Self-Esteem (10 page)

Larney gestured with his eyes to a bulky guy browsing the twenty-five cent paperback section in the rear of the store. “Just wait until this guy leaves, cool?”

But Cal didn’t have time to respond.

“‘Scuse me,” the guy in back said heading for the register. “What’s this doing here?” he said, holding up a paperback.

“Sorry?” Larney asked.

“Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked, completely ignoring Cal. “Look,” he said, putting the small book on the counter in front of Larney. “Look at that.”

“So? What is it?”

“This doesn’t deserve to be in the twenty-five cent pile.”

Right away, Cal was struck by the guy’s dynamism. He’d never seen a boy his age have an opinion about something in a bookstore, especially a book.

“What? You think it’s too much? It’s only a quarter, man,” Larney said.

“No, it’s not too much. It’s
too little
.”

“What?” Larney said, tilting his head. “I don’t understand.” That’s when Cal saw what this stranger was holding: a battered copy of
Lord of the Flies
. “It’s about to fall apart, man,” Larney said taking the book from the stranger’s hands. “It’s got coffee stains on it.” He opened the book. “It’s got writing in it. The back cover is torn off. What’s the big deal? It’s not worth a dime.”

“The big deal?” the guy in black said. “Not worth a dime? It’s just a work of genius is all.” He paused a moment then his opposition waned. “It’s too bad you treat great books like this, reduce them to the sacrament of the twenty-five cent table.”

Cal took notice of the word “sacrament.”

Larney tactfully tried to shut the guy up. “Look, man. The people who owned that book read it, enjoyed it — enjoyed it until it almost fell apart. It’s been appreciated, dude. Now it can be appreciated by someone who can’t buy a new copy. Nothing wrong with that. Right?”

“I guess you’re right,” the stranger said.

“I’ve read that book,” Cal said. “I don’t read a lot of books, but I’ve read that one.”

“Good?” the stranger asked, raising his eyelids.

“What?” Cal said, caught off guard.

“Is it good? And if so, what’s good about it?”

Cal thought the guy was crazy. “What’s good about it? Lot of things.”

“Yeah,” Darrin said taking a step toward Cal. “Have you really read it?”

“He said he had,” Larney chimed in. “What do you want?”

“That’s alright,” Cal said raising a hand. “I’ll answer the question.”

The boy crossed his arms then stepped back as if he were a drill sergeant expecting a mutiny.

“It explores themes of civilization. It asks the question ‘Is man’s natural condition barbarism and cruelty or conformity and society?’ And which is better.”

“Good,” the stranger said slightly rocking on his heels. “Not bad. But what about the theme of the loss of innocence?” he asked academically. “What about the power struggles of society?”

“Look, man, I’m just here to talk to my friend. Okay?” Cal said.

“Sorry.” He looked disappointed and plopped down a quarter on the counter. “I just like talking about this stuff. That’s all.”

The strange young man walked out with his copy of
Lord of the Flies
without looking back, and Larney, checking the store one more time, slid Cal his quarter bag of Laughing Buddha under a copy of
Creem
magazine. “Weird guy, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know — probably just wanted to talk.”

Cal thanked Larney and walked out of the store clutching his stash in his left front pocket. The trepidation he felt was fun, exciting — walking on a public street with something that might land him in jail, even if it was only until his mom showed up to bail him out. But the fun was temporary, and Cal wanted to get to his car and away from Zip Dance as quickly as possible. But there was the strange literary critic, a few yards from him, sitting on a bus-stop bench reading Golding’s masterpiece.

The sight of this young loner, sitting alone, reading a thing of beauty that could fall to pieces at any moment, made Cal sad. It was sad how he resembled an old man who’d lost his wife years before and no longer had anyone to tell his war stories to, his baseball stories, any stories.

Cal was just about to get in his car and drive away when he decided to do something he’d never done: speak to a loner.

“What’s your name?”

He turned around surprised. “Sorry?”

“I said what’s your name?”

“I’m Darrin,” he said extending his hand. “Darrin.”

It was strange, Cal thought. The confidence he had shown in the store was not confidence at all. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was confidence. It was hard to place this guy.

“Need a ride somewhere?” Cal asked.

“You bet,” he said without hesitation.

Cal would come to know Darrin as the most fearless guy in the world. Then Cal would better understand how complex fear can be.

“All I got to do is drive there? That’s it?”

Darrin assured him that was all.

“I don’t know, Darrin.”

Darrin gave one good reason after another and Cal responded the same way.

“I don’t know, Darrin.”

Cal was lying back on his bed rubbing his temples when he noticed his mother standing in the doorway.

Darrin asked another question, but Cal didn’t hear him.

“Everything all right?” Dorothy asked.

“Got to go,” Cal sighed before hanging up.

“Everything okay, Cal?”

“Fine, Mom.” He turned on his side away from her.

“How did your research paper come out?” she asked with motherly enthusiasm.

“Fine.”

“Then you got it done?”

“Yes, mother. I got it done.” Cal looked over his shoulder and emphatically said goodnight before curling up again.

Dorothy clumsily stepped into the room knowing she was an uninvited guest.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” She knew when Cal wasn’t telling the truth.

“
Yes
, mother.
Goodnight
.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

She began to walk out, then thought of the videotape on the front steps.

“Cal?”

“What?” he said, now annoyed.

“Did anyone ring the doorbell this evening?”

“No.”

“You didn’t hear anyone on the front steps? Or maybe a car door slam?”

Cal didn’t know what she was getting at, but like his father, he always assumed the worst. “I’ve been here by myself all night, just working on my homework. That’s all,” he said defensively.

“Okay. Okay. You grumpy lumpy.”

He looked at her again. “What?”

Dorothy wanted to give Cal a hug goodnight but stopped herself. He wants to be treated like a man, she thought. That’s what men do in their most immature moments.

Cal listened to his mother walk down the hall and close the bedroom door. He reached over the side of the bed and touched the bag of marijuana he had tucked between the mattress and the bed frame. If only I was older, he thought to himself, I would be free from them.

Dorothy had learned long ago to accommodate the insecurities of one man. It had taken years but she had done it. Now she was dealing with the insecurities of two — one adolescent in years, the other in temperament. But that’s what strong women do, she told herself. Either that or they just give up completely like her mother did. Dorothy Crawford, however, wasn’t giving up — not on Jim and definitely not on Cal. She had invested too much time and effort in them and in making their multi-million dollar house a home.

As Dorothy dressed for bed, putting on a reddish-brown nightgown she set aside for romantic occasions, she caught herself questioning what people can do by effort alone, what they can accomplish by their own design. It was her version of wondering if she was doing the right thing. Was there such a thing as “the right thing” after all? She usually stopped herself, recognizing the influence of Jim’s never-ending neuroses. This time she didn’t.

Once, after going on a two-week binge following the completion of
Self-Confidence
, Crawford told Dorothy he had finally cracked the greatest mystery of human behavior. He said he had been watching a TV program where a woman blamed all her problems on her parents. They were cruel to her. They mercilessly yelled at her. And as a result she was psychologically ruined for life. She had trouble getting along with others. She had trouble with intimacy. She had trouble holding a job. Her greatest revelation was that her self-destructive temperament was the product of a horrid childhood, and that pissed her off.

Crawford rambled on for half an hour about people blaming their parents for their troubles. “That’s one reason most behavioral psychologists are full of shit,” he said. “They think every human action is attributable. And if they’re right,” he said, barely able to stand, “we don’t have fucking souls. You realize that? We’re just like chemicals responding to each other the only way we can.”

His laughter was repulsive, his philosophizing self-important. “We respond to our parents, to the people around us, who responded to
their
parents and the people around them. And on and fucking on and on and on. Since we were amoebas coming out of the fucking swamp, just a bunch of fucking, you know, chemicals,” he had said before gulping down the last of his cocktail.

This was Jim’s broadside against determinism, Dorothy guessed. So she put him to bed like she always had and hoped he would feel better in the morning.

“Maybe I
do
believe there is no independent will,” Crawford had said just before passing out. “I don’t have any will. Maybe nobody does. Maybe we’re all just reacting. Maybe that’s what fucking happens. Maybe that’s what’s happening now,” he said, passing out with his mouth as wide open as a hungry baby bird’s.

But Dorothy believed her husband had grown up since then, and hopefully she had as well. Sometimes she brought up issues of “maturity,” and Jim responded well — better than the prior tactic of “responsibilities.” Dorothy felt you had to stick with the more immediate and trivial matters of existence. Contemplating “independent will” was just insanity.

Dorothy sat in bed reading a romance novel she’d purchased in an airport some time ago but never had the chance to read. During her college years, she would have been embarrassed to read such pulp in front of Jim, but now she didn’t care. It was the kind of reading she had enjoyed since her youth. And why shouldn’t she read these books if she wanted to? Lately she had become more self-confident, and she was starting to understand what an important factor it played in the everyday health of the two men that made up her family. Not being accommodating was sometimes the best strategy. Perhaps
her
self-esteem was the best thing for Jim and Cal.

I was too easy on Cal, she thought.
And I didn’t need to put on this damn nightgown either
. She was getting up to change her nightclothes when Jim walked by their bedroom holding the videotape and a note pad.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to stay up a little bit. I want to go over my notes for the Hershey show.”

“So let’s see what’s on the tape,” she said slyly, now glad she hadn’t changed.

“It’s just a joke, like I said.”

“Apparently it wasn’t so bad.”

“No, not so bad,” Crawford admitted.

“Come on. Let’s see.”

Crawford sat on the edge of the bed as the broadcast snow turned to a speckled image of a makeshift living room at a local TV studio.

“It was Jan Hershey’s first job,” Crawford said as the opening credits rolled.

Jan Hershey in her late twenties was ten years younger than the new best-selling author she was interviewing, but when she sat next to him he immediately looked 20 years older. Or Crawford thought so.

“Welcome back to the morning show everyone,” Jan says.

Crawford noted that the tape was roughly cut to include only his portion of the program. Crawford was all the more convinced it was Berry.

“Today we have the author of the sizzling new bestseller
Self-Confidence
, Dr. James Crawford.”

Crawford remembered how he thought it was ridiculous that she used the word “sizzling.” It was still ridiculous.

“And it’s helping an unprecedented number of people improve their lives.”

Yeah sure, Crawford thought. An
unprecedented
number. He looked over at Dorothy, whose smile was all nostalgia.

“Now, you hadn’t actually written anything before you wrote
Self-Confidence
, is that right?”

A subtitle appeared under Crawford’s bloated face. Crawford thought it was ironic they put his name on the screen right after she’d said it. The subtitle was an ugly green — prehistoric by current standards. But it looked like the latest thing compared with Crawford’s blue plaid polyester leisure suit.

“That’s right,” Crawford answered clumsily. “Well, I had tried writing a novel, but never actually completed anything.”

“I see,” Jan says.

“Look at that suit,” Dorothy said. “And your hair. Oh my God, this is funny.”

“Yeah. Real funny.”

“When did you decide to write a self-help book?” she asks.

Crawford remembered being more uncomfortable than he looked.

“I don’t know. I was in pretty bad shape in a lot of ways. My education had put me in a lot of debt. I didn’t have a job at the time. And I didn’t have any prospects for one.”

Crawford wondered why he was so eager to impart such personal information.

“I’d forgotten all about this,” Dorothy said.

“You’ve also stated you had a problem with alcohol,” Jan asks frankly, as if trying to be a real journalist.

“That’s right,” Crawford says, nodding reluctantly.

Crawford had had only one previous television appearance. He had since forgotten how eager he was to please this bitch.

“And it was worse than that, wasn’t it?” Jan nods, her eyebrows rising in unctuous concern.

“Yes it was,” Crawford says.

Dorothy was still smiling. “Boy, you look nervous.”

Then: “Would you like to share with our viewers?”