Self-Esteem (43 page)

“Pushing the envelope?” Crawford said.

“I’m not sure what it means, but that’s what great artists do. And I’m also a photographer and filmmaker.”

The young man’s earnestness almost distracted Crawford from his rage.

“Dr. Watkins liked my performance with his granddaughter, and it worked.” He let out a sigh of accomplishment. “She had never met me and didn’t know we were related. She thought I was really trying to kill her. Isn’t that funny?”

“You… you three,” Crawford pointed, “are out of your minds.”

The old man raised a finger. “Do you feel better, Jim?”

“Where are my wife and son?”

“Answer me first,” Watkins demanded. “Don’t you feel better?”

“Feel better?”

“Haven’t you realized a few things?” Peters asked. “Don’t you feel relieved? Ready to start anew?”

“That’s my business.”

“Hey,” Peters said with a smirk. “You signed up for this.”

“I signed up for this? What the hell does that mean?”

Peters pulled a paper out of his jacket pocket. “In my office. Remember? You signed,” he said extending the document.

Some fucking board of review.

“What do you think I’ve been spending that Vogel Grant money on?” he said with a smirk.

“This whole thing is insane.” Crawford leaned over and picked up the gun from off the floor. He slowly sat back then pointed the gun at the heart of the old man in front of him, who coolly rolled back his chair a few inches. “But maybe I can do something about this.”

“There’s nothing but blanks in that gun, Jim,” Berry said, stepping aside, revealing Scott standing behind him. “Might as well put it down.”

“I see. You guys are in on this as well. Up to your old tricks?”

“New tricks, Jim,” Berry said.

“We’ve always liked you Jim,” Scott said. “We were concerned.”

“Uh huh. Where’s my son?”

“Jim, put the gun down,” Watkins said.

“When I was a little boy,” Crawford began, “there was this kid that used to bully me. He hit me all the time and I was too young to know what to do. Eventually, I ended up hitting him over the head with a toy radio. Just a block of wood, really, but it did the trick. Knocked the little fucker out. I got sick that day and thought that God had punished me for my aggression. I was wrong, of course. But what I realize now is I wouldn’t have retaliated in the first place if I hadn’t been ill. I hit the kid
because
I didn’t feel good because I had the flu or something else. Being sick made me do it. I was lucky to be sick that day. I was lucky because it helped me get rid of that bully.”

Scott took out a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and started to take notes.

Watkins sat up. “Please continue, Jim. We’re very interested in your mental illness.”

Crawford’s small audience stood silent, and he continued with a stare that seemed to heal his blunted, drunken eyes. “You all don’t believe in anything, do you? And that’s why you have lost your souls.”

Watkins coughed. “I think we’ve accomplished something here today.”

Crawford forced a smile. “Yes, so do I. Now give me my family.”

All five men nodded.

Crawford heard a loud drip, falling steady. The sound of a single clap. Then another drop, another clap. Then clapping. Clapping by a few people. Clapping by several people. Clapping produced by an applause machine.

“We are so proud of you,” a familiar voice said.

Floodlights slowly illuminated the back walls and Crawford could see what he thought he had imagined a moment before: an audience surrounding them of what looked like one hundred or so life-sized cardboard cutouts. They sat there silently, like icons on public signs — black, faceless, characterless shapes.

Stepping into the light, she looked more beautiful than ever, like the day they met. Better than that, the day they married.

“You’re proud of me?” Crawford said.

“We knew something could bring you back to us,” Dorothy said with a Jan-Hershey tilt of the head, nodding with admiration.

“But why?”

“Because we love you that much, sweetheart,” she said.

“But… I don’t understand.”

“Honey, you don’t have to.”

“We love you, Dad,” Cal said appearing next to her. “That’s all you have to understand.”

Crawford was astonished at his son’s manner. He never looked so mature. The former Happy Pappy looked on in admiration.

“Dad, you acted like a complete asshole. So did you!” he said to his former friend, before turning back to his dad. “But I realized many of things in the last 24 hours. The most important thing is that you’re an asshole, but you don’t mean it.”

Crawford nodded, as did his wife.

Cal put his hands in his pockets, pacing at a ninety degree angle to his father, and Crawford could swear he was thirty years old. “You’re just weak. That’s all. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. And you don’t make other people as unhappy as you think. You’re not, uh…” Cal put his hand on his chin then looked at Dorothy. “What’s that word we talked about, Mom?”

“Malefic, dear.”

“Oh, yeah. Malefic. You’re not mal-lific. And you’re not malicious either, Dad. As a matter of fact, I just learned that drunkenness is a disease. I was like, ‘Whoa, wait a minute, that shit is a disease?’ And it is. It’s like fuckin’ cancer or something.”

“Don’t swear, dear,” his mother said.

Cal nodded to her. “And, like, because of, you know, like, society, we think of it as this terrible sin to be fucked up. Sorry, Mom. To be like high on something. And drugs are the same way. And we, like, we put people in jail because we treat their disease as a criminal act. I mean, that’s fucked up.”

Crawford was moved by Cal’s words and spoke before his wife could again curb her son’s profanity. “It is, son. It is fucked up. But can we talk about this later?”

“Sure, Dad. Whenever. I’ll be here for you, bro,” he said slapping his old man on the shoulder.

“And Jenny?” Crawford asked Watkins, ashamed to look in Dorothy’s direction. “Is she here?” Crawford asked, looking fragmented again.

“She was going to stick around…” Watkins started.

“And I didn’t have a problem with that, Jim,” Dorothy interrupted. “Truly, Jim. I didn’t.”

Watkins looked disappointed. “But Jenny felt it was probably a bad idea to stay. For an emotionally bankrupt nymphomaniac, she really has a heart.”

“She does?” Crawford asked.

“Of course.” Watkins replied. “That’s probably why she said she needed a drink after all this.”

“Do
you
need a drink, dear?” his wife asked him gently.

He looked up at her. “No, dear, I don’t.” Crawford wasn’t thinking of drinking. He was wondering where that scumbag Lee was.

Watkins smiled warmly, rolling his wheelchair forward. “There’s been lots of healing here today, Jim, worthy of several journals and several fellowships. And I just want to say…”

“I want to be happy!” Darrin screamed like a child who had his toy taken away. “I want to be happy!”

Darrin was wearing that mask again.

“I want to be happy!” he yelled again, his voice muffled by the mask. “I want to be Happy Pappy!” he screamed, and disappeared into the darkness.

Crawford blinked and the masked man reappeared, clutching the axe from the video. Crawford stumbled to his feet and stepped behind the chair holding the gun tight.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Anthony?” Watkins said, swiveling around in his chair.

“I’m Happy Pappy!”

“No, by God, you’re not. You’re Anthony Watkins the…”

It was so quick the old man didn’t even get the sentence out. The newly born Happy Pappy had, with one elegant swipe, severed his granduncle’s head.

“Dude! What the fuck!” Cal screamed. Watkins’ head wobbled toward him like a football.

“Yesssssiiiiirrrrreeeee!”

Scott and Dorothy screamed loudly, but Scott the loudest.

“Christ, help us!” Scott screamed.

“Can I have an award now?” Anthony asked as blood gushed from the top of his granduncle’s torso.

“Jim, this is not part of the program,” Peters said. “I assure you it’s not.”

“No shit,” Crawford said, lifting the gun toward the chest of the fiendish clown. “I changed my mind. I think I need a drink.”

Scott started whimpering a moment and said, “Jim! There’s only blanks in that gun. Berry switched them.”

“Yesssssiiiiirrrrreeeee!” Happy said, cocking his axe. Crawford’s head was next.

“No, they’re real,” he said, unloading three rounds into Happy’s chest.

The axe dropped first, followed by the masked man’s limp body. Crawford stood up and stared at the dying body, and no one said a word.

Berry knelt beside Anthony and dragged the mask up from his chin to his forehead.

The young man was handsome, Crawford thought.

“I…” Happy labored. “I…”

“Slowly,” Berry said. “Take your time.”

“Everybody loves actors. I wanted to be one. That’s all.”

“We know,” Berry said. “That’s why we all act.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Cal said to the friend he never really knew.

“Thanks,” Darrin said.

He was dead.

“I think I’d like that drink now,” Crawford said.

And that’s the last thing I remember
.

CHAPTER 22

Nothing
. No elegant script graced the screen as the image appeared; no eager applause was heard crackling with enthusiasm. It was nothing but Jan, unplugged, stripped down to her compassionate bare essentials, just herself in a chair and a microphone, radiating more empathy than ever. Our lovely host cleared her throat and tilted her head, as she sometimes did when she was about to be thoughtful, and thoughtful she often was.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, life can be…” She paused a moment, putting a finger to her upper lip then looking down at it like a monk in prayer. “Life can be… difficult. It can be…” She took the hand down to her lap and looked up, shaking her head slightly. “Unpredictable.”

As her last word rang out, the camera widened to reveal Crawford quietly sitting next to her in khaki slacks and an oxford shirt, looking healthy and vibrant, looking detoxified, free from liquor and junk sex, with a demeanor that spoke of his truest, most genuine self.

“But you know,” Jan continued. “You can dodge those, um, uh,” she grasped. “Dodge balls,” she said smiling as if she’d just found the perfect word, “that life throws your way.”

“Well put,” Crawford said.

“Just a minute, Doctor,” Jan said without pause. “We’re having a very different show today, folks. We’re going to trace the journey of one man, a man that we all know and love. Dr. James Zechariah Crawford. We’re going to look at his incredible journey; his incredible rise, fall, and rise. It’s a story, not unlike many of our own,” she said grinning. “And, of course, it’s a very American story.”

“It is, indeed,” Crawford said calmly, before taking a deep breath. “Only in America,” he said with an awkward laugh.

“Tell me something, doctor,” Jan began. “What’s it like to be delusional? What’s it like to be so out of your mind on alcohol that you imagined all the things about your family and friends that you tell us about in your new book,
Cheaper Than the Plague
?”

“What is it like? Well, um, that’s why I wrote the book, Jan. To describe it,” Crawford said, to a few soft giggles. “That’s what it’s like. In the book. The story. That’s what it’s like.”

“Oh I see,” Jan nodded. “I haven’t actually read the book.”

“That book’s da bomb, yo,” The camera widened to reveal Rakim, in a fancy red blazer and gold medallion, sitting next to Crawford. The audience applauded. “And I’m so glad he included me in it,” Rakim said straightening his matching top hat. “He thought he just imagined me, but he didn’t. I’m real, yo.”

Jan smiled. “You are real. You’re a bit of a stereotype, but you’re real. No offense,” she giggled. “Thank you for coming to share, Rakim. Ladies and gentlemen, Rakim.” The invisible audience applauded again. “Oh by the way,” Jan said raising her eyebrows, “congratulations on your new album
Porridge
. Five stars, that’s wonderful.”

“I know it’s wonderful,” he said. “Jus’ like you, Jan,” he said, with a wink and a nod.

“And Phil,” Jan said.

“Yes, Jan,” Peters said, as the spotlight widened to include Peters sitting next to Rakim.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s Dr. Phil Peters, Dr. Crawford’s mentor. Or should I say tormentor?”

The ghost audience laughed.

“Tormentor? What do you mean by that?” Peters said. “I’m not a tormentor.”

“No, but we are,” Berry and Scott said in unison, seated closely together just to Peters’ left. “We’ve been tormenting this guy for years,” Scott said. “And this last one was a doozey, let me tell you.”

Jan smiled. “My, my, it was. Boy, do we have a cast of characters for your tribute today, Doctor. Because these are the real professionals in your life that have affected you most. You know what a professional is, don’t you doctor? I mean these are real professionals.”

At that moment, Crawford wondered about that first psychologist he had seen on TV criticizing him.

“These men saved your life. Would you like to share with us what you learned?”

“I do,” Crawford said. “Thinking about what we should do to make us more confident, make us like ourselves more — that’s all a bunch of bullshit. That only makes us miserable because it ignores the lives of others. No one should work on self-esteem. They should only work on self-respect, which has to be earned from others. And the writers like me, the talk show hosts and the pop stars that promise the world to us are nothing but parasites. They turn us into greedy, wretched souls by claiming to provide something that is impossible — perfection. It’s life, after all. The things we want like love and respect can only be acquired through hard work and suffering. And even then it will be incomplete. That’s just life. We have a society where everyone wants to be loved so much they can be assholes to everyone else. We live in the most vulgar society the world has ever seen. And it’s all because we want more than is possible. We still want the forbidden fruit.”