Self-Esteem (37 page)

“Please let me begin,” Crawford said, holding up the scribble-ridden notebook paper. “I would like to present James Crawford’s
Inverted
Hierarchy of Needs…
for Drunks
.”

The eleven psychology majors responded merrily, no doubt saturated with the “mandatory reading” phase of their psychology degrees.

“As you know, my long-time associate, Abraham Maslow, established a theory that human needs are hierarchical and can be divided into five categories. This, of course, was a radical departure from the two shining examples of establishment genius: Sigmund Freud and B.F. Skinner.”

A few booed.

One yelled, “Better known as Sigmund
Fraud
and
Bullshit Fucking
Skinner.”

“Now, now. Behave yourselves,” Crawford continued. “Let’s start by reviewing Maslow’s groundbreaking work.”

“Let’s not,” the very nonacademic Cecil Jameson said.

“Firstly, we have physiological needs. This category is probably the best example of Maslow’s genius, pointing out that we need food, water, and shelter.”

“And beer!” someone yelled.

“Hold on; I’ll get to that momentarily. Then second, as Maslow points out, we need safety: the need to be free from physical danger.”

“Lions and tigers and bears,” one guy yelled before everyone in unison shouted, “Oh my!”

“Category three is the social need, our need to be accepted, to be loved…”

“To get laid!” yelled Albert McLaughlin, known for his active sex life.

“What about a hug from your mother? That’s what he was talking about,” Crawford said straight-faced to McLaughlin before taking a drink. “Then we have,” he said flipping a page, “ego needs, esteem needs. To be appreciated. To have status. To have responsibilities and achieve things.”

“Heave things! Leave things!” another guy yelled, sitting down with a fresh pitcher.

“Fuck that noise. I’m on a roll here,” Crawford said, taking another drink. “Then, of course, Maslow’s last hierarchy of need: Self-Actualization — the need to achieve one’s growth.” Then speaking with a schoolmaster’s elocution, “to
the fullest potential
.”

Surprisingly, there were no comedic jeers from this statement. Crawford felt a little uneasy but continued.

“Now I submit that for drunks there’s a different hierarchy, a hierarchy that goes backward. Inverted, if you will. Now let’s take a look,” Crawford said, again flipping a page. “Self-actualization. Drunks first start drinking for reasons of personal growth. You’re a teenager. You’re tired of video games and feeling up your friend’s sister — it’s time to get fucked up. Right?”

“Yeah,” the group yelled.

“And why?”

“Because it’s there?” someone yelled.

“No. Because that’s what
adults
do, correct? It’s time to reach your fullest potential as a teen and finally become an adult. It’s the only goal you have as a teenager, right? And how do you become an adult? You drink. Boom, mission accomplished. You’re drunk; you’re there. Next we have ego and esteem needs. It turns out that you meet women, or perhaps men, depending on your preference, and you feel a little less confident than you did sticking your finger in the pimple-faced girl down the block. The drinker needs an ego boost! So what does he do?” Crawford furrowed his brow and gave a sinister look. “He drinks more. And more and more. Next you feel like Burt fucking Reynolds. Correct? You’re suave and debonair. There you go, category two.”

“Albert’s reached that one,” Cecil yelled.

“No argument from me, Jameson,” McLaughlin said.

“Then category three comes along: social needs. Hey, you’re a seasoned drinker now. You don’t need to get drunk to feel comfortable around others — not all the time. You’ve already established a group of friends based on your lifestyle, and that group of friends dictates things like social gatherings, like…”

“Like happy hour at Backwoods!”

“That’s right.” Crawford said pointing. “Drinking becomes a social requirement — not just an ego need but a social need. “

“I don’t need this shit,” someone said.

“Let me finish,” Crawford said, referencing the manuscript. “And fourthly, we have security and safety. After a few years of social drinking, it’s true that you no longer feel secure unless you have a drink in your hand. Right?”

“I know I don’t,” said Taffy Christian, a timid guy from New Orleans.

“This is not something that you need for social gatherings or to create courage among hot chicks; you need it like a warm coat in winter time. You need it like the roof over your head and the lock on your door. You need it just to know it’s there because it makes you feel safe. Correct?”

“Amen, brother.”

“And last but not least — the last category of
James Crawford’s Hierarchy for Drunks
— the physiological need.”

There were a few accusatory “oohs” after that one.

“It’s a physiological need, all right.”

“That’s right, brethren. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. This is what I like to call
the hair of the dog
need.”

That one got a few laughs.

“It’s no longer a self-actualization need — your drinking has been actualized. It’s no longer an ego need — you don’t even have an ego left to nourish. It’s not a social need — everyone is sick of your drunk ass. It’s not a security need — you’re securely shitfaced all the time. You need a drink,” he said pointing to the group, “because,” he paused, “you really need one! You need it like the air you breathe and the food you used to eat. You need it because it is now
required
.”

A strange silence fell on the room as the group contemplated what Crawford just said. He looked up from his tattered notebook and gave a solemn nod, and slowly the group began to clap.

“You’re going to be huge,” one guy said. “You’re going to change the fucking world, amigo!”

“I know,” Crawford said, taking a drink.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crawford saw the strange
S-shape
he had seen in the video. He realized that this was probably some kind of alcoholic dementia, which raised the question: how was he going to convince Peters that he wasn’t just out of his mind on booze? How would he convince him that all of this shit was really happening, that Dorothy and Cal were abducted, and that he needed help? — and not the kind that comes with a straightjacket.

But wait,
I’ve got the tape
.
I can show him the tape.

But what will I say? Watch this tape?

And what will he think about…

Don’t anticipate the response of others. Trying to know what others will do is like trying to predict the weather in Oklahoma. It can’t be done.

“Hmm,” Crawford moaned. “Hmmmm,” he moaned again like a mantra, trying to silence the
Self
Series
advice that was now sounding like the audio version of the
Self
Series
which is offered for a limited time at a special low price to those who have purchased the book and…

“Just keep on truckin’,” Crawford told himself.

Just as he had departed the respectable world at Santa Monica Boulevard, the entrance to his old alma mater signaled a return, and Crawford downed the last bit of Scotch in his cup, nodding to the security guard as he passed through the front gate with his mouth still full of Old Arkansan.

Crawford pulled his car into the guest parking lot adjacent to the faculty lot. Since Peters didn’t drive a car to work, there was no use in looking for his classic Mercedes. He did see Berry’s tastelessly new BMW and Scott’s gaudy SUV, but no sign of Peters’ rarely driven car. The way his luck was going, he would immediately run into Berry and Scott, and Peters would be out of the country. But still, he had to try.

Donning sunglasses that caused slight discomfort against his bruised eyebrow, Crawford decided to slip into the psychology building through a utility entrance he had learned about back in his undergrad years. There was no need to sneak in, other than the problem of walking past the students gathered in front of the building.

It would almost be like high school when I was harassed by all the football players, he thought, except worse.

Crawford approached the back door, but just as he reached for the doorknob, someone spoke.

“Hey there.”

Crawford froze.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said a middle-aged black man standing to the side.

Even the janitor’s uniform conveyed authority, and Crawford was at a loss for words. “I’m, uh…”

“You,
uh
, what?” the man mocked, scrutinizing Crawford’s sunglasses.

“I’m here to see a friend,” Crawford said, peeking over the sunglasses. “Sorry if I…”

The janitor looked Crawford up and down, obviously noting his expensive clothing, and then slowly changed his demeanor. The man realized that Crawford wasn’t just another college kid sneaking around where he shouldn’t.

“Who are you, man?”

“I’m here to see a friend,” Crawford repeated, moving back a step toward a bucket and a mop.

“Careful,” the janitor said pointing. “Behind you.”

Crawford looked down and saw there was a stain on his pant leg where he had brushed against the bucket.

“Shit,” Crawford said. “Look at that.”

“Oh, sorry about that, sir,” the janitor said, moving toward the bucket. “Let me move that out’ your way.” About two feet away from Crawford, the man reached over to move the bucket then stopped, looking up at Crawford. “You drunk?” he asked.

Crawford paused with embarrassment and considered how quickly people can identify someone who has been drinking.

But then he thought of his wife and son
and why is it that I give a shit what this stupid caretaker is saying to me?

“Yeah, I’m drunk,” he said with irritation. “Anything else?”

“No, sir,” the man capitulated. “Dr. Crawford, sir,” he added. “Who was it you were here to see, sir?” he said with an exaggerated smile.

“Dr. Phillip Peters, head of the department,” he said, stepping toward the door.

“Right this way, sir.”

The man led Crawford through the door and up the steps leading to Peters’ office.

“I can find it myself. Thanks,” he said, dismissing the man coldly. The man just stood and smiled as Crawford walked away rapidly past the hallway that led to Berry and Scott’s offices and down the hall leading to Peters’. He rubbed his brow with his knuckles to avoid being recognized by the passing students and it seemed to work.

Not surprisingly, Peters’ office was calm and quiet, which made Crawford’s nerves beg to explode. Peters’ young office assistant was reading a novel that looked epic against her pink tie-dyed tank top. There was a box of cookies sitting on the desk next to her, with a single cookie lying on a napkin with a bite taken. Crawford had met this girl a few times before and didn’t like her. He especially didn’t want to see her in his current condition.

He tried to smile as he approached, and she looked up with her routine authoritative look.

“Yes, Dr. Crawfords?” she said, putting down her novel. “Can I help you?”

She always called him Dr. Crawfords with an
s
for some reason, even though it was practically a household name. Crawford looked down at the dog-eared copy of
Atlas Shrugged
.

“Dr. Peters? Is he here? It’s important.”

“Not here,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“Not. Here.”

Bitch
. “Know when he’ll be back? It’s important.”

“Nope,” she said shaking her head. Then she reached for the half-eaten cookie.

Crawford gazed down at the girl’s woven bracelets, then at her pale skin, then the sweat stains under her arms, then her mouth gobbling up the cookie. He felt sick.

“Where is he?” Crawford said, coughing into his fist. “I need to know.”

“He’s moving to his new office today. He’s the dean now, you know.”

“I know he’s the dean,” Crawford snapped. “Is that where he is, at his new office?”

“No. He’s still packing things here,” she said, returning to her book.

“Okay, well where is he?” Crawford said curtly.

With an agitated smile she said, “Actually, I don’t know. He’s been gone all afternoon.”

“I’ll wait for him inside,” Crawford said, stumbling past her. His briefcase bumped her desk and the bottle inside made its presence known.

“Doctor. I think maybe…” she said, standing.

Crawford swiftly walked into Peters’ office and grabbed the door to close it. “I’ll wait inside.”

The girl put her hand to the door with a concerned expression on her face. “Are you okay, Doctor?”

“I’m fine.”

“I saw what happened yesterday on the Jan Hershey show, and I just want to say…”

Crawford slammed the door shut then leaned against it. He took a deep breath and then another. The room was dark and quiet and felt comforting. He put his briefcase on Peters’ desk and opened it. He took a drink from the bottle and its warmness agreed with him. He returned the bottle to its hiding place then looked upon the assortment of boxes and books that now surrounded him — Peters’ personal library. There was a pile of
Contemporary Psychology
magazines covering a stack of boxes neatly labeled “RESEARCH,” while another box had “DISPERSE” hastily hand-written on the side.

The disperse box was inexplicable to Crawford, especially since Peters never parted with any of his books — not ever, not a single one. It hadn’t been but a few months before that Crawford had come across a copy of George Combe’s
Elements of Phrenology
in Peters’ office and realized it was the same one Peters had bought at a conference they’d attended years before. Another time Crawford had borrowed a copy of
How We Think
by John Dewey and didn’t return it. While Peters was over at Crawford’s for a dinner party a year later, he politely asked if the Dewey volume was still helping with his current writing project. Crawford apologized, and Peters gladly collected. Peters never left a book behind, never.