Self-Esteem (25 page)

“No kidding? You don’t need me, huh? My sorry ass? I see your friends here are an influence on you,” Lee said, glancing toward Rakim.

“I heard that,” Rakim shot back. “You dissin’ me, motherfucker? The Doc here has been an influence on me. Can’t you see that? Who are you?”

“I’m kidding, man. I’m a friend of his. He needs to go home. Can you help me out here?” Lee said with a pained smirk.

Rakim started getting in the groove with J and B, slapping his thighs. “Just a minute. Don’t interrupt Rakim JB.”

Lee couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

The beat got slow and hypnotic.
Bum Pa Ta Bum Pa Ta
. Rakim rapped slowly, “Respect. Self. Chum. Self.”

“You’re going on that show tomorrow and you’re going on sober. You hear me, bitch?” Lee said resolutely.

Crawford laughed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Now let’s get out of here.” Lee turned around and got the bartender’s attention. “Hard to get a cab around here?”

“What do you think?”

Lee looked at the bartender then past him at Sharkey’s prosthetic arm hanging on the wall. “Is that a… arm?”

Rakim brought the Happy Pappy Rap to a close. “Hode it. J, don’t turn the beat around like that, bitch. Damn!”

Lee checked his jacket pocket but couldn’t find his mobile. “Can I make a call?” he asked the bartender, pointing to a phone on the wall.

“Yo!” Rakim said, walking toward Lee. The percussion by JB stopped.

Lee spoke directly in Crawford’s ear, “I’m leaving you, Jim. Come on or I’m going.”

Rakim stood right in front of Lee. “Yo! Man, what do you think you’re doing?”

The bartender put the phone on the bar, and Lee picked up the receiver.

“I’m calling a cab for this guy,” Lee said calmly.

“For Dr. Crawford?”

“That’s right.”

“And who the hell are you?” Rakim said, JB flanking him.

“I’m his publisher. He’s a writer.”

“I know who the fuck he is. What the hell do you want with him?”

Lee was starting to think he’d like to get revenge on that asshole cabbie for ditching him. “I’m just here to help him, that’s all.”

Lee started to dial the operator when Rakim said, “Put my goddam phone down.”

“I’m just calling a cab.”

“
I
said
, put my goddam phone down, bitch!” he yelled even louder.

Lee did as he was told.

Crawford looked up at Lee and smiled. “You know what I like about you, Lee? You always take care of your shit.”

“Thanks,” he said with a thumbs up.

Rakim was now standing within inches of Lee. “Wait a minute. You a publisher? A literary publisher?”

Lee was surprised he used the word
literary
. “A book publisher. That’s right.”

“Let me ask you a few questions before you run off. Is that okay? See, I’m a businessman.”

“Sure, young man,” Lee said awkwardly, falling onto the stool beside Crawford.

Rakim motioned to the bartender. “Another round here.”

“No, I don’t think…” Lee began.

“What are you havin, Mr. Publisher?” Rakim looked resolute.

Lee immediately gave in. “Scotch whisky, neat. Whatever you got.”

“Get it,” Rakim said to the bartender. “Five of ‘em.” Then to Lee, “Hey man, I was thinking about writin’ my memoirs. Would you be interested in publishin’ em?”

“Sure. Of course. Send us a query. We’re always interested in new writers,” he said.

The bartender poured the whiskeys.

“Might sell a shitload. Never know. I’ve already sold 15 million records with my rhymes. Lots of loyal fans.”

“Fifteen… Mill?”

“I’m Rakim, the recording artist, man. I’m the big time.”

“You’re a rapper?”

“The motherfuckin’ word,” J and B said in unison.

Rakim said, “Ever heard of my best-selling album
Forty Shakers and a Tool
?”

“I think so,” Lee nodded. “Interesting.”

“Or what about my critically acclaimed masterpiece
Nigga Porridge
? Motherfucker came out three months ago.”

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.