Self-Esteem
Page 20
Lee was raising his glass to his lips and stopped in his tracks. “Really? I think I have heard of that one. Wow, you’re a famous guy.”
“Word,” Rakim said proudly.
“What’s your name… bro?” He had never called anyone “bro” in his life.
“Rakim, JB. This nigga’s J and that nigga’s B,” he said proudly pointing at each of one them.
“But your name is just Rakim?” Then turning to J and B, “Nice to meet you,” he said properly.
“No, man. I’m Rakim JB. This here’s J and this is B.”
“Oh, collectively known as JB” Lee didn’t understand how this worked but couldn’t think of the right question to clarify. He downed his shot in one big gulp and barreled over, coughing into the back of his right hand as the rotgut whiskey saturated the back of his throat. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s some strong shit.”
“Thing is,” Rakim continued, “I’m a trend setter.” “Forty Shakers, that album was all about niggas gettin’ nasty with they bitches and hoes. And that shit’s fun, yo, raw. But it’s on the way out. All these niggas be doin’ that. I knew I needed a new direction. That’s why I made Porridge. It’s a concept album.”
“Interesting,” Lee said.
“Listen to him, Lee,” Crawford said, before downing his shot without a wince. Then he opened his eyes wider as if it woke him up a bit. “Ah. Damn good, Lee.”
Lee grabbed the phone again then asked the bartender, “Can you recommend a cab company to call that wouldn’t mind coming down here.”
Before he could answer, Rakim said, “Yo, man. I’ll give you a ride. Look at that dope-ass car out there. I got the best ride in town. Where you need to go?”
“Century City.”
“Hell, that’s no problem.” Rakim put his hand on Lee’s shoulder and gestured to Crawford. “This man changed my life with the books he’s written. Hell, he saved my life.” Suddenly his voice was upper middle-class Caucasian. “It would be an honor for me to take you two gentlemen anywhere.”
“Is that right?” Lee said.
“What do I do about my car?” Crawford said, holding up his keys.
“Your car? It’s outside? Why didn’t you say something?
“I… uh…”
“I’ll drive,” Lee said, snatching the keys.
Rakim looked disappointed, and then was a rapper again. “Look, when we gonna talk about the prospect of you gettin’ my motherfuckin’ memoirs published? I can deliver his car later.”
“No, man. We’ll talk another time. Okay?”
Rakim put a business card in Lee’s front pocket. “You better call my ass,” he said.
“No problem,” Lee said. “Come on, champ,” he said putting his hand on Crawford’s shoulder.
Crawford put his right arm around Lee as a long line of saliva dripped from the side of his mouth. “I’ve got to get back to my family,” Crawford said, wiping his mouth with his left hand. “Right away.”
“Why?”
“Because that asshole’s coming after me pretty soon. He’s coming after Dorothy. He’s going to get all of us.”
“Who’s coming after you?” Rakim said.
“Hell, I don’t know.” Crawford’s eyes widened, revealing solid red lines running from his irises to his eyelids.
“I went to her apartment, Lee.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Lee said, trying to drag him by his shoulder.
“Come back anytime,” the bartender said.
“Fuckin’ A right come back,” Rakim said. “You better come back.”
“Let’s go, TV star,” Lee said, pulling harder.
“Wait,” Crawford stopped him, as if to make a proclamation. In fact it was a proclamation. “I have to take a shit.”
“Then by all means go, Jim, go,” Lee said. “Take a shit.”
“Shit, yeah,” Rakim added.
Crawford, looking at Rakim for guidance, lifted his finger toward the back and raised his drunken eyes into a question mark.
“That nasty-ass shitter should have been cleaned a long time ago,” Rakim said, giving the bartender a dirty look. “I apologize, Doc. But at least the motherfucker works, unlike some things ‘round here.”
“Believe me, I won’t remember it.”
Crawford stumbled into the bathroom and stopped a moment at the stall door to look at the various inscriptions and messages strewn all over it. “Rakim’s Office” was the first Crawford noticed, along with the various limericks and promises of sexual services found on any low-budget john. There was a desperate violence in the calligraphy that denounced the surroundings. But like a lot of contemporary art — especially movies and novels — it also served as a collaborator to all that it claimed to condemn.
Crawford opened the door reading, “She got a Lopsided tit that looks like Shit” and “Darnell W. sucks big dicks” with a phone number.
So much anger.
Oh that’s this guy Rakim, Crawford thought. On the TV in the liquor store. “I’m in the ghet-to,” that shit. Well, what d’ya know. The guy really is in the ghetto.
Thank heaven the toilet didn’t smell as bad as it looked, as it gave Crawford the power to take a seat rather than kneel down. Crawford locked the stall door then thought he might pass out, or worse, have a seizure. But he knew Lee wouldn’t leave him there, nor Rakim for that matter, and they would have no trouble getting through a puny little toilet door like this. So he went ahead and locked it.
Does it matter?
There were no sanitary seat covers and Crawford was too drunk to care, so he faced the door and unzipped his pants. But just as he was about to take a seat, Crawford realized there was a book resting on the tank lid behind him. Even before he turned around it registered immediately: a Bible.
Crawford twisted to the side and picked it up, gripping its spine and noting the faded words “Holy Bible” with “PRONOUNCING” beneath. Crawford took a seat.
The Book’s cover was stiff, its black leather having obviously been exposed to the elements for years, making it feel more like cardboard than animal skin.
Crawford situated each cheek comfortably on the toilet seat, and opened the cover. Stencil-created flowers covered the edges of the first page, which served to tell whom the Bible was bestowed upon.
Holy Bible
presented to
____________________
by
____________________
Blanks. Apparently it had never been presented to anyone. Perhaps it was purchased by someone as a gift to himself. Those are the nicest gifts anyway, Crawford thought.
The poor Bible looked lonely in this horrendous place. But obviously the urinating and defecating drunks had a certain respect for it. There didn’t appear to be any graffiti, no stains, no damage of any kind. Perhaps the patrons of Sharkey’s knew it needed to be there. Perhaps that’s why that unknown someone had left it.
The pages still felt silky-thin. Only Bible pages feel like that. Crawford brushed them back and forth a few times just to feel the sensation.
Crawford opened it to the title page but was immediately distracted by the color photograph on the facing leaf. It was a painting called SAMSON IN THE TREADMILL, one of those old paintings Crawford had seen going to church as a child in Texas. They were everywhere, these reproductions — on church programs, church announcements, and church calendars. Everyone was handsome, everyone was perfectly built, especially Jesus.
Sampson is leaning into the mill on his left foot. His face is obscured, but his perfect body is emphasized by the brilliant use of Rembrandt-like shadow and a sexy loincloth. There was an inscription underneath.
But the Philistines took him, and put out his eyes, and brought him down to Gaza, and bound him with fetters of brass: and he did grind in the prison house.
Judges 16:21
Hmm, Crawford thought. Wonder why they decided to use this particular painting and this particular passage. Crawford was also starting to wonder if he
was going to be able to have a bowel movement. He thought of his grandmother, probably because both the Bible and bowel movements (that is, enemas) were strong reminders of her.
He felt that all Christians could be categorized as Old Testament or New Testament — depending on what he called the Hell-Fire-And-Brimstone Factor. Grandma was definitely Old Testament, and accordingly she thought the entire human race was going to hell for eternity and would deserve every excruciating minute of it. Also very Old Testament was her favorite maxim: “All you need is the Bible.”
When Crawford was a little boy he had countered with “What about food?”
“You need the Bible before you need food,” she’d quickly answer. “All you need is the Bible.”
This wasn’t a problem until Crawford started writing his first self-help book. The memory of his deceased grandmother began popping up all the time — even while asleep — saying the same thing: “All you need is the Bible.” Crawford had thought that he had long since put his Christian upbringing behind him, but he was wrong.
I can’t crap. He contracted his stomach muscles and leaned over. But I need to. Oh please, God.
Crawford flipped a couple of pages ahead. “All you need is the Bible,” he said aloud. Genesis. “Maybe it will help.”
Can the Bible help us? Can’t we just help ourselves? Maybe that’s what the ancients were doing when they wrote the Bible: helping themselves.
Crawford suddenly thought about how drunk he was and that perhaps he needed real help. Genesis. Chapter 3. Banishment. Maybe we needed banishment, he thought.
Or did we? Did it help us? Does it matter? Help me, he thought.
CHAPTER 3
The First Sin and its Punishment
Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?
2 And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:
3 But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
“Strange decree.” It’s like your parents telling you not to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes when you’re a teenager. It’s the challenge that makes you want to do it. I wonder why God did this. Then there’s Job. God testing people and things like that. My Grandmother said never ask why God does something. Huh, I wonder why she said that.
4 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:
The Devil was right about that. They didn’t die. But God said they would. Oh, maybe it’s that they’ll die eventually.
5 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
You can be like God, autonomous like God. This was the first lie ever told.
6 And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food,
They had all the food they wanted, but that wasn’t enough. Damn women.
and that it was pleasant to the eyes,
She could still look at it. She just couldn’t touch. Gotta have everything.
and a tree to be desired to make one wise,
Like she cared about being wise. Probably just wanted to look like she cared about being wise.
she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.
Now wait, did Adam know it was from the tree? The tree? Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe she just said, “Hey, Honey, have some of this with your mutton.” Poor sap. Probably didn’t even like it. Probably was just being nice. Probably just wanted to get laid. Or maybe she just nagged him until he gave in.
7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
God wanted a bunch of naked people who didn’t know they were naked, didn’t know good and evil? Huh, being naked is evil? Unless you don’t know it, I guess. I really need to read this book again.
“All you need is the Bible,” Crawford said contracting his stomach again.
8 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day:
They heard his voice walking in the garden? Oh yeah, they couldn’t see him, I guess. Or else they were crazy. Which means the whole human race is crazy. This book actually makes sense. No wonder Freud…
and Ad’am
“Ad’am?” Oh, it’s a “Pronouncing” Bible.
and Ad’am and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.
9 And the LORD God called unto Ad’am, and said unto him, Where art thou?
10 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.
I guess King James added the “was” emphasis later. “Because I was naked.” He still is, really. He’s wearing a damn fig leaf. See if that holds up in court.
11 And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked?
Come on, that’s a loaded question. I guess all God’s questions are loaded, now that I think about it.
Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?
He’s God. He knows the answer. The question is rhetorical.
12 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me,
That’s a strange emphasis, “to be.” He sounds bitter already.
she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
Boy, he sells her out fast, doesn’t he? Eh, she deserves it.
13 And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.
Excuses, excuses. She used the word “beguiled.” What a phony. Or maybe it’s just a bad translation.
14 And the LORD God said unto the serpent,
The serpent was still around, huh? He was watching the whole thing?
Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:
“Eat dust,” snake. Snakes were walking upright before? Creepy.
15 And I will put enmity between thee and the woman,
“Enmity.” So that’s where the battle of the sexes comes from. Or he is talking about between the woman and the snake? Maybe Adam’s snake.
and between thy seed and her seed;
Ah.
it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.
Uh huh, lots of fighting. It’s God-intended, all this fighting.
16 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband,
“Thy desire shall be to thy husband.” Does that mean her desire was elsewhere before? Or does that mean the husband will be hornier than the woman? I’m confused.
and he shall rule over thee.
Damn right.
17 And unto Ad’am he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife,
Uh huh, because he listened to his bitchy-ass wife’s bad ideas…
and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;
18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
“The herb”? Hmm. What herb?
19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
“Dust thou art.” God despises us by the Third Chapter. No wonder we have no self-esteem.
20 And Ad’am called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living.
He’s a semanticist. The first.
I feel sick.
22 ¶ And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us,
Us? Us who? Who is he talking to here?
to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:
I don’t understand.
23 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Ad’am, to till the ground from whence he was taken.
Just do your business so you can get another drink.
24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Ad’am Cher’u-bims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
“To keep the way of the tree of life”? What does that mean? Wait a minute.
Crawford leaned over and farted loudly then felt a sudden rush of fear as though he’d just committed blasphemy. His grandmother would have said so, but she wouldn’t have explained why. Farting is natural, Crawford assured himself. It’s okay, nothing to be ashamed of. Farting and crapping — it was a subject Crawford thought about in his early twenties to help rid himself of social phobias.
People are all a bunch of shitters and pissers and farters, he often thought, especially around unapproachably beautiful women. And it worked for a while, but it soon proved a catch-22. He thought about them shitting, pissing and farting then he no longer desired them.
Crawford expelled more flatus. Isn’t it strange how we all fear the fart? Something everyone has to do on a daily basis. Something God — if there is One — created. Something, ironically, that creates a pleasant release. It’s a philosophical question I should bring up sometime — perhaps in a book or at a dinner party. I could be a revolutionary. If I were to write of this private moment in a book, people would call me depraved and dirty-minded. Someone brave would do it. Jonathan Swift would do it, and he was a priest. In Lilliput they dealt with some nasty shit, literally — Gulliver’s nasty shit. And what about Redd Foxx, he could talk about farting and shitting. No priest, but what a genius he was. Serious writers and thinkers cannot talk about such things. They don’t want to be laughed at. Redd did want to be laughed at. He was free. What if I only used the word “flatulence”? Or perhaps the more conversational “to break wind”? When my mother used to say “break wind” it always sounded dirtier than “fart.” Oh, screw it, who cares?