Self-Esteem (44 page)

“Damn, nigga,” Rakim said.

We have created a monster. We start by asking people if they are happy. Then we ask them if everything is okay. We’re wonderful people, we let them know. We care. And if they say no, everything is fine, we ask again — just to make sure. Eventually, they start to question their happiness. They start to think that they are not whatever it is that they need to be and, not only that, that it is someone else’s fault. They become selfish. They want to have what the people on TV have. They drink, they betray the ones they love, even their children. And why? Because only they matter.

“I can’t help anyone. People need humility to help others, which is something I don’t have. I was too busy working on my fucking self-esteem.”

Crawford looked at the floor and sighed before looking directly into Watkins’ eyes. “Now, if that isn’t a sick mind, I don’t know what is.”

It all happened.

Crawford could see Lee offstage preparing to make his appearance.

But I wasn’t the victim.

Lee gave a thumbs up.

“Doctor? Are you with us?”

In a curious way, Crawford never felt better. He didn’t feel physically well, but he felt glad, something he couldn’t remember feeling in a long time. He was glad because the party was finally over — that long, difficult celebration that had started in high school and dragged on into his middle-age. And he realized that it wasn’t so ironic that it didn’t end with a bang.

There really isn’t anything like a near-death experience to bring clarity and a better appreciation for life
, he thought as they removed the I.V. After all, it is very easy to kill yourself slowly, but when the time comes — the real thing, the moment of truth — your instinct will take over and try to rescue you, whether you deserve it or not. Crawford had been rescued, and he knew he didn’t deserve it.

The applause was now in the form of rain. It was strange — the rain, particularly in Los Angeles. The song says that it never rains in Southern California. But as a matter of fact, sometimes it does.

The straps, his wife informed him, had finally been removed just a few hours before, and a wonderful doctor named Watkins expected he could probably eat some soft food by that afternoon. She also told Jim to apologize for peculiar remarks to the nice orderly named Rakim and to the hospital administrator, Ms. Clarkman. Berry and Scott were waiting in the lobby feeling guilty, Dorothy told Crawford, and Lee was with them, explaining why it was unfair to assume
The Happy Pappy Show
had pushed his star client to near madness. He had a better idea now, he told them —
The Dr. Jim Show
— and by God it was going to be a huge hit. They politely agreed.

Crawford was released from the hospital two weeks later, and a week after that
The Happy Pappy Show
was canceled because of poor ratings, primarily the result of protests from an anti-tobacco group that disapproved of Happy’s pipe.

INT. COFFEE SHOP - ONE MONTH LATER - AFTERNOON

Crawford sits next to a window sipping an espresso. The scene outside is pleasant, a normal suburban afternoon. CAMERA PANS BACK to reveal LEE, his publisher, sitting next to him.

LEE: So you’re going to Alaska? Why Alaska?

CRAWFORD: I don’t know. No reason really. Perhaps because it’s so remote. I need seclusion right now.

LEE: And Cal doesn’t want to go?

CRAWFORD: No.

Cal enters from LEFT, dressed in a WHITE COFFEE SHOP UNIFORM, with a cappuccino for Lee.

LEE: Not in for Alaska, huh?

CAL: I can’t. I’ve got this job. And I’ve got a car payment now.

LEE: Well, if you ever want to write books…

CRAWFORD: Shut up, Lee.

They both LAUGH. Cal smiles then walks away.

There’s a TV SET just above the coffee shop workstation with a cable news show on.

ON THE TV: There’s a typical ANCHORMAN and ANCHORWOMAN team.

Crawford and Lee watch.

The TITLE CARD behind the Anchorman is a BOOK COVER.

ANCHORMAN: (on TV) And in other news, Dr. James Crawford, the well-known self-help writer, has a new book out. But it’s not what you might expect. It’s a novel. Burns Publishing released “The Recovery Channel” this week, a thriller about a deranged psychologist, of all things. When asked why he had never written a novel before, Crawford jokingly replied, “I never had the self-esteem.” (pause, smiling) And that’s the news for this hour.

The Anchorman smiles and looks to the Anchorwoman.

ANCHORWOMAN: Maybe he was serious, Dr. Crawford. Maybe he didn’t have the self-esteem.

ANCHORMAN: Maybe so. How’s your self-esteem?

ANCHORWOMAN: My self-esteem is fine, thanks.

Crawford and Lee look at each other and grin before clinking their coffee cups.

CUT TO:

Crawford had finally become at ease with his study, and not just because the “Wall of Shame” was gone, not just because he was a published novelist with decent sales, however mixed the reviews, not because the latest offering,
Cheaper than the Plague
, was almost finished. He was comfortable because he knew his wife was a floor above him making breakfast and his son was a floor above her preparing for college. And he was comfortable because he was awake enough to appreciate it all. He didn’t need those pills any longer.

“Just show up. It will make you feel good about yourself.” That was something he hadn’t written in any book. He was just talking to himself.

Crawford looked at the
American Heritage Dictionary
lying open on his desk, and one word caught his attention.

pompous: characterized by excessive self-esteem

Crawford picked up a pencil and underlined “self-esteem” then erased it. He put the pencil down.

These days he was writing in the morning — fiction, non-fiction, anything. It didn’t matter. He was writing a lot, as regular as the ticking clock on the wall. And this morning was no different. Something about being surrounded by cushiony white walls made it easy. The title came without difficulty, as did the copy.

Trips to the Liquor Store
by Jim Crawford

There are countless things that an alcoholic forgets from one year to the next, from one day to the next, even from one hour to the next. There are many friends and lovers he once knew — many of whom he drank with — that quickly drowned in recollection in the sea of his alcohol-drenched brain. He also forgets the lost jobs, the lost money, and the lost time. But one thing the alcoholic never forgets — or rather, remembers better than anything else — are the liquor stores he used to patronize and the all-familiar paths that led him down to those grimy places of drink. When I was in high school, it was a wretched convenience store where a guy named Kevin (a friend of my sister’s boyfriend) gladly sold me four-dollar cases of generic beer just to make jokes about how I would also need to buy toilet paper. When I was a college student of 20 — using a fake ID card that read “MEDICAL IDENTIFICATION” — it was a convenience store across an empty field from my shabby, two-bedroom apartment that I shared with a frequently absent roommate. In those days I didn’t even have a car, but I didn’t care. A six pack of the nastiest, cheapest brew and a pack of generic cigarettes were just three dollars and a five-minute walk away. When I lived in Nevada, it was the Liquor King, a mega store for the supply-conscious alcoholic, complete with membership cards and shopping carts. In the West Village of New York, it was a small deli owned by Middle Easterners who cheerfully sold me 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor for a buck and a half. In Los Angeles (my adult home for the longest period) there were many: Happy Time Liquor, Mayflower Market, and “Rock and Roll” Ralph’s, just to name a few. It’s painful now to think of the things I could have done, the people I could have called on, and the places I could have traveled to when I ventured on those many thousands of solitary trips to the liquor store. It’s painful now to think of the price I paid to make my miserable life okay, to get through one more night, to convince myself I was still there and still alive. It’s painful to think of the damage I did to myself when I returned from my daily trips, eager to wash all the bad stuff away. But more than anything, it’s heartbreaking to think of how much I succeeded in destroying so many memories — apart from those of the avenues that got me there.

Crawford closed the dictionary and gently put his fingers back to where the keyboard would be.

But none of it really happened that way. No, it didn’t.

That’s just the way the story wanted to be told.

Yes, it is.

“It is?” Crawford says. “Who said that?”

The clock on the wall stops ticking.

Listen to me.

“Who’s there?”

I am that I am.

“I am what?”

I am not happy with you, James. There will be no Eden for you.

“Who are you?”

I’m your heavenly father.

“You are…” Crawford gasps. “God?”

You have worshiped the unclean one. You even called him your father.

“No, hey, you misunderstand. That Pappy guy was no father. He was just…”

I commanded that you shalt have no other Gods before me!

“Before you?”

I have filled you with terror so that you would know that I am the Lord!

Crawford gasps once again.

The devil showed you all of the splendor that evil can bring. You are now a follower of the devil.

“I am weary from crying for help. My throat is dried, which is why I feel like a drink. I can’t see anything clearly, My Lord.” Crawford paused.
You are My Lord, aren’t you?
He leans forward. “Lord?”

Crawford listens.
Lord, are you there?

Silence, except for the clock on the wall.

I wasn’t behind this Happy Pappy business. Was I Lord? Was I just…

“Was I?”

“Yesssssiiiiirrrrreeeee!”

“Dr. Watkins, the patient just cried out.”

“I’m coming.”

The End