Self-Esteem (5 page)

“See you later, Gary the Gator!” one said.

They laughed harder, like dim-witted hyenas, and Cal wished he could kill them all and cut them up into little pieces and mail them home to their mothers.

When Cal reached the top of the steps, the bureaucrat in charge of disciplinary action appeared: Vice Principal Gore. Gore was a likable guy for the most part — a tall, affable man with a bald head and a goofy sense of humor. Gore didn’t do much to protect the pussies from the bullies, and the pussies didn’t like that. But Cal was a different kind of pussy — he understood Gore. The way Cal saw it, the VP was just too smart to get involved in little razzings that happened at school because unpleasant confrontation is just a part of life that happens in all kinds of places. Gore also knew that bullies were a fact of life from preschool to the grave and that pussies had better learn to deal with bullies sooner or later.

“Morning, Cal,” Vice Principal Gore said, nodding.

“Good morning, Mr. Gore,” Cal said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. You on drugs this morning?” he asked.

“No sir,” Cal said.

“Don’t lie to me, Crawford,” Gore said, looking out over the courtyard. “I know your crowd, and you’re all high as damn kites.”

“Yes sir,” Crawford said. “I mean, no sir. Well, some of the guys are… I wouldn’t use the kite analogy, sir.”

“Now, now,” Gore said, dropping his veneer. “No need to get jumpy. I’m just kiddin’ ya, boy.”

“I know, sir,” Cal said, though he didn’t.

“Those football guys down there still giving you a hard time, huh?”

“No sir,” he lied again. “Not too bad, sir.”

“Well, hang in there, son,” he said slapping Cal on the back. “You’re almost done. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Cal knew it was good advice. “I won’t, sir.”

Mr. Gore casually walked into the school and Cal thought about how he respected the Vice Principal more than his own father and how sad that was.

Cal made his way through the crowded hall to the main bathroom on the first floor, which was so filthy it made washing your hands almost pointless. And yet Cal went there before class, feeling the need to wash something, perhaps the egg off his face. It never worked.

He put his hands under the cold water.

Why, Dad?

On balance, the jocks outside did have a point. It wasn’t so much Gore’s advice to keep cool or even his own fear of being beaten to death that kept him from responding. The jocks were absolutely right to make jokes about that stupid show. And putting up a fight in defense of Happy Pappy would be even sillier than Happy Pappy himself.

Why that stupid fucking show, Dad? Why?

Cal splashed his face.

You’re going to pay a million times for that show, Dad. That’s what Darrin says. And Darrin knows everything.

CHAPTER 4

Great idea, Lee. You just know everything, don’t you?

Crawford was stuck in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, struggling to focus on what he needed to say to Lee. He was thinking of Dorothy, of Cal, of Jenny, of Lee, of the new book, of the Jan Hershey show (
Jan Live with Jan Hershey
, that is), of the promotional tour (whatever that might require), and of that damn children’s show.

God, now the criticism.

Great idea, Lee, he thought.

This is what will ruin me. This is why I’m an alcoholic, embarrassments like this. I got this disease because I couldn’t
not
get this disease
.

Huh?

“Don’t rationalize, hypothesize.”

And it
is
a disease, just like they say.

Crawford had always resisted that idea, that alcoholism was a disease, even after several experiences with treatment. He often argued that alcoholism was a “condition,” not a “disease.” He believed that health care professionals used elevated terminology when discussing alcoholism in order to ease the insecurities of the people who suffered from it, to make it sound more like a natural phenomenon and therefore not the patient’s fault. Privately, Crawford knew the terminology of addiction was like that of psychology. Alcoholism, like “neurosis,” wasn’t as glamorous as a “disease.” It was just a common rut people fell into. But several years later, after he got to know the patterns of his own alcoholism (as well as his own neuroses), he realized that terms like “disease” and “relapse” were appropriate for the condition. They represented something as real as pancreatic cancer. And besides, it didn’t matter what they called it. Hell, anything could be called a “disease.” Normal things. Fear. Depression. Guilt. Being stuck in a sea of cars for that matter. And when you call something a disease, there is always a potential for profit.

“Fuckin’ L.A.,” he thought out loud.

It should have been a 30-minute drive to Lee’s office, but the traffic wasn’t moving and Crawford was gritting his teeth. His S-Class Mercedes, with every available accessory from the manufacturer, couldn’t do a thing about a traffic jam, though somehow it could give you the impression it could, which caused even more frustration.

The car had been a gift from Lee four months earlier when Crawford finally agreed to
The Happy Pappy Show
.

“That’s all you have to do,” Lee said enthusiastically.

Crawford thought it was funny — Lee sitting behind his mahogany desk, dressed in one of his spotless Armani suits, fidgeting like a hyperactive child in his luxurious Century City office that could easily have been a plastic surgery clinic for people who don’t need it.

“That’s it, Jim,” he said with a clap and a colossal smile.

Crawford remembered thinking how Lee looked very non-literary, like someone who shouldn’t have gone into publishing.

“That’s all, huh?” Crawford said solemnly.

Crawford sometimes joked that “Burns Book Publishing” should simply be called “Burns Books.” But “publishing,” of course, doesn’t mean “literary,” and Lee had made Crawford a fortune — one reason no one could say the talent of Lee Burns had been wasted on the wrong industry.

“You don’t have to do a goddam thing, Jim.” He paused. “Well, maybe one little video spot. A couple of little promotionals.”

“Video spot?”

Lee was the same age as Crawford but looked much younger. He was a short man, smaller than Crawford, with narrowing shoulders and thinning hair, which some would say made him look older. But Lee’s anxious behavior gave him a youthful disposition Crawford didn’t have. And to Crawford’s constant surprise, Lee was still thought to be a very attractive man, well known for numerous infidelities with beautiful women.

Crawford watched him closely as he sat on the edge of his desk.

“At the end of the program they say this show is based on the
Self
Series
by Dr. James Crawford. Blah, blah, blah. A picture. A few numbers on the screen, where to buy our products. Yada, yada, yada. And that’s it.”

“That’s it? And the video spot?”

Lee ignored the question. “All we do is sit back and collect the money.” Lee was fidgeting again, shaking his head from side to side, already counting the money they would make.

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” Lee shot back quickly.

“Sounds like bullshit.”

“Of course it’s bullshit. So what?”

“It could hurt us.”

“Hurt us?” Lee laughed uneasily then stood up. “How can it hurt us? Look. We care about children, Jim. That’s why we do it. We’re doing what we can, not just for sexually frustrated housewives, but for the little bastards they give birth to. See?”

“Uh huh.”

Lee reached inside his pocket and produced a single car key, a round black grip surrounding shinny metal. With a sly smile and an assertively cocked head, Lee told Crawford he had a gift for him. To a bystander such a performance might have looked like a sexual proposition. Of course, Crawford knew exactly what was going on. It was carrot time. “Will you do it?” Lee asked softly.

It was moments like this that Crawford knew he couldn’t resist Lee. His zeal was impossible to combat, especially since he made everything sound so perfect. It was no wonder Lee got laid so much.

“It’s German,” Lee said, “like your favorite beers.”

Crawford smiled apprehensively. “I know where a Mercedes comes from. And the beer remark isn’t appropriate. I don’t drink beer.” Lee shrugged his shoulders and gave Crawford a sarcastic grin, pushing the key across his desk. Crawford caved in. “I hope I’m not going to regret this.”

Lee laughed, triumphantly slapping himself on the thigh and throwing his arms around Jim.

“That’s my boy. That’s my boy.” He picked up the phone on his desk. “I’ve got to make the call. They want to know right away.”

“So what’s the name of the show?”

“I don’t know. It’s a kid’s show. It’s called
Farmer Bill
or some shit.”

“Farmer Bill?” Crawford asked, gripping the key. “Hey, can I give this a little more thought before I commit?”

“Man, you think too much.”

Crawford now had a very unusual agenda at Burns Publishing — one that had been on his mind for weeks, one he dreaded initiating. But he would do it with the confidence,
with the confidence of a
…

I can’t even think of a decent metaphor, he thought.

Something about that office made him wither with apprehension. It didn’t look that different from any other luxury high-rise office. There was just something about it that made Crawford feel three feet tall as soon as he walked in the door.

Intimidation
. It was Lee’s secret weapon.

“Hi, Kim. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Crawford. You?” Lee’s trophy receptionist said.

“Not too bad.”

“Lee here yet?” Crawford said, trying to be inconspicuous as he let his eyes travel from her shoulders to her hips to her legs.

“Yes, he is. Just a moment,” she said.

She pressed the button on the intercom. “Mr. Burns, Dr. Crawford’s here to see you.”

“‘Bout fucking time,” he said.

“You may go on in, Dr. Crawford,” Kim said nodding.

“Thank you.”
Tramp
, Crawford thought.

“Dr. Crawford?”

“Yes?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Certainly,” he said, now looking into her eyes.

“I’ve been reading
Self-Esteem
. And I think it’s really helpful.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he said nodding. He started past her.

“Dr. Crawford?”

He stopped again. “Yes.”

“I’m always trying to improve myself. My mother always taught me the importance of that.”

“Uh huh.”

“I read one of your other books. The one called
Self-Confidence
. It helped me so much I read it three times.”

“Uh huh.”

“So what’s the difference?”

“Sorry?”

“What’s the difference between self-confidence and self-esteem?”

“Well, let me see. One paid for my master’s degree, and the other’s going to pay for my retirement.”

Kim paused a moment. “Are you going to retire?”

“Excuse me,” Crawford said, opening the door to Lee’s office.

Crawford walked in as if he were meeting the boss for the first time. The carpet felt especially smooth for some reason. Lee sat behind his large desk, facing the window, looking more like an artist in contemplation than a busy publisher.

“Just a moment,” Lee said, looking over the skyline. “I have these moments during the day when I have to just pause and congratulate myself for so much hard work.” He laughed to himself. “I’m sitting in the clouds, you know.”

“You know what my biggest dream has always been, Lee?”

“Your biggest dream?” Lee swung his chair around abruptly. “You’re not here to weasel out of the promotionals are you?”

“No. Not exactly.”

Lee took a deep breath and gave one his signature grins. “Sorry. You know what kind of business we’re doing with
Self-Esteem
?”

“I think I have an idea,” Crawford said calmly, taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of Lee’s desk.

“And that’s your response?”

“Did I ever tell you what I’ve always dreamed of doing, Lee? All my life?”

Lee stood and scratched his chin. “Would you like a drink?”

“Would I like a drink?” The question immediately raised a red flag. Lee was up to something. “Are you offering me a drink of alcohol?”

Lee froze like a child caught shoplifting candy. “Haven’t you been drinking? You look like you have. I mean, are you on or off these days?” he said with an affected tone of concern.

“I’m on,” Crawford said reluctantly. “I mean, I drank last night.”

“I thought so. You know normally I’d say no, but if you’re, you know, on. Hell, we all fall down sometimes. It’s part of the learning process from the time we’re children.” Lee went to the wet bar at the opposite end of the room and pulled out two glasses.

“I was saying…” Crawford continued.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m listening,” Lee said, pouring the drinks.

“You know how we always talked about the direction of my writing career?”

“Hey you drove here, right? Please just have this one, okay?” Lee gave Crawford his drink, a Scotch and water on the rocks. Naturally, he didn’t want to hear about Crawford’s “dreams,” but he figured it was part of his job. Maybe the drink would shut him up. “Your dream? I think I’ve heard about that, yeah.” He gave Crawford a curious look. “Is everything okay?”

“No, but, you know. Things are tolerable. I’m trying to improve some things.”

“You sound like a contestant in a beauty pageant.” With a mock southern accent Lee said, “I’ve always dreamed of raising horses someday.” Lee shook his head. “I’m just kidding you, Jim.”

Crawford was a little aggravated but tried not to show it. “I’ve always wanted to write a novel. That’s what I’ve wanted to…”

“Well then write one,” Lee snapped. “What are you telling me for? I’ve known that since the day we met.”

Crawford took a deep breath and said, “No more
Self
Series
, Lee.”