Self-Esteem

by Preston David Bailey

  As Crawford was evacuating his bowels he thought he might write a book called A Release Filled with Shame, with the subtext: Why God bestowed upon us the shame of…

  Crawford froze a moment then twisted around and put the Bible back where he found it. “You think too much, Crawford. Wipe your ass.” And don’t feel ashamed. He could almost hear his Grandmother say You’re going to hell.

  “If you’re not out here in two minutes,” Crawford heard Lee yell. “I’m leaving with your car.”

  Crawford wept.

  And that was the last thing he remembered.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ceiling. It was a ceiling — a plain old white ceiling. That’s what it looked like in the dark. Didn’t look familiar, but then again most ceilings don’t. One reason the Sistine Chapel is such a marvel.

  The sound was silence — not the kind Simon and Garfunkel sang about, but bad silence. For Crawford there was nothing worse than waking up from a real bender and hearing it lingering, waiting like a stalker to remind him of the horrible incidents that hadn’t been blacked out by alcohol.

  Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

  He lifted the sheets to find he was in his boxer shorts, not in his usual bedroom dress. The comforter on the bed was unfamiliar to him, so was the room. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and saw a large glass of water on the night table next to a small bottle of aspirin and a bottle of B vitamins. Crawford, dehydrated so badly his upper lip was sticking to the top of his gums, grabbed the glass of water and drank half of it. Next to the aspirin was a small note pad with something scribbled on it. “I called your wife. There’s no need to worry. Get some rest. Take a vitamin. You’ve got a show to do. Regards, Lee.”

  Regards? Did he dictate that to his damn secretary?

  As Crawford’s body absorbed the cold water, his limbs chilled. He slid back under the covers noticing a small digital clock beside the lamp on the night table. It read 3:20. It was dark outside. Three in the morning, not three in the afternoon.

  How could I have slept that long? Have I been sleeping that long? Maybe I just got in bed a little while ago. Maybe I was placed here.

  He tried to recall the last thing he could remember. Those black kids in the bar, he remembered them rapping. He remembered…

  Lee came and got me. I called him. But that had to be twelve hours ago.

  Crawford thought of one time he had been on a hardcore binge — right after the publication of Self-Assurance — and he slept almost twenty-four hours. Twelve was nothing by comparison. And as his mother used to tell him when he was a kid, “When you sleep for long periods, it means your body needs it, so go ahead.”

  What Crawford felt like now was crap, and what he needed now was a drink. He could already tell he was in store for some comedown “willies” — the kind that brings the terror of losing one’s mind. He felt like there was a strange flow of electricity running from the base of his spine into the core of his brain, overloading it with deadly current. He didn’t have a headache in the usual sense, but his entire forehead throbbed with voltage that felt like a cerebral earthquake.

  Drink. No. Drink. That’s what I need. No, you don’t. Don’t. Yes, you do. No, I don’t. Drink.

  It’s dangerous if you don’t drink. You need to come down slowly, he thought.

  Okay, I’ll drink.

  Crawford went into the bathroom and turned on the light. The bathroom was so immaculate, more so than his own, with every little item (towels, soap, etc.) so carefully placed, he wished he could vomit all over it. He probably would have, but he didn’t feel like it just then. Lee’s wife was notorious for her interior decorating (even worse than Dorothy), and the guest bathroom was probably a top priority. Crawford lifted the toilet seat and tried to take a piss, but couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything except think of getting that “comedown” cocktail.

  Downstairs, Lee had a fully stocked bar with some of the best Scotch you can buy and a wine collection that would shame a Frenchman. But Crawford knew that if he was going to have a drink, it had better be just one or two. It wouldn’t be long before Lee would be waking him up to help him get to the Jan Hershey show, perhaps pointing a gun to his head to accomplish his goal.

  Who the hell are you kidding? You’ve never stopped at one or two, ever.

  Crawford washed his face then inspected himself in the mirror. He thought about how terrible he looked, how old. He hadn’t thought that in a long time.

  We all pay the price of old age; it’s just that some of us pay the premium.

  When Crawford thought of himself as old it wasn’t the age itself that depressed him, it was what he felt like he’d accomplished at his age — or rather what he hadn’t accomplished. He’d achieved a failing marriage and a bad liver, and little else. At his most candid, Crawford knew the Self Series was nothing but a sham, a hack job, nothing close to what he had set out to accomplish when he first wrote Self-Confidence.

  And besides, Crawford’s major consideration hadn’t been the book — not for the book’s sake. It was his newborn son, Calvin. Without saying a word, baby Cal demanded more, and things had to improve and improve soon.

  Cal’s birth was the one event in Crawford’s life that made it more difficult to drink than to stay sober. Peering down at the little boy’s tiny hands and feet, being slapped in the face with the fragility of his infancy and the responsibility that it demanded, made it almost impossible for Crawford to sashay out the backdoor and into a bar. Dorothy’s resultant happiness, her deep love of her child along with her renewed love of her husband, gave her a gentle disposition that Crawford couldn’t allow his drinking to thwart. It was best, Crawford believed, to at least give the appearance of a father trying to improve things for his family. And that’s when he decided that he must produce a quality pop psychology book. Whether or not “quality pop” amounted to something of genuine value was of little consequence at the time. Even buying a new baby carriage was not an insignificant purchase for Jim and Dorothy’s combined income, and it was time for Jim to roll up his sleeves and earn some good hard cash.

  Years later, Crawford remembered very little about writing Self-Confidence. Hearing baby Cal crying in his cradle in the next room and Dorothy taking care of him were the most inspiring sounds Crawford could ask for. Better than silence.

  You’re going to have a good life, my son.

  And Dorothy, you’re going to be proud of me, sweetheart.

  And Crawford pulled it off, truth be known, with little fanfare and little struggle. It took a few years, but he did it.

  But those days were long gone. Crawford tried to invoke those same feelings of inspiration while writing fiction, but he just couldn’t do it. Perhaps it was because Cal had obviously lost respect for him — or gained disrespect, however you want to look at it.

  And did he really want to be a novelist? A real novelist, like the kind he often talked about? He wasn’t sure any more. It might just come from some need to assuage his failure as a psychologist — and as a father and as a husband.

  Crawford looked at himself in the mirror then turned away.

  “Well, I’ll mosey on downstairs and have that little drink after all.”

  Hell, just a couple. Just beer. I’m too tired for anything else.

  Crawford slowly crept out into the hall, which was dark except for a nightlight in a wall socket just outside the guestroom. The two bedrooms across the hall had no light coming from beneath their closed doors, and neither did the room next door, which had a small wooden plate that read “Emily.” Apparently the Burns Family — man, woman, and child — was fast asleep.

  When Crawford got down the stairs to the living room, the ticking of the grandfather clock was almost deafening, amplifying his paranoia. He felt like a thief in a museum, ready for a security guard to stick a gun in his face the very moment he approached the masterpiece he intended to steal. There was an irony in the emotions Crawford felt about sneaking alcohol. It was dangerous fun, like the kin
d an adolescent feels with a picture of a naked girl under his mattress. But like that pubescent pleasure, it was rife with shame — the kind that comes from acting impulsively on base instincts. And for Crawford, it was a shame that could only be eradicated with alcohol.

  When the bar came into view, it looked beautiful, horrifyingly so. He always admired Lee’s taste, but the bar — the bar itself — was his Hope Diamond. Lee purchased it from an old Scottish pub in Edinburgh then paid a fortune to have it shipped to the States to be installed and refurbished. A local legend claimed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, about the time he was getting his medical degree, had scribbled a story or two on the bar’s perimeter while guzzling a few warm ales. It didn’t matter if it was true. Like all legends, it was a good story. And aside from its West Hollywood Hills location, to Crawford it looked like home sweet home.

  How ‘bout a beer that’s ice fuckin’ cold…

  There was a guy Crawford knew in college that always used that expression, “ice fuckin’ cold.” What was his name?

  He heard something and froze.

  Crawford felt cold again and his body started to shake. He was still just wearing his boxer shorts. He originally thought he would enjoy his couple of beers out on the back patio, but now he just wanted to create his own little bar under the warm covers upstairs.

  Crawford stopped for a good ten seconds, moving nothing but his eyes from side to side. Nothing. He thought of the possibility of paranoia. Of the willies. Of Hoppy Poppy, or whatever that guy’s name is.

  I’m overreacting. Just like the caller, the tapes. Could just be some prankster. But would they do something so elaborate? Yes, Berry and Scott would.

  Would they? Really? What about a stalker?

  “No.”

  You’re nuts, Crawford. You’re really nuts. Just like Mary Epstein used to say.

  “But she was only kidding.”

  Wasn’t she?

  The Monday after the five-day writing binge that had produced his master’s thesis found Crawford soundly passed out on his battered sofa dreaming of the summer he would spend drunk and carefree, confidently knowing he had a new piece of paper that proved to the world he wasn’t a complete loser. He didn’t have to submit his thesis until Friday, all his finals were taken, and both his oral and written comprehensives were completed. There was nothing to do but sleep until the afternoon then pick up his thesis from Mary Epstein, a fellow classmate who had been proofreading and retyping it for him for the previous two days.

  Mary was one of those people that was so nice, that gave so completely without expecting anything in return, that Crawford felt severe guilt just being in her company. Truth was she had a crush on Crawford, and he knew it. But physically she just didn’t do it for him. Sadly, she didn’t do it for any other men in the Psych department either. She was more than a little plump and wore large sweatshirts that reached to the knees, and skirts that almost covered her ankles. But she had a wonderful intellect and a charming sense of humor, and everyone liked Mary. She was interested in everything, was well-read, and consequently was very engaging.

  Regardless of how Crawford felt around Mary, he certainly didn’t avoid her when it came to needing help on research projects. She was fast, meticulous, and refused to accept payment apart from a few slices of pizza and a couple of beers. He also trusted her with his work — the prime reason Berry’s call came as such a surprise.

  “You sleeping? It’s almost noon. Are you asleep?”

  “I was,” Crawford said with a dry cough. “Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s Berry.”

  “What do you want, fairy?”

  “I just read your thesis.”

  Crawford woke up a little more. “You what? I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

  “Well I did, and I’ve got some bad news.”

  Crawford sat up. “What are you talking about? How’d you read my thesis?”

  “I was over at Mary’s last night and she let me read it.”

  “Really? I told her…” Crawford stopped. “Okay, what’s the title?”

  “Critical Consequences of the…”

  “That bitch.”

  “Watkins will know where you got this, Jim.”

  “Where I got it? What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Jim. I know this paper.”

  “How can you know that paper? I just wrote it last week.”

  “This paper was just in the Comprehensive Psych Review last month. Some Scandinavian guy. Maybe Eastern European, I can’t remember.”

  “What?” Crawford said.

  “Come on, man. You plagiarized this.”

  Crawford laughed. “Don’t give me your bullshit, Berry.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you. I’m doing you a favor, Jim. All your credit hours could be taken away for this. I talked to Watkins about this very article two months ago. I’m just trying to warn you that if he catches you trying to pass off someone else’s work as your own, he’s going to throw the book at you. You know how he is about unoriginality. But shit, this is plagiarism.”

  “I didn’t plagiarize anything!”

  “Oh, yeah? You were going to pick this up from Mary today, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “After you drag your ass over there, meet me at the coffee shop across from the library. I’ll bring the journal and we’ll compare the two.”

  “All right, Berry,” Crawford said with resilience. “I’ll let you waste my time one more time.”

  “One more time, huh?” Berry said with a titter. “Across from the library, Jim. About four. I’m only trying to help.”

  “Sure.”

  Crawford had to go see what the big joke was all about.

  I’ll probably get to the coffee shop and Scott will be there and they’ll finally have a laugh at my expense. Goddam children. After all, there was no way Berry could fabricate a copy of Comprehensive Psychology Review.

  Just after lunch, Crawford practically snatched his thesis from Mary’s hand as she handed it to him.

  “Thanks. We’ll have that pizza later, okay?”

  She looked hurt, and Crawford felt more guilt as he drove away. Berry might have tricked her into showing it to him, he thought. I should have talked to her.

  Crawford looked at the pristine-looking document lying in the passenger’s seat and pulled over. He thumbed through it with admiration. I’ll apologize to her later. It was wonderful. It wasn’t just that Mary dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s, so to speak; every sentence, it appeared, had been edited to perfection. All the changes she made were listed on a separate document clipped onto the back. I’ll apologize later.

  So Berry and Scott had succeeded in making Crawford worry about something he needn’t worry about.

  They won’t get a response out of me. They think they can bring me down?

  Matter of fact, I should have a few before I go see them, Crawford thought. And he did.

  Crawford only saw the shape of the bar against the dim light coming from the dining room window behind it. As the thought of a cold draft made Crawford salivate, the sight of the bar made him think of dungeons and torture.

  I’m losing it. It has to do with neurotransmitters and enzymes and shit, but I’m losing it. Self-counseling doesn’t work. Nothing works.

  His fear could only be overridden by drink. He thought about the small refrigerator underneath the bar, and of headless babies.

  He reached for a lamp that sat on the end of the bar next to an antique cash register and turned it on. He stepped behind the bar and opened the fridge. There was no light inside and Crawford couldn’t see what the stock was, but he knew it didn’t matter. He felt like he was putting his arms into a giant carnivorous plant, but he knew he had to do it. He overcame his fear and grabbed four bottles (you said only two) and put them on the bar.

  Bottle opener, bottle opener.

  Crawford opened a small drawer and stuck his hand inside just before noticing the
clear bottles of light colored brew were Miller High Life with twist off tops.

  Miller High Life? This bastard has an eighty thousand dollar bar that Arthur Conan Doyle used to puke on and he drinks this crap? Crawford again reached in the fridge and pulled out another pair of bottles. More Miller. Not even a small selection? Crawford wasn’t in the frame of mind to be finicky about his poison. He cupped the six bottles (you said only four) and swung the refrigerator door shut with his right foot. When he turned around to go upstairs, he saw what had produced the little noise.

  It wasn’t a mouse. It was little Emily Burns, Lee’s seven-year-old daughter, standing motionless in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Now more like a husband than a museum thief, Crawford attempted to augment his surreptitious act with congeniality. “Emily. Why aren’t you asleep, sweetheart?”

  “Uncle Jim? What are you doing?”

  “I’m spending the night. You know, your daddy and I are…” He almost said they were having a slumber party, but stopped himself. “We’re working on something.”

  Emily had a glass of pink water in her hand. “I’m not supposed to be getting this right now. This is lemonade, the pink kind. You won’t tell on me, will you? I’m really thirsty.”

  Crawford was struck by how calm the child was after being caught by an adult red-handed pilfering lemonade. But he admired her cool disposition, which helped to alleviate his guilt. They were partners in crime. “Oh, I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me,” he said.