Self-Esteem (7 page)

Click. What perfection.

“Are you going to call me?” she asks.

He gets in his car.

“Probably not.”

He drives away.

“You better!” she screams. “You fucking better!”

My, my. Poor girl. Such low self-esteem.

It had been another shitty day at school and Cal was looking forward to seeing his new friend Darrin Davis.
Or is it Jarvis?
Cal wondered.

Cal brought his Porsche to a screaming halt in front of Tom’s Pool Hall and instantly realized it was a bad idea. Not here. It attracted the wrong attention. With the car inches from the curb, Cal lowered his head into the passenger’s side to look for his comrade, who wasn’t there. Several young men, most of them out of high school — some graduates, but mostly dropouts — stood just outside the double-doors talking and smoking. Tom’s wasn’t Cal’s kind of place. Not that he didn’t like its peeling paint and smoky, old-fashioned charm. It was just too tough for a pampered kid who lived in Beverly Hills, especially one with a fifty thousand dollar car.

“My God,” one black kid in his teens said, sucking on a cigarette. “This here boy just robbed the damn bank.”

“Maybe we should apprehend him,” another said, laughing.

Be cool. Look tough. Look ahead. Don’t care.

Cal was giving a performance he knew no one was buying. He was a pussy, plain and simple, just like his old man.

The door burst opened, and Cal flinched. It was his friend, appearing as he always did, out of thin air.

“Damn, what you so uptight about, boy?” he said, sticking his head in the car. “You smokin’ better shit than me?”

“Just get in,” Cal said.

“Hey, why so nervous?”

Darrin got in the car and shut the door without looking the least bit worried about the taunts from the guys on the street. Darrin’s slightly more radical Goth look — standard black attire with several earrings and a plain black nostril stud — highlighted Cal’s simpler suburban version of the same. His 220-pound body brought the right side of the car down slightly as he put the vinyl case that held his trusty pool cue to his side.

“What up, bitch. Nice car.”

“Goddam faggots,” someone yelled.

Darrin leaned out the window. “Hey! Go shoot some pool. Go spend your last quarter on a videogame. Fuckin’ losers.”

Cal stomped on the gas and the tires squealed beneath them. Darrin enjoyed the speed more than Cal did. “Yeah, that’s it!”

Cal often thought about Darrin never paying any attention to thugs, or to any of the other people that scared him so much. It was the basis of Cal’s respect. Darrin might be a freak, but to Cal he was the coolest guy he’d ever met, period. No one ever bothered Darrin, and Cal knew that it had nothing to do with what he had, what he drove, or anything else. What was important was what Darrin didn’t have: fear. And for that he got respect.

“Whew. This sure is a nice car, bitch,” Darrin said running his hand across the dash. “How does it make you feel to own a car like this?” It was an oddly sensible question from Darrin. “Has your ego gotten bigger?”

Cal started to feel awkward.

“Has your dick gotten bigger too?”

Cal didn’t know what else to do but answer directly, “No.”

“Sure? Maybe you should look.”

“Maybe I should,” Cal said looking straight ahead.

Darrin grinned, then began slowly humming the
Happy Pappy Song
.

“Why are you doing that?” He looked at Darrin, who just stared ahead and continued humming. “Okay, okay,” Cal said. “Enough of that shit.”

Darrin acted like Cal wasn’t even there. “Be kind
hmm hmm hmm
be fond
hmm hmm hmm
…”

“Do you want to walk?” Cal shouted.

Darrin stopped humming. “Damn, man. Relax. I was just about to give you something for your self-esteem. That’s all.” Darrin reached into his pants pocket and held up a small baggie of white powder.

Cal nodded. “Fuckin’ awesome!”

“Oh yes,” Darrin said.

CHAPTER 5

The tuxedo made Crawford uncomfortable. It always did. The jacket was too big and the trousers were too small, especially in the crotch. As he drove, he questioned why he hadn’t bought a new one in almost five years.

Buying clothes is such a hassle, he thought, shifting his penis to a more comfortable position. A new tux never crossed his mind until he had to wear one, probably because he didn’t like to go to events where they were mandatory.

“Humans have a tendency to be ill-prepared for things they don’t want to endure, hence the importance of deliberate effort,” he once wrote in
Self-Confidence
.

Yeah, yeah. What stupid shit
.

Dorothy was different. She enjoyed dressing up and going to highbrow events. It’s one of life’s simple pleasures, as she put it. She felt that her husband’s cynicism about such occasions was just the intellectual posturing of a grouchy old man. She concluded he enjoyed protesting about such things — that was one of
his
simple pleasures. So, considering that, there was nothing to worry about. Each of them, in their own way, was going to have a good time.

The California University of Arts and Sciences auditorium parking lot was filled with mid-range luxury cars and formal attire.

A trip to the university campus always included burning contempt for the people Crawford ran into, and an event like this made his disdain break out like a nasty rash. Crawford looked down upon most of the professors as shallow poseurs who didn’t respect the sanctity of the institution that employed them. It was bad enough that the student body was filled with slackers trying as hard as they could to do absolutely nothing. They were supposed to be young and stupid. But college professors that taught subjects like philosophy, literature and psychology, they were supposed to uphold a few standards. They were supposed to carry themselves in a certain way.
But this bunch
, they were the types that showed up to a university event and talked about their new cars, their recent vacations and what they had read in some interior design magazine.

But who was Crawford kidding? He was the most embarrassing guest of them all. Doctor Popular,
Doctor TV
. How could he call anyone a fraud?

At least I’m aware of it.

“I don’t know what you’re fretting over,” Dorothy said enthusiastically. “Everyone’s going to be happy to see you. This is your alma mater. They love you here.”

“Uh huh,” Crawford groaned, trying to straighten his awkward tuxedo.

The display above the auditorium read “Dr. Phillip Peters Honorary Banquet.” And below that, written in graceful script, “Helmut Vogel Fellowship.”

Crawford read the lavish billboard and knew it was time to paint on his meet-and-greet facade and do some bullshitting. Just inside the reception area, Crawford saw them — the men he despised most after himself. He first saw their cocktails — gin martinis — resting lazily in their hands, promising to embellish their mindless chatter. Dr. Jay Berry and Dr. Albert Scott, the kiss ass twins, as Crawford used to call them back in university, two guys who were always together, both with an annoying penchant for brownnosing everyone in a position of power — except for Crawford — while looking down on everyone else. And there they were, same as always, talking big talk, their giant bellies quaking as they laughed at their own stupid jokes.

“I think Phil deserves to be dean of the graduate school more than anyone,” Berry said with a sudden affected humility. “He sure worked for it.”

Jay Berry, what a bastard, that sorry sackashit that pulled pranks on me, pranks he would never admit to, even after he finished his doctorate. Yeah, of course, there’s his yes-man, Albert, still blowing smoke up his own tired old ass and everyone else’s.

Berry leaned over to whisper into Scott’s ear. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask Mr. Self-Esteem over there if he didn’t want the position.”

Dorothy was distracted by the crowd, smiling and saying hello to people. But Crawford was looking carefully at his two old rivals, wondering what nasty remarks they were making about him.

“Crawford?” Scott said softly to Berry. “He doesn’t have time to be dean. He’s got a new book and appearances to make. Now he’s going after the children’s market. A busy man he is.”

“Yes, I understand he’s putting out an exercise video,” Berry added with a snicker.

Crawford was imagining what they were saying. He also knew he couldn’t stop their mockery from bothering him, which bothered him even more.

They laughed quietly to themselves, looking up at Crawford, feigning to have just seen him, or he thought so anyway.

“Jim,” Berry said. “How the hell are you? Long time, no see.”

Crawford decided to go ahead and put on airs. It was more insulting. “Great. Jay. Good to see you. Albert, how are you?”

“Fine, Jim.”

Dorothy joined her husband, standing obediently at his side.

“Dorothy, you look as lovely as ever.”

“Thank you, Dr. Scott. Congratulations on your new research grant.”

He was surprised, or acted like he was. “Thank you so much, Dorothy. But how would you know about that?”

Crawford thought his response was almost paranoid.

“Oh, a little birdie told me,” she said.

“Well, thank you, dear.”

Berry chimed in, “But we were just talking about your latest success, Jim.”

“Congratulations on your new book,” Dr. Scott added.

Crawford was clearly uncomfortable. “Thanks, gentlemen. I appreciate it.”

Then there was an awkward silence. This was the real insult — saying congratulations and nothing more.

Scott lifted his martini and looked directly at Crawford. “Can I get you folks something?” Berry grinned. “Oh, I forgot,” Scott said quickly. “You no longer imbibe.”

“No,” Crawford said with a forced smile.

Then Scott turned to Dorothy. “Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you. Will you excuse us a moment?” Dorothy said, leading Crawford into the main hall.

“Those jackasses. They don’t think I know they talk behind my back? What idiots.”

Crawford turned again to give them a hateful look and Dorothy directed him away. “Ignore them, dear. If they talk behind your back they’re just jealous of your success, that’s all.”

“Jealous?” Crawford tried to laugh. “They’re downright hateful. They think I’m getting too much attention, too much money. They want fame and fortune more than I do.”

“That’s jealousy. And why do you care what they think?” Dorothy said, in a motherly voice. “My God, do I have to keep giving you your own advice?”

“No you don’t,” he said, before taking a breath and calming himself. His discomfort, he theorized, came from conceding that his former doctoral classmates were right, that he was a fraud and a bad joke.

The Crawfords walked in through the main entrance, down the aisle, then up the stairs that lead to the long table that sat at the front of the hall. “Just think of all the things you tell other people,” Dorothy said, pointing to their assigned seats. “Follow your own advice. It works.”

“Does it?”

Crawford looked down at his name written on a folded card in front of their seats just to the left of the podium. “Dr. James and Dorothy Crawford.” Crawford particularly took note of the “Dr.” in front of his name. It was ambiguous — a Doctor of Philosophy, a PhD, or a doctor that supposedly heals the sick. Either will do. Take your pick. You just couldn’t pick both.

I need a doctor, he thought.

Or a drink.

Crawford frequently thought about his own advice — the same advice that had made him a fortune — but he only believed it while he was making it up, and probably not even then.
Stop negative behavior and face life on its own terms and live a happy life forever and ever. Uh huh.

But the content hadn’t changed much over the years, only the way it was composed. Since the completion of his second book,
Self-Worth
, Crawford began to notice an odd relationship between his writing and his behavior. Increasingly, the writing of these feel-good books made him feel bad, creating a depression that would last for weeks, sometimes months. It was starting to impede the writing process until Crawford ultimately worked out a deal with himself. He had to “postpone” the disparaging thoughts and depression until after the work was completed, bribing himself with the promise of a nice long bender once it was done.

It took writing
Self-Respect
before Crawford became comfortable with this arrangement. Perhaps he just learned to live with it, but it also made the drinking binge that followed much longer and more extreme.

Then he began to believe that the awareness of this pattern was going to drive him mad. Each book was more successful than the last, creating high expectations for the next in the series. And after each book was published, the drinking relapse was markedly worse, making the hole deeper and deeper. So he rationalized the situation, telling himself that his experiences fed his “art.” He would dry out and talk to his wife about “calling the muse,” even though the drunkenness came after the fact. Eventually he would get sober and write a book about how to get happy and feel good. And after that he would be disgustingly drunk again.

“Any writer who says he writes 12 hours a day is full of shit,” he told his editor, Martha Ginsberg, on the phone one night, just after falling off the wagon the day before.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “It certainly isn’t impossible.”

“You know what I mean, Martha.”

Martha had edited all four
Self
Series
books with such remarkable speed and independence that Crawford often wondered why she didn’t write her own self-help books. She almost never called Crawford, even to discuss changes she was making to his manuscript. She just did them. Both Crawford and Lee liked it this way. It was very easy. No politics, no problems, no complaints — just great work.

But Martha was a professional. She didn’t like discussing the nuts and bolts of composition, especially with Jim, especially when he was drunk. It was just a job to her, not nearly as fun as working in her garden at home.