar this comfortable in a long time.”

  The man nodded apathetically.

  “Places like this just seem really warm and inviting.”

  The bartender wasn’t going to be coaxed into a conversation. “Would you like to watch TV?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Crawford said sipping his beer. “Just not any kids shows.”

  The bartender put the remote control in front of him. “Of course. Anything you want.” The bartender picked up a crate of empty beer bottles and walked away to the back.

  Crawford started flipping channels.

  There was a cable news program with a helicopter shot of a suburban school. The caption under the image read, “School Shooting.”

  Crawford flipped the channel and took a sip of beer.

  There was a trash-TV talk show with a young black girl, probably in her mid-teens, wearing a glossy, hot pink outfit. It clung tightly to her large breasts and thighs. She danced in a strange side-to-side wobble as the audience taunted her with boos and hisses. Crawford thought she looked like a prostitute who didn’t know how pitiful she was.

  “Y’all just jealous ‘cause I know what I want,” she says, standing and turning around, shaking her plump bottom. “I can get what I want ‘cause I loves myself. Y’all don’t know…”

  It’s even more pathetic that people start their day watching this shit. He flipped the channel.

  There was a black female judge in one of those court-TV shows. A gaunt man with a light complexion and a heavy Midwestern accent was shaking his head. “Thing is, your Honor, I tried to do everything to please her.”

  Then an unattractive woman, apparently the man’s wife, spoke up loudly. “You didn’t do squat!” she shrieks. Then quietly addressing the judge, “He didn’t do a damn thing for me, your Honor, except make me feel like dirt. My self-esteem was gone the day he walked his skinny butt through the door.”

  “Then why did you stay with him?” the judge asks.

  Crawford flipped the channel.

  Ah, yes — the lovely Jan Hershey, so big her talk show had syndicated reruns on cable.

  Who would watch reruns of this crap?

  “I think the main thing here is that parents need to talk to their children. We always need to keep communication open to help improve their self-”

  Crawford turned off the TV, mocking her. “We need to talk to our children.”

  Crawford took another big gulp off his beer. He looked over his left shoulder and saw the bartender staring at him.

  “Need another?”

  “What I tell you?” Crawford grunted.

  Cal had started to get nervous right about the time Darrin told him to get off the freeway just south of downtown. He had never been to this part of town and so knew little about it, but its reputation was notorious. Gangs. Drugs. Violence. Actually, it was more industrial than he thought, with railroad tracks across every intersection and several towering smokestacks bellowing out smoke from God-knows-what.

  “This is a gang neighborhood?” Cal asked.

  “No, man. The residential neighborhoods are east of here. That’s where all the crime is. This is all manufacturing. You can’t even get shot down here.” Darrin took a deep breath and smiled. “You smell tha
t?”

  “What?”

  Darrin cracked his window. “You smell that?”

  Cal didn’t have to breathe in heavily. “It smells like shit.”

  Darrin laughed. “That’s exactly right. Waste disposal. Big industry around here. If you ever bring a girl down here be sure and tell her you didn’t fart.”

  “Why would I bring a girl down here?”

  “Waste disposal,” Darrin said coolly. Darrin raised his eyebrows slightly then laughed. “You need to relax, man.”

  “What are we really doing down here?”

  “Just keep driving,” he said, his eyes straight ahead. “We’re almost there.”

  Cal sensed that Darrin was filled with anticipation, incapable of sitting still as they drove.

  “I want to surprise you,” Darrin said.

  Darrin instructed Cal to turn down a narrow road with a series of abandoned buildings on it. Most of them were brick, probably built fifty or sixty years ago.

  Darrin smiled with satisfaction. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.” Then he recognized their destination. “Right here,” he said pointing.

  “Here?”

  “Yep.”

  Cal pulled into the parking lot slowly, trying to avoid the rubbish that was strewn all over it. It was mostly broken glass and rusty nails from an assortment of wood pieces that came from no telling what. Cal turned off the engine. The building was like the others on the block except for a strange, faded sign that graced one wall.

  “My mom’s going to find out I skipped school, Darrin. I think I should leave.”

  “No she’s not. Chill, dude.”

  “This is it?”

  “This is it.”

  Cal was so frightened he couldn’t move. “I don’t know, Darrin.”

  Darrin was genuinely irritated. “You don’t know? For a thousand dollars apiece? All we got to do is drive across town. It’ll be a breeze. Watch.” Darrin opened the car door.

  “I thought you said…”

  “I said what?” Darrin said, with genuine anger.

  “No wait, man.”

  “Quit being such a fucking pussy,” he said.

  Cal was shocked by Darrin’s anger. “You want me to chill?”

  “Stay here then,” Darrin said getting out of the car.

  Cal was more afraid of staying in the car. He got out and locked the doors with his remote, wondering if his car would still be there when they came back. He walked quickly after Darrin, sidestepping the debris on the ground, with a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. “Wait,” he called. “Darrin, wait.”

  Darrin turned around and smiled.

  “Sure, man. No problem.”

  With a short kick, Darrin broke open the rusted metal door that served as the building’s only entrance.

  “You’ve been here before?” Cal said.

  Darrin didn’t say anything. He just walked inside, motioning for Cal to follow. “Come on.”

  Light shone down from small horizontal windows, which lined the top of the twelve-foot brick walls. The place was filthy, a thick soot lining every inch of the place. There were chunks of wood and metal on the floor. One wall was showered with giant burn marks. There was a pile of old sewing machines in a corner.

  Darrin walked slowly but with certainty, reviewing the place as if he were a safety inspector hoping to shut it down.

  “You know what’s weird, Cal?” he said slowly. “This used to be a garment factory where a bunch of Chinese immigrants worked. It was a sweatshop. And the guy that ran the place padlocked all the workers inside so they couldn’t take breaks in the alley. One day the place caught fire and burned all the people inside. Thing is, they say you can hear all these people crying at night. Like all their ghosts still live here and they’re trying to get out.”

  “Who says that?” Cal looked down at the floor. A small area looked recently swept; it didn’t have the debris that covered the rest of the floor. Then he saw a giant stain — a giant bloodstain. “Darrin, where’d you meet this guy?”

  “On the Internet, why?”

  Cal followed the narrow stain to a dark area on his right. Cal squinted to see what was there, dark skinny figures huddling in the corner.

  A camera? On a tripod? Stage lights?

  Then it was dark.

  Dorothy got dressed wondering what would be the best way to tell Jim she wanted a divorce. Or did she want a divorce? Should I threaten him first? she thought. Or would a mere verbal threat not be taken seriously? Should she retain a lawyer, even while just considering it, or would that be too much of a declaration? And have things gotten so bad that I should do that?

  Dorothy knew she had to do something. She knew that when Jim disappeared in the afternoons he wasn’t just going to the beach to meditate, as he once told her. Sometimes her anger would rise and fall with no perceptible motivation at all. One minute she would be cussing him out, the next saying she was sorry — all without him actually being there. This had driven her crazy for years. But the pattern had shown an unusual one-sidedness recently: she was starting to condemn more than forgive. And what made it serious — for her marriage in particular — was that it felt good.

  “He would be lying in the gutter right now without me,” she said turning on the coffee grinder. “Maybe he needs to try the gutter lifestyle for a while. Then he wouldn’t take me for granted.”

  And that’s how Dorothy felt — taken for granted. Think about it. Who had put so much love into Jim’s career? She had. Who had put so much love into staying fit and attractive so her spouse could be proud at social gatherings? She had. Who had put so much love into the beautification of their home? She had. And for what? Money? She didn’t care about money — only about nice things. And gosh darn it, Jim wasn’t a nice thing these days.

  “Yes, perhaps I need to look into obtaining counsel,” she said to her reflection in her die cast stainless steel digital control coffeemaker. “And I need to get some better coffee. This coffee isn’t even organically grown.”

  The Beverly Hills Yellow Pages was filled with the Bergs and Steins of divorce law, and she knew any of them would be pleased as punch to represent her — even without knowing that the words “prenuptial agreement” had never been spoken between her and her husband.

  “You need someone who will play hardball,” one advertisement read. “A true scrapper who knows California law and who is willing to…”

  Jeez Louise. Such aggression. Such hostility. I want to be diplomatic.

  “We negotiate child support, alimony, and other matters as professionally as possible.”

  Too straightforward. Too dull. I need someone down to earth.

  “High-profile divorce is our specialty. We can handle the press like no other law firm, leaving you free…”

  Sounds like they’re star struck. I don’t want star struck. This should be very low-profile.

  “We know when and how to throw mud.”

  My God. Nasty. I don’t want mud involved.

  “We understand that you are devastated, and we can help.”

  Bullshit sympathy. Heads tilted sideways as they’re seeing dollar signs. I don’t want that.

  “We provide references to psychotherapy professionals who specialize in divorce-related depression and psychosis.”

  This sounds interesting. Divorce therapists. I didn’t know. But that might antagonize Jim even more, getting therapy through my divorce attorney. I just don’t know.

  “Our founding partner is the author of The Sexy Prenup: the hot way to…”

  Prenup. I don’t have a prenup.

  Those words rang out like there’s no place like home. It was liberating how it echoed in her mind: no prenup… nup… nup… nup. Maybe I can just represent myself in all of this. Yes. Maybe I can just get a book or something and fill out all the papers myself and show them to Jim and tell him I’m serious. That will be enough of a threat. No, not a threat, a stand, yes. A real stand. By myself. And there won’t be a big l
ine in the sand that a lawyer would draw. “My client, blah, blah, blah.” I can do this myself, like the time I painted the lawn furniture. I really can. I always wanted to go to law school, sort of. But I don’t even need law school. There’s no prenup after all. I could get as much as I wanted all by myself. Yes. And I would feel even better.

  She stopped herself a moment. It was meant to be. Dorothy looked through her purse and pulled out something Jim had given her as a token peace offering a few months ago: a gift card for fifty dollars at a bookstore. Maybe he gave me this card for a reason, she thought. Maybe he was crying for help. Maybe he wants me to buy a book on divorce. Maybe if I threaten to divorce him it will help him find himself, and if he’s already aware of this subconsciously…

  Dorothy went upstairs to get dressed.

  Not a bad idea.

  “And I can pick up some organic coffee while I’m out.”

  “Hey buddy.”

  The amount of time Crawford had been drinking in Sharkey’s was unclear, but however long it was he was now about to pass out. He was leaning on the bar with his chin on his forearm, his eyelids slowly moving up and down like the sea at low tide, when the bartender tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey buddy.”

  Crawford’s eyes snapped open; he looked almost offended he’d been touched.

  “What?” he said slowly. “What d’ya want?”

  “Hey, don’t you think you should head home?”

  “Home?” Crawford mumbled. “What the hell is that?”

  There was a soft thud — a peculiar thud — and the bartender looked past Crawford out the window. Then another thud. Then another. Bump, bump, bump, bump.

  “Oh shit,” the bartender mumbled.

  “Earthquake?” Crawford looked out the window and saw a lime green 1978 Cadillac sedan with heavy detailing — shiny spiked rims, florescent lights, the whole nine yards. It was garish as hell, but more menacing than anything.

  “What is it?” Crawford asked.

  Three young black men dressed in black hip-hop baggy pants, pullovers, and knit caps got out of the car.