Self-Esteem

by Preston David Bailey

  Indulge yourself on occasion!

  “Shut the fuck up!” he shouted.

  The two men turned their heads as if on cue, staring straight at Crawford as if they’d heard him yell. But they couldn’t have. Berry put his flattened fingers to his forehead to block the sun.

  “That’s just like them. Acting like they’ve been distracted from something important. Yeah, some really important bullshit. Fuckers!”

  As impulsively as slamming a shot of whiskey, Crawford stomped on the gas and the car screeched in reverse, snapping his head into the steering wheel as if the back of his neck had been abruptly slapped. Then just as abruptly, his head slammed back against the headrest.

  “Son of a bitch.” The red rubber nose was stuck to the steering wheel. Crawford quickly put the rubber nose back on then looked behind him to discover he had backed up into the side of a parked car. A black car. A black BMW with a new temporary tag in the window. Berry’s new BMW.

  Crawford pounded the gearshift into drive and slowly pulled the car forward, which came with sounds of broken plastic crunching and metal bending. Crawford stopped and looked. He had put a large dent on the driver’s side, from the back door to the rear bumper.

  Crawford looked straight ahead and could see that Berry was curling up his prickly nose with disbelief. Scott had stopped shrugging and was now shaking his head. Berry appeared to take an acquiescent deep breath, and the two men started toward the collision.

  They both looked taken aback, but are they?

  Crawford admired himself in the mirror, straightening the rubber nose on his face. After putting the car back in reverse, he put the window down on the driver’s side and stuck his head out.

  “Crawford?” Berry said. “What are you doing? What the hell is on your…”

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he called out with a smile. “Didn’t think I’d run into you.” Crawford put his head back inside and stomped on the gas again, this time ramming into the previously undamaged front quarter.

  Berry put his hands to his face as his approach was halted by his shock.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Berry yelled.

  The red rubber nose slipped a bit and Crawford straightened it a second time. Crawford leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out his old friend, Uncle Jerry’s Ruger. It didn’t feel cold any longer. He moved the gun gently to the cleft between the seat and his right thigh. His grip tightened.

  Don’t do it.

  Do what?

  I don’t know. Kill anyone.

  You’re not going to kill anyone.

  “You’re going to pay for that, Crawford!” Berry screamed.

  Crawford froze, giving Berry a blank stare. The stare was not deliberate; it just conveyed his feelings.

  Let your feelings loose!

  I am letting my feelings loose.

  I have no feelings.

  In the absence of fear, I have no feelings.

  “What the fuck is on your nose?” Scott was now standing a few steps behind Berry.

  “Yeah. What the hell is that?” Berry demanded.

  Again, without calculation, Crawford swung the gun up and out the window, putting it within inches of Berry’s pointy snout.

  “You know what the fuck it is. It’s a rubber nose. A clown nose! Okay!” Crawford’s hand was shaking, as was Berry’s entire body.

  “Okay, Jim. Jeez.” Berry took a step back, his hands now in the air. He could barely speak. “Sure, a clown nose. Of course.”

  “Put your goddam hands down!”

  Almost tumbling into the pavement behind him, Scott turned around and began running toward the psychology building.

  “Scott!” Crawford turned the barrel of the gun skyward and fired a shot. The sound echoed everywhere.

  Scott stopped and with his back still facing Crawford, put his hands up.

  “Put your goddam hands down, goddam it!” Crawford looked again at Berry who was now slowly putting his hands to his waist. Crawford brought the gun back into the car and sat it on his lap. He stared at it without expression. “Jay?”

  Berry could hardly move, even his lips. “Yes, Jim.”

  “I didn’t know it was loaded.”

  He took a deep breath. “Just relax, Jim.”

  Crawford looked in Scott’s direction. He was still frozen. “Hey, Albert?” he said raising his voice.

  “Yeah, Jim.” Scott’s face was now covered in tears, his hands on his head.

  “I didn’t know it was loaded. Please put your hands down.”

  “Okay, Jim. Can I go now?” His hands didn’t move.

  Berry took a deep breath and nodded like a prudent old father. “Jim, why don’t you take off the nose and give me the gun?”

  “Huh?” Crawford looked past Berry; he looked past Scott, into the void of bright colors that separated everything from everything. Crawford felt something — something very strong — something besides fear or drunkenness. He felt a natural drunkenness, a courage even stronger than the liquid kind. It was like that moment he had finally reached for the toy radio and clocked the bully all those years ago. It was a moment to seize. It was self-esteem, real self-esteem.

  “Why don’t you take off the nose, Jim?” Berry said like a psychologist calming an irate patient.

  Crawford slowly lifted the gun toward Berry. “Why don’t I take the nose off? Because I don’t want to take the nose off.” Crawford opened the door and got out of the car quickly. He could see Scott starting to blubber.

  “Hey, take it easy, buddy,” Berry said, again putting his hands up as if he were being robbed.

  “Put your goddam hands down and get in the car!”

  “What?”

  “You too, Albert!” Crawford said, pointing the gun over Berry’s shoulder.

  “Jay’s causing all these problems,” Dr. Scott whimpered, pointing at his colleague.

  Berry clinched his teeth. “You’re such a goddam pussy,” he said.

  “Shut up! Both of you! Get in the car. In the backseat.”

  “Really, Jim…” Berry said.

  “Now, Albert. In the car.”

  Crawford reached behind him and opened the back door without turning his back. “Get in, Jay. Albert, you too!”

  Dr. Berry took a deep breath and ducked into the backseat.

  Dr. Scott started to walk slowly toward the car. “I think this might be something between you and Jay, Jim.”

  “Please. Call me Doctor Crawford,” he said, straightening the rubber nose.

  Scott started to snivel some more. “Are you going to kill us?”

  “I haven’t written that part yet.”

  Berry said, “What the hell does that mean?” sticking his head out of the open door.

  Crawford put his free hand on Berry’s forehead and shoved him back in. He motioned Scott with the Ruger. “Come on. Hurry up.”

  “Okay, okay.” Scott’s reddened eyes were now shedding tears. “Whatever Jay did, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Sure,” Crawford said, shoving him into the car next to Berry.

  Crawford slammed the door then climbed into the driver’s seat. “Not a move. I’m warning you,” he said into the rearview mirror.

  “Where are you taking us?” Berry said.

  “You don’t know? I think maybe you do.”

  Berry’s pointy nose curled again. “What the hell is this all about, Crawford? You fuck up my car, now you’re taking us by gunpoint someplace? Have you lost your goddam mind?”

  Scott put his hand on Berry’s knee, “You asked that already. Maybe you should take it easy, Jay.”

  Crawford put the car into drive. “Shut up! The both of you.” Then, with a sly cackle, he put the car back into reverse. “To answer your question, Dr. Berry, yes, I once lost my mind. But now I’ve found it.”

  Crawford stomped the gas and slammed the car once more into Berry’s BMW.

  Crawford laughed. “Sorry Jay, it just feels so good.” He looked
ahead and saw that there was a small crowd of students staring at him. Three girls and two boys. Had they seen the entire incident? Had they seen him coerce the men into the car with a gun? Would they call the cops? The students started laughing. Why the hell are they laughing? Crawford started waving the pistol around. He made crazy faces, widening his eyes and mouth. They laughed even more. “Goddam kids these days. They don’t take anything seriously, do they?” he said driving out of the parking lot and through the campus gates.

  “You know, I agree with that,” Scott said.

  I am an interesting person. People are interested in what I have to say.

  My inner-voice speaks fondly of myself.

  I love my inner-child and my inner-child loves me.

  I approve of my inner-adult, and my inner-adult approves of me.

  I like being mischievous and playful.

  That’s what I’m doing right now, being playful.

  “I like being mischievous and playful. Oh yes, I do.”

  “What?” Berry asked.

  I have a lot to give the world.

  Miracles occur in my life on a daily basis.

  I deserve the best.

  “I deserve the best.”

  “What the hell are you mumbling about, Crawford?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Crawford and his hostages were now close to the 405. The kidnapper gripped the steering wheel determined not to let anything keep him from getting to his destination. Then his mobile phone rang. He put the Ruger between his legs and pulled the phone out of his pants pocket and looked at the number. It was Lee. So this is it, he thought. Good. The kiss-off. Goodbye. Finally.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just want to say one word,” Lee said.

  It couldn’t be fuck off. That’s two words.

  “What?”

  “Cookbook. That is one word, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  Crawford was now zigzagging through traffic on West Sunset. His two passengers watched the road wide-eyed and silent.

  “Cookbook. You know, a recipe book. Recipe book? Is that the term they use nowadays, recipe book? I know that’s two words. Anyway…”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Lee?”

  “You just vomited on national television, right?”

  “I need to ask you something, Lee.”

  “Just listen. Jan did this, and it worked. She got fat. She got thin. She started giving dietary advice after she stopped… what do they call it? Yo-yo dieting?”

  “I want you to do something, Lee.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Jim. Listen. You vomited on TV because of a poor diet. That’s our out and that’s our in. Get it? Only the guy who mopped up the vomit knew it was booze and he won’t say anything. And if he does we can sue the pants off him, whatever it takes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Self Series Cookbook. I just thought of it. We develop it in the next few months. We get it out in the Fall. Kim’s already working on a press release to tell people why you were sick. Look, it’s another easy way to get sympathy points, translating into cash. All you have to do…”

  “I want you to meet me somewhere right away, understand?”

  “But…”

  “Shut the fuck up about the goddam cookbook! Listen. You’re going to meet me…”

  “Meet you? I can’t, I’m…”

  “If you don’t I’m going to kill you, understand?” Crawford could only hear the sound of his own breath.

  “I have a meeting,” Lee began.

  “What? With Kim? Is your secretary taking longhand?”

  “Hey now…”

  “Get a pen and paper and write down this address. If you aren’t there in half an hour, I’m going to tell your wife about Kim’s extra duties then I’m going to kill you.”

  “Kill someone?” Scott whimpered from the backseat. “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t I look serious?” Crawford said, peering into the rearview mirror as he straightened the rubber nose.

  “You’re threatening me?” Lee groaned. “I’ve been bullshitting you about Kim. She only gives foot massages.”

  “Is that right?” Crawford said.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing, Jim?”

  “I’ve got two hostages and I’m on my way to South Central. You’re going to be there too. You got a pen? You ready?”

  “I…”

  “Write down this address. Ready?” he yelled.

  “But…”

  “I’m serious. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Jim.”

  “West Rosecrans and Paxton Avenue in Gardena. It’s an old cookie factory. Was an old cookie factory. Take the 405 south. No wait, take the Hollywood to the… shit… I don’t know. Figure it out! You better be there, Lee.”

  “Is that where you’re taking us?” Berry chimed in. “To a cookie factory?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Who was that?” Lee said.

  “I just told you. Be there or pre-pare. Got it?”

  “I’ll come, okay? I got it,” he said. “Just consider the cookbook on your drive so you can give me an answer within…”

  Crawford hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He picked up the gun and gripped the handle.

  You’ll get an answer all right. We’ll all get an answer.

  “Sit down and shut up.”

  There is this old man standing in front of me. He has old-man clothes on and old-man shoes, and they are neat — the way old men wear their old-man clothes. He must have known that he would have to wear these clothes someday, if he were lucky enough to be old someday. “Lord willing,” was always his postscript to everything, just like his father. “Lord willing,” they both said.

  I can’t sit up straight or lie down. I feel uncomfortable.

  “You think you’re unique?” he asks me. “You think you’re special?”

  “What do you mean,” I say. “Of course I’m unique. Aren’t we all?”

  “I’m dying,” he says with a sigh. “I’m dying of cirrhosis,” and raises a determined thumbs-up to convey his disgust.

  He seems to be ignoring me now. He sits in a swing — like one of those old porch swings Victorian homes in the South have. Surprisingly, his old-man clothes don’t look as tidy as they did a moment ago. His face starts to turn from white to gray.

  “Many men have killed themselves with drink. That’s not unique. You killed me. That’s unique.”

  “I killed you?” I say. “What are you talking about?” I try to sound respectful.

  “You killed me with your selfishness.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone.”

  He leans toward me. “You thought your insecurities and fears were like a disease that must be eliminated. You thought they must be removed as if by surgery. That’s how you killed me. Your surgery killed me.”

  His face looks more and more familiar now. He looks like a lot of men in my family — Dad, Grandpa. And a lot of women too, really. The large forehead. The square jaw. Grandma Crawford had a square jaw.

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t struggle against fear?” I say.

  “Of course I’m not saying that. That’s one of the things that makes us human. We must have fear as creatures of survival. Fear is necessary. It’s a friend to the human race, especially our kind of fear. It’s what makes us human. Personal fear in particular.” He coughs. “You told yourself it wasn’t.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “You did. You also told yourself to feel good no matter what you did. You told yourself not to be afraid of what others think. You drank to feel comfortable with yourself. What hogwash. You told yourself to be inconsiderate of others. That’s what you said to yourself. What a doctrine of selfishness you’ve been spreading.”

  His skin is turning grayer and grayer as his face becomes more familiar, more like my own.

  “You don’t love life!” he snaps at me before coughing a solid stream
of blood that runs down his chin onto his old-man shirt.

  I get upset. I start to shake. “Why would I not love life?” I ask sincerely.

  “Because you don’t love the struggles that are such an important part of life. You don’t love the beautiful struggle of life. Therefore you don’t love life itself,” he says.

  The blood on his chin dries and falls in a solid chunk to the floor; a blood bubble separates from his nose and flies away. I’m watching the bubble drift into the air as I look at him. Now he looks likes me. More like I think I look, I guess. It’s me, as an old man, as I imagine him to be.

  “Didn’t you wonder what I would think?” he says.

  “I didn’t,” I say.

  “I’m the only person you have to answer to.”

  “How can I do that?”

  You already have.

  That was inside me for a long time. I had that dream many times. For years I had that dream.

  “You were going to write your first novel on dreams, weren’t you?” Scott says.

  “Please pull over,” Berry whimpers. “At least take off that rubber nose!”

  Crawford, with his eyes securely on the congestion of the 405, turns the gun back on Berry.

  “You read a shitload of Freud, right?”

  Berry lowers his eyes then rubs his temples with both hands and shakes his head.

  “Answer him,” Scott, like a good cop, chimes in.

  “Shut up, Albert.” Berry’s nose curls again. “I was going to write my first novel on dreams, yes.”

  Crawford puts the gun back in his lap. “And?”

  “And I didn’t reference Freud so much, no.”

  “You’re lying. You did read Frued. I remember that you did. You quoted the fucker every five seconds in college. Remember?”

  “Yes, in my undergrad days.”

  “No, in your grad school days, yes? Answer me, you soulless bitch!”

  “That’s right,” Scott says almost enthusiastically. “Remember? You always talked about Freud.”

  “Shut up, Albert,” Berry says.

  “What would Freud say about my dream, Jay?”